It all started a few years back at a Winger concert. It was as you would expect, a pretty rough crowd, the air thick with hair spray, booze and Metamucil. The last place you would ever expect to contract Chronic Beiber Fever (CBF). Unbeknownst to me however, the hardcore head bangers next to me decided they needed to toughen up their tween daughter and brought her along. She was – and probably still is – deep within the thrall of CBF. As all young people are though, she thought she had no problem, so secretly rebelled by using a tiny MP3 player to pump a constant fix of “Baby” into her system. She was sitting right next to me.
Looking back, I should have seen the signs immediately. I should have been proactive. But so intense was the concert, I chose to ignore the faintly sung lyrics “oh baby baby” projected by that angelic voice as they seamlessly mixed in with “Seventeen”. If I had contacted the CDC at that point, I could have avoided the next couple years of faux tween angst. But as my therapist says all the time, I can’t live my life beating myself up over that decision. You can only look toward the future.
The symptoms came on almost immediately, albeit subtly. Also it was pretty late - 730PM so I was tired and didn’t see some of the otherwise obvious warning signs. After the show as I was driving home I was as could be expected, singing head banging to Winger songs in my pimped out Plymouth Horizon. However, slowly… something happened. I continued to sing, but the lyrics started to change. Change into something altogether different.
We are all familiar with the concept of getting a song stuck in your head. As a society we joke about it, emailing each other catchy yet cheesy tunes such as Mmm-bop, or look for ways to Rick Roll each other. I assumed that was what happening when I started singing that blasted “Baby” song. It had to have been that girl listening to her MP3 player. So I flipped on the radio to get it out. I started to switch the dial to a classic rock station. For some reason though, when the scanner stopped on the pop station, I hesitated to go further, and, as my finger lingered on the button, slowly withdrew my hand and placed it back on the steering wheel. For the rest of the night home I listened to that station, justifying it in my mind as trying to find a new song to get stuck in my head. The truth though, the truth was I was inwardly hoping to at least catch the hind-end of a Beiber song. I finally found one as I was pulling into my driveway. I wasn’t sure why, but I HAD to hear that song. Slowly, methodically, I backed my car out, and circled around the block until it was done. When I finally walked in the door, exhaustion and confusion had set in so I went right to bed. Maybe it was the fatigue but the symptoms of Beiber addiction set in fast.
The next morning I awoke. By all accounts it was a beautiful morning. But it didn’t feel beautiful. Things were wrong. My bedroom was wrong. My clothing was wrong. “I”, was wrong. Feigning the stomach flu I called in sick to my job at the local Photo Mart. The rest of the day was spent “correcting” all that I was perceiving as wrong in my apartment. First I tore down my “Metallica” and “Nelson” posters. Its hard to explain, but for some reason I felt as if they were judging me somehow through eyes only half visible behind the big hair 80’s hair for something I wasn’t even aware of. Damn them. Posters down, I promptly went to Walmart and purchased several Beiber posters and teen magazines with his demonically angelic face on the covers. As I was selecting them I avoided picking up anything with Selena Gomez. For some reason I didn’t understand at the time I did not like that girl. Next I bought some new clothes - skinny jeans – and hair product. LOTS of hair product. Finally with a cart full of Beiberness and shame I checked out, mumbling to the cashier something about a birthday for my niece. I think she knew but kept quiet, more concerned about her employment than risking to help some random customer.
Rushing home I strategically hung up my posters as to cover up the tape marks left by the previous artwork. Then I glued a large piece of Styrofoam to the wall in the kitchen. To this I pinned up the magazine photos I carefully cut out. Satisfied that the judgmental eyes of the previous occupants were dealt with I turned my attention to myself. Drawing all the curtains shut and dimming the lights as to avoid prying eyes, I tiptoed into the bathroom to fix myself. Looking in the mirror above the sink, for the first time in my life I felt ugly. Everything was wrong. I had to change. First I worked on my hair, blow drying, feathering and gelling the living crap out of it until it resembled the photo of Justin I used as a guide. Sure; with my deeply receded and graying hair it was a horrible bastardization of his locks, but at the time, it felt right. Next I shaved off my beard, then highlighted my cheeks with some blush. Then I put on my new skinny jeans. I’m not a small guy; it took a lot of time and pain to get them on. After the first hour I couldn’t feel my legs nor could I bend my knees, relegated to walking around as if I had no joints in my lower body. In my mind though I Justin-fied this as a necessary evil.
I looked, good.
There was just one thing left to do to complete the look, the one thing that cemented my rapid downward spiral in to complete and utter Beiber Fever. Hand shaking, I as carefully as I could placed on the bathroom sink a lighter, needle and a pair of earrings. Taking a deep breath, I picked up the needle, and ran the lighter underneath it a few times, then… pierced my own ears. Not just one side, both. With pain coursing through my nerves and a faint trail of blood trickling from my ears, I quickly put in the earrings before I could second guess my choices that morning. My work complete, I didn’t do anything else the rest of the day aside from reflect on it all, and listen to pop music.
Addiction is a strange thing. If you talk to any addict they will likely tell you that they don’t have a problem. What they do, whether it’s a drug, alcohol or Beiber, their use of that vice is strictly recreational and that they are in control. They can stop anytime they want to. If you talk to a recovering addict though, they have a different take. Addiction is subtle and invasive. When you are addicted, your body and mind so crave that feeling of artificial bliss that the addict will change their lifestyle to accommodate and reduce the associated guilt of its use. I was no different than any other addict on the street. The only difference was where a crack addict had track marks on their arm, I had the tell-tale infected holes in my ears from my home piercing as do many Beiber addicts.
At first I attempted to function normally, but my friends noticed the changes. I started coming into work later and tired from listening to his music and learning his dance moves late into the night. Monday’s were the worse; over the weekends I would fly to his concerts, then call in sick Monday morning, simply too tired to be there. Then I started hitting up coworkers for money claiming I had to pay for some relative’s medicine, etc. The truth though was my accounts had been drained from Beiber flair… and I needed more cash. Not for food, utilities or rent, but for more tickets, music, and hair product. Eventually my friends caught on. Not only did they stop enabling my new lifestyle but tried to stage an intervention. But I wasn’t yet ready to admit there was a problem. So I quit my job and made new “friends” - other Beiber addicts. Eventually I lost my apartment, spurned my family, and the worse of it all, had my vintage 89 Maroon Plymouth Horizon repossessed. Now living on the streets, I earned money singing bad renditions of “Baby” on the street to sympathetic passerby’s , while at night huddled in abandoned buildings with other addicts, both for the companionship of shame as well as the protection from the gangs who prayed on the Beiber addict foolish – or desperate enough - to venture into the night by himself.
After a few months of this, right when I hit my low point, a light emerged in the form of an old man named Frank. I’ll never forget that day. I was sitting outside the local CVS – the one business in town that had yet to kick us off their sidewalk. As he walked by I practically assaulted him, begging for money in exchange for a rendition of “boyfriend”. When this happened, most people looked at me with contempt and threw a few coins at me. Frank though, looked at me with eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and understanding. Gently removing my hand from his arm he simply said “Kid, you’re a mess”. In that moment I knew he was right. Behind Frank was the large window of the CVS. It was a cloudy overcast day, which caused the window to act as a mirror. In that moment I saw myself for the first time in months. What I saw scared me.
I didn’t recognize the person - this man who only vaguely resembled me – staring back. The reflection portrayed a person with messed up ears, a receded hairstyle that could only be described as a reverse beiber Mohawk, and pants that look shoe horned in. Skin dirty, clothing wrinkled and stained, hair perfect, and tattered headphones hanging from around the neck. At that moment I broke down and cried and fell to my knees. Frank grabbed me by the shoulders and picked me back up to a standing position. Looking me straight in the eyes, his own teared up just a little and said “Buddy, you’re sick. You’ve been infected by Beiber Fever. I know it seems impossible, but, let me help you.” Then he showed me something that gave me hope.
To see Frank at first you would assume he was a hippy. Long stringy hair with skin dried and wrinkled as if he had spent his youth following the Grateful dead. He wore a tie dye shirt, baggy cargo shorts, and had a large peace sign medallion dangling from a chain on his neck. His arms were covered in tattoos which advertised 60’s bands, and other silly things such as the word “Dude” across his left cheek. But as he looked at me, he pulled down the collar of his shirt and revealed a large, colorful tattoo of Justin Beiber on his neck. Then he said:
“I got the Beiber Fever, but have had it in remission for 3 years now. You can to”
Without saying a word I took the ratty headphones from around my neck, and followed Frank to a recovery center. He went with me as my mentor and friend, both things he still is today.
The rest of the story is academic really. It was a long process involving 12 steps, leaving the crowd I had been with, and making new, Beiber free friends. The road was bumpy filled with regressions here and there. But Frank saw me through it. Eventually I got clean back on track, and a new vintage Plymouth Horizon. Now I am going back to school to be a counselor so I can help others with Beiber fever. My life will never be the same, but I am at least content and Beiber Free.
Hopefully my little soul bearing story of Beiber Fever helps you overcome your own. Addiction is a horrible thing, but you can beat it when you are ready, and you will be a happier person. There are so many things yet to write but I might sign off. My pet cat “Mr. Shingles” needs fed.
Besides, there is a show coming up I want to watch. Some new band from England called “One Direction” is going to be singing and they look pretty good.
However, I paused. Could I tell you why? Not really. Maybe there was something in the eyes, perhaps a subtle nuisance in the slight upward turn of the smile. Or possibly the moment in time that was captured in this self-styled moment of silliness. For whatever reason though, I first lingered, then started to decipher – my interpretation as it was – the story behind it.
At first starting generally then working towards the details, I had to establish this person’s name; one that fit the mood of the person in question. “Lenore” I decided. I was probably wrong in that detail. Someone whose name is escaping me at the moment once pointed out I am better with faces anyway. However this person looked to have an old soul, so a name from a different era seemed appropriate.
Lenore it was.
Next was Lenore’s personality. Initially this seemed impossible to figure out. There wasn’t any one single trait you see, indeed, there appeared to be many. Then it hit me. This was the personality; a mixture of wonderful contradictions. Mischief in the eyes that belied shyness indicated by a slight, downward tilt of the head. All at once spontaneous yet… apprehensive. Shy even. The subtle smile of someone who wants to be happy, yet carried an undercoat of sadness. Strong, yet hardly infallible. There were more contrasts to be found I was certain, but that was enough for now. The broad strokes of this painting had been laid on the canvas. We could fill in the details later.
Stepping back, I inspected my work, satisfied I had determined Lenore’s personality. The question to answer now was, who was she? What trials had she suffered, what triumphs had she enjoyed? The only way to figure that out, would be to take the right approach.
Now one might think that in order to properly fill out this picture, a pragmatic method would be called for. Studiously write down all of the associated occupations, relations and experiences that a person such as herself, would logically go through. I decided however, If one did that, one would be wrong.
Looking at the photo again, Lenore struck me as a dreamer, an idealist. To complete my picture I simply had to start daydreaming, imagining myself flying as a whisper behind her. Allowing my mind to wander, her story started to flow, the details and contrasts filling themselves out onto the canvas; and what a picture emerged!
At first I saw the little girl with the warm, big, laugh in the middle of the classroom, who when called upon by the teacher, would become silent, providing only minimal answers as to not draw attention to herself. As she got older, she appeared as if she were surrounded by friends. In her mind though, she felt like a bit of an outsider to most of them, close only to a few.
Lenore dreamed big, exploring books of idealic locations that she would visit in her life. One day she would roam the sun-kissed buildings of Tuscany on a cloudless day. Another would find her marveling at the stony castles of Great Britain. Then, some evening would simply find her sitting on a quiet beach, staring out at an endless ocean as the waves gently greeted the sand. The moon would silently reflect off the water while she silently reflected upon herself. All of these things she would do; each time reenacting perfectly the postcard setting portrayed in her readings.
As my mind continued its travels; I decided that Lenore must be an artist. Although silent in public, she spoke with her hands. Perhaps she graced a canvas with a brush, or honored materials by forming them into an object. Maybe her art was the written word. Possibly all three; possibly none. No matter her media though, for her, it transcended art. It was her communication and her core.
Quicker and faster my daydream became, events and fleeting like ephemeral moments in time. Lenore’s life was quite literally, flashing before my eyes. Her highs, her lows. Loves started, love ended. Happy endings began, happy endings halted before their time.
Together we laughed and we wept. As her unknown companion, we celebrated her victories, cried over her defeats. Families were started, families were shattered… families healed. Life moved on. Throughout it all though, Lenore stayed strong… even when she didn’t realize it.
A single picture, captioned as “being goofy”. This girl whom I had christened “Lenore” decided to capture a simple moment in her life in a moment of spontaneity. In that brief pause however, Lenore – the dreamer, the artist, the idealist, this person who had laughed, cried, lived, grieved, then found life again, had become real.
And, that person was amazing.
As quickly as the daydream began, it stopped. Mere seconds before, I felt as if I were living through this person I had never met. Now however I again sat by myself alone to reflect, collecting my thoughts. Gathering them, I finished my mental painting of her. The events I had dreamed became the minute details on the canvas, brushing on the highs and lows akin to blacks, whites, blues and yellows to bring out the contrasts.
For the last time, I stepped back to see my work. My portrait of Lenore was complete, a beautiful painting before me; art only I could see.
It was only after I was done did I pause to ask myself, “why?” What was it about this photograph that caused me to stop and create? I may never know. Perhaps somehow through Lenore I documented my own experiences. Or maybe it was the silly dalliances of a fellow dreamer. Whatever the reason though, the girl whom I had never met face to face effected me.
Such is the power of a silly picture
]]>Over the years Frank Jr. got huge and full of leaves (or what ever you call a Jade plant’s foliage.) Then of course last January things went crazy around here when Dawn went to the hospital. During that time the plants all suffered including Frank. Jr. After Dawn passed away in February, all of the sudden just surviving and taking care of the kids took all of our time. I put the plants in the basement, and usually remembered to water them about once a month. I put Frank Jr in my bedroom, out of sunlight, and not always watering him.
I started to come around I suppose in May. That’s when I started to notice the neglected things around the house. The piles on the dining room table, the living room mantel that was overflowing with papers, movies and toys, the piled up take-out and pizza boxes laying around. Most of all though, I noticed Frank Jr.
You see, as silly as it sounds, we had our little “things”. Call them symbols, or even in-jokes that only we got. I suspect a lot of couples have these, but Dawn and I could take it to a higher level. A lot of you have heard about “Lilly the Lamb”. But, there was also “Albert the Alpaca”, “Mr. Song Pig” the bus-driving pig who always got lost, and the list goes on. Yeah, we could get pretty silly. We would joke that there was probably a good kids book in all of this.
There was also Frank Jr.. Since I work alone we decided he was my office mate, and would help out on important decisions. When I saw him on the bedroom floor though, out of the sun, dry soil and generally forgotten about, he was different. The full leaves he had once had were in a strewn pile around his pot on the floor, and his spindly branches were getting brittle. Frank Jr. was about gone.
Sure. Frank Jr. is just a Jade Plant. But that that moment it was much more. So many things had gone wrong. So many things out of control. There were a lot of things I couldn’t change, but I could try to get our plant back to health.
So over the past several months, I worked on Frank Jr. I got him in a spot that would give him the right amount of sunlight, rotated him once a week to get all sides full, and researched how much water he needed. Slowly but surely Frank Jr came back, and now is green again. It will be a while before he’s as full leaved as before, but it’s happening.
The reason I posted this, is well, life can be pretty rough. There’s a lot of things we can’t control, a lot of big things that kick us down. This time of year we wish we had money to buy big gifts for our family or could go out with our friends all of the time. If you let it (and I certainly have many times this year) it an overwhelm you and get you pretty down. But no matter how bad things are there is probably something you can do to make yourself a bit happier, and there’s a good chance it’s one of the little things. Play with your kids, walk in the park, try a new recipe. Maybe it’s taking an afternoon off, unhook the phone, and just reading a book or taking a nap. Have supper with friends.
Or just resuscitate a Jade plant.
]]>*ring ring!*
Me: Hello?
Them: Hello Steve. We’re in the house.
Me: No you’re not. I checked.
Them: Yes. We are. We’re in the laundry room. Think about it.
Me: I’m in the laundry room dumba$$.
Them: Oh.
Silence….
Me: You’re not very good at this are you?
Them: *something unintelligible”
Me: Dude, if you’re going to insult me, at least enunciate. That means speak clearly by the way. You know; syllables.
At this point the kid who lives with me is rolling laughing. He asks loudly – “are they drunk?”
“No, just a couple kids who are up past their bed times sitting around in their grrranimals and superman under roos. Mommy will be checking on them soon I’m sure.”
Them: Really, we’re in the house
Me: You already tried that and we’ve already established that you’re not. *sigh* Tell you what. I want you to think of some new material and call me back. I’ll let you know what I think and how you did. Anything else?
More silence….
Me: Alrighty then. Well, have a good night.
and I hung up. They haven’t called back since. Really; who teaches kids how to prank call now days? It must be a dying art.
]]>Got formula on my hands and diapers on my mind!
They call me Graphics D; a middle aged playa
That’s if play’n XBox kinda counts as play’n!
I rock the baggy eyes from be’n sleep deprived
Cause I’m stay’n up late folding cute lil’ clothes
Get’n up early with my home-girl Dora,
Put away dishes and sweep’n the floora
Then I’ll make some funny faces with eggs and bacon;
So my kid will eat and not be hate’n.
You do what you can to give them good nutrition.
I should be do’n business, but I’m dress’n like a princess
Could be billing this or designing that,
but what the heck it makes my little girl laugh
Still roll’n in my Mariner; with a few less Lincolns,
Now there’s juice on my hands but diapers on my mind!
They call me Graphics D; a middle aged playa
That’s if play’n XBox kinda counts as play’n!
Awwwe snap; what is that – my baby smells funny, gotta diaper fulla…
Guess that means I better get go’n, just one lil’ part of the single dad rap!
However, I always have the same reply to this. I’m a good amateur, and that is vastly different than a trained professional. As a good amateur photographer, I can use the equipment I have an make something look great under the right circumstances. In other words, I get lucky. A trained professional though, can not only do it consistently, but has the training and experience to know when to use what tools in the right situation.
As an example, a new company needs a logo, print ads, a website plus photography to sell themselves to the world. They can go two routes. There are several pieces to this that only a trained professional will know to consider:
Design (the three design specialties may overlap into one person [shameless plug for me BTW 
], but I’m breaking it down for the example)
The Identity designer will know that the logo must be appropriate to the audience, and boil down the key thoughts into an easily remembered graphic, that will produce will at any size ranging from business card to bill board, from print to web
The print designer will consider the ad size, whether it’s black and white, again, who will be looking at it, and even the paper it will be printed on.
The web designer will consider Browser compatibility, accessibility for disabled persons, and the appropriate technology
Photography:
The photographer will consider the audience (yes this is a reoccurring theme lol), lighting source of the photo location, how it will be displayed (print, web, etc), and photo composition, etc. Finally be experience in potentially working with the designer/art director to ensure it flows with the design.
Finally:
In any of the above cases, they will know the right people to bring in if needed. Writers, programmers, marketing specialists, project managers, etc. They will also know how to establish schedules and take your ideas and turn them into requirements.
So why am I posting this? A friend of mine (at least I like to call him that 
) Jeff Fisher who is a legend in the identity industry, posted about the Department of Interior crowd sourcing their new logo. Crowd sourcing is when you post a project, give it a budget, and invite anyone – literally anyone to submit an idea. The winning entry gets 1000. What this means, is random submissions. No requirements gathered. No consideration to the message. How it will be used. No context. It won’t be tested in different situations.
In other words, a major government division is sidestepping an acknowledged industry for their brand development for a budget that would pay – literally – pennies per hour for the work required to do this right.
The creative industry has something very big working against it. We develop soft products, whichis not a tangible thing that you can hold. This makes it easy to think its not worth as much. So here is another why to think about it:
If your car breaks, do you hire a kid who just bought a tool kit?
When your pipes burst, will you rip open the walls yourself right after going to Lowes even though you have never plumb’d?
Would you cater a wedding with a boxed cake?
I’d hope not in any of the examples here
So anyway, there is a petition going around right now that will be presented to the Department of Interior. I would invite my design peeps to sign it. You can find it here:
http://www.change.org/petitions/us-department-of-the-interior-stop-the-us-department-of-interior-from-crowdsourcing-a-logo
And, for my non-design friends, there is a great website that has been put together that discusses a lot of this. Great source of information. It’s at http://www.no-spec.com/
Thanks for indulging my little soap box
I’m not sure how long she will want me to make up stories like this, but it is a lot of fun . I decided it’s time to start writing some of these down for them to have later. Here’s the one I told her from the other night.
“Lenny The Gumball”
Lenny had a dream. Lenny wanted to fly. Not on an airplane or kite, Lenny wanted to fly all by himself. Now you would think that this wouldn’t be a problem. He could just flap his arms really fast and take off into the sky! But Lenny didn’t have any arms. He didn’t have any legs either. Not even a nose to wiggle or eyelashes to bat. Lenny… was a gumball.
I’m sure you’re thinking right now, why would a GUMBALL want to fly? Well, Lenny had the same dreams as any other young gumball; to find that perfect pal who would plink a nickel into the brightly colored plastic machine he lived in, and pick him to be chewed. But as long as he could remember, ever since he popped off the gumball tree, he wanted to soar high in the sky! Play hide n seek in the clouds, race with the birds, and tugglewump with the bats (what’s tugglewump you ask? Only the most fun game EVER if you are a flying mammal! But that’s a story for another day). So, one day Lenny the Gumball decided to make his dream his reality. The next time someone got a gumball from his machine, he took his chance, rolled on out behind his fellow confectionary, onto the sidewalk and after his dreams.
There was only one slight problem. Lenny wasn’t sure what to do next. For hours, he just rolled around looking for clues. He tried the phonebook under “Gumball Flight”, but found nothing. He read the billboards high above him searching for a clue, but still, nothing. He even looked on the internet (which was a real chore since he had to hop from key to key to type), but, you guessed it; still, nothing. There just wasn’t a lot of information out there for little gumballs to learn to fly.
Now, Lenny may have been little, but he was NOT a quitter. If there were no lessons, then he would just have to find experts. So once again the determined little gumball rolled down the street. First Lenny came up to a robin. This gave Lenny hope; robins are wonderful flyers! So with confidence he rolled up to the bird and asked him to show him how to fly.
“Mr. Robin, I am a small little gumball with a big dream to soar high in the sky. Could you show me sir, how to fly?”
“It’s easy. Just spread your wings and flap them like this” said the Robin in a showy display of wing fluttering.
“But I’m a gumball; I have no wings with which to flap”
“Then I’m afraid that you will never learn to fly” said the ruffled robin as he preened his feathers and flew away.
Lenny watched the bird fly away He was hurt, but not ready to give up. He kept on rolling down the sidewalk. Before long, he found someone else – a dandelion puff! Now THIS looked promising; they fly without wings! So with confidence he rolled up to the dandelion puff and asked him to show him how to fly.
“Mr. Puff, I am a small little gumball with a big dream to soar high in the sky. Could you show me sir, how to fly?”
“It’s easy”, said the dandelion puff, “Just stick out your petals and let the wind carry them into the air.”
“But I’m a gumball; I have no petals for the wind to carry”
“Then I’m afraid that you will never learn to fly” said the perplexed puff as he put out his petals and rode the breeze away.”
Dejected, discouraged, discombobulated even, Lenny the gumball just sat on the sidewalk and started to cry a sad little gumball cry, little food dye tinted tears hitting the pavement, and decided to go home. Just as he was getting ready to roll back to the gumball machine though, a butterfly fluttered down next to him.
“Hi there!” The butterfly said – “I’m Buttercup! I heard you’re crying as I was flying by. Why so sad little gumball?”
In a quite weepy little voice, the glum gumball replied “Ms. Buttercup, I am a small little gumball with a big dream to soar high in the sky. But no one can show me how to fly”
Laughing, Buttercup the butterfly said “It’s easy! Just spread your wings like this and – ”
But Lenny cut her off: “Sorry, I don’t have wings”
“Oh.” She replied. But instead of dashing Lenny’s dreams and flying away, she sat down next to the little gumball and started thinking. A million ideas (1,000,346 to be exact) went through her butterfly noggin, but none seemed to be the right one. Just as she was getting ready to ponder number 1,000,347 though, a little girl walked by holding a balloon. In that moment, she had THE solution!
“Lenny the Gumball! I know how you can fly!” said the excited butterfly!
Confused but curious, Lenny asked “Really? How can I fly without wings or petals?”
Again, laughing, Buttercup said “It’s a surprise… but I have to chew you first”
It seemed like a strange way to learn to fly, but since gumballs do love to be chewed, he agreed, and let her pop him into her mouth.
Now, did you know, that in all of the animal kingdom, no other animal can blow bubbles better than butterflies? Its true! They hold all kinds of records – largest bubble, most bubbles, loudest bubble pop, the best Elvis shaped bubble… well you get the idea. And Buttercup was no exception. In fact, she was the best butterfly bubblegum bubble blower this side of Boston. Only after a few minutes of chewing the still confused Lenny, she made him into the biggest bubble she could, pinched him shut… and threw him into the wind!
He was flying!!!!! Lenny couldn’t believe it! He was REALLY flying! The wind carried the overjoyed former-gumball-now-gum-bubble high into the sky and through the air!
Fluttering up to him, Buttercup asked “Well Lenny the Gum Bubble, what do you think?”
Lenny was once more crying, but this time it was tears of joy. “Oh thank you Buttercup for teaching me how to fly, so I can soar high in the sky!”
Again, laughing – Buttercup is a very happy butterfly after all – she said “No problem. Now let’s go find some others to play with.”
Soon they found all sorts of friends to play with. They played chase with the birds. Then they played tugglewump with the bats. Finally they all played hide n seek in the clouds.
At the end of the day, Lenny and his new friend Buttercup were tired from all the flying so they both went home on their separate ways. But before they did, they decided that it had been so much fun that they would meet again tomorrow for more playing. Then again the next day, and the following day after that. From that point on, Lenny the Gum Bubble and Buttercup the Butterfly were best friends.
And that is how someone who started out life as a small little gumball, became something so much more, something special. Even though he was told he would never fly by some, Lenny never gave up. He never let anything hold him back, and made friends that encouraged his dream. Eventually Lenny learned how to fly, proving that if you want to do something hard enough, nothing is impossible.
]]>Other than occasionally glancing over her and her brother’s way to interject such wise statements such as “Please go find your shoes” or saying to his son “Please stop taking your shirt off!”, He hadn’t paid much attention to what she had been doing. Only that it wasn’t what she was told to do. It was a weekday morning after all. There were things to be done. Schedules to be kept. The important things really.
However, the little girl – as usual – was on her own schedule. As she was told to put on shoes, she snatched something off the counter, and wrapped it in a paper towel. When asked to find her coat, instead she rifled through the junk drawer, grabbing a small packet. This pattern went on for several minutes. Daddy would bellow out daddy commands, which in turn the little girl would take into consideration, then summarily disregard. After all, she had important things to do.
After putting shoes on his boy for the third time and only vaguely concerned they would be kicked off again, the dad finally sat down at the kitchen table and got to work on his own shoes. Looking at the clock, he tied his shoelaces faster. They were going to be late again. After a morning of feeding the kids, dressing them, cleaning up, undressing the little one to change a diaper then dressing him again, it was safe to say his nerves were shot. So when the little girl came ambling to the table – at her own pace – not wearing shoes – and no coat – both things he had asked her to do several times – he said, in an agitated voice – “Why are you not ready?!?”
As he finished that question however, she laughed. Not a mischievous laugh, but instead a laugh of pure happiness. Eyes beaming with pride and smiling ear to ear, she very carefully and steadily placed what appeared to her, to be the most treasured gift ever given in front of her daddy. And in some regard, it was.
Still smiling, she said “You were so busy, I made you lunch daddy!”
At that moment, all of the sudden, things just… slowed down. He looked down at what she had placed in front of him. Sitting there was his “lunch”. The little girl immediately started to tell him what she had made for him.
One tomato, wrapped in a paper towel. Tomatoes are messy after all, so the paper towel would be needed to stay clean.
Next to the tomato, laid a packet of malt vinegar from Long John Silvers. Absently being tossed into the junk drawer, it had been there so long most of the ink was worn off the front. Today though it had been found by the little girl who said it had a very important role. Season the tomato for lunch.
Every good meal needs a drink, and this meal was certainly no exception. Sitting adjacent from each other, were a can of Cherry Coke Zero (of which he was quite sure would explode if he tried to open based on the shuffling noises earlier), and an old beat up Solo cup to drink it from.
Lastly, was a torn piece of paper. On it, she drew a heart out of crayons, and scribbled some lines that almost resembled letters. As he looked at it, the little girl cheerfully piped in – “It says I love you Daddy!!!”.
All of it – along with a fork and a knife, was carefully presented to him on a shoe box lid that served as a plate.
The clock on the microwave displayed 8:32, but suddenly he didn’t feel late anymore. He had been partially right; there were important things to be done. Things that mattered so much, that there may never be another chance to do them. It was just… not the things he had thought.
It wasn’t showing up to the office 10 minutes early to get one more task in, it was showing up late because there was one more hug to give.
It wasn’t working late to finish a project, it was leaving a couple minutes early to watch Dora, Barney, or what ever else they would ask to watch, sitting on his lap in the big red recliner.
The important things.
The morning frenzy very suddenly stopped as he looked at his little girl with a smile that matched her own. Making great ceremony of it all, he thanked her profusely for the lunch.
Not really in a hurry any longer, he sat down with his two kids for about ten more minutes just talking about matters that were serious to a 4 and a 2 year old. Things like names given to stuffed animals and what they dreamed about the night before. At 9:00, they finally left for the day. But… it was alright; they weren’t late. They had already gotten an early start on all of those important things to be done for the day.
After the kids were at daycare, the dad went to work but not before stopping back home. He cut the tomato in half with the fork and knife to make sure that there was some juice on both of them, then put hid it away in the fridge. Next, he (very carefully) opened the Cherry Coke Zero, and poured just a little in the cup so it looked drank out of. Finally, he emptied the vinegar down the drain, and crumpled up the paper towel, leaving it, and the empty packet in the shoebox lid.
Satisfied it looked properly eaten, he wrote a note of his own and left it next to his lunch. It said
“Dear Gwynna, thank you soooooo much for my lunch. It was the best lunch I have ever had!!!! Love you!!! XOXOXOX, Daddy”
…and signed it with a smiley face.
Lastly, he folded up the note she had written him and put it in his wallet as a reminder.
A reminder of the important things.
]]>Seriously. You do NOT want to know where I might have written to you from.
Anyway, I like to silly posts and replies on facebook. Last night I came across my buddy Rob’s status, which was the ol’ “how’d we meet but Lie about it status”. So I decided to have waaaay to much fun with it. So much fun I decided to shamelessly repost it here on the ol’ blog . Just more proof that I really need to get out of the house more…
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“How did we meet again?”
I remember it like it was yesterday. I was working as a street mime on the mean streets of Sheboygan, everyday wiping the pretend sweat off my brow, trying to earn an imaginary dollar. It was tough for mimes back then. Hooligans new darn well they could mug us freely, as our pitiful, silent cries for help would fall on deaf ears.
So we banded together. When one of us got in trouble, the rest acted. Some would throw up invisible walls, while others would lay out land mimes; all in a concentrated effort to protect our pantomimed turf. Grizzled, street-hardened mimes we became. Out of all of us though, Rob was the best. The silent assassin they called him. A real white face-painted devil. But to me he was a pasty faced angel.
How I met Rob? Well, I had just completed my last performance of the day, when a renegade pack of girl scouts surrounded me. They had missed their cookie sale target quota you see, and were willing do do anything to make up the difference. Even if it meant bringing in a fist full of stolen coins carried with hands that had knuckles covered in white face paint. I fought them, but the two of them had numbers on their side. i was quickly overwhelmed in a sea of merit badge laden sashes. Darn you 12 year old demons!!!!
Just then though in my darkest hour, Rob appeared in a burst of chalk-complected justice! Without any effort he ripped through the mimed walls of my piece of sidewalk, mouthing the words “LEAVE THAT MIME ALONE!” i can only imagine the fear it would have struck in their cold little hearts if it had volume. Then, out of nowhere he whipped out an imaginary fishing pole, cast a line at them, and started reeling them off of me!! So convincing was it that they crawled his direction. Futilely they tried to fight Rob, but it was like the man had an arsenal in his back pocket. He swung a bat that only he saw… but only they felt. Thrust a pretend knife so convincingly that you could feel the air slice.
it was over in less than a minute. Such a non-beating he gave those Girl Scouts from hell, their beanie hats were still spinning on the ground by the time they were a block away. Beaten, confused, and scared, I just looked at my savior in fear, not sure if he would work me over next. Was the trauma truly over? I cringed as he quickly whipped back his arm, but was gratified to find he was only throwing me a rope to help me up. In his wise ways me knew I was to weak to perform an elevator routine to get back to my feet.
i climbed that imaginary rope, not just to safety, but to friendship. As I got to him, we shook. Our sweaty hands mixed in each other’s white paint. It was in that tender moment that we became mime-brothers. From that day forward the girl scouts never again tried to roll mimes. Instead they whispered in fear and reverence the name of the white-faced devil, defender of those who have no voices.
Rob and I went on to have many grand adventures. I was the Tonto to his Lone Ranger, the Bucky to his Captain America. Eventually though, life took us in different directions. However, he knows though that all he as to do is call me up when needed, and I will be back at his side.
When that day comes though, I just hope he calls me on Skype. Mimes don’t do well with regular phone calls
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