I was reading Seth Godin’s blog last week and he had posted this video:

Here’s what he said about it:

My favorite part happens just before the first minute mark. That’s when guy #3 joins the group. Before him, it was just a crazy dancing guy and then maybe one other crazy guy. But it’s guy #3 who made it a movement.

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been taking one hour a night and devoting that hour to working on a project. I have about a dozen projects, and, all totaled, I believe they can be completed within a year.

Many of these projects are creative ones. Doing something creative, and putting it out there for the world to see can be scary. After watching the video, I found myself thinking about what it was like being on stage at USAO.

Our drama department put on some pretty damn good shows. They didn’t start out being damn good shows. Usually, they started out as awkwardly-delivered lines and half-understood scenes. But we would stop, re-read the lines, pick apart the scene, the words, we would try saying the lines a different way maybe, we would try out different blocking to see what worked best. We devoted ourselves to understanding the story, and the characters. And, by the time opening night rolled around, we knew what the hell we were doing. We knew how to make the audience laugh, and we knew how to make them cry.

And the reason the performances were good was because a group of people agreed to look foolish together, and to say that it’s okay to look foolish. This permission to look, and act, and be foolish is why members of an acting troupe can be so close to each other. Only by being willing to suffer through looking foolish can we develop our skills.

If you want to learn how to roller-blade, you have to be willing to look foolish. You’re going to scream, flail your arms about wildly, and fall flat on your ass. Somebody will laugh. You might be tempted to give up, but you shouldn’t.

Give yourself permission to look foolish, and over time, you’ll scream less, you’ll perform fewer gravity-induced gyrations, and your bruised ass will heal.

Now, that first guy in the video? He’s brave and/or crazy. The second guy? He’s also brave and/or crazy. But that third guy, the one Godin says turned crazy dancing into a movement? He’s the tipping point, the one that gave everybody permission to look foolish, to do the thing they wanted to do when they saw Guy #1 and #2, but couldn’t because they were too afraid. He’s the one that gave them permission to express themselves, and have fun.

But it all started because Guy #1 didn’t quit, and we need to remember that. So, if you have your own creative project, you and I, we’ll be Guy #1. Our friends? They’ll be Guy #2.

And let’s keep going until Guy #3 shows up, okay?

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I’ve been meaning to post some pictures to the Growing Up Star Wars Flickr Group for a while now, so this as good a time as any to start going through the boxes and boxes of completely disorganized photos and see what else I can find to embarrass myself with each week.

Washington Irving Elementary – Durant, Oklahoma – October 1978

I think I had maybe a dozen Star Wars. I would wear them until the plastic iron-on picture would start cracking.

Halloween in Durant, Oklahoma 1978

Note that I was clever enough to use sunglasses with the Darth Vader mask, but not clever enough to wear a black long-sleeved shirt. Man, these costumes were just awful back then, but we loved them! I’m pretty sure the one-fist-on-the-hip thing was probably my grandma’s idea. Sassy.

My Birthday – Germany – 1980

I remember that this was the puzzle I wanted because basically I liked anything that had Han Solo. Chewbacca, or the Millennium Falcon on it. I don’t think I ever put it together.

Halloween in Germany 1980

I love that I’ve been demoted to a storm trooper, but I’m still taller than Darth Vader.

Christmas – Altus, Oklahoma – 1976

Of course, with a haircut like mine at that age, not everything was Star Wars. I wish I could find a better picture with the insignia showing. If I do, I’ll post it. It would be the logical thing to do.

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First Note in the New Notebook: What you write must exist in two places or it doesn’t really exist (which must also be the reason we have doppelgangers).

A few weeks ago, I was talking to Amy about my recent layoff scare, and how it scared me enough to consider doing something drastic, like trying to make a living doing something I actually like doing for change. But now that I had survived the layoffs, I was scared I might let myself slip back into accepting predictable drudgery. I didn’t want that to happen. After all, my job isn’t going to last forever, and I would eventually have to face the same hopes and fears. All of this has happened before and all of it will happen again. I need to listen to this urge this time. I could start with a small writing project, maybe a fortune cookie fortune, or a short story. A few seconds after I tossed out an idea for a story, I said, “I should probably start writing these down. There’s no telling how many ideas get lost forever because I never write them down. I think I’ll remember them but I never do.”

“Do it. Write it down.”

“Nah, you write it down.” And she did. It was pure laziness on my part. I had a notebook with me. I had a pen. But I was in the middle of drinking coffee, and my notebook was all the way in my back pocket. (Note to self: Would use notebooks more if I could keep them in a girl’s back pocket.)

A couple of hours later, she left and we both forgot that I needed that note.

The next day at work, I thought about that forgotten note, and did something simple and out-of-character: I wrote that fuckin’ idea down. I didn’t care how stupid it was. And then, I told Todd that I’m going to do a little experiment: I’m going to write down every idea I have for a week to see what I’m losing. For some people, this is a habit, but not for me. I caught myself a few times thinking that I’ll just remember it.

After a week, I had 8 ideas. Okay, I thought, this is worth doing. I’m probably losing a few hundred ideas a year by not doing it.

Then, a couple of days ago. Cindy was putting clothes away, and started laughing. She called me into the bedroom, and held out a white-and-orange wad of wet paper. Of course, the one time I actually use my notebook for something more than grocery lists and errands, I’d leave the damn thing to be washed. Luckily, I had told Todd the ideas, so I do have a back-up…of sorts…this time.

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James R. Graham III was born in Oklahoma on April 15, 1980 and passed away on August 01, 2005 at the age of 25. We will remember him forever.

We will remember him forever.

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So, most of the people in my Inner Circle know that a few years ago, Todd quit keeping a personal blog. Well, under threat of being forced to watch Richard Simmons’s 20th Anniversary Edition of Sweatin’ To The Oldies, he’s back on The Tubes. His blog is here.

Oh, yeah. He and his wife, Yuko, had a baby boy, Lio, on Saturday. (Yep, you read that right.) He doesn’t have a blog entry posted yet, but don’t let that stop you from going over and saying hi.

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I haven’t had much time to sit down at the computer this past week, so for most of you this will be new news. I’m sorry I haven’t managed to write even a small post until now, but I just haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.

My dad passed away last Sunday, November 25th, 2007, at approximately 3:00 PM. His condition had been slowly deteriorating over the past month, and then it sharply declined over the last two weeks.

Since then, life has been pretty hectic, and I suspect it’ll get worse before it gets better. I might get into more of those details later because, really, this is all a huge fucking mess.

Instead of cards or flowers, you can make a memorial donation to the Oklahoma Medical Research Foundation, specified for cancer research and in memory of Nolan C. Maddera.

Thanks, you guys. I’ll be back in a few more days.

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My dad is now off many of the machines and tubes. The ICU staff had tilted the bed more upright and turned it toward the TV because he’s been awake for most of today. He’d nod off for a few minutes every 30 minutes or so, but it’s leaps and bounds ahead of where he was yesterday. The doctor’s are talking about moving him to long-term care soon. And while I’m not thrilled about the idea of him having to stay in the hospital in “long-term” care, I know this means that they feel he’s stable. His color is good, and I hate to say this, but he hasn’t looked this healthy in a long time.

Things are going well enough that my mom told me yesterday that Cindy and I should still go to Seattle…and she meant it, so we’ll be off to the Pacific Northwest one week from today.

Pete, you better have a drink ready for me. A big one. I’m going to need it.

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My dad’s recovery is going as well as one could hope for, given his physical condition and everything he’s been through during these past two weeks. He still can’t talk because of the tracheostomy, but occasionally he looks at you and you know he’s still in there. Sometimes, when asked a question he will squeeze a hand, raise his eyebrows, or even give the slightest head shake or nod.

Yesterday, Jessica, our niece, managed to get the biggest reaction from him so far.

Brian: Jessie, you want to tell grandpa what you did yesterday?

Jessica: Uh-huh.

Brian: What did you do yesterday?

Jessica: I went to the zoo.

Brian: You want to tell grandpa what all you saw at the zoo?

Jessica: I saw a great big elephant butthole.

And that was worth a great big smile.

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This has been a long week. At times, it feels like a single day that doesn’t end.

Last Sunday evening, while Cindy and I were out, my mom called and said my dad was sick and that I had to come over right away. We pulled up just seconds after the fire department and an ambulance arrived. Things were not good. I’ll give you the shortest version possible because, honestly, I’m just now getting to the point that I can function…more or less.

For years, my dad has been battling cancer. A couple of weeks ago, he was back in the hospital again for four rounds of chemotherapy and a few bags of blood platelets. It looked dicey that week, but he managed to pull through and it looked like everything was going to be okay.

The night before, Saturday, I talked to my dad around 9 PM. It wasn’t a long conversation; just an update on how he was doing. He had driven himself to the store earlier that day, and picked up a few movies. He talked about the actors and some of their other films that he liked or disliked. He sounded like he was feeling good and was well on his way to recovering.

The next morning he woke up with a headache and blurry vision. He couldn’t remember anybody’s name, except for Austin, my nephew. He was having increased difficultly speaking. His sentences would start out okay, but finish in gibberish. A CAT scan showed some sort of head trauma, and 12 hours later he was being moved to a another hospital for surgery. They removed a small mass (about the size of a small fist, the doctor said) from the left side of his brain.

Since then, he has been in the ICU. He’s on a ventilator and has opened his eyes maybe half a dozen times. A few times on Tuesday, he managed to squeeze the hand of whoever was holding his at the time.

His vital signs are good, and the doctors say that he’s recovering faster than they expected. However, they think he should have regained consciousness by now. For us, we’re encouraged by any positive development each day.

Today, after four days of unconsciousness, he opened his eyes again, just slightly and just for a few seconds. It doesn’t seem like much, but we’ll take it.

I’ll keep you all updated, and start posting more about other things because I could use the distraction.

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On weekends, I babysit for some friends who are on-call for a hospital. Whenever they get called in, I get called over to watch their 21-month-old son.

I have been doing this for about 5 months now, and whenever I have just changed Quinn’s diaper, I lift him from the changing table and set him down on the floor with his back to me, making sure his shirt is pulled down in back or not tucked into his diaper or pants. I pat him with the back of my hand a couple of times on his butt and say something like “Okay, take off” and off he goes. It’s been this routine for 5 months.

Last night, I changed his diaper, lifted him to the floor, and said “All right, get outta here”. He didn’t take off immediately, but stood there a few seconds and never turned around. Thinking he hadn’t heard me, I said “You’re done, buddy, go on”. He then reached around, patted himself twice on his butt, and ran out of the room after the cat.

I thought What the hell was that all about? before realizing I hadn’t given him his get-outta-here pats.

Go figure.

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