Introducing Don

I could dedicate stories to Don for an entire week.  We have done a lot together.  And I don't think I am the only person who feels this way.  Don is just a doer.  He likes games, fun, music, and... fun.  Donnie is fun.  Before committing to a single story, I will create a top-ten list of my favorite adventures with Donnie. 

10. Winning that bar contest at Graham's.  He held a spray-painted broomstick between his legs while I sandpapered the paint off as fast as I could.  The stick was flaming hot and paintless as we collected our Budweiser victory hats.

9. Hanging out at Jessica's pool.  We usually had guitar sing-along time in the sunshine.

8. Seeing God in St. Peter's.  As a child I thought when sun rays beamed through the clouds, that was God.  Walking into St. Peter's in Rome, Donnie pointed at a big shaft of light coming through the marble window and said nonchalantly, "Look Bree, it's God."

7. Don's car.  Kermit.  It's green.

6. Donnie is a fantastic rock singer--he's wasting his time with this opera nonsense.  I miss singing Ben Folds at the top of our voices while driving in Las Cruces.

5. "In The Buff" (Don's former a capella group/fraternity)'s version of "Pinball Wizard" is the bomb

4. He can blow spit bubbles.

3. We talked every night for almost a year when we moved to our respective big cities. 

2. He leaves me rambling musical messages.

1. Don convinced me for 4 months that when he was a child, he changed his name from Frank to Donald. 

And now for my anecdote:  Early in my Chicago residency, Donnie participated in a young artist program in Cleveland.  On a Thursday (if memory serves) Donnie told me Jason Mraz would be performing in Cleveland Friday.  Realizing I had the two following days off of work, I jumped in my car and drove.  Big adventure. 

When I arrived, we drove around Little Italy and got some lunch at a deli.  We walked around looking for some dessert.  Donnie mentioned that he heard about a world-class doughnut shop in Little Italy.  We searched and found it.  Hoping he could point us in the direction of the holy grail of all pastries--maybe fluorescent sprinkles, perhaps mango jelly-filled, or a 3-pound crueller--we asked the guy at the counter for the best one.  He pointed silently to the most demure little doughnut ever.  It was a sour cream.  Sour cream?  Didn't sound right to me, but in the spirit of adventure (after all I was with Donald, the fun friend), we split one.  That unimpressive-looking lump of fried dough made our souls sing.  It was, and still is, the best doughnut I have ever put in my mouth.  What an adventure.  In Cleveland.