There are moments when you step outside your body, listen to the words leaving your mouth and realize: Holy Tamole, my life has really changed. It went down at work, last Friday, idly chatting about the weekend.
Co-worker X had concert tickets. Co-worker Y was leaving town. Co-worker Z had two parties.
"We're going to see the Bubble Man," I said, as if we were going to the post office.
"Y'know, the Bubble Man? He's at the Bubble Festival."
The words came so casually, so naturally, so predictably, as though the Bubble Man requires no explanation. Like Cher, only jollier and not quite so cougar-ish. The Bubble Man blows bubbles. Big ones, little ones, funny shaped ones, ones that make you say "ooh" and then "ahh."
The Bubble Man indeed headlined the Bubble Festival in Ann Arbor, a celebration of -- wait for it -- bubbles. We went because Hope likes bubbles. We blow them on the deck. She claps her hands with glee. We blow them some more and Lulu tries to eat them.
So it seemed appropriate that we would make the trek for bubble-mania. We caught the Bubble Man's final show of the weekend, a 20-minute extravaganza of bubbles-within-bubbles, ginormous bubbles, gazillions of tiny bubbles to make Don Ho proud.
Somewhere, there is a handbook of children's entertainers. Buried deep within it, perhaps in Subsection 12, Article 7, there is a mandate: You must wear suspenders and brightly colored T shirts, ponytail optional but strongly recommended.
It must have been the end of a long weekend for the Bubble Man, who held court at the Hands-On Museum. He flubbed some tricks. His finale popped prematurely. At times, he seemed frustrated, but the Bubble Man is a pro. He soldiered on, to the delight of his tot-sized fans and us.
Hope seemed to dig the Bubble Man, but enjoyed the museum more, especially its mirrors. Like her old man, her new hobby is staring intently into them, eyeballing the gorgeous specimen on the other side and clapping with delight. Can you blame her?