I received a Wall Street Journal news alert today that announced, "J.C. Penney Nabs a Top Apple Executive." Relax, I have absolutely nothing to say with regards to that article.
It did, however, conjure up memories of the imaginary best friend I had as a small child. Well, let's take it down a notch and leave it at imaginary friend because 'best' would imply that I had many, which may cause you to infer unproven things about me and my upbringing. And let's leave it at 'child' because I never really was small, instead resembling a young John Goodman in my early baby pictures.
I fear that you don't believe me and therefore wish I could post a photo of my baby self next to an image of John Goodman's self, but that would involve me teaching my mom how to use the printer's scanner over the phone. And seeing as how it is 2:15 in the morning (with the time being the irrelevant factor in this equation), you'll just have to trust me on this one.
As a promising and budding young mind, I proudly introduced my friend to my parents, "Mom, Dad, this is J.C.; J.C. Penney." (This is arguably the clearest illustration of why I have had this blog since 2009 and still fail to have more than 10 entries. 'Creative' never appears as a descriptor on my resume.)
In retrospect, I probably would have gone with a more nuanced J.C. Penny, but seeing as I had neither developed the faculties for spelling nor the knowledge of intellectual property rights laws, I was clearly liable for trademark infringement. (Dad, navigating me through the process of setting up a Roth IRA at the age of 7 was indeed an astute parenting move, but let me ask where you were on this one!)
Luckily, the retail giant never pursued legal action because they really could've taken everything from me--my Fisher Price® (not making that mistake again!) kitchen, my cardboard general store of plastic foodstuffs, one recalcitrant beta fish, and a rough-and-tumble team of troll dolls.
In hindsight, I don't really know what purpose J.C. served. Our friendship was tepid at best. There was no use in bossing her around to do my bidding, as it simply would not have gotten done. That only happens when your imaginary friend is Bruce Willis. And I don't believe I was a child who ever really talked to myself. (So God, perhaps we can just pay that one forward when my turn comes around to parent...)
I think it was fueled by my desire to keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses, in this case, were not a nuclear family living in the suburbs with a cocker spaniel, but were in fact my brother and his imaginary wingman, Cheppy. I have to commend my brother for an early embrace of multiculturalism because, with a name like Cheppy, I had to assume he was foreign-born. (Maybe he was a Cheppi.) The compliments stop there, however, because in my view, Cheppy/i was a grade-A creep-o.
When asked to describe Cheppy/i, my brother informed us that he was an old man with white hair. Had I been born in 1999 and allowed to watch R-rated movies at the tender and impressionable age of 4, I would have pictured him as the character Blue from "Old School":
It did, however, conjure up memories of the imaginary best friend I had as a small child. Well, let's take it down a notch and leave it at imaginary friend because 'best' would imply that I had many, which may cause you to infer unproven things about me and my upbringing. And let's leave it at 'child' because I never really was small, instead resembling a young John Goodman in my early baby pictures.
I fear that you don't believe me and therefore wish I could post a photo of my baby self next to an image of John Goodman's self, but that would involve me teaching my mom how to use the printer's scanner over the phone. And seeing as how it is 2:15 in the morning (with the time being the irrelevant factor in this equation), you'll just have to trust me on this one.
As a promising and budding young mind, I proudly introduced my friend to my parents, "Mom, Dad, this is J.C.; J.C. Penney." (This is arguably the clearest illustration of why I have had this blog since 2009 and still fail to have more than 10 entries. 'Creative' never appears as a descriptor on my resume.)
In retrospect, I probably would have gone with a more nuanced J.C. Penny, but seeing as I had neither developed the faculties for spelling nor the knowledge of intellectual property rights laws, I was clearly liable for trademark infringement. (Dad, navigating me through the process of setting up a Roth IRA at the age of 7 was indeed an astute parenting move, but let me ask where you were on this one!)
Luckily, the retail giant never pursued legal action because they really could've taken everything from me--my Fisher Price® (not making that mistake again!) kitchen, my cardboard general store of plastic foodstuffs, one recalcitrant beta fish, and a rough-and-tumble team of troll dolls.
In hindsight, I don't really know what purpose J.C. served. Our friendship was tepid at best. There was no use in bossing her around to do my bidding, as it simply would not have gotten done. That only happens when your imaginary friend is Bruce Willis. And I don't believe I was a child who ever really talked to myself. (So God, perhaps we can just pay that one forward when my turn comes around to parent...)
I think it was fueled by my desire to keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses, in this case, were not a nuclear family living in the suburbs with a cocker spaniel, but were in fact my brother and his imaginary wingman, Cheppy. I have to commend my brother for an early embrace of multiculturalism because, with a name like Cheppy, I had to assume he was foreign-born. (Maybe he was a Cheppi.) The compliments stop there, however, because in my view, Cheppy/i was a grade-A creep-o.
When asked to describe Cheppy/i, my brother informed us that he was an old man with white hair. Had I been born in 1999 and allowed to watch R-rated movies at the tender and impressionable age of 4, I would have pictured him as the character Blue from "Old School":
Instead, I grew up during a time when I could swoon over a young Macaulay Culkin, and hence I pictured him as that terrifying octogenarian who saves the day in "Home Alone":
Perhaps I was too harsh on Cheppy/i, though, because he seemed to get on with my brother just fine. I have no recollection of any escalating quarrels or threats of vehicular homicide using my brother's red Big Wheels® Jeep®. Through thick and thin, his friendship to my brother stood the testament of time. Unlike that good-for-nothing lout, J.C.
In the end, J.C. Penney and I parted ways. We still manage a Christmas card every now and again, and the last I heard was that she was pursuing her doctorate in linguistic anthropology at UC Santa Barbara. She always was a go-getter, despite me calling her a "lout" above. I was projecting, people.
As for Cheppy/i, he has since moved on from this world due to congestive heart failure. We all have skeletons in our closets, but it turns out that old Chep-Chep was a 2-pack-a-day smoker for 45 years. I always got the impression that he was a bit of a morning drinker, too, but my brother warns that this is purely speculative. (He was also a libertarian.) My brother doesn't hold these secrets against him, though, as good ol' Chep bequeathed that shovel pictured above to him.
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