I always wanted to be the chick singer in a band. My first stab at stardom took place in the 2nd grade. I really should have known better than to form a rock band with the most rambunctious boy on our block. We called ourselves The Super II (using Roman numerals in our name somehow added an air of cool-ness). Unfortunately, we never landed a recording contract, or even a gig for that matter. I blamed my partner for the band’s difficult and very public break-up when he put a hole through the skin of my snare drum during our first front porch rehearsal. It was a shame too, because we had some serious potential.
While I’ve spent the better part of more than 40-something years still dreaming about sound boards and stage lights, I guess I’ve been booked for the one gig NOBODY wants. I find myself cast front and center on the stage called grief, playing out what looks like just another tragic drama. But, deep in the recesses of my shattered soul I know that I know that I know this one thing:
for those who weep 
Little you = coolest kid on the block… Big you = best heart in the world.