Saturday, April 19, 2014

Coloring Eggs and All of That

I bristle every time I have to apologize for being human. I become annoyed every time I have to claim to be imperfect. I know I’m imperfect. My kids know I’m not perfect. My wife surely knows. I don’t think it’s a big secret.

I’m fairly sure everyone makes mistakes, does stupid things and has impure thoughts from time to time, (okay, lots of times). Head to your particular place of congregation and you’ll be directed to bow your head and ask forgiveness for being you. Because you are Just. Not. Good. Enough.

Let’s be honest. You’re Just. Not. Good.

That’s what is lacking. Honesty. Just once I’d like to see someone look down from the pulpit and say, “Look, I don’t know how all of this stuff got here. The explanations in this book are ridiculous. What we really need is hope. Hope that there will be a better future than the present we’re all stuck in.

Let’s look to each other and hope for the best. In that, you are all good enough.”
That’s a fantasy I can get behind.

The internet is full of stories about the coming day. Stories about how it began, its roots, its meanings and its relevance to our lives. I’ve read enough, believed enough and repeated enough of those stories to make people around me smile blankly when I start ramping up. Tired, they are, of my ramblings. Quiet, be, I must.

I’m done.

None of it matters. If you believe, fine. If you don’t, fine. If you want to force your fantasies on me, well… I still have a problem with that, but that’s another story.

Here’s the thing, though. Here’s the important thing that makes all the difference in the world.

When your kid asks you to come and color Easter eggs, it’s not about the origins of the tale, or the story’s relevance to our daily struggles or any of that other maudlin bullshit.

It’s about spending time with the people you love. Everything else is just pretense and getting up early on weekends.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Death of a Grammar Nazi

I’m a bit of a snob. A nerd, a geek and a smug, superior know-it-all, hell-bent on making you feel stupid.

Okay, maybe not so harsh as all that, but I have been accused of being a grammar nazi, and, ahem, argumentative when it comes to ethics, politics, religion and anything else that makes people uncomfortable to talk about, (ya bunch of wussies). I’d even go so far as to say that I can be rather manic when faced with certain pet peeves.

The point of all of this, however, is that I have been schooled.

Recently, you may recall, the CEO of a major browser company was shit-canned because he expressed views that were anti-gay. He put his money where his mouth is and helped fund a proposition in California. It was a bill against the current national trend of championing the fact the all Americans deserve to be treated equally. The internet, ostensibly his company’s bread-and-butter, went their usual batshit, and hauled this zealot into the light. He was summarily beheaded by shareholders.

Okay, not really, but the outcome is the same. His name is trashed and his prospects for hire in this climate are decidedly slim. Not because of his reprehensible views on this subject. Not because he tried to stifle the rights of others due to his beliefs. Not even because people were loud about their taking offense at his views. No, this guy was shit-canned because the shareholders of his company figured that they would make more money without him than they would with him at the helm. They were afraid.
When I first heard about this, I thought, “I don’t see things the way he sees them, but, is that reason enough to tear this guy’s livelihood apart?” I wouldn’t be using any of their products, but I don’t think I would have called for his head.

Many would say yes. Many more would say it loudly. Still more would demand a boycott of this or that, until their rage had been assuaged.

I thought of a video I had seen recently. It depicted two knuckleheads on a motorcycle, carrying an American Flag upside down. Two former servicemen rushed after them, apparently incensed that someone would do such a thing. The comments beneath the video were decidedly positive. Many hoped for the men on the motorcycle to die, be beaten severely or to suffer some other brand of trauma because they had dishonored the many who had fought for their freedom to do the very thing they were doing. That was ironic to me.

The servicemen were offended. They fought and saw friends die defending the right to be an asshole, but as soon as someone decided to be an asshole, they got bent out of shape. The argument is, “If they are allowed to express their views, then so am I.” which is fine until you start beating the shit out of people. Beating the shit out of people because they don’t share your values is still wrong. Even if they are wrong.

There was a folk singer who died recently. He had a long and storied career of helping his fellow man, being an advocate for the environment and being an all-around nice guy. He was also a Communist. When he died and memorials were held in his honor, some people felt that it was un-American to honor this man because of his views. My feelings on this were instant and pointed. Here was a guy who believed in something, but never let it stop him from helping people, doing what he thought was right and making sure people in power knew that he was doing what he thought was right. No matter what his beliefs were, there is nothing more American than standing up and doing what you feel is right… even when it’s not popular. Walking out on him was the un-American act.

Cognitive dissidence began to fill my head here. On the one side, I’m thinking, “People can express their views, but that doesn’t mean they have the right to harm people because of it.” On the other side, I’m thinking, “It’s ‘could have, not could of, you fucking moron!”

And then I read this…
The “Culture of Shut Up” The Atlantic by Jon Lovett, (

Basically, it says people have the right to be offended, but that doesn’t mean that we should all start shouting down people we don’t agree with. That kind of behavior will result in people not speaking their minds, playing it safe, and ultimately turning the keys of the kingdom we call life over to an elite few. It said that this kind of thinking makes shareholders afraid.

It also said that this is precisely the kind of culture we are developing.

The talking heads are just sitting in wait, rubbing their hands, hoping for the chance to punish the free thinker, the iconoclast, the rebel.

The cognitive dissidence in my head came together. I can’t be a grammar nazi and still think people have the right to be assholes without the whole world ganging up on them. I can’t bark at people who confuse ‘to, too and two’ and still think that if I make a mistake somewhere along the way people should just take it easy. I can’t expect everyone to line up on my side of the language line and still breathe the fresh air of freedom of thought.

So, I’ve been schooled.

I never thought for an instant that people didn’t want to know. I always thought that they would be grateful to have it pointed out to them. Here’s how the conversation went in my head:

Me: Excuse me, but the proper word to identify a place would have been “there”. “Their” implies ownership of something.

Person Hoping to be Better: Oh thank you! I was so hoping that someone would come along and explain that to me!

Me: Join me as I brush up on the proper uses of “who” and “whom”, won’t you?

Alas, this is not the case. The internet has taught me that the conversation goes more like this.

Me: Excuse me, but the proper word to identify a place would have been “there”. “Their” implies ownership of something.

Person Who Couldn’t Care Less: Fuck you, Nerd.

So, just as I have decided to back off of discussing religion and politics on the internet, I will stop policing the grammar of my friends and acquaintances. (Religion and politics are not supposed to be discussed because it “isn’t polite”, but think about who benefits from that policy. And then think about… oh… right, sorry).
Anyway, I will try not to be a grammar nazi anymore. I can’t be smug as people go about getting their points across without caring about syntax or proper tense.

My wife just laughed when I told her this. My kids just rolled their eyes.
I don’t think they believed me. I don’t know why.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Ed note:
On a recent family vacation, we each made up stories to pass the time and keep the driver, (me) awake. We made up many stories that day. This was one of my contributions to the game. It is an original story.

The Tale of Corn Po

Corn Po was a kale farmer on the wind-swept steppes of Mongolia. He wasn't a very good kale farmer. In fact, he was actually a very bad kale farmer. Corn Po had never been out of his village before. He wasn't a very bright lad. And, he smelled of kale.

One day, a young, adventurist couple set out to explore the wind-swept steppes of Mongolia. They hired a bi-plane, and flew off into the sky. At one point during their day, they flew over Corn Po's kale fields. The young lady, having just finished her Coca-cola, tossed the bottle cap out of the plane.

In those days, Coke bottle caps were built to last. After falling 20,000 feet, the bottle cap landed next to Corn Po with a wet ker-splunch.

He picked up the bottle cap, and, not knowing what it was, he set out to find out what it could be. Corn Po was sure it was a sign. A sign of great importance.

I did mention that Corn Po wasn't very bright, didn't I?
Anyway, Corn Po went to his village, and walked up to the temple. He knocked on the temple door and asked to see the elder inside. "Oh, boy. Foolish boy," said the acolyte that had answered the door. "The Elder is doing serious business. No one sees him. Especially you, because you smell like kale."

So, Corn Po showed the acolyte the bottle cap. The acolyte looked at the bottle cap, and then back at Corn Po. "Oh boy. Foolish boy," he said with a snicker. "You must seek out the wisest of all men." "But," Corn Po asked. "Where do I find the wisest of all men, who can tell me what this sign means?" The acolyte snickered at the bottle cap in Corn Po's hand and said, "Oh boy. Foolish boy. Only the Dalai Lama can help you. He can be found at the top of the tallest mountain in the world."

Corn Po was disheartened. Even though he was not very bright, he knew that the tallest mountain in the world was Mount Sagarmatha* and it stood, mighty and proud, in Nepal. So, without another word, Corn Po turned his face to the southwest, and began walking.

He walked for many days and nights. Soon, the days turned to weeks and then months, as he traveled over the whole of Mongolia, across the southwestern slopes of China, toward Nepal. Corn Po had many adventures along the way, but those are tales for another time.

Finally, he made his way to Nepal, and then, to Mount Sagarmatha.

At the base of the mountain was a little town, with a little pub and general store. Corn Po realized that he would need supplies to climb all the way to the top of the mountain. Corn Po was disheartened. He had no money, because he didn't sell any of his kale this season. He didn't sell any of his kale because he wasn't a very good kale farmer, and he had forgotten to harvest his kale after discovering the bottle cap. He didn't know what to do.

Then, just when he was at his wits' end, Corn Po's mysterious uncle, Jean-Luc Pierre emerged from the pub. Uncle Jean-luc paid for Corn Po's supplies.

After thanking his uncle, Corn Po began to climb. He climbed and climbed. Many nights he sat, hundled and freezing on the wind-swept cliffs of Mount Sagarmatha. Many days, the icy air froze his fingers stiff, but he would not be deterred. Corn Po continued to climb.

One morning, the sun rose bright and cold over the great temple at the top of Mount Sagarmatha. Corn Po felt a rush of excitement as he climbed the steps of the temple. When he reached the top, he knocked on the door.

An acolyte opened the door just a crack, so as not to let the cold air in. "Why have you come on such a journey?" the acolyte asked. "I have come to seek the advice of the wisest man on Earth." Corn Po said. He held up the bottle cap. "I know this is a sign from the heavens. I wish for the Dalai Lama to tell me what it means."

The acolyte looked at the bottle cap, and then at Corn Po. He could tell that Corn Po was not the brightest of lads. "Oh boy. Foolish boy," the acolyte said. "If you seek an audience with the Dalai Lama, you have come far for nothing."
Corn Po was confused, and it showed on his face. The acolyte snickered. "Not only is the Dalai Lama the wisest man on Earth," he said. "But, he is also the most famous. He is, at this moment, with Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin and Sammy Davis Jr. in Las Vegas. You must seek him there."

Corn Po was still confused. "But, it is just the turn of the century," he said. "Las Vegas isn't even built yet." "Oh boy. Foolish boy." the acolyte said, "It will be, by the time you get there."

With a final, mocking glance at the bottle cap in Corn Po's hand, the acolyte closed the door. Corn Po began the long, slow, cold journey down the mountain.

When he had climbed down from Mount Sagarmatha, Corn Po turned his face westward, and began walking. He walked across Nepal. He walked across India. He walked across deserts and lush tropics. Corn Po walked across Africa and into Spain. When he reached the Spanish coast, he booked passage on a ship bound for the Americas. Corn Po had many adventures along the way, but those are tales for another time.

When Corn Po reached the shores of North America, he began walking. The first person he met was an old woman. She was sitting in a lounge chair in front of a big hotel on Virginia Beach. She was tossing potato chips into the air. Each time she tossed one, the wind blew it back onto her enormous hat. The dozen or so seagulls fighting for the chips in her hat made a tremendous noise. They also made the old woman's hat rock back and forth on her head. It looked to Corn Po as if her head was the ocean, and her hat, with it's dozen or so seagulls in it, was a ship being tossed on an angry sea. Corn Po tried not to laugh.

Corn Po asked the woman where Las Vegas was. She laughed a high, unpleasant laugh. "Oh boy. Foolish boy," she cackled. "Las Vegas! That's on the other side of the country!" She tossed a chip into the air and it was blown back into her massive hat. The dozen or so seagulls fought for it, and the hat rocked back and forth some more.
Corn Po thanked the old woman, and lifted his chin toward the west. He began walking.

Corn Po walked all the way across the United States. He had many adventures along the way, but those are tales for another time.

Finally, Corn Po came to Las Vegas. He saw the marquee for the Sands hotel. It said, "Live, Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin & Sammy Davis Jr." Corn Po was very excited. He walked up to the front doors of the Sands hotel. A very large man with a tattoo of a goose eating a pickle on his neck stopped him.

"Where do you think you're going?" the man asked. "I seek the Dalai Lama, the wisest man on earth." Corn Po said. He held up the bottle cap. "This is a sign from the heavens, and I wish to know what it means."

The man with the tattoo of the goose eating a pickle on his neck looked at Corn Po closely. He could tell that Corn Po was not the brightest of lads. "You can't go in there with that bottle cap, son." the man said. "The Dalai Lama is not here, and besides, you smell like kale."

Corn Po was disheartened. He didn't know what to do. He turned away from the front door of the Sands hotel.
Now, it just happened to be Christmas time in the United States. When Corn Po turned away from the Sands hotel, his eyes fell upon a billboard. On the sign was a giant depiction of Santa Claus. And Santa was holding a bottle of Coca-Cola. On the top of the bottle was a bottle cap! Corn Po turned the bottle cap in his hand over and over. They were the same!

Corn Po knew what he had to do. He turned his face northward, and set out for the North Pole. He had many adventures along the way, but those are tales for another time.

*Mount Sagarmatha is the Nepalese name for Mount Everest

Friday, January 31, 2014

2K Writing Challenge

Ed Note: From time to time, I'll indulge my darker side and blast out a writer's challenge. This time, prolific writer and all-around bad-ass crazy person Chuck Wendig has put forth a challenge. This is my response to it. You may wish to avert your eyes.


At one-thirty I told the bar-back to start putting the chairs up on the tables. Normally, the boss would throw a fit if he saw the chairs up before two am. But, since there was nobody left but the two ladies at the end of the bar and Earl nursing his Bud long neck in the corner, I figured I was safe. I began the nightly ritual of ‘clean everything’, hoping to get out of there by two.

I was tired. I wanted to go home.

Well, not home, really. Anywhere else would have been okay, too. My little box of an apartment would do in a pinch, but there was usually a better choice out there. Looking around, I was resigning myself to the cold doom of bachelorhood and left over pizza, when one of the ladies at the end of the bar lifted a hand.

Taking the pint glass I was wiping dry with me, I covered the five paces to their end quickly enough. As I landed with a smile in front of them, I saw Earl getting up out of the corner of my eye. He tipped his Stetson in my direction and headed for the door.

Now, I know you’re thinking, “What the fuck is a guy in an Upstate New York bar doing wearing a Stetson?” and you’d be right. I’ve found myself thinking the same thing on more than one occasion. But, there’s nothing more to it than this: Earl likes being a cowboy. Jeans, boots, hat, knife on his belt… the whole thing. It’s his schtick, and who am I to tell him otherwise?

“Night, Earl.”

So, Earl is heading for the door when one of the ladies says, “Hey, do you know how to make a Contusion?”
“Contusion,” I said. “Like, as in, a bruise?”

She nodded. Her friend giggled that slightly-drunk-woman giggle, like she was channeling Betty Rubble. I lifted a fist with the first joint of my middle finger raised up a bit. “If you punch somebody like this,” I said with a grin. “You’re sure to leave a contusion of some sort.”

“Oooh,” said Betty before she giggled again. Her friend leaned closer to the bar, which she obviously thought would bring her closer to me. Her head was merely closer to the actual bar. “No, the drink. A Contusion.”

“Nope,” I said cheerfully. “Never heard of it.” I waited a beat, to see if that was the end of it. We both knew it wasn’t.

“Well?” she said in a whisper. “Do you wanna know how to make it?”

Betty was silent now, staring at me with those big eyes, like a child in a black velvet painting. She was kinda cute, in that cougar-ish way. She had dark hair to match her eyes. It was bobbed, pixie style, but you could tell it was done in a salon. Her cohort, who I had named Wilma in my head, was also in her forties, wearing that cougar-red lipstick and sporting a blonde mop that looked like she went at it with a pair of garden shears during a crying fit.

Her blouse had popped a button or two, and she was watching me, waiting for my answer.

I had no idea what their names really were. I usually assign people cartoon names based on my first impression of them to help remember what they’re drinking. Yogi’s having a Coors light. Jane Jetson over there is having a martini, and so on.

“Hang on,” I said. I scanned the bar room for the bar-back, who was just putting up the last chair, where Earl had been.

“Pete,” I said. “That’s it. I’ll lock up.”

“You sure?” Pete said doubtfully.

“Yeah, I got it.” I said.

Apparently, Pete saw something in these two that I didn’t. He looked downright disgusted.
“Wouldn’t your parents be proud.” he said, shaking his head. “Okay, man. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“Yup.” I said with a nod.

With a last glance at the two women, Pete slipped through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. A moment later I heard the time clock ka-thock, and then the back door slam.

Wilma had her elbows on the bar, squeezing her breasts together in that ever-so-distracted way, as if to say, “Oh , I sit like this all the time. It’s not like I’m trying to get you to look at my breasts or anything.” So, I was trying really hard not to look at her cleavage, which was ample, and quite frankly, pretty nice.

“So,” I said, setting my glass and rag down and moving to the other side of Betty. “What’s in a Contusion?”
“I could tell you,” Wilma said. She blinked slowly, but one eyelid went back up faster than the other. I stifled a laugh.

“But, I can make them better.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I am fairly good at this. Try me.”

“Ok, “she said. Wilma thought for a moment, and then waggled her fingers at Betty. “Tell him.”

Betty swung her head in my direction, one eyelid slightly droopier than the other, and said, “A shot of rum… the good stuff, like 1800. Not that well shit.”

“1800 is tequila.” I said.

“What did I say?” Betty asked.


“Rum?” Betty threw her head back and giggled like her namesake. “Who the fuck drinks rum?”

“Ummm, pirates?” I offered.

They both giggled like their namesakes. I was beginning to feel like I was trapped in some twisted version of The Flintstones.

“So, tequila, then?” I asked, tentatively. “Yes! That’s it! Tequila!” Betty yelped. “Then, a dash of sweet vermouth and a dash of blue, uh, blue…” She turned to Wilma. “What’s that blue shit?”

“Curry cow.” Wilma said, followed by her lifting her glass of Chablis and draining it.

“Blue Curacoa?” I asked. This is gonna taste like shit, I thought.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” Wilma said. “So, it’s a shot of tequila, a dash of sweet vermouth, a dash of that Blue stuff, and a splash of club soda. Pour that over an ice cube or two and you’ve got it.”

“So, basically,” I said, trying to show off my understanding. “We’re making purple tequila.”

Betty smiled. “Which will look like a bruise, or a …”

“Contunsion.” we said in unison.

With a shrug, I grabbed a shaker and scooped up some ice. “Too much!” Wilma barked. I hastily let most of the cubes dribble out of the glass, leaving two cubes at the bottom. I held it up for inspection. “Perfect.” Wilma said.
I grabbed the Tequila from the shelf, along with the curacoa. After measuring, splashing and adding the vermouth, I gently swirled the concoction around. Grabbing the soda gun, I blasted the mix with a quick dose of club soda. Swirled again, and then strained into a martini glass.

“Garnish?” I asked, my eyes flicking from face to face. Wilma waggled her fingers at me to demonstrate that she didn’t give a shit about garnish. Point taken, I set the glass between them and stepped back.

Wilma took a sip. Betty followed after watching Wilma for a moment. Wilma motioned for me to come closer. Before I could get there, Wilma’s depth perception failed her and she spat her sip toward me in a spit take that would have made Uncle Miltie proud. “Augh! That’s awful!” she cried.

Betty shrugged and drained the glass.

“Yeah, that was pretty bad.” she said. “You have no idea how to make a Contusion.”

I looked from face to face again, and grabbed up the glass. I headed for the other end of the bar, tossing, “Alright, closing time, ladies!” over my shoulder.

“I think we hurt his feelings.” Wilma said. She was whispering really loudly. Betty giggled again, and called out, “Oh, come on! Don’t be like that!”

I sauntered back to their end after placing the martini glass in the rack under the bar. “No, it’s all good,” I said. “It just is,” I pointed a thumb over my shoulder, “ time to go.” I headed back to the other end, and opened the register with a bang. I totaled and printed out their tab, and walked back.

I folded it in half, length-wise, and set it down in front of them. I walked back to the other end, and made a big show of finishing the washing and cleaning. I covered the garnish trays with plastic and put them in the cooler beneath the taps. I washed the last of the glasses and put them away. When all but the register was closed, I made my way back to them.

They were huddled together, whispering. I could tell by the fact that they were the loudest whisperers ever that they were discussing taking me home with them.

I’ve done worse.

“Ladies,” I said as smoothly as I could manage. “I have to close up. I have to close out the register.” They both looked at me blankly. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I need you to pay your check.” I said sweetly.

A great flurry of activity began, as they rifled through their purses, taking out checkbooks and wallets and combs and all manner of things I didn’t need to see. Finally, Wilma dropped a crumpled $50 bill on the bar. I locked eyes with her as I scooped it up. She smiled in a very devilish way.

As I walked over to the register, I imagined what might happen if the three of us went home together.

I punched in the check number.

In my mind, Wilma was on her knees, while Betty was working me out of my shirt and tie.

I punched in the total of the check.

Betty was topless now, and Wilma was going for it like it ain’t nobody’s business.

I hit ‘Total’ and unfolded the fifty.

The drawer popped open. I felt a fingernail tapping me on the shoulder. I turned my head in time to see Wilma swinging a pint mug by the handle.

I felt the cartilage in my nose give way as the glass shattered. I staggered back, clutching at my broken nose and bloodied face. Betty was pulling all of the bills out of the register while Wilma followed me down to the floor, bashing me in the head again and again with what was left of the mug in her hand.

Her knees were on my chest. There wasn’t much left of the mug besides the handle now, but she was still swinging it at my head, trying to catch me whenever my guard went down.

I heard Betty growl, “Let’s go.” Wilma was up in a flash, climbing up onto the sink in order to vault over the bar. “Let’s go!” I heard Betty say again.

“That’s how you make a bruise, motherfucker.” Wilma said with a snort. “That’s a fuckin’ contusion.”

I lay there on the floor behind the bar, holding my nose and listening for the sirens. I was sure then, and I know now, that Betty had no idea that the last twenty dollar bill in the drawer was rigged to the silent alarm. All of us bartenders knew it. We all knew better than to pull that last twenty.

I struggled to my feet, slipping and stumbling in what was my own blood. I heard the two ladies crash through the double doorway into the street just as the first of the cop cars rolled up. I couldn’t see much of what was going on outside. Both my eyes were going black and blue right there under my hands. I could feel it.

Later, when the cops dragged them both in for a positive ID, I nodded. When the detective started asking me what happened, I asked him if he didn’t think it might be a good idea to get me to a fucking hospital. I figured that I would be picking glass out of my face for a while, and I wanted to get a head start on it.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

If You Do it Right, No One Will Notice

Editor’s Note: Bagels and Roles is completed and will be debuting very soon. I few familial setbacks and hold-ups have been cleared away. Now, with the holidays behind us, I have had a chance to actually finish the editing of this film. More on that soon!

One of the coolest aspects of what I do is the fact that I get to do different things… almost as the mood strikes me. The people I have met over the years sometimes provide me the opportunities to do cool stuff outside the normal video shooting/editing realm.

Sometimes I’ll be asked to write a profile or other piece of online work. Or, it’ll be a friend or colleague asking for training in one of the various software packages or pieces of equipment video people use, (luckily, I can ask for help from the same people when I’m at a loss). But, the real fun happens when I get to do something way cool for a theater.
The Pied Piper Youth Theater affords me the opportunity to do some really cool backgrounds for their shows. I love to paint, and I love to paint big, so painting murals eight feet high by twenty-four feet wide or more is big fun.

Up until now, my favorite has been the palace at Agrabah, for their Aladdin performances. This was wild for me because I really don’t do buildings or cars or anything inorganic so well. It was a challenge and I was thrilled with not only how it came out, but how the audiences liked it.

I’ve done others. I did a really colorful and fun set for Peter Pan. I did a Seussical background that was neat, too. But, the one I’m working on now. Finished just today, as a matter of fact, is an over-the-top depiction of a cityscape for their production of Annie Jr.

The thing about backgrounds, set pieces, etc. is just this: If you do it well, nobody notices. On the surface, that sounds like a bad thing. But, in reality, if you do it right, the background becomes part of the show. It will appear to be the only way the stage could look, and so it kind of disappears. It would be too obvious to comment on it, because it’s obviously how it should be.

Does that make sense?

I haven’t gotten there yet.

The lighting isn’t great here, but I’ll post some better shots when the show goes live soon. I really love doing these and I count myself lucky to know folks like Bonnie and John Ryerson of the Pied Piper Youth Theater. Where else can I do stuff like this?

Find out more about Pied Piper Youth Theater by visiting their website:
Want to hire me to paint something big, (or small), for you? Or just want to say hi? Comment below!