You are invited to a really important party, Friends!

Friends,

I need you.

 

Its time to rally.

One in my village is down.

We have to help him back up.

 

 

You Friends,

 have met him here before.

 

Its my buddy, Shooter.

 

(You new Friends, can just type Shooter

 in the search box of this blog and see a snippet of our good times)

 

The rest of you can catch up right here.

 

I know, you will help.

Because, you are my Friends.

 

I feel uncomfortable,

sharing my need with you,

and asking for help.

 

Asking for help,

is so uncomfortable.

Even to you,

my Friends.

 

But I am doing it.

Because I need it.

 

And I am asking you,

to be uncomfortable and ask me for

help, when you need it too.

 

 

I am on a mission, right now,

to help my friend Shooter,

and I need your support.

 

 

Here's Shooter...

(drum roll please!)

 

 He doesn't have that crab leg mustache anymore.

He's shaved it for later.

 

Hardy har har.

 

I should mention his birth name, isn't Shooter. 

Just to be clear.

Its Bulmaro Jr. 

I am a Buliever.

 

When Shooter's in need,

what would we do?

What could we do?

What would Jesus Shooter do?

 

Host a party.

That's what you would do.
He would do.
They would do.
Whathaveyou.

So I am inviting you
to a really important party.

Here's your official invite.
I am sorry its coming late.

 

Jr Campuzano is 43 years old, married and father of 5. He was recently diagnosed with an extremely rare adrenal tumor which will require extensive medical treatment. In an effort to raise money for medical expenses, etc., his family and friends will be hosting a Benefit in Jr’s honor.
It is $25 and includes Pizza & Pop. There will also be raffles, split the pot, t-shirt sales and much more!! If are unable to make it but still want to donate, checks made out to the Jr Campuzano Fund can be mailed beginning September 9, 2013 to:
Itasca Bank & Trust— 308 W. Irving Park Road, Itasca, Illinois

 Here's what I have to say about that.
 

Boo.
 

For a person that loves to write and express,

you would think I would,

have something better to say.

 

And I do.

 

Its f*ck.

 

A word that rhymes with luck.

Miracles.

 

Miracles are possible.

I have already witnessed it

with The Shooters.
 

I have seen more magic,

since the boo f*ck news,

than ever before.

 

Here's why... 

Shooter surrounds himself with

brave and fantastic folks.
Here's a few.

(Shooter kids: Patrick (Patty Boy), Nicholas (Nico), Justin (Dut Dut),

and Ruby (Ruby Rose with the button nose and the stinky toes)

Here's his favorite.

 And then there's these guys.

 

  

We are used to sharing happy moments,
together on back patios.

So when Bridget

called me to share The News,

I sobbed and ran out of work as fast as I could,

and joined them at the hospital.

 

B met me outside and we took a walk,

 before going in.

I was a mess.
My knees were shaky and
I was throwing up in my mouth. 
I wanted to be there, but I couldn't do it.
 

How did she know what I needed?
A minute to sit with her alone first,
 to calm ME.
 

She is always, always,

thinking of others.
 

She is the most intuitive

and hard working person I know.
 

And yet she has never had a "job".
 

She nursed her dad to rest in peace,

and raises 4 active kids,

and mows the lawn,

and takes out the trash,

and does the books for Shooter's business.

 

And in her time of need,

she knew I needed her,

because I was scared.
 

So she comforted me.

 

I walked with her.

Sat with her.

Looked at her.
Hugged her.

Listened to her.

Cried for her.

And mostly tried to shut myself up,

and just let her talk.
 

Or let us be silent.
 

Or anything,

to take the pressure off of me,

because I didn't know what to do,

or how to help.
 

And eventually,
when she was done telling me everything,
and the silence was done for both of us...

I mumbled through tears.
 

My words.
 

It was this.
 

"Bridget.  I love you.  I am so sorry. 
If I could take it back..
the things you already told me,
I would take it all back. 

But I can't. 

So I will just hold your hand,
 and go right through this with you. 

I will just be here
and stay here
and hold your hand. 
Forever."

 

And we walked in.
 

I walked into his room,

and Shooter kicked everyone out,

so the only people left were Bridget and Shooty,

and Shooty's first son who didn't even know
 The Real News yet.
 

I felt so honored. 
 

I felt so safe when I saw Shooter,
that I just spit out everything.
 

I pulled up a stool,
 right next to his bed.
 

I looked in his eyes and hugged him,
 and told him how very much I loved him.

And I asked him to fight.

Fight hard. 
Right now.
 

I told him that I was going to fight with him.
 

And that I watched Finding Nemo the other night

(and they laughed because so did they)

and I reminded him of the moment,

when all the fish have to swim down...

and its seemingly impossible,

but if they just kept swimming down,

together,
by golly,

they saved themselves and each other.
 

So I told Shooty,

I couldn't help or fix or change The News.
 

I couldn't pretend I didn't hear,
what I heard.

 Or know,
 what I know.
 

Its totally f*cking boo news.
I can't change that part.
 

But the thing I could do,

was fight with him,

and swim down.
 

I affirmed him, I was on his team,

and I was swimming down hard.

We made a pact to swim together.

Then we moved on,
settling into our usual friendship.
 

He asked about work,

and I told him,
 he ruined my day with his News,

but I got to leave early, so thanks.
 

And then we laughed,

about nonsense, like we do.
 

In this particular case,

we started laughing about

a hypothetical scenario

of how hard D

would be sweating,
 if he was in a hot wings eating contest.
 

 This is what we do.
We laugh together.

So when I got home,
I wanted to make him laugh more.

To relieve him from his illness,
and from his hospital-ness.

So, I promptly found the hilarious
coconut bra, Shooty bought me
as a souvenir from their
Florida vacation
 years ago.

The bra has been a big joke and
has never been worn.

This seemed to be the right occasion.

I immediately put it on and sent him a picture,
promising D would be the one to wear it next.

It brought tears of laughter.

I am sorry I am either too vain
or too humble to post it here.

 

The next day,

I came to the hospital unannounced,

not knowing anything,

or if we could even visit,
or if we would even see him.

I just showed up.
That is my promise to them.
To just keep showing up.
 

I brought my whole family.

And a basket of nonsense.

Like lotion, music, and gum.


Yes, I packed a basket
of weird things
thinking they might help
or comfort
my sick friend.

I want to bring us back to happy times.
Before The News.

Celebrating and toasting friendship,
and anniversaries and each other.

 

 

 

Shooty calls me H Bomb.

 

He is so much fun.

Its contagious.

 

He makes me delirious with laughter.

 

I return the favor to him,

by taking his crazy, wonky, ideas

and turning them to reality.

 

Like so.

 Really?

Yes. 
Blame Shooter.

 I don't regret one second of time,

 I have spent with him.
 

No matter how

much my head aches the next morning.

I will love and support these two forever.

 

 

And I just shared pictures of myself

riding a bull.

Buliever.

 

Its worth a donation, right?

 

Please help this family,

in any way you can.

 



 I know you missed the party.

 

So did Shooty.

 

We went to visit him after it was over.

 

I played nurse and rubbed his feet

with that silly lotion from my basket.

 

Turns out he loves it,

and the bottle

was nearly empty,

already.

 

Then D and I did dishes,

 in the background

 while we witnessed

Bridget and Shooty having rare alone time.

 

She got to tell him about everyone there,

and all the love.

 

He was so grateful.

Just wanting to hear more and more.

 

It was a magical moment.

 

Swim with me, Friends!

Let's do this!

Save my Shooter!

Bulieve!