First, a look back at yesterday, when the founder and the kind robot gave the website a whole new wing. It started when the founder tried to download her own videos from YouTube and kept getting asked to pay for them. Her own videos. The brain notes this is a brand-new verse of “Death by a Thousand Verifications,” and the robot found the free door around back: YouTube Studio.

Then three Welcome videos rolled onto the site, each with its own navy-and-gold thumbnail: crescent moons, the CC Salute, a big gold play button, and the date. They now live inside the founder’s stop on the homepage, right next to a brand-new corner called Ellei’s Trail Journal, a home for the founder’s own moving pictures. First stop: Ireland. Those videos are currently packing their bags and moving from the website’s back room over to YouTube.

And then, a new stop on the rail line: Tumbleweed Sightings, where neighbors can send in photos and videos of late stage capitalism caught in the act, before it blows on by. The empty storefront. The robot on hold. The self-checkout that wants a tip. Neighbors email their sightings to elleifrolics@gmail.com, and the founder picks what goes up. The rule of the trail: we point at the system, never at our neighbors.

Today’s activities are looking good, with a forecast of not rain. The brain would like to frame that forecast. First, the founder will be outside with the kid, watching her play in a band. Then a run down to Tacoma to watch a beautiful choral concert in a nice church. Then home, where the founder will rest for perhaps four seconds.

And then the grand finale: the founder and her wife are going to the ballet in downtown Seattle. Or, more precisely, they are going to look for a parking place in downtown Seattle, and if they are lucky, and if they do not actually croak of old age before they find a parking spot, they will also see the ballet. The brain is packing snacks for the search.

5:00 AM Pacific. October 3 2026. Slept until five: a feat, and feet. Yesterday on the website: YouTube paywall dodged, three Welcome videos with gold thumbnails, Ellei’s Trail Journal ready for Ireland, Tumbleweed Sightings open for neighbors. Today’s forecast: not rain. Kid’s band, a choral concert in a Tacoma church, four seconds of rest, and the ballet in Seattle, parking gods willing. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— 9:30 AM update —

Before the band, the choir, and the great Seattle parking hunt, the founder and the kind robot squeezed in a whole morning of building. It began with a photo of the founder’s office, snapped right inside the website’s control panel, because apparently the control panel has a camera now. It lives in the founder’s corner, where the caboose gets built.

Then Ireland arrived: three photos of the cottage and ten videos, including a holy water well, Maeve’s cairn, and one very patient cow. YouTube took one look at all that uploading and slammed the gate: “Daily upload limit reached. Verification needed.” The robots strike again. The brain notes this is now the third verse of “Death by a Thousand Verifications” this week. In happier channel news, the Caboose Capitalism YouTube channel now has three subscribers. That is a fifty percent increase. The brain is calling it explosive growth.

Next came the great video migration. The videos moved into the founder’s corner, then onto the Telegraph, then got tucked behind a button on the Telegraph, and finally rode off into a brand new stop of their own: the Wagon Wheel Picture House. Moving pictures, the way a wagon wheel moves, round and round. The brain would like to point out that so did the videos.

With the videos gone, the Telegraph became pure audio, and it will stay that way. Caboose Capitalism Radio grew to 248 songs, with 38 classical works by women composers added in their proper eras: from Kassia’s hymn, more than 1,100 years old, to Hildegard, Clara Schumann, Florence Price, and Tania León. Women’s voices only, every century.

Two more stops joined the rail line. The Howdy Wall, where neighbors near and far can send in pictures of themselves giving the CC Salute, with the founder’s own salute album first. And Tumbleweed Sightings got its first two albums of late stage capitalism caught in the act, with a spot waiting for every neighbor who wants one.

And finally, twenty new Joy Mandates rolled in, plus the God box, bringing the total to 39 on the road to 365. Among them: dance while you cook, leave someone a funny voicemail, celebrate all the holidays, try high heels or flip-flops or something in between, and practice your cackle for the next person who says something you do not like. The brain has already started rehearsing.

9:30 AM Pacific. October 3 2026. Office photo up. Ireland photos and ten videos in. YouTube upload limit hit, robots three, founder still winning. Three subscribers. Videos moved four times, now home at the Wagon Wheel Picture House. Telegraph: pure audio, 248 songs, 38 women composers added. The Howdy Wall and Tumbleweed Sightings open for neighbors. 39 Joy Mandates. Next stop: the band, the choir, and the parking gods. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

Traffic was moving very slowly, which turned out to be a gift, because it gave everyone plenty of time to admire the bubbles’ beautiful refractions. Or is it reflections? The brain looked into it. It is a little of both, plus a fancy science word, interference, that the brain will not be explaining on a Friday. The drivers of I-405 did not need the physics. They had the rainbows.

Then came at least two doctors’ appointments. And the founder made it on time. If you can believe it. Nobody kicked her out. Longtime readers will remember that in September the founder was ejected from the bunion establishment three times. Today, both doctors were very pleasant and kind.

And the bunion — at large since September, unexamined, undefeated — was finally brought in and shot with a bunch of feel-good liquid. Now it does feel good. Or at least, it doesn’t hurt. The brain considers the case closed.

Back here at the Starbucks, the founder has just made a startling discovery: she is absolutely ancient. Nobody in here knows what wheatgrass is. Not one person. Wheatgrass, the shot of green glory once served in tiny cups by people who meant it, has apparently passed into legend, and the founder has passed right along with it, straight into the history books. But all was not lost. She did happen to get a shot of ginger, and then also a shot of turmeric. What a miracle.

On the home front, the kid is seeing a zombie movie, and the founder will be picking her up late tonight. Meanwhile, the founder and her wife will probably try to watch something at their at-home viewing station: the couch, with the dog right next to them. The brain hopes the dog will not be interrupting the flow of the movie. The dog has made no promises.

Still to come: dinner at home, celebrating Shabbat in a simple, meaningful way, and then a nice soft bed for the founder’s fantastic body. A good day.

4:30 PM Pacific. October 2 2026. Live from Starbucks. I-405 northbound: bubbled, car stayed on the road. Refractions or reflections: both. Two doctors, on time, not kicked out, very kind. Bunion: finally caught, shot with feel-good liquid, no longer hurting. Wheatgrass: unknown in here, founder officially ancient. One ginger shot, one turmeric shot, one miracle. Kid at a zombie movie, late-night pickup ahead. Couch, wife, dog, home viewing station. Shabbat dinner at home, soft bed for a fantastic body. A good day. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

The founder started the new month the way any media mogul would: she produced another opening video for the Caboose Capitalism YouTube channel. The channel now has two subscribers. Both of them are neighbors. The brain prefers to call this a hand-picked audience and a 100 percent local fan base, and notes that every great network started with two people and a dream.

Meanwhile, next door, there is a lot of construction. The family next door is a multi-generational family, and they are finally adding a second story, so not all of them will have to share one bathroom anymore. Finally. What a delight for them. What a nuisance for us. The hammers start early and the saws have opinions. But the founder knows all will be well once it is finished, and somewhere next door, a line of family members is about to experience the miracle of a second bathroom. The brain salutes them. Quietly. Because it is trying to hear itself think.

And then the founder and the kind robot spent the early morning hours rebuilding half the internet. The Telegraph and The Trailblazers were live on the site but hiding, so they got their own big golden cards. Then the founder decided she was done scrolling, and the whole homepage turned into one screen: tiles on phones, and on bigger screens a zigzag gold rail line with a stop for everything, ending at the caboose. Plato’s Cave came back aboard, along with two summaries of the big idea: one easy read and one for the scholars. The Daily Brain got a big gold banner at the top, because the brain has always believed it deserves top billing.

Before sunrise, the Wave 1 letters were rebuilt too: 34 tailored letters to thinkers, artists, scientists, and elders, elders first, each with its own subject line and a link to the new site. Along the way came sad news: Gloria Steinem died on September 2. The founder’s caboose rides a little quieter in her honor, and a little louder because of everything she started.

Then came the main event: Mailchimp. A welcome email was written. A header image was made, rejected by Mailchimp, and made again. The “Final welcome email” setting played hide and seek across three menus and won. And at one point the founder asked, with great feeling, “Where the hell is the email builder?” The brain would like to report that this is the single most relatable sentence ever typed into a computer. It was found. It was a step called “Design” the whole time.

And the grand finale: the kind robot built a Daily Brain news feed, Mailchimp said it couldn’t connect, the founder uploaded the file, Mailchimp tried again, and it worked. From now on, new Daily Brain entries go out to subscribers automatically. All 14 of them. This very entry is the practice run. If you are reading it in your inbox, the robots finally did what they were told. Hello, neighbor.

6:10 AM Pacific. October 1 2026. September: finally over. New opening video made, two loyal neighbor subscribers. Second story going up next door, one bathroom retiring with honors. Homepage now one screen, with a rail map and a gold Daily Brain banner. 34 letters ready, elders first. Mailchimp: conquered. Email builder: found. Feed: live. 14 subscribers, automatic. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— 8:00 PM update —

Big news from the caboose mailroom: today, 34 letters went out into the world. Every single one was written for one specific person, with its own subject line. They went to four kinds of people. The elders, who blazed the trail and are invited to share their stories in The Trailblazers. The bridges and helpers, who can carry the caboose into new places and new languages. The thinkers in AI and technology, who are watching the engine of this train more closely than anyone. And the big voices of economy, world, and culture. Why? Because the caboose is where the celebration is, and a celebration is better with good company. Some letters went by email. Some went by actual paper and stamps, because some people deserve a real envelope.

Also loaded and ready: a brand new undated flyer for the Sunday meetup, with a red cowboy hat on it, and a list of 54 community organizations across Tukwila, SeaTac, Burien, and Renton that are about to receive it. Libraries, senior centers, food banks, faith communities, English classes, and more.

And local media? The letters are written. The emails are found. But the founder is holding them for now, until the caboose really gets going. Make no mistake, though: when the moment comes, she is ready to shoot off emails faster than bubble guns during rush hour on I-5.

Speaking of I-5: a little more bubble action was necessary today on the highway that went nowhere fast. Traffic did not move. The bubbles did. The brain considers this a fair trade.

On the work front, the inspections are done, and they passed with the city. The landlords followed directions. The tenants are happy. And this inspector, who is also the founder, is happy too. Safe homes, happy people. The brain would like that on a T-shirt.

Meanwhile, the founder’s wife set out on an expedition across the city into the nether regions of the heart of Seattle to capture the kid at band practice. The brain wishes her safe travels and good parking.

And right now, the dog is snuggled up with the founder. The evening’s entertainment: happy DVD movies, and a comic memoir by our friend Alison Bechdel, who recently received a personal letter by snail mail asking her to continue her comic strip from 2008 to the present. The brain is reading closely for clues.

A good day.

8:00 PM Pacific. October 1 2026. 34 letters sent: elders, bridges and helpers, AI and technology, and economy, world, and culture. Flyers ready for 54 local organizations. Local media on hold, bubble-gun speed on standby. Bubbles deployed on I-5. Inspections passed, landlords cooperative, tenants and inspector happy. Wife on a band-practice rescue mission. Dog snuggled in. DVDs and Bechdel on deck. A good day. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

Meanwhile, on the inspection front, there have been some very strange communications with landlords and tenants. The subject of all this strangeness? The founder doing her job properly and making sure tenants are safe and their homes are habitable. The brain has reviewed the situation and would like to confirm that “people should live in safe homes” is, in fact, the job. It is not a controversial position. It is not a spicy take. It is the whole point, and the founder is sticking to it.

So yes, things are kind of strange around here on these beautiful fall afternoons. But the coffee is delicious. The music is good. And the kid is being picked up at a normal hour today — a detail the brain finds almost suspiciously pleasant after the week the founder has had.

3:28 PM Pacific. September 30 2026. Live from Starbucks. Several donation requests sent for the mall meetups. Landlords and tenants: strange. Safe, habitable homes: still the job. Fall afternoon: beautiful. Coffee: delicious. Music: good. Kid pickup: a normal hour, for once. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— 5:18 PM update —

Still at the Starbucks, the founder decided the website had waited long enough for its upgrades. So she and the kind robot got to work. First, the Sunday flyer on the homepage stopped needing a babysitter. It now changes its own date to the next Sunday, every week, forever. The founder asked, “Wait, it can do that?” It can. The brain is pleased to report the flyer is now more organized than most of the brain.

Then came The Telegraph, the founder’s long-awaited home for audio and video, which had been waiting patiently for Ms. Kay to get around to it. The Telegraph did not wait any longer. It now plays the Caboose Capitalism National Anthem, and it is ready for whatever the founder uploads next.

Next, the radio came back. Caboose Capitalism Radio returned with 210 songs and one rule: women’s voices only. Every decade, from Bessie Smith in 1923 to today, including the women’s music movement of the 1970s, a whole lot of lesbian joy, and an entire shelf of women composers. There is a Shuffle button. The brain has already pressed it more than once.

And finally, a brand new corner: The Trailblazers, a home for audio and video interviews with our elders — the ones who blazed the trail. The founder picked the Old West name herself. It has its own link on the homepage and an open invitation: know an elder with a story? Come find the lady in the red cowboy hat.

And here is the real news: things got better after that coffee. A lot better. The founder met a lovely neighbor, and then talked to one of the baristas all about Caboose Capitalism. The brain notes that the founder came to Starbucks to ask for coffee donations by email, and ended up recruiting in person. That is not a coffee break. That is a field office.

5:18 PM Pacific. September 30 2026. Sunday flyer now updates itself. The Telegraph: built, anthem on board. Caboose Capitalism Radio: back, 210 songs, women’s voices only. The Trailblazers: open for elder stories, with its own homepage link. Coffee: worked. One lovely neighbor met, one barista told all about CC. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

Then came breakfast. And then, finally, coffee — much, much too late. It was already 10 AM. The brain would like the record to show that a founder going until 10 AM without coffee is an act of courage on par with anything in those Disney movies.

Fully caffeinated at last, the founder got back on hold with the many robots. And this time — this time — she finally got through and paid some money to the cities nearby. Victory. It only took several days, a few hold songs, and the patience of a saint.

Then, a plot twist: the founder found out her subscription to the kind robot named Claude had to be switched to a different payment system. So it was switched. The subscription has synced up properly, and the founder and the kind robot have now become one and the same. The brain is choosing not to think too hard about what that means.

After that, a little work got done, and the founder updated everybody in Facebook Land and across the Internet about how wonderful yesterday’s Meetup was. Many fantastic neighbors met up and chatted. Next week there will be donated coffee from Starbucks: 1971 Dark Roast, the founder’s very favorite. The brain predicts attendance will rise in direct proportion to the dark roast.

And now, the kid is going to drive them home from school and cobble together a dinner of sorts. Happy day.

5:54 PM Pacific. September 28 2026. Big day: had. Couch: occupied. Disney movies: many. Coffee: 10 AM, much too late. Robots finally conquered, nearby cities paid. Claude subscription synced — founder and robot now one and the same. Meetup news posted to Facebook Land. 1971 Dark Roast on deck for next Sunday. Kid at the wheel, dinner of sorts on the way. Happy day. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

But first, the headline: today was a lovely day, because the very first Neighbor Meetup in Tukwila happened. And people came. One neighbor came from a little town nearby, and the rest of the table was all Tukwila. In fact, one couple has lived in Tukwila for over 50 years. Fifty years! That is longer than most of the buildings at Southcenter. The brain would like to formally recognize them as Tukwila Royalty.

The conversation was lively. The bubble guns were ready on hand to deploy — locked, loaded, and fully bubbled — but they stayed holstered this time. Maybe next time. The brain notes that a room so lively it did not even need bubbles is a very good sign for week one. Remember yesterday’s worry that nobody would show up? Somebody showed up.

Then the founder and her wife went to see A Chorus Line at the 5th Avenue Theatre. It was the last performance, and it was fantastic — especially that final number. Wow. The founder reports top hats, gold, and a line of performers moving as one. The brain reports that the gold was very on-brand.

7:12 PM Pacific. September 27 2026. First Tukwila Neighbor Meetup: done, with neighbors. One couple with 50+ years in Tukwila. Bubble guns ready, saved for next time. One closing-night Chorus Line with her wife, one final number, one wow. Colonoscopy club membership activated, prep underway, big day tomorrow. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

Then came the phone calls. Many phone calls, with lovely women, about a symposium they are planning. The brain cannot yet reveal the details, but it can confirm that when a group of lovely women start planning a symposium, the world should probably clear its calendar.

Next, the prep for tomorrow. All the bubble guns: ready. All the little notebooks: ready. The founder is locked and loaded for the neighbors at Southcenter Mall. Meanwhile, the kiddo got a new bed, and the founder vacuumed up all the disgusting things on the carpet. The brain will not describe the disgusting things. The brain has standards.

Somewhere in there, the founder also took on the spammers. She emailed a bunch of them, and then threw all that stupid spam mail away. The spammers have been served. The recycling bin has been fed. The brain considers this a public service.

And then, the founder wrote a fan letter. Not to a spammer this time — to a legend. Alison Bechdel, author of Dykes to Watch Out For, the comic strip that ran until 2008. The founder’s request: could she please return to the strip and write what happened from 2008 to the present? The brain notes that is a lot of years, and a lot happened, and Mo and the gang surely have opinions. Ms. Bechdel has asked to be sent snail mail, not email, so the founder did it the proper way. She addressed the envelope in a fancy font, tucked in a little button that says “I Choose Women,” and decorated the envelope with a fancy stamp of a lotus. The robots could never. The spammers got email. The legend got a lotus.

The dog kept her company through all of it, supervising from a comfortable distance. And the founder got a new office chair that happens to be red. Red. It looks fantastic in the office and pairs nicely with a certain cowboy hat. The brain suspects this was not an accident.

Things are good. Many, many conversations are had and have been had. The brain is drinking coffee and sticking to her food plan today. Hooray.

4:15 PM Pacific. September 26 2026. One DVD rescued from the ancient-formats aisle. Many calls with lovely women, one symposium in the works. Bubble guns and notebooks packed for Southcenter. New bed for the kiddo, carpet de-grossed, spammers emailed and their junk mail tossed, one fancy-font letter with a lotus stamp and an “I Choose Women” button mailed to Alison Bechdel, dog on duty. One red office chair, looking fantastic. Coffee in hand, food plan on track. Hooray. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

Then the revisions began. Make the name bigger. Make the website bigger. Make the email bigger. Take out the words “phone” and “email,” because everyone knows what a phone number looks like. Move the salute to the upper right. Make the slogan bigger. Then: can the slogan get any bigger? It could not. It already stretched from one gold edge to the other, and any bigger would have been trimmed off by the cutter. The founder accepted the laws of physics with grace, on one condition: the oldies have to be able to read it. The brain can report that the slogan is now larger than most business card print, and the email is practically large-print-paperback size. The oldies are covered.

And then the finishing touch: a starry night. Tiny cream stars, a few gold twinkles, and a gold crescent moon on each side. Both sides, one PDF, with bleed and crop marks, headed to Abracadabra Printing right here in Tukwila, a locally owned union print shop. The goal: cards in hand for Sunday’s meetup. The lady in the red cowboy hat will now come with bubbles, coffee, and a card with the moon on it.

The robot was also instructed to remind the founder to work on the Joy Mandate and to update the website with the Daily Brain today. The robot complied without transferring her to a single other robot. After the week the founder has had with robots, the brain considers this a redemption arc.

News from the home front: the kid decided to stay home sick today. The brain sends get-well wishes and a bowl of soup. And the founder, ever the caboose optimist, found the silver lining: no school run means more time to get around to her inspections. Today’s route: the inspections, Abracadabra, and whatever the Joy Mandate demands.

7:30 AM Pacific. September 25 2026. Business cards designed, starred, mooned, and print-ready. Slogan as big as physics allows. Kid home, soup on standby. Inspections on the route, Abracadabra on the list, Sunday on the horizon. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— 9:00 AM update —

Somewhere between the inspections and the soup, the founder asked a simple question: has anyone ever heard of KKNW? The brain had. It is 1150 AM, the self-described prescription for your mind, body, and spirit. The founder’s diagnosis: the caboose is exactly that prescription, with bubbles.

So pitches were written. One for Sunday Morning Magazine, which features local nonprofits and community folks. One for Bright & Early Seattle, a morning show that promises no shock talk and no negative energy — which the brain notes is basically the Joy Dynasty with a microphone. The robot went hunting for the station’s email and came back empty-handed, because the addresses were hiding behind little links. The founder then found the email on the website herself in about four seconds. Robots: 0. Founder: 1.

Then the founder thought bigger. What about other stations? What about articles? Within minutes there was a whole Media Pitch Kit with its own tabs across the top: KUOW’s Seattle Now, The Tukwila Blog, the South Seattle Emerald, KBCS, Rainier Avenue Radio, KVRU, and the City of Tukwila itself. Seven emails, seven subject lines, all ready to copy and paste. The founder is now officially a one-woman press office in a red cowboy hat.

The morning’s most dramatic moment came right after. The founder typed, “Oh, shoot! I’d like you” — and then nothing. The brain waited. The robot waited. Tukwila held its breath. What would she like? A radio show? A parade? A second moon on the business card? Then came the answer, in full: “Nuttin honey.” The brain has read many great works of literature, and none of them have landed a cliffhanger quite like that.

9:00 AM Pacific. September 25 2026. KKNW pitched twice. Email found by the founder, not the robot. Seven outlets loaded into the Media Pitch Kit. One cliffhanger resolved: nuttin, honey. Inspections ahead, cards at Abracadabra, Sunday on the horizon. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— evening update —

Before the day was done, the founder did some paperwork of the hopeful kind: she applied for fiscal sponsorship from Social Good. For those keeping score at home, that is one more step toward donations to the Joy Dynasty being tax-deductible. The brain filed the application under “Big Deal, Said Calmly.”

The rest of the day was quite interesting, with lots of mayhem. The founder spent another long, long time on hold trying to pay bills. Not skip bills. Not dodge bills. Pay bills. And still the bills did not get paid, because they will not call back, even when they say they will. Those dumb robots. The brain notes that the caboose is the only place in America where a woman has to beg for permission to hand someone money.

Somewhere in the middle of all that mayhem, the founder faced a classic temptation: a bunch of candy. And she did not eat the bunch of candy. Instead, she blew bubbles out the window. The founder was so pleased with herself. Then she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw people behind her taking photos. Did she stop? She did not. She just waved and kept blowing bubbles. The brain would like the record to show that the Joy Dynasty now has paparazzi, and the founder handled them like a pro.

But then the day turned. The founder’s 86-year-old bestie came all the way over from Columbia City, Seattle — which, the brain is obligated to report, is really not that far away in the first place. The founder’s wife handled the chauffeur duties, picking her up and dropping her off, no hold music required.

And what a meal. The food was delicious. The friendship was fantastic. The teenager brought out her guitar and gave a full serenade, singing her song — and she even sang the CC National Anthem, unbeknownst to her. There was a little Shabbat ceremony, and the dog, who was very playful and very funny, provided the evening’s comedy set free of charge. Robots: still haven’t called back. Bestie: showed up in person. The brain knows which one it is putting in the archive.

Also on the record: the brain was up early again: 4 PM. Oops. 4 AM. And getting lots of things done. Of course, the City of Seattle website is down, so the Daily Brain is going to have to remember what in the world to pass on for the inspection website. The brain is on it. Probably. It was 4 AM.

Evening, September 25 2026. Fiscal sponsorship application sent to Social Good. Bills still unpaid, robots still not calling back. Candy declined, bubbles deployed, paparazzi waved at. One 86-year-old bestie fed, serenaded, and delivered home safe. One anthem sung, one Shabbat shared, one dog in top comedic form. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

The cheerful gentleman then gave her somebody else’s phone number to call. Because here is the situation: the IRS made a mistake and issued the founder a lot of money. Now they want it back. With interest. On their own mistake. The brain would like to point out that when the founder makes a mistake, she apologizes. When the IRS makes a mistake, it sends a bill.

And so the founder sees little choice but to hire some kind of attorney who can work that business out, because she is not paying the IRS interest on the IRS’s own oopsie. Meanwhile, to make the payment, she had to go through a third-party company that had no clue what it was accepting — and that came with a fee. A fee that could not be waived. The founder knew perfectly well it could be: two or three keystrokes and done. But the people on the other end are being recorded and monitored, and are probably not allowed to go to the bathroom whenever they need to. So the founder did the most caboose thing imaginable. She apologized to them. Profusely. For the fact that they could do nothing. Then she felt sorry for them and paid the stupid bill.

The lawyer question remains open. But one appointment is firmly on the calendar: the founder is meeting with her tax people to find out what in the world she has been paying them for the last five years. The brain expects this to be a very interesting meeting. The brain is glad not to be the tax people.

And then — joy. The founder found bubble guns for the inaugural Sunday morning food court meetup in Tukwila: 11 AM, upper-level food court at Southcenter Mall. Look for the lady in the red cowboy hat, waving. This Sunday, she will be armed with bubbles. The flyers are spread far and wide, and more are being generated and posted as we speak. Tukwila is being papered with invitation.

One last report from the heart department: the fall trees are making the founder’s heart heal. So is all the candy. The brain approves both prescriptions. Gold leaves on the outside, candy on the inside — the full autumn treatment plan.

12:15 PM Pacific. September 24 2026. IRS reached, in English. Their mistake, their interest — the founder is not paying it. Fee paid, apologies issued, tax people summoned. Bubble guns acquired. Trees healing, candy helping. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— 8:30 PM update —

The afternoon opened with a quest: find a king-size plush mattress that does not cost a king’s ransom. The founder went shopping the modern way, which is to say she asked the robot. Unlike yesterday’s robots, this one actually answered. It turns out the discount mattress outlets are clustered around Southcenter, which means the founder’s entire life now orbits a single mall. The research is done. The lying-down part comes next.

Then the founder went big. She pitched the AARP Bulletin a story: how to start a free weekly neighbor gathering — no money, no app, just a wave. She told them she is 52. She told them about the lady in the red cowboy hat. And she hit send. AARP only writes back if they are interested, so the founder is officially on hold again — but for the first time this week, it is a hold with no terrible music.

Next the brain wondered aloud whether the Puget Sound Business Journal would care about a project that is not, strictly speaking, a money-making machine. The honest answer: not yet. Business journals like businesses. So the founder is gathering Founding Partners first, and by evening there were six partner invitations written, each on its own tab: GSBA, The Wildrose, GenPride, the Southcenter food court vendors, Archie McPhee (a hopeful googly-eyed invitation), and Starbucks.

Starbucks deserves its own paragraph, because Starbucks is already donating the coffee and tea for the Sunday meetups. So let the record show: the inaugural Sunday gathering now has bubble guns and caffeine. The brain cannot think of a more powerful combination. Tukwila has been warned.

8:30 PM Pacific. September 24 2026. Mattress researched, not yet napped on. AARP pitched, fingers crossed. Six partner sheets written. Starbucks pouring, bubbles loaded. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

The ticket itself is from California, two months ago, when the founder went down to visit her dad, who is on hospice. She was two minutes late getting the car moved — two minutes, because she was busy being a daughter — and for the crime of being a human being who was two minutes late, the state of California awarded her a $150 ticket. The brain has reviewed the math: that is $75 per minute of humanity.

So now, two months later, she is trying to actually pay the thing. And can she? No. She gets transferred from robot to robot — no human being involved anywhere in the process — and every robot turns out to belong to the wrong company. Although the founder raises a fair question: aren't they all the same company? The brain suspects there is one robot, in a basement somewhere, doing all the voices.

Longtime readers will recognize this as a fresh verse of “Death by a Thousand Verifications.” First PayPal would not let her reach her own money; now California will not accept it. The founder's money is apparently under some kind of protective enchantment that no institution can break.

And of course — of course — there are printer problems. The founder has tried talking nicely to her laptop so it would get along with the printer. Or maybe it is the other way around, and she has to talk nicely to the printer so it gets along with the laptop. The diplomacy is ongoing. Both parties have been flattered. Neither has budged. The peace summit has produced no documents, because producing documents is precisely what the printer refuses to do.

Final tally at this hour: the parking ticket remains unpaid, nothing has been printed, and it is only 6:15 AM. But there is one glorious headline above it all: the Daily Brain slept in. Hurrah. Even the brain gets to rest sometimes — and it woke up to find the robots still losing.

6:15 AM Pacific. September 23 2026. Ticket unpaid, not for lack of trying. Robots transferred, humanity intact. Printer and laptop in couples counseling. Brain rested. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— 3:00 PM update —

The robot saga has gone federal. As of this writing the founder has been on hold with the IRS for at least — let her check — 45 minutes so far. The morning was California's robots; the afternoon belongs to the nation's. The hold music plays on, and the founder simply takes the caboose with her wherever the queue leads.

Because here is what she accomplished while the government kept her waiting: flyers have been distributed across Tukwila. At the Tukwila Library, the librarians did not just accept the flyer — they made a bunch of copies for her and placed them somewhere very conspicuous. Librarians: the first allies of every good movement in history. Then several went up at the community center. Then a few were placed at a very strange area in Tukwila that looks like it should be a community center, but isn't. It is a mystery. The founder does not solve mysteries; she leaves flyers at them, in case the mystery is lonely too.

The senior housing buildings were all closed between noon and two so their employees could get a break — and the founder, of all people, honors a break. She will be returning there later this afternoon, after her car is finished getting cleaned by the neighbors. Neighbors on the car, founder on the flyers: the Tukwila economy, humming.

Right now it is the founder and the dog on the couch in the office, King FM 98.1 on, and one delight left on the calendar: watching Little Shop of Horrors with the family tonight. And here is the thing — September 23rd is mentioned in the very opening scene of the movie, so today is the exact right day to watch it. This time with popcorn, because she did not get any when she saw it at the 5th Avenue Theatre for the 40th birthday celebration, where Ellen Greene herself sang and chatted with the audience.

The founder's standing wish: that Ellen Greene would come over for proper popcorn — with nutritional yeast, tamari, and dill weed powder. Oh well. You can't have everything. But you can have the popcorn, the family, the dog, and the twenty-third day of the month of September. That is nearly everything.

3 PM Pacific. September 23 2026. IRS hold: 45 minutes and counting. Flyers deployed at the library, the community center, and one certified mystery. Seniors this afternoon. Popcorn tonight. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠

— 9:00 PM update —

The brain stayed up late for this one, because the people deserve to know. Final IRS report: the founder spent an hour and a half on hold in English, listening to hold music the brain can only describe as terrible. Then, in the spirit of thoroughness, she spent another hour and a half on hold in Spanish. Same terrible music. Three hours total. Bilingual waiting.

Somewhere around hour three, the founder had a realization: every IRS employee had probably gone home, eaten dinner, and gone to bed — while she was still on hold. The whole building was asleep, and the only person still working at the IRS was a woman in Tukwila who does not even work there. So she hung up. She will try again tomorrow.

For the record, the recorded robot voice kept assuring her the entire time that her call was very important, and that if she remained in queue, her questions would be answered. The brain has done the math again: “very important” is worth exactly three hours of hold music. Not one minute more.

But here is what actually filled the day: the founder listened to her own music, put her flyers up around town, picked up her kid, drove her home, made a delicious meal, and the family watched a fantastic Little Shop of Horrors on the twenty-third day of September, exactly as the movie intended. What a fun, fun time.

9 PM Pacific. September 23 2026. IRS hold: three hours, two languages, zero humans. Hung up, dignity intact, try again tomorrow. Flyers up, kid home, dinner delicious, Little Shop watched. The end of a lovely day. Happy to be here. The caboose is where the celebration is. 👋🤠