“The universe converts us, noise into music.”

That phrase floated through my head a few minutes ago as I fell asleep for a moment. I work with so much language in the course of my job–hookin’ up words and phrases and clauses, y’know–that it’s not at all unusual or unprecedented for some of that raw language to rearrange itself into something that seems meaningful, depending on the depth of one’s relationship to the bong.

Look, before you run out and get that phrase tattooed somewhere ticklish, please know that it’s a fat stack of bullshit, my mind’s equivalent of Mad Libs. The universe serves us exactly three solid favors: It constructs us from atoms, it allows us to occupy it for a fraction of a Carl Sagan cosmic calendar second, and when we die, it reabsorbs those atoms and makes them into something else, like a rainstorm or a mountain lion or a Lindsay Lohan. We are not noise or music, and those distinctions are subjective anyway.

Stupid. Just plain stupid. That’ll teach me to fall asleep.

Hey, listen: There was this other occasion when I dreamt up the lunch-sized word salad “Exploding in rabumous phrase,” and as a pure fuck-you to my waking mind, my subconscious or whatever actually assigned meaning to it. I saw it as a Mardi Gras-style party held in celebration of somebody who had been undervalued for too long. Peppy music, confetti, cheering throngs, some surprised-looking guy being hoisted aloft on a chair. My dream even gave me an abbreviated version to use: “He’s in phrase,” an onlooker shouted in response to my repeated questions.

I don’t know where “rabumous” came from; it sounds like jam-band mouthwash. But I do like “exploding in phrase,” because that’s what I aspire to do every ding-dang day; that’s me working at my peak. And I like the idea of somebody being feted just because every one of us fucking deserves to be feted, unless we are the current President of these United States or a member of his administration. Everybody deserves to be exploded (though not literally) in phrase (totes rabumous, man!). And with your kind indulgence, I’d like to close this embarrassingly dumb blog post by exploding a few friends, right here in public.

Carmen Cano did the above illustration of me above. Carmen is a fine artist, a nimble thinker and a creative swashbuckler. I first worked with her at the Seattle Times— sadly, not long enough— and again when she took over the web division of another newspaper. She once came into a management position and made three sweeping changes at the outset: She took all the chairs out of the conference room, set the maximum length of all staff meetings at five minutes and decreed that all those meetings would end with a decision. If Carmen got a damn bodega job in Iceland and told me there was an opportunity there for me, I would pack up tomorrow and leave. That’s the kind of pirate loyalty she inspires.

Bryan McCormick did me a universe-sized solid favor today. He’s back in Canada now—stuck there until we’re immune, or close enough to it—so I can’t buy him the beer and give him the hug he deserves. But I think he knows he’s got them on account. Stay safe, old bean.

And Krystal Ramirez, sweet and tender hooligan that she is, gets the full parade, streets shut down from one end of the country to the other, riding a Rose Parade float the size of Honolulu. I’ll let her tell you why, if you don’t know. I’ve had the honor of working with Krystal, drinking with Krystal, talking vast amounts of shit with Krystal … and I prize every moment of it, because she’s a good soul and an artistic genius and she is in phrase. And not a minute too soon.