Tina Rowley

writer + (performer) + [space left open for surprises]

oh, everything is going to be MORE than all right

Last night, the best thing in the world happened - something so great, I barely know how to tell you. My heart is so full, so happy. I – I can’t…it’s too…so happy, so happy.

Dave and I were watching American Inventor. Have you watched it? We’d never watched it before. It’s a marvel. Retarded, tragic, hilarious. The cringiest, most wonderful car accident ever. A man comes on who’s given up his whole life – job, house, 26 years – for this game he invented, Bullet Ball. It’s awful, how on fire he is for this game. He’s sweating, nearly weeping. He’s positive that this game will one day be an Olympic event. It’s this little round table game where you bat a little ball back and forth with another person…it’s…no. The judges ask him what he has left of his life. He answers, his eyes blazing with tears, “I HAVE BULLET BALL.” He doesn’t move to the next round. This bizarre 12-year-old boy from Atlanta comes on, he’s accidentally invented an “invisible tear gas”. He’s the roundest, most deadpan, crazy-accented little man you’ve ever seen. The judges are all, oh, hey. You’re a good guy. You’re a good guy. But, no. Later the boy is seen in a montage of weeping losers against a white background. He looks almost completely stoic, but then he sniffles twice, slowly. Hugely. Majestically.

But you want to know about the thing that happened that’s the best thing. That’s what you want to know. I almost don’t want to talk about it. It’s so sacred. I’ll do it, though.

A man came on. A tender, wobbly man. He was holding one of these:

This is My Therapy Buddy.

Dave and I grabbed at each other.

The gentle, traumatized man spoke tremulously to the judges about My Therapy Buddy. By the looks on the judges’ faces, they were not as transported by My Therapy Buddy and his creator as Dave and I were. And then the gentle man pulled one of My Therapy Buddy’s feet (MTB was not wearing his velvet sarong on tv, his spindly legs were bare).

My Therapy Buddy said in a tenderly robotic voice:

Everything is going to be all right.

I hit Dave, Dave hit me, I hit him, he hit me.

The judges turned him down.


Dave and I were horrified. He walked away clutching the buddy with tragic dignity. The buddy had its long weird arms around him, hugging him. Dave and I instantly had the same frantic thought,


And we threw the computer open and got right to it. We were in no way ready to say goodbye to My Therapy Buddy. We needed to see it a little more.

The first item we see on the search page is the My Therapy Buddy online store.

We can buy it??

We barely have to discuss it. My Therapy Buddy is $70. Sold, SOLD, it’s a bargain. We’re moving lightning fast through this transaction, I’m typing our information perfectly at top speed, the whole exchange is practically lubricated by how in favor we are of what is happening.

We’ve done it. We’re thrilled and exhausted. He is ours. She. It is ours. It’s coming to our house.

We go a little more languidly back to the search page and find the whole website. More treasure. This is a holy, holy night. My favorite quote from the website: "98% of the people on this planet can find comfort from a Buddy. " I enjoy imagining the benighted, stonehearted 2% who cannot.

We’re so happy that Finn is going to grow up in a house with My Therapy Buddy, where he will learn:

a. that everything will be all right


b. irony.

From our hearts to yours, Dave and I give you

http://www.mytherapybuddy.com/. *

*Be sure to have the sound on.

You are so welcome.