We're Adopting a Baby!

This chapter will not hit much on my addiction but it does reinforce my recovery. This is the story of our 4 adopted children and what they went through before they got to us. Squeaky and I have no biological children together, so the four I talk about here are "our" children. One has passed on, and three remain.

Moving clockwise from the top is our first baby, Fabian, a black lab. He was adopted at 6 months and is now almost 12. He was a stray. Cooter, the yellow lab, was an adoption from my in-laws, and we gratefully took over her care after they decided she was too much for them. She is almost 12. Gracie, or as I call her, Lyndsay Lohan, is the newest addition to the family and is 3. Her story is below.



Ruby, our black pug, was adopted by us in 2005. She was 4 when we got her. She was from a suburban puppy mill where she was locked in a cage for 23 hours a day. She was let out 1 hour a day to breed, eat and go to the bathroom. When we got her my wife said she couldn't tell her front from her back. I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She passed away 7-27-10. We were lucky enough to have her for 5 years. She passed at 9. The strain of multiple births took its' toll on her. She was my best friend ever and her ashes sit with her dog collar a few feet from where I write this.



Gracie is our newest addition She is a Pekingese/Shiatsu and was adopted 5/10. She  was found in an abandoned home. She was discovered during a "well being check" of the cute suburban house that doubled as a puppy mill. After delivering her valuable puppies, the owners sewed her up roughly and left her to die.




I have often called our home "the island of misfit toys." It is a reference to the "special" toys left unwanted in the Rudolph claymation classic film that I saw over and over as a boy. We take these animals in because they have been neglected, forgotten, abused or a burden for the owner. Being a little off myself, I felt closer to these misfits.

Because I felt as though I was a misfit, I feel for them. My dream is to own a sanctuary somewhere out west with lots of land where all the animals I can handle can live their lives out in peace and love on my ranch. It will, in fact, be called "The Island of Misfit Toys Ranch." This will happen. These are not ramblings and mushy dreams. I have a great passion for these unwanted companions.

Next time you drive through the suburbs take a look at all the signs for designer dogs. There's pocket Yorkies and Frenchies, Pekapoos and ding dong dingers. The signs fill the streets of our tiny neighborhood. They easily equal the number of garage sale signs that are staked out in yards left and right. These designer dogs bring big money to the inexperienced breeder. Do you really think that all those breeders are certified and associated with a veterinarian? Is their dedication for the well being of the animals or how much money they can make?

Common sense will answer the question for you. I am not trying to create guilt if you have gotten your pet from a reputable breeder but I am referring to the online "Do-It-Yourself, Breeding For Dummies" type. In all honesty, I bought a pure bred Poodle puppy from one of these neatly disguised puppy factories and had to give her up to a no-kill shelter. She had some mental defects that made it impossible for us to keep her. A seller tries to move product. A reputable breeder would have seen that the pup was not well and taken proper actions in the interest of the animal, not the profits.

Before you run out and buy from these people check your local shelters first. Fabian is a loyal obedient Lab we got from the Downers Grove Humane Society. Ruby came directly from a puppy factory where she shot out litter after litter of Puggles. Gracie's story broke our heart and we got her from PAWS in Tinley Park. Buying a dog or cat is not like picking a shirt out of a window at a local boutique.

If there is a specific type of dog you are looking for, from Pugs to Yorkies, there are foster groups who take in specific breeds, and adopt them out properly. Remember, these animals are going to sleep next to you and your children. Go online and check it out. You can google these fostering groups and you will be be amazed at the amount of information and resources you find. It may take a little extra time, but you are doing yourself and the animal a favor by going this route.

Before you run to "Dogs-R-Us" check out your local shelter and humane society. These animals are usually house broken and well trained. They are just hungry for love. There are also a variety of special needs animals and older animals that require special people to take them home. To those of you who do, thank you for doing a good thing.

I love animals, except bats, and their love for us is unconditional. You can scold them in the morning for chewing up the newspaper and they have forgotten it by the time you return home from work. Try yelling at the wife, and see if she is wiggling her tail when you get home that evening. Take some time in getting your pet, like buying a house or car. There are a lot of sad stories like the one's I have told about Ruby and Grace. Some of the stories are much worse. Ruby and Grace's story has a happy ending for both them and us. Take some time and think about it when you are looking for your next family companion.

Fatherhood Episode 1....Nelson Fox, Hemingway and DADDY!

Being a father is tough. It is both the greatest and worst job in the universe all rolled into one messy package. The responsibilities and leadership role that comes with being the patriarch are many and often boggling. All fathers are a little nutty about protecting their daughters and sons, but add obsession, addiction and recovery into the pot and the mental stew gets thick really fast. Addicts and alchy's have an extra sensory gift that develops during our use. It is the ability to read people quite accurately and in a matter of seconds or minutes.

I remember when I was growing up and I would get in trouble for something. I would think things like "When I have a kid I'm not gonna be so mean." or "I'm not gonna treat my kid like that." There are a lot of those statements I could add here but it would read like a scroll from a "Three Stooges" sketch, where the scroll unfurls, and unrolls across the whole room. I will save you that misery. But as a parent, you know you had these same thoughts. I also had the strange notion that there was some sort of "Parenting Handbook" that was in the bottom of the box when you brought the kid home. Not so!

You all know I have 3 daughters and a son. My daughter, Ange, is the oldest. Sunny is in the middle. Bro is the youngest in the house. Kelly, my youngest daughter is with my Ex-wife. Where? I don't know.

After you have made it through the tender years and into "teenage hell" there is a new character introduced into the family unit. That is the boyfriend or girlfriend!

Ange didn't date until late in her teens, as far as I know, and after my reaction to her first boyfriend I can see why she wasn't anxious to bring "new prospects" over to meet me. During her senior year of high school she started working at a local restaurant. I was thrilled that she had a great work ethic and was inspired by her positive attitude when looking ahead to a night at work. At work was a boyfriend. A father's nightmare, or at least for the first few victims.

He was a handsome "MAN" and twice her age. His marital status was unknown but the age difference was enough to trigger my "ohhhh, Hellll No!" button immediately. I regret embarrassing and hurting her deeply after I terminated the relationship for her. I handled the situation wrong, because I did not consider her point of view and the level of emotional connection she had with this MAN. My reaction to the relationship was wrong by textbook definition. Hurting her, like I did, was one of the last bricks in the wall that caused her to flee when she was 18. With that being said, I would not change a thing regarding how I "informed" her boyfriend that the relationship was terminated. I had not been given the user's manual so I reverted to the primal fatherly instincts and rage overtook me.

The place where they worked was just down the street from our home, easy walking distance for her and a quick getaway route for what I had planned for the "perp." I am a die hard White Sox fan and lover of the Great American Pastime. I played until the age of 17 and swing a mean bat. Oops, I'm getting ahead of the story. On a calm summery night I picked up my Nelson Fox bat, and decided to take a stroll to the restaurant. As I stomped my way down the street my rage built and my batting average went up as I envisioned splattering his melon like hitting a 12" softball on the sweet spot. I made it to the restaurant and Hemi was surprised to see her daddy so unexpectedly. I gave her the look of "which one is he?" She tilted her head uncomfortably in the direction of her suitor. I was gentlemanly enough that I didn't take my "Nelly" bat in the front. I left it waiting patiently in the bushes outside. After capturing his photo in my terminate database like Arnie, I headed back out of the restaurant making my way back around to the kitchen entrance. I picked up my trusted friend and set off to introduce "Nelly" to the guy's cranium.

Standing at the screen door of the kitchen I beckoned my baby girl's friend to come outside and have a "discussion" with me. Looking back on it now, I don't think that knocking on the door with my Nelson Fox bat was the right way to convince him that he was in for a warm "father to boyfriend" chat. He didn't come out so I began to shout and bang my proposals on the door to him like a demented Irishman sending out Daddy Morse Code. The crux of my suggestions were that it would be in his health's interest if he ended his fascination with my daughter. I assured him we were not negotiating terms. It was take my advice or get used to the nickname "lemon head."

I am grateful the "Po Po" weren't called. I was manic in those few moments. To my delight, he accepted my terms, and left my baby alone. I think I taught that MAN a valuable lesson about dating etiquette and finding more appropriate subjects that day. No one got hurt physically. I know I had hurt Hemi and it hurt me like hell that I did. There are things we do as parents that our kids don't understand when the shite storm is swirling, but they often come around years later. I think she understands I was just looking out for her. As a guy I have laid every lying, cajoling, sympathetic and assuring line on the ladies to get what I wanted in the past.

Ange, Hemi, G, Preshus are all nicknames I use for her. She has got game! Her husband is wonderful and she is happy. The fact that they live in Hamburg, Germany is difficult for all of us but I admire her tenacity and dedication to her marriage. As for the boyfriends in between that first restaurant fling and her marriage to Joerg, there were other suitors I met along the way. My daughters have 2 bits of wisdom they share about me with the guys they date. Number one is, "shake his hand like a man, not a fish!" The second one is "look him in the eye when you're talking to him."

My middle daughter Sunny's dating habits are more like a "flavor of the week." I'll save that for another time. Nobody is issued a handbook on raising our kids. We do the best we can and sometimes the worst of us comes out trying to achieve that goal. How they turn out is a roll of the dice. You can do everything right and they still may end up in Singh-Singh or they can be faced with huge obstacles and become President of the United States. All we can do is pray and nudge them in the right direction. When they walk out that door, they are free to make choices out of our control. Worry doesn't help. We've all done that. Faith and guidance is all we got. Sometimes the discipline we hand out hurts us just as much to us as it does to them.

Like I said, being a father is the greatest and worst job in the world. Today I think I'm getting the hang of it. I really like my kids. The love is automatic. The like is sometimes here, and sometimes not. I keep the faith and never lose hope in their character and the choices they make. I bite my tongue more now than rattling it at them. I do the best I can, plain and simple. The rest is up to how the dice were rolled and what number comes up, and the grace of God.

Knock, Knock...Who's There?.......NOBODY!

The title of this chapter is a reference to what a lot of alcoholics and addicts face. This includes their loved ones and also those who don't have addiction issues in their family at all. As an addict the demons and conflicts that we fight center in our minds. One of the most common behaviors of addicts is isolation and emotional unavailability. It was certainly one of my most prevalent behaviors when using and maybe before I ever picked up.

Addiction convinces you that it is your one true ally. It is Stockholm Syndrome without another person being involved. My disease convinced me that it was my only friend and was the only one that understood me. ALL addicts think they are different, that their problems are the worst a human has ever experienced. In recovery we call it "terminal uniqueness." That is a mouthful and right on the money.

Addiction twists your mind into isolating from others so that their concerns, logic and emotional needs don't interfere with our using. Addiction demands our undivided attention and it is a 24 hour a day job. By keeping our attention on our need to retreat into oblivion, it maintains its grip on our use and feelings of "being different" from everyone else. It needs to keep us locked in self-loathing, remorse, isolation, regret and self-pity. We know it is trying to kill us and drive us to insanity, but we listen to it like an evil Pied Piper.

The isolation and emotional unavailability is brutal for the user, their loved ones and friends. The addiction makes us distance ourselves from all healthy thinking so that we think "the whole world is against us." This helps us justify and rationalize behavior that we know deep down is wrong. It also creates negative emotions and chides us into lashing out. Some of the addicts' standard "go to" lines are: "You don't love me!," "You don't understand!", "Don't you realize what I have been through?", "You're probably going to leave me anyway!", "I'm not hurting anyone but me!", "Why don't you just leave me? You know I'm a loser!", "I have it under control don't worry." "Why are you always nagging?", "If you weren't on my case all the time I wouldn't have to drink!" I have said every one of these things to Squeaky and many more than this. The list is endless.

This doesn't mean we are heartless or don't love you. It is more because a few drunks and runs are done as reactions to happy, healthy situations in our lives. Even the parties that started out happy ended in darkness. The addiction feeds on negativity and reduces the addict to a feeling of uselessness, unworthiness and brutally low self-esteem. On the outside most people would say I am cocky. It's true to a point, but I used my artificial confidence so that you couldn't see the trembling, meek, fear gripped child I was inside. All addicts are chameleons. Our addiction is our puppeteer.

Our unavailability takes it's toll on all around us. It is one of my shortcomings when using and still can find it's way into my sobriety if I don't keep my eye on it. To you, the loved ones, it is not personal. It is not your fault we use. We may take one of your statements or actions as our justification to use. I can assure you that if those said actions weren't available, we would find other reasons to justify our insanity. We use because we are addicts. We are sick! We are not evil or weak! We are sick! We are not morally corrupt but our actions "under the influence" may cause us to do things inconceivable in a sober state of mind. However, addicts aren't looked upon the same way a cancer sufferer or diabetic. We are looked on as being weak, selfish, bad people. Not true!

When I drank or used I left my wife and family feeling guilty, responsible, vulnerable and fearful of the uncertainty of my actions when wasted. I then became the hostage taker, as everyone walked on egg shells, carefully choosing their words, as to not set me off. My disease consumed me and paralyzed everyone in my house. My kids were afraid to come to me and my wife had no best friend to share her feelings with. It was all me, all the time.

Things are different now. The more sober I get, the more emotionally available I have become. When the addict goes into recovery and begins to heal, everyone around him gets healthier too. It takes time and there are flashbacks to the "old me", even in sobriety. The addict will always be in me waiting patiently for a chance to get out. I have to replace healthy responses for what once was unhealthy reactions to life. If I dwell in dark thoughts, the desire to use will come back stronger than ever. Everyone in my house is healthier since I've gotten sober. Imagine that!

My children can come to me now in confidence not fear. My wife can rattle on about her day and I can take a genuine role as her husband and best friend. It takes a whole family to recover after active addiction is arrested. Remember it isn't you who made us what we are. The disease chose me and I have to address it like Diabetes. Prayer, recovery groups and positive thinking take me farther and farther from the tyrant that ruled me for so long. Keep the faith. Do what you have to do for yourself and your family. Not all addiction stories have happy endings. But life goes on. Remember every day is a gift.

No Ones Dying Words are..." I wish I Hade Made Another Hundred Bucks!"

I commented earlier on my middle daughter Sunny and the regiment of tests she is going through. Today she had a needle biopsy on her lung. The needle was long enough to take a throat culture starting from the arse of a giraffe. She was a champion. My kids are tough. I take little credit for that. Their mom and father started when they were wee little. I came in when they were youngins'. The test was terribly painful and they promised they would put her in "twilight" so she wouldn't feel a thing. I think they meant that they were going to show her the film "Twilight" to distract her while they jammed the spear-like needle into her side because she felt everything, and hates that movie.

Having had the opportunity to work in film, TV and comedy has been and continues to be a growing passion for me. In my chosen line of work I have some control over what situations I am going to put myself into. In comedy I write my own material and once the crowd begins to laugh, I have control over the room. In TV, commercial and film work, I have the decision on which projects I get involved with or audition for. I can say yes or no to my agent or casting director if it seems right for me or not.

That control is comforting and empowering because I have input on both the actions I create and the outcomes of the performances. There is satisfaction and contentment with my work when I have told a joke or done a scene well and the audience laughs or applauds my efforts. However, when it comes to life, I have control over my actions but little or no influence on the outcomes.

I would do anything to have switched places with her and took the needle for her today but couldn't! I would trade my health for what is ailing her in a heartbeat but I can't! I can scream at God for justice and mercy, but how he will act on those cries and prayers are in his hands. For me, having so much love for my kids, who are darn near adults, is glorious and paralyzing at the same time.

When they were little and got sick in the night they would wake me up because Mama sleeps like a rock. Back in those days I would give them some medicine or clean up some puke, slap on a band-aid and all would be well. After a few minutes of Scooby Doo or Space Jam they were fast asleep and I was in for an exhausting but satisfying next day. That was cool because they had a problem, I could fix it and all was well.

Now that they are older I still think of them as the wee buggers they used to be, just in bigger packages and with more sarcastic answers. They don't come to wake me up when they are sick these days. They can find the cough medicine or aspirin and take care of the problem themselves. I used to think they talked too much but now I wish they talked more. The older they get the less control I have over them and the outcomes of their actions. It frustrates me but I know I have to accept it. Worry is not a God given instinct. It is created by the minds of men. My worry and anxiety will not add a minute to a life or change the result of a medical test.

I speak of not remembering the nineties and a lot of the last 20 years because of my booze and drug addiction. You may not have those same issues but where do you stand with the little nippers or big nippers? Has a boat, a job, a hobby, a car, a motorcycle, jogging or some other thing or activity become your addiction? Do you love that boat or Jet Ski with all your heart, all the while telling yourself it's the kids who love it? Do you work to live or live to work? Is who you are outside of your front door more important to you than who you are inside your own home? Is keeping up with the Jones more important than keeping up with your kids, spouse or family?

If you answered yes to any of these questions take a hard look at yourself. There are no "do overs," like when we played kickball in the park. The years I lost to the bottle and pill are gone. I can be there for my daughter through whatever she has to face down the road. I can't control the outcomes but I can control my actions and relationship with her in her hour of need or just every day living.

The great thing about recovery is second chances at life. A boat, car, job, or hobby can be as obsessive and destructive of a drug to you as booze was to me. If it begins to take priority over your relationships, hit the pause and rewind button. You can start over any day you like. That's the beauty of living. Things can be taken from you on any day as well. That is the reality of life. Remember: no one lies on their death bed and says "I wish I had another hundred bucks!"

Ain't That a Kick In the Head!.......DEANO!

A lot has happened in the last few days and with it comes life lessons and how crazy they can be. God really does have a sense of humor. Maybe George Burns' portrayal of him in "Oh, God!" was pretty accurate. I personally lean toward the Morgan Freeman interpretation in "Evan Almighty."

So much has been happening in the last week that I have lost track of what day it was a couple of times. I need to pause and make a statement about one of the most idiotic things that wives say to husbands or visa versa. I have a weird O.C.D. thing about losing my wallet or car keys so I put them in the same spot. Then, when I feel I have lost them, I can glance over and be comforted that they are in their preassigned seating area.

Last night I was doing a comedy show at Walter Payton's America's Roundhouse in Aurora. I was running behind a little and when I was ready to dash out the door, I noticed that my wallet was not in its parking spot. I looked in my other pants, the kitchen, the bedroom, my office and all the other places it could be. I then mentioned to my wife that my wallet was misplaced and I was freaking out. Her response was "Do you remember where you had it last?" This is the insanity of couplehood. If I knew where I "had seen it last," I would have clearly checked that place and the wallet would not be lost. I want to scream out "NOW WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT!" This is a hats off to all the husbands and wives who bite their tongue and say nothing in response to our partners obviously ridiculous statement.

On Tuesday I found out that my first well paying commercial with Firestone had hit the Internet and has gone viral. Over its first 3 days of airing there have been over 300,000 views. I was on top of the world. I posted the commercial to my blog and Facebook and was proud that I could officially call myself a professional actor. I'm hoping that the commercial's popularity will encourage Firestone to run the spot on TV. If they do, Papa gets paid again. It's a beautiful thing and I am grateful that the commercial has been so well received.

My middle daughter Sunny has been having a pain in her side for a few months which was diagnosed as a pulled muscle. It didn't heal as the doctors said it would. We took her back to the hospital for an X-ray and a mass was found. I went from being on top of the world to "Why are you doing this to us God?" in a matter of seconds. Just when you think you've got the world by the stones you find yourself standing in a puddle of reality tinkle.

In the last few days she has been poked, prodded, scanned and had enough blood to transfuse a rhino. It may be serious or really serious. There is concern but the worst case scenario isn't the worst case scenario. My fatherly side and extreme thinking took me to tragedy and the end. I have obsessed about her future and the impact it could have on her life. Her mother has been a wreck. My son has been distant and sick. We have all focused in with sniper-like precision on what she has been going through.

One of the things that makes me crazy about our health care system is the various doctors you have to visit that fit neatly into your "provider" list. One doctor's prognosis is something out of "Love Story" and the next says "That's nothing. Take two of these and call me in the morning." That leaves a huge chasm of obsession between "it's showtime" and "it's curtains!" After all of the jockeying it has been narrowed down to 2 things, both of which are manageable and not life threatening.

My gratitude and excitement of my booming career are amazing and I'm thankful for all the opportunities and doors that are opening for me. That being said, that day brought me to the real substance of life's importance:  being there for our families. I love my family, friends and co-workers, but I work to live. I don't live to work. Right now the focus is on Sunny and what she needs. There will be lots of gigs down the road, but there is only one Sunny. Have a day!

Open Mic Comedy is Like Slowly Dying in a Room Full of Morticians!

Everyone knows I am a comedian and actor. I call myself a comedian but I may be just a comic. The difference between the two confused me until one of my best friends cleared it up for me. His name is Patrick Bagdon. Check out his website at : http://www.betterwithketchup.com/

I should let you know that Patrick considers no subject taboo. He could make Freddy Krueger blush. His stuff is brilliant. I don't recommend you watch it with your toddlers, or while eating a big bowl of spaghetti, but his material would make George Carlin and Lenny Bruce smile. I am proud to call him a friend.

As we were driving together to an open mic on the Northside, I asked him about the differences between the two. He explained the distinctions as this. "A comic is someone who stands up in front of a microphone and tells jokes." A comedian is someone who is full time funny, through acting, theatre and performance. That makes me a comic. My acting gigs have not revolved around my humor. I actually googled the question and Patrick was right on the money.

Being a comic is a unique experience. Comics themselves are in a category of humanity alone. I have never met a comic who grew up in an idyllic, fully functional family, where they experienced no trauma growing up, and were amazingly well adjusted. Some of them appear quite together now but something was amiss somewhere between birth and the stage. The few that I have met who met this criteria were not very funny. We all bring some pain or baggage with us as we step up under the lights and spew our humorous musings and observations. Self-deprecation is a favorite subject for all of us.

You obviously know my story of addiction and chaos. Many of the comics I met have had similar chemical dependency issues. Some have suffered through horrifying childhoods, molestations and tragedy. The stage gives us an opportunity to indirectly vent on these issues and turn the tragedy into comedy. When someone laughs at one of my jokes which references some of the insanity I have made it through, their laughter seems to lighten the load I carry. Making someone happy for just those few seconds, while I am recounting my pain, makes having lived them validated and not just wasted grief.

Doing stand-up comedy is like a form of therapy for me. Instead of laying on a couch and being asked over and over, "How does that make you feel?" I can stand in front of a group of strangers and be relieved of my anxieties through their laughter and groans. It saves me a hundred bucks and adds a little sunshine to someone's dark day. When people laugh at words that I have cobbled together, it is like the smile someone gets while looking at a beautiful painting. It is appreciation of my artistry.

Open Mic nights are a part of any comic's performing life. They are a chance to tighten up existing material and try new bits on the guinea pig audience. Some guys are "Professional Open Micists." They work as a plumber by day and at night morph into another persona for personal satisfaction or to vent their frustrations at life through humor.

Most of the comics are trying to make it in a really tough business with the dream of having their own special on Comedy Central or HBO. I think I fall into this category, but acting is hedging its way towards the top of my career path. The great thing is that they are compatible. I have worked on a series or film and then rushed to a club to rant about my latest collision with society that night. It's a double dose of artistic expression.

On Open Mic nights one of two phenomena occur. Either the place is jumping and a good crowd is there to feed my comedy fix or it ends up as just a room full of comics and their boyfriend or girlfriend. The first example is great. Funny feeds on laughter. The second example can be like slowly dying in a room full of morticians.

Being the eccentric creatures that we are, performing in front of a group of only comics is both challenging and sometimes unbearable. Comics look at other comics in a couple of different ways. The first is like we are all contestants in the Miss America Pageant. We listen to Miss Alabama and think we could have written a better speech concerning the clubbing of baby seals. We watch Miss Ohio pace back and forth knowing our dance routine is better. We look at Miss Arkansas and say to ourselves "What is she doing here? She ain't even pretty." No offense to the women of Arkansas. You are all beautiful. Then we see Miss Rhode Island and are stunned. Her beauty, grace, speech and charisma are amazing...and that hair! You never want to do your set after Miss Rhode Island because you know she was brilliant. Doing your thing after Miss Nevada just fell on her butt is a dream come true. All you have to do is stay on your feet and you got it made.

Usually the reception a comic gives another is chilly or emotionless. When we make one of our fellow jesters laugh that is the ultimate homage of our work. It's like making the Mona Lisa smile. I laugh at all the comics I see just to pay respect to them for their courage. It takes some big stones to stand before a group of complete strangers and try to tickle their funny bone.

All in all the Open Mic is a necessary tool for all comics. Whether venting emotion or honing our featured appearance skills, the open forum provides comedy at its creative best and amateurish worst. I will be doing an Open Mic again tomorrow at Walter Payton's in Aurora. It is a preview for a feature spot down the road. I love watching other comics work their magic even if the trick doesn't work.

I learn what to do and what not to do when I see guys just like me trying to carve smiles into the stone faced observers. I have made friends with some of the country's hottest new talent and brushed elbows with guys whom I wanted to run from like the wicked witch of the west runs from a pail of water. It takes all kinds. I would say this though: when you go see live comedy, cut the performer a break. Don't heckle or jeer. If you think you're funnier try it yourself. The 7 minutes of time you interrupt while that guy is performing may be the most important 7 minutes of his day, week or life. Laugh loudly and enjoy your evening. Save the critique for your drive home or just leave it to the rest of us comics.

Dog Puke and Garbage Diggin... That's A Husband Job!

How I interpret the first few minutes of my day are very important. Those first few minutes used to be the determining factor on how the rest of the day went. Today I woke up at 5:30am and checked my audition and casting status. Nothing was sent or posted for work. My wife came down and promptly dropped her lighter into the garbage can. It, of course, fell to the bottom. We recycle as much as possible so the contents of our garbage consists of cigarette butts, coffee grounds, food remains and general goo.

I don't know who made the rule but there is an unwritten code for retrieving things from the garbage after your wife has dropped something into it. It's "the husband's job." She conveyed reams of information in her simple remark of "I dropped my lighter in the garbage." I speak Squeakenese and heard her loud and clear. I put on my "Husband Cape" and dug into the slop to retrieve her lost lighter. Of course, it had snaked its way down to the very bottom of the can and I felt like I was rummaging through the waste bucket at a butcher shop.

I completed the mission with dignity and my husbandry value went up a point or two. As I was washing my hands free of the gunk I had just handled, I turned to hear the familiar sound of a dog throwing up. It was Fabian. My best, non-human, friend. He had deposited two heaping piles of warm dinner leftovers all over our kitchen. From the looks of things, I think I'm feeding him too much because one pile looked like Lake Michigan. The other pile was Lake Superior, only lumpy, like old Lake Erie.

Again my wife shot me the "puke clean-up is the husband's job" look but also added the "It's your dog," rolling of the eyes, to accentuate her point. Who defined the "husband" and "wife" job description? Obviously it was the wives of our Neanderthal ancestors! I say that as an observation of fact, not with disdain. It is just a simple fact. Why are women able to bend and reshape these rules as needed? Her duties are a loose outline. Mine are orders to be executed with precision.

Let me illustrate my point. Squeaky has no problem asking me to "run the vacuum" or "do a load of laundry." That would never happen in the "Beaver's house." Ricky never scrubbed the floor while Lucy went to the "Babaloo" club. These jobs are defined in the handbook as "wife jobs." Why can the woman switch these ancient norms at will? Her telling me to "go grocery shopping" or "make dinner" rolls off her tongue like ordering a latte from Starbucks. The "wife jobs" are open for female interpretation and can be altered or eliminated at the behest of the rule maker.

"Husband jobs" are written in stone. They are carved into granite like the 10 Commandments. She will not kill a spider or take the garbage out! There will be no cleaning of dog deposits of any kind, ever! When we prepare to go somewhere she casually strolls to the passenger side of the car. It is a "husband job" to "drive Miss Daisy." I feel like Morgan Freeman confessing that he took the can of tomatoes when I eat one of "her" Lean Cuisines. It is as if I have taken the forbidden fruit and I am cast out of Eden for an hour or so after a tiny, unsatisfying meal.

She will not take her car through the car wash. She will not answer the door if a stranger knocks. She will not clean the dog hair from our stairs, nor brush them when they are shedding! I am directed to clean the dining room or dust. If she wants a late night snack to satisfy her menstrual cravings, I jump up and run to the store to satisfy her hormonal distress. Where is the justice?

Being on my fourth marriage, advice from me could be considered suspect. I do know this. When I was a younger man, I challenged her on her rule interpretations and quirky pet peeves like leaving time blinking on the microwave or not putting the mail in her "mail reading spot." In time when I would get irritated at one of her seemingly ridiculous requests or quirks, I would ask myself a simple question, "Is it really that big of a deal to do it her way?" "Do I want to ruin my evening because I think it's stupid to hit clear when I am done nuking a sandwich?" The answer is NO!

I am glad my wife depends on me and I don't have to have everything my way. What makes me right and her wrong? I am a firm believer in the old adage that,"When the Queen is happy everyone is happy. When the Queen ain't happy ain't nobody happy!" I love my wife and accept her goofy nuances and eccentricities, as she does mine. She has put up with a lot of crap with me and never once hit me with a frying pan. That's why the fourth time has been a charm for me. I'll have to say goodbye for now. Miss Daisy wants to go to Walmart. "Be there in a minute Miss Daisy...uh...I mean honey!"

We're All Human Just Squirrels Looking for a Nut....

I am writing with a shot of melancholy. It may be my depression which can take me from feeling like heaven to a lonely hell, faster than a 2 minute commercial break. It might just be life. You never know. I am a fixer, trying to make the world happy, all 60 billion of them at once. Usually it's just the handful of people in my orbit, but I want to make everyone happy. All of my arranging and staging, planning and execution usually backfires. I may make some happy and one sad. I may make everyone happy and be the one ending up sad. It's a lot of work being a fixer.

In my world my son has girlfriend issues, my wife has work issues, my daughter has health issues and I feel the need to fix things I can't control instead of accepting life just the way it's supposed to be, until the next sunrise. I know this too shall pass when things are good or bad. It is a blip in the very blessed life that I have been given.

Being in comedy and acting is a very exciting lifestyle and I have had the opportunity to meet and work with celebrities and movie stars. I have talked with famous comedians and actors and was exhilarated by the opportunities. As my career grows there will be many more of these meetings and high profile events. I am grateful for that. I am not a movie star or famous comedian. I have been an extra in a few episodes of "The Chicago Code" and "Shameless." I was an extra in the film "Contagion" and "One Small Hitch." I have played many comedy clubs around Chicago and been featured a few times. I have starred in one commercial. There have been a few radio interviews and newspaper features based on my addiction and recovery.

That sounds so cool. It's stuff we dream about as kids and maybe even as adults. I would be a liar if I said I didn't get satisfaction out of my career and the adulation that comes with it, but I am just a guy. I have the same feelings, sadness, joy, setbacks and successes as anyone. There is no difference between me and Billy at the video store, Matt Damon or you. My job just seems more interesting to some than the video store gig.

I had to break off a Facebook friendship with a person because they thought I was something more than I am; and that is just a man. It really hurt me to break off the relationship but it was becoming unhealthy for the both of us. I have led an interesting life and have struggled through some demoralizing circumstances and made it through to the other side. The most important lesson I have learned from working in show biz is that we are all just a bunch of squirrels trying to find a nut. We are all just trying to keep it together for one more day. Some of us do it under a sink with a wrench, others on a 40 foot screen or TV.

I remember when I met BB King when I was working in radio. He is one of my blues idols. I was shaking like a leaf. I thought he had on too much cologne. When I met Iggy Pop at WXRT I was shaking like a leaf and in awe that he was shirtless and as crazy as I imagined he would be. Most of us have met a "celebrity" along the road sometime and were fascinated with their fame and glamour. Each one of them went home, had a bite to eat, brushed their teeth, took a pee and went to bed.

I hope this entry doesn't come off as smug. It is meant as the complete opposite. I am blessed to have a voice in helping people understand addiction and depression a little bit better. That is my message. I am just a messenger. I am just like a bike delivery guy but don't have the skin tight weenie pants on when I deliver my message.

My fascination with celebrity was "right sized" when I worked with Jennifer Beals on my first day on "The Chicago Code." She was professional and had a job to do. She didn't float on air and gushed at showing pictures of her child to the cast and crew. She was just a doting mother beaming at her beautiful child. It was at that moment my amazement and nervousness at working with a star went away. She was just a lovely lady showing her family pictures proud as a peacock. The celebrity life is an exciting life but we all will live and die, turn to dust and be forgotten. We all have issues to face, kids to raise, bills to pay, feelings of joy and sadness no matter what we do for a living.

I truly pray that if I ever find some level of success when I am a full time professional actor or comic, that I don't change. If I do I know you guys will slap me back down to size. I think I have a pretty good grip on it, but I'm giving you the go ahead to let me know if my melon is getting too big for the patch. To my friend I am flattered that you think of me as more than what I am. There are many more well qualified people to talk to and share your world with. You are a beautiful person.

Single mothers and fathers, parents and teachers, cops and firemen, nurses and healthcare workers, volunteers and the forgotten are heroes in my world. When I am dead and gone please remember me as a father and husband, son and brother, friend and a regular guy who tried to share hope and laughter in a dark world and help people understand the complexity of addiction and depression.....and oh yeah he was a comedian and actor too.....God Bless!

Addicts are Blessed and Cursed!

While I was growing up, long before I took my first drug or drink, I reacted with one of two emotions during confrontation or crisis or when I didn't get my way. The first was anger and the second was tears. During my tender years, anger and tears were the answer to every emotional situation I couldn't process. You could easily have labelled me a "cry baby" when I was a young man, up until the age of about 18. Tears spilled out easily when I was hurt or didn't know how to handle a situation correctly. When I sought sympathy or was trying to divert attention from a mistake I had committed, or was overwhelmed with a moment, I would cry my way through and out of it. I had not developed enough coping mechanisms to react in a healthy way to the challenges of every day healthy thinking.

When an adult sees a man sobbing after about the age of 14, they are instantly put into a consoling or uncomfortable state of mind. I couldn't control my emotions and the tears would just come. I now see that I suffered from depression issues from a very young age. The tears could be used as a form of manipulation and I used them often to get my demands met. If I got a bad grade on a report card, or a girlfriend wanted to dump me, my weeping and sobs could turn the situation around in an instant. My parents would comfort me with a "try harder next time" and the unhappy girlfriend would say "let's give it another try." I would escape the pain through my tearful drama and get my way.

Anger is rarely a part of my emotional skill set now, but it occasionally rears its ugly head. I have written in other chapters that my angry outbursts were based in fear, not actual anger at the situation. My father and mother both had combustible tempers and when I coupled that with the fact that I was "Irish", the angry outbursts were easily rationalized. Anger was my weapon and shield. My insecurities and low self-esteem made this emotional response necessary and convenient. I am normally witty and light hearted, but when I am angered, I have the roar of a lion and the look of a madman.

An addict wants the world to judge us by our motives and intentions, not our actions. Please re-read that sentence because there is a lot there. Even when I shouted rage filled diatribes at my children when my fear was of them being hurt or into trouble, they didn't see the motive of protection. They just saw the old man going off and most likely tuned me out. Anger is normal and we are human. It's going to happen but how we project that anger is the deal breaker. Once angry I spewed hurtful, cutting remarks that went way beyond the incident or infraction. The verbal punishment didn't fit the crime. When angered every hurtful thing I could think of seemed to line up behind my tongue just waiting to burst out on my victim.

There are times when I am angered, but the distance between that anger and my mouth has grown farther apart. I can think rationally while I am mad and stay on point. I can express my anger through constructive conversation, not just bursts of rage filled emotion. As for the tears, I have a hard time crying now and I miss it. There is a cleansing release after a good cry. I always feel relief after I have wept over the death of a loved one or seeing my kids in pain. That is the irony of my tears. They used to pop out effortlessly. Now I sometimes have to consciously try to make myself cry to relieve some of my anger and frustrations like a tea kettle whistling out steam. A viewing of one of my favorite films, "The Notebook," sits ready on my shelf when I must relieve my pain through tears and can't do it through recall alone.

The reference of addiction being a blessing and a curse is only allowable if they are coupled together. The escape into using at the moment of pain may seem like a blessing, but it is a curse in that it is temporary. Addicts seek
escape from the pain. The things we do while high creates more pain, new pain and the original excuse for getting high in the first place is still there in the morning, accompanied by a new pile of remorse, bewilderment, shame and self hate. When we have lost our ability to choose, using even when we don't want to, it is definitely a curse. The fact that I don't remember a decade is quite sad because I missed out on some beautiful life experiences. I would call that a curse.

The blessing of being an addict comes fully into the light when you realize you truly are one and you seek help. I know what it means to be a "grateful recovering addict" now. I have faced my demons, made peace with my past, and no longer fear the uncertainty of the future. Through working with other people in recovery, and the help of my God, I have discovered who I am. The question of "who am I?" is the one us addicts ask ourselves the most. I am blessed that I see that there are others who think a little off, just like me. I am blessed knowing I have a choice to not use today. When I thought my active use was a blessing I had no choice. Getting high was on my everyday agenda. Armed with the information I have learned in recovery, many of the questions and reasons for why I used have been answered and are gone. That is a blessing.

Realizing that it's the first high that gets me, not the 100th, is a blessing. If I pick up a drug today I am guaranteed one absolute truth: there will be lots more booze and drugs to follow. The fact that I can get through life with a clear mind and conscience is a blessing. Remembering that I am an addict at the start of everyday, knowing if I use drugs today and that the insanity will return quickly, is a blessing. The fact that I will always be an alcoholic and addict that has been given another chance at life is a blessing. Respecting these simple truths allow me to control the curse of addiction a day at a time.

Marriage #2.....Robbing the Cradle....Arrested The Final Act!

When I left off on the story of losing the baby with wife # 2, we were married for only a short time. The only thing that connected us was the baby and after it was erased from the picture, we had nothing left between us. The physical connection disappeared as neither of us wanted to experience the moments of pleasure that lead to the creation and loss of our child. It is in this chapter that I am going to make a confession that haunts me. I have spoken with the people involved in my confessions and taken responsibility for my actions.

I have reached out to wife # 2 to no avail. I do know she is remarried and as beautiful as ever. I hope to make my reparations to her face-to-face one day. Only time will tell. After the loss of the baby and knowing the marriage was going to end, my boozing, weed and speed use was at an all time high, or low depending on your perspective.

I was working for my father and it was a Sunday afternoon. The store wasn't open and my wife and I could not stand to be in the same room together. She was young and full of fire. I was older, addicted and had a short fuse. I left for the store to drink and use in peace, bemoaning my dead child and horrified that I was in a 2nd failed marriage. Addiction loves pain, misery, anger, conflict and general chaos. They make the excuses to use a short list to sort through, before justification is reached.

I drank and smoked weed to calm down. I took speed to make my tolerance for the two higher. I was trapped between tweaking, freaking and sleeping. I used all day and headed back to my dark, marital nest. It was her place. I wasn't even on the lease. I hid a pint of vodka under the couch and she was in our bedroom. I turned on the Bull's game. They were in the championship that year. When she went to the bathroom or if I knew she was busy with something, I would hit the bottle and pop a few more prellies.

When it comes to using, the addict becomes ninja-like in his stealth. I could sneak up on a lightly sleeping copper and take a shot of whiskey off his forehead without even waking him. Bottles were strategically placed around the place so I could "settle my nerves" at will. She knew but really didn't care. Her loathing for me was as great as mine was for her, but not close to the loathing I felt for myself. She could hear the twisting cap and rattling pill bottle coming from the living room. Slamming drawers and closets made a clear statement to me that she was not a happy camper.

I watched the Bulls in a chemical fog, hair tingling and heart racing. She entered the living room and stood between me and the television set. I acted as if she wasn't there, like I was looking through a window. She hated to be ignored. It was a hot button. As a good addict I pushed that button with glee.
She yelled that I was a drunken loser and all the usual stuff I had heard so many times before. I just watched her stomach, as if it was the TV itself. The more I acted like she wasn't there, the madder she got.

She lunged forward and grabbed my face with one hand shouting that she had things to talk about and I was going to pay attention to what she had to say. That is a censored paraphrase of her rantings. I swept her hand away from my face and pushed her away from me. She fell on her bottom and got up angrier than a rattlesnake with a toothache. She demanded that I get out. I told her to get out. She said she was going to her mother's and I waved bye-bye.

About twenty minutes later the police arrived at the condo. I let them in perfectly calm, knowing that I was the one with fingerprint bruises on my face and that I had just pushed her away from me. I did not start it. I did not hit or hurt her. I felt assured that justice would prevail and that truth always wins out in the end. The officer asked me to recount the events that had transpired and I regurgitated the events of the argument. He could see that I was bruised and she stood behind him looking as pretty as ever.

The officer asked me to place my hands behind my back. I asked why. He said I was "under arrest." I asked him to look at my face and knew I hadn't struck or hurt her. I just pushed her away from me. It wasn't like I flung her into the TV. She just sat down on her butt in front of me. He went on to explain that in that county the male was always the one placed under arrest. It was a county law. I reviewed the story again and he said I would have my day in court.

It was unbelievable. I was telling the truth. I spent the night in county jail and my father bailed me out the next morning. When I read the police report it said that I had beaten her with a telephone in our kitchen. We didn't even have a phone in the kitchen. I had been set up and very well at that. An order of protection was issued for a short time and I was given a date that I could retrieve my belongings. I asked the police to be there when I removed my belongings, fearing another fabricated incident. I asked the officer to note that we had no phone and the story was bogus. He told me to tell it to the judge.

I hired an attorney and planned on fighting the "Domestic Battery" charge. He instructed me that I had no record and could take probation and anger management classes and I would get off scott free. I was incensed, demanding justice be served. He said that although I had a good case and an excellent chance of winning it, the risk of losing could mean steep penalties and jail time. I couldn't believe it. I took the plea knowing that I didn't hit, hurt or do the things she stated in the official report. My second mother went to court with me for every appearance. I was grateful for that.

Here is where the confession comes in and the realization that justice had been served. I did not do the things I was charged with by wife #2 but there were two events in my life prior when I did lay hands upon a woman. The first was in a tequila drenched haze when my girlfriend punched me in the face and I backhanded her by reflex. She called the police and no report was filed. I should have been arrested. Ironically the police officer who came to our apartment was our neighbor and is her husband today.

The other time I laid hands on a woman was when I was 20 years old. I actually hit my girlfriend's head against the ground. The police were not called but the relationship was over. The three times that I was involved in domestic issues booze and drugs were involved. I have spoken with the two ladies I laid hands on and have made amends and taken responsibility for my actions. That is so not me, and I still remember those events vividly.

I have some belief in Karma and "What goes around, comes around." Justice was served that night I was arrested for something I didn't do. It was the "come around" for what I had done in those years before to my 2 former girlfriends. I make these confessions to clear my conscience and tell another human of my shame and horror at my actions. You may glance away thinking I was a thug. I know I was in those two instances. I am glad that I made my peace with them and they accepted my genuine apology for my gross actions.

I have not done anything like that in 19 years. It still haunts me and drove my addiction for awhile. The key thing is that those incidents happened while I was loaded. Sober, those actions couldn't even make it to the front of my mind. If you are a potential addict, or wondering if you have substance abuse issues, take a look back at your life. Were you using when you had your biggest argument with a loved one or friend? Were you drunk when you got into a fist fight with someone? Were you under the influence of something when you lost control of your emotions? If you answered yes to these questions you might want to look at yourself and your substance use.

I can honestly say that there were good times when I partied. I can say with absolute conviction that EVERY time I got into trouble or had a bad argument with someone, booze or drugs was involved. Booze+Drugs+Anger=TROUBLE. I will never forget that night in jail and have never had to experience it again since that day so long ago. Justice was served I just paid for the events of my past.

Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part Three!

I would like to direct you guys to a link that has found its way into my heart. Being diagnosed as clinically depressed with general anxiety disorder myself,
this organization fights to open people's minds up to the stigma attached to having chemical imbalance or disorders. I hope you will check it out. It is http://NKM2.org/ . The goal is to stomp out the stigma attached to depression and other mental disorders. You will be surprised by some people you know who suffer from these conditions.

The first two chapters in this series centered on unexplained experience and my near death experience. Some of you may think I'm nuts. You're right! I have the paperwork to prove it! This one will revolve around my father and an experience I had after his death. Since today is our game against the Packers I thought this entry was appropriate. He was the greatest Bear fan on Earth and now in Heaven! The 4th passage will revolve around dreams. Dream interpretation and manipulation has been a part of me since I was a little boy. That story is for later.

There is a term used in recovery that is "contempt prior to investigation." It is very common among alcoholics and addicts. More specifically, I think most of us take part in it. To explain the meaning of the phrase I will give a simple childhood analogy. When we were young and we saw some food that didn't look delicious, when asked to try it we would shout,"No! It's yucky! We stood resolute that the food would be bad even though we didn't taste it.

As adults we do this as well. How many times have you pulled up to a corner and seen a clearly dirty person and thought, "What a bum?" I know I have done it in the past. We see people who are ethnically different or practice rituals that don't match ours and decry,"What they're doing is wrong!" These are all examples of contempt prior to investigation. It is making a decision or passing judgement on something before we have experienced it or gotten all the facts. It is a rejection of something or someone before we know anything about them.

In recovery, contempt prior to investigation is rampant in the addict. We judge everything and everyone like we are the all knowing and powerful. We are Gods! We determine that recovery programs won't work or therapy for depression is hooey and for "crazy" people. We decide what is going to happen before we have even tried it. Therefore we don't have to try it because we have already predetermined that it won't work. Thus giving us the out. How many times have you taken the chance on that ugly contemptible food only to find it was remarkably good? Corned beef hash looks like leftovers from a fraternity party and I love the stuff. Why? Because I opened my mind to the possibility that my preconceived opinions might not be right and gave it a shot with an open mind.

When it comes to "after death" experiences, hauntings, visitations, UFOs, spirits and intelligent life existing elsewhere in the galaxy we fall into one of two camps: I believe or that's a bunch of horse hockey! It is my experience that the more open minded I am about these subjects, and all of life itself, I learn and grow. I often find out that my ideas and notions were off base. I try to keep an open mind about everything. Who am I to decide what is and what isn't possible? The more my mind opens up to foreign concepts that I once decried as impossible or wrong, the more balanced I become.

When my father died I was concerned about where he was headed after death. He was an Agnostic (he believed in some creator but not sure what it was). He became more receptive to the concepts of heaven and hell towards the end. I took communion to him in his bed and he confessed his faith. My sister Chris would read the Bible to him and he really began to enjoy it. We all prayed with him and I was surprised he knew the "Lord's Prayer." I have said before an Atheists last words are..."I was only kidding!" It makes complete sense that as we approach our death we become more receptive to another dimension out of fear or to cover our basis just in case.

I am certain there is a Heaven and Hell. I know I'm going to Heaven! I obsessed about my father's final destination incessantly. Obsession is part of me. On the day before he passed onto the great Bear locker room in the sky I asked him a favor. I asked him to let me know that he made it to the other side. He was still coherent at that time and he said yes he would. He passed the next day and I began to wait for his message of safe passage.

When my dad was at our house he sat at the same place on one of our couches every time he visited. For the first three months after he died I slept on that couch waiting and waiting. I even hung up his favorite Bear hat and jersey above my pillow in hopes that it would be easier for him to find me. Night after night he would show up in my dreams but I waited for "the message."

3 months after his passing, and suffering from an aching back from sleeping on the couch, I got my message. It was different from the experience I had with the bridge and grey figures in 2004. He didn't kneel down next to the couch and say "hey little buddy I made it." It was different and amazing. He kept his promise.

I don't sleep well as you may know from the odd hours I am on FB or posting blogs. On this particular morning I was napping on the couch after a recovery meeting. As I began to doze off I opened my eyes and saw two figures at the top of my stairs leading to the kitchen. They were about 15 feet from the couch, his couch. These figures were more defined than my first experience. One was tall, very tall like 6'8" and the other 5'10," my Father's height.

Again there were no words spoken aloud but a telepathic transfer of words and feelings. I could tell the taller figure was a guide of some sort. It stood behind my father and did not communicate with me. It was there for my father. Both auras were bleach white and illuminating. My father's aura was that of a younger man, like when he was in his 30's. I could also notice his hair was straight, a style he wore briefly before going to his perm. He had a burgundy hue to his aura. I do not understand, nor need to know why burgundy was his color, but it was. The taller guide was in all white.

They stood at the top of the stairs and I looked at the TV to make sure I wasn't dreaming. The whole experience only lasted about 15 seconds but a lot of ground was covered in that short time. My dad let me know that he was alright. I could tell he was happy. He reminded me of the pictures of when his hair was greased back and he was driving flashy Cadillacs. There were no questions asked but answers were conveyed to me. He was elated and I knew he made it to the other side.

I believe you have to be open to the possibility of these visits or they can't happen. My mind opens more and more each day. That 90% of our brains that we haven't tapped into has to serve a purpose. I believe in the next dimension. The next level of our experiences after death don't end here. Just because we experience things we don't understand, or experience them personally, doesn't make it impossible. Contempt prior to investigation prevents us from discovering so much more of what life has to offer.

My final passage in this series will involve dreams. I have been interested in dreams since I was a little boy. I will not post that until after the Bears win the NFC Championship today. This is my Dad's season. He may not get the score but we will get the victory. I believe he will help us win today. Remember: he is part of the north end zone.

Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part Two!

At the risk of sounding like James Frey's confession of adding fictional flare to his semi-non-fictional story of pain and addiction, I have to make a confession that is the opposite of his. It is an admission of holding back facts in my story. To fully understand the following chapter you will have to go back to my chapter "I Was Dead but Didn't Die." My comparison to Frey is that I left a part OUT about my attempted self termination. It was a fact that I didn't think added to my story and I didn't want you to think I was cruel to animals. Nothing could be further from the truth. I now regret the omission, and am eager to share everything. Now that I am writing about my "Near Death" experience and unexplained encounters, not of this dimension, it must be recorded.

There was no thoughts of misleading the reader. I just wasn't prepared to tell the whole story of that night. It was hard enough telling people I was trying to off myself. The omission revolves around my black Lab Fabian. I have had him since my wife rescued him at 6 months old, from the Downers Grove, Illinois Humane Society. He is now 11 and nearing the end of his road. On that haunting date I was going to speed up the trip and take him with me. I should also mention I have 2 other rescue dogs, "Cooter" an 11 year old yellow Lab, and "Grace" a 3 year old Pekingese. An endorsement for adopting animals may sound trite, seeing as I was gonna take myself out, and him with me.

I love my dogs dearly, as I do all animals. Kris and I have no biological children together so our dogs are our adopted proxies. Check that! I hate BATS, all bats big and small, and most snakes! I also despise any spider that I cannot squish with a paper towel victoriously. The most glaring phobia I have is clowns! They're always jumping out of tiny cars with honking horns and miming terribly choreographed slapstick skits in grossly over sized shoes with large painted-on mouths over their existing tiny mouths. What the hell is that? Too much time around them is sure to trigger a panic attack. That said, I am one of the few fathers who can say, with pride, that I never took my kids to the circus! I didn't want to pass on my phobias of the strangely painted creatures, nor create a scene of their father shrieking and running from center ring. That would inflict an equally painful psychological scar upon their young minds. Again, I use humor to deflect heavy feelings I have a hard time addressing in the moment.

Fabian and I have been joined at the hip for years. He knows my moods and tries to lick my wounds when I am hurt inside or out. He is the ultimate companion and I love him dearly. He is truly this man's best friend. He ultimately saved my life and was a part of the unexplainable events that happened that evening in 2004.

When my wife left me on that day after I relapsed and I planned my exodus to the great beyond, I did not leave a bowl of food for Fabian in the house. I did open the windows so the gas from the car exhaust didn't damage the house. Psychotic, I know. My plan was to take Fabian with me. We were going to be friends to the end. I have a small office that connects to my garage and that is where my suicide attempt began. I closed the door of the tiny office and opened the door to the garage where my Dodge Neon was running. I sealed the door to the house with duct tape to keep all the gas in the garage and into my office. I took Fabian into the room with me and we laid down by my CD rack.

After about 45 minutes went by, I began to feel sluggish. My breathing was slowing and it seemed as if things were going in slow motion. It was like I was watching a film. Fabian was laying next to me and I closed my eyes, as his were closed also. His breathing was more beleaguered, less frequent than usual, and very shallow. I knew he was getting close to death and I wasn't far behind.

As I laid next to him my eyes burned and I was unable to sit up. I closed my eyes and soon found myself in a different place. What I saw is hard to describe but I remember it vividly, even though I was being over taken by the carbon monoxide. Although I was sprawled out on the floor, I found myself standing up with Fabian at my left side. There were no white lights. The color for my experience was mostly grey. Describing the physical surroundings is hard to put into words because I have little to compare it to.

Imagine an hour glass each end perfectly symmetrical with a tube in between. Now take a thinly sliced cross-sectioned cut of the hour glass and lay it down flat. I was standing on one side of the hour glass floor and there was a bridge that separated me and Fabian from the other side of another hour glass floor. The whole vision was in white and grey. I could see that Fabian was still black but I could not see myself. I was there but couldn't see my physical being.

There was a presence there that seemed to to be hovering over my shoulder and encapsulating the whole place. It was very peaceful and strong. I was not afraid. There was no conversation in my experience but communication between me, the presence and the others I soon saw was definitely taking place. It was a non-verbal dialogue with a feeling based exchange of information. Fabian stood, happily transfixed at the view across the bridge. The more powerful presence was not encouraging me to do anything or go anywhere. It was just there letting me survey my surroundings.

From my side of the bridge I could see images of what I knew were people. It wasn't like, "oh look it's Grandma and Uncle Jack." I could sense loved ones and saw shapes of auras but there was no definition to the forms. I knew what they were but they were shapes, not outlines of humans, and they had a cloudy illumination to them. I also did not recognize, or feel, all of the auras that filled the background behind those closest to me on the other side. The bridge was slightly curvy and to each side was only grey vapor and nothingness. There was no sense of depth perception but the auras on the other side were seemingly about a 100 yards away.

I was not drawn to the other side and the loving figures did not call for me to join them. They were letting me know they loved me, but that was all. The stronger presence surrounding me gave me the feeling that I had a choice to go to the other side of the bridge or not. It was up to me. There was no pressure either way. It was simply up to me. I was not intimidated or feeling pressure. I was just at a point of decision. I looked down at Fabian and I realized that taking my own life and crossing the bridge was my decision, but that he didn't have a choice. I held the power of his life and death in my hands.

I knew I loved him too much to take his life and taking him from my family was wrong. I didn't reflect on the impact my death would have on my family. I just loved my dog too much to be so cruel to him and doubly cruel to my family. He is laying next to me now as I write this, as is Cooter. I call them  Salt-n-Pepa.

I found myself back on the floor, next to Fabian and the sealed door that went into the family room. He was barely breathing and his tongue was hanging out to the side. I reached up and pulled the door open. Oxygen and clean air rushed in. We both stayed there. The car was still running in the garage. After a few moments he began to somewhat get it together. I crawled into the family room pulling him along. A short time later, he was snapping out of it pretty well and I had the strength to let him outside to get more air.

I didn't fully comprehend what I had just experienced, like I do now. After I knew Fab was okay, I returned to the garage and closed the door behind me to finish the job I had set out to do. Rosary draped on me and Bible in hand, I shut the door from the office to the garage, leaving Fabian behind. You know the rest of the story. It has a happy ending. I am still here.

I now know I was on the edge of death. I know that I was given a choice to cross the bridge or stay behind. My love for Fabian helped me choose to stay here. God had decided to make my decision for me, through him. When I woke up later in the garage the Neon had stalled. I believe in heaven or another plane like I believe in oxygen. No one can veer me from that conviction. I saw what many, and few, have seen. Life's the journey, not the destination. I am glad God made my choice for me. In the condition I was in, I can honestly say that choosing life would not have been my decision, without God and Fabian's intervention.

Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part One!

By the end of the chapter you will think I'm a few coins short of paying the Ferryman or right on the money. Either way I am dedicated to sharing it all. The subjects I am going to breach are often dismissed as wishful thinking, hopeful delusion or just plain nutty imaginations. I have firm conviction in the areas of dream interpretation, spirit visitation, guardian angels and dimensions beyond the 3 we currently experience as humans. I very much enjoy programs like, "I Survived...Dead and Back," "Ancient Aliens," and "Celebrity Ghost Stories."

 I believe them or many of them. At the least I am open to the possibilities. I have experienced some unusual,unexplainable spiritual encounters personally. I also know there are hucksters and manipulators out there who manufacture their so called "psychic abilities" to pray on weak and hopeful. The bottom line is that it is ludicrous to think that me or scientists can say that these experiences are hooey! Darwin himself said that if there were more components to his single cell theory that the whole theory must be thrown out. We now know there is much more to a single cell organism than the one Darwin peered at in his 100x magnification microscope. If you are a Darwinist read up on it. While you're at it cover the "missing link" for me. I know what the missing link is. It is God! I refuse putting limitations on the creator of the universe and I know that with God anything is possible. More importantly, "to not lean on my own understanding."

My belief in these other dimensions and experiences are based on the fact that we use very little of our brain's capacity. It's less than 10% I think. That leaves 90% of sensory ability most of us have not developed. It has got to be there for a reason!  My personal beliefs do not conflict with my Christian views because there are frequent references to "angels being among us" and "visions" by the messengers of God. There is the appearance of the Nephilim and their procreating with humans. Virtually all cultures describe objects in the sky and encounters with creatures not of this world.

Ultimately I am okay with it because I do not try to define God. He is eternal and omnipotent, no beginning or end. No where in the Bible does it say that earth and sky were all He created in this universe only. He created the whole shootin' match. Earth was just a part. I believe there is much, much more. To think that we are the only intelligent life in a universe that grows daily is putting man's conception of God's limitations on Him. I can not fathom how one can put parameters on an omnipresent, all powerful force that we do not comprehend. The small mindedness of man and his narcissistic thinking creates this hog wash!

I am going to share 3 "unexplainable" experiences I had with "the other side," and mental connections that I know are not of this earth. Terra Firma is a spec in an ocean of galaxies. I know these experiences were as real as puddin' pie and I am grateful to have had them. If you disagree, start your own book. It wasn't so long ago that man thought the earth was flat. Galileo was almost executed as a heretic, Einstein a fool.

My grandmother and I were very close. My mom worked hard and Gram stepped in to play a life shaping role in my early youth. We had a connection beyond conversational. I felt her all the way through from my inner core to hers. In 1991 she was in the hospital suffering from emphysema and a myriad of terminal conditions. On her last day here, I was home for lunch from my job and received a call from my mother. She said I should stop after work and see Gram because the doctors didn't think she would make it through the night.

She was at Silver Cross Hospital in Joliet. I was working in Shorewood a few miles away. I finished my lunch and headed back to work. I would stop at the hospital at the end of the day. While driving on I-80, just before Larkin Avenue, I was overwhelmed with an inner feeling that I had to go to the hospital THEN! I exited at Larkin and headed back to the hospital. The voice was powerful and non-negotiable. I entered the room to find my mother pacing, as she had been there for hours. I suggested she go grab a smoke and a Coke and I would sit with Grams.

Mom left for a break, exhausted and emotionally drained. Grams was propped up in her bed with tubes and drips stuck into all the veins available for pumping in medicines. Her eyes were open and moving but she was unable to communicate verbally with me. I sat at the edge of her bed and took her hand. I told her I loved her and that she was like a mother to me. I expressed my gratitude for her always looking after me and accepting me unconditionally. She knew of my alcoholism and had suffered through years of it with my grandfather. I cried and rubbed her hand, thanking her for being such a bright light in my universe. She was a huge Bulls fan and I told her she had to get better and come home because she couldn't miss their first championship.

As those words spilled from my lips she peered at me. Her eyes darted left and right searching into mine. She took a deep breath and exhaled. It wasn't an exhale I had ever heard before. It was complete, a full expulsion of all the air in her lungs. The sound seemed to go on for a minute. I know it was much shorter than that and that she was gone. I told her I loved her and kissed her forehead and then completely lost it. My mother returned to find her mother had passed and me in hysteria. It was one of the most difficult yet beautiful things I have ever experienced. The sounds that a person makes on that final breath are not like Hollywood. It is chilling in its finality. I think of her daily.

What I experienced that day was not of this dimension or plain. The feeling that pulled at me to go immediately to the hospital instead of later in the evening was unrelenting. It wasn't a quick and easy way to end my work day. My inner spirit was guiding me to my grandmother and told me she needed me right then! Her passing in my presence explains the urgency. The confessions of my love for her were not a staged drama with a climactic ending. God put me there for her and for me! I drank a lot that night and cried about losing my rock. Then my anger at her death turned to thankfulness for God allowing me to be a part of her last moments here.

Marriage #2.....Robbing the Cradle....Part One.

It's been a few chapters since I travelled back to the days when my addictions were completely out of control and I was on the fast track to eternity. I have said that I don't remember the 90's very well, if at all, and marriage #2 is a fuzzy, vodka soaked blur. I can honestly say that I don't remember what day we got married on. I do recall that it was February and it would have been in 1995 or 1996.

In the recovery part of addiction there are actions that need to be completed to reconcile with people and clean up the damage we have inflicted upon those who were around us in our using days. As I have made reference to before, the three stages of drinking are: "How are you," "I love you," and "F#*K you." Obviously the most damage is done in the third stage of inebriation. There were plenty of good memories associated with partying. It wasn't all homelessness and despair. But I can say that the times I did the most harm to the ones I loved, or cared about, occurred when I was ripped.

My second marriage lasted about 4 or 5 months. We had worked together and she was 11 years younger than me. She was beautiful and bubbly and could be called a "trophy wife." She knew I was an alcoholic. Heck, everyone knew I was. I knew I was but was comfortable with the tag. The word didn't phase me, but if you called me crazy or nuts I would go off.  That angered me because it was true. She came from better stock than I did and we had absolutely nothing in common.

The age difference was hard enough to deal with. I like rock and punk. She liked hip-hop and dance. I loved books. She loved magazines. I liked culture and art. She liked watching "Friends." We were "right on" intimately but after 2 hours of work outs there are still 22 hours left in the day. Those times were the only moments we connected. She had a good heart and I think she thought she could "save" me from myself. At that point, Jesus himself couldn't talk me out of drinking and taking pills.

She had some medical issues and had been told she was unable to have children. We took no precautions since they weren't needed. After a few weeks of dating she missed her cycle and we bought a pregnancy test which happened to come up positive. We were both elated. This was our "Immaculate Conception." She had been told it was impossible, and WE defied the odds! She went to the doctor who confirmed she was pregnant. I was thrilled. I was going to be a DADDY! It was the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world.

I pictured us at Sox games and playing catch. We would eat bologna sandwiches at our first Bear game, just like me and my Pops did. It was idyllic and I obsessed about it during all of my waking moments. I was going to do the things my parents didn't have the time, or emotional availability, to do with me. I knew my new baby would give me the motivation to go on the straight and narrow. I would swear off the drink, weed, speed, pills, and all the other stuff I got off on. My little bundle of joy would be my savior from self-destruction.

We flew to Vegas. Yes! Las Vegas, the marriage capitol of the world. She was only 20. I was 31. She demanded that I not drink on the trip and she was too young to gamble. We were in Vegas! It was like going to a girlie bar and making a pact not to look at the girls. I was determined to do the right thing and give the child the Connolly name. My random nobility and twisted morality drove my decisions. This world would not carry the bastard child of Tommy Connolly!

I do not remember any of the wedding ceremony, or that entire day, for that matter. I was in a speed induced blackout. Yes, that is possible. I do remember we ended our wedding night in an argument and slept in separate beds on our honeymoon night. We spent a few days seeing the sights but neither of us were giggly newlyweds. We both sensed disaster in our procreated union. We flew home with plans for me to move into her condo in the western suburbs.

While we cleaned up my apartment in Lockport, Illinois, we found 32 empty vodka and whiskey bottles. I packed a friend's Blazer with what would fit and left the rest behind. My cat "Capone" was all I cared about. To be honest I really don't care much for cats but Capone was my family since the landlord didn't allow dogs. I also packed my album collection. It is a menagerie of classics and iconic albums. The rest was just stuff that cluttered my life. I told my neighbor Frank to take whatever he wanted from my abandoned unit. He too had tried to help me get sober but I was unreachable.

Alcoholics and addicts change boyfriends and girlfriends, we move to new places, and take new jobs thinking that these changes will snap us out of our insanity. We make plans for sobriety but after a few cajoling sips of the sauce, those plans are drank away. Addiction is happy with us no matter where we are at or who we are with as long as we are using. If someone or something tried to get us to change our ways, the disease talks us into ridding ourselves of them instead of it.

We started to play house as boy and wife, and it was rocky all the way. The only bond that kept us connected to our complete disconnection with each other was the pregnancy. 13 days after we were married we went in for her first ultrasound. She was excited and had a gorgeous smile. She beamed as the nurse began moving the x-ray like wand over her stomach. I was directed to the monitor next to her. There was little Tommy Connolly. I could see the finger and toes of my future Hall-o-Famer and his big fat melon. But the picture didn't seem right. The feelings I had turned from light to darkness.

There was only one thing that was missing from that perfect picture. It was movement and a heartbeat. It was the first of two of these scenes that I would endure in my short lived marriages. Being the first miscarriage I had ever experienced, I was crushed. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. My head filled with rage at the doctors and hate for everything crammed itself into every corner of my being. She was inconsolable. The doctors had been right in their prognosis concerning her ability to have children. She didn't see the monitor. That I am thankful for. It is burned into my mind and I can recall the vision as clearly today as that devastating day 15 years ago.

How could God be so cruel? My only wish was to be a drunken, pill popping daddy of the year. Now he did this? My drinking and drug use escalated and the relationship deteriorated by the second. The one thing that held us together had been removed. I had more reasons to fuel my liquid suicide and would soon sink to a level I couldn't conceive of even in my darkest, drunken thinking.

Have A Day!

People who know me well have heard me mutter,"Have a Day!" many, many times. It says it all. "Have a great day," or "Have a nice day," are the norm, and quite pleasant to hear from friends, shopkeepers and passersby, particularly from the ones who actually mean it.  "Have a blessed day," is my favorite response to people who cross my path, but it can be a little too brand specific for some of those whom I encounter.

To an Atheist, "have a blessed day," is stinging. If you don't believe in the blesser, a kind "bless you" in passing conversation, or following a hearty sneeze, must leave them feeling unfulfilled. It must be confusing that no one is wishing them good health or undeserved gifts. For all Atheists I want to offer you a permanent Grandfather clause of "May MY God Bless you!" This is to cover all present and future sneezes and positive wishes for your life. Since it's MY God, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to your non-belief and you can take comfort in the fact that the Atheist  philosophy has not been violated. I'll take all the heat!

The unconvincing, "Have a nice day!" from a rude check out girl or Walmart employee who just smashed my cookies into the revolving bagger is not "nice."  Even more unnerving to me is when they put one tiny item into the huge, non-biodegradable bag. I somehow walk out with 5 items in 6 bags. Visions of turtles and porpoises choking at sea on my bag that held my box of Rice-a-Roni troubles me. It is not a "Nice day!" moment.

"Have a good day!" is quite cheeky and cheerful when the kids are smiling and my wife is beaming at me on a bright sunny day. However, if I have been the dumping station for all of the crap my fellow man can pitch out into my tiny universe that day, I feel the urge to reach across the counter and slug the well wisher and reply, "Have a good Dentist!" In the middle of a rotten day, those words might as well be "hope your day continues to be a living hell!" It would make me feel less frustration.

That is why I have come up with the perfect solution. When you want to end a conversation on a pleasant note, tell the person in your midst to, "Have a Day!" It's ideal. It is an innocuous, non-feeling proposition to just exist for the rest of that 24 hours. It is a wish for a continued life until the clock strikes midnight. It doesn't take religion or moods into account. It is an acceptable reply to digest when your trudging through the crap that occasionally rains on your precise coordinates for that day.

In a world where terms are sanitized into ambiguous catch phrases it fits right in. It offends no one, except the dead! Most people welcome having a day. It keeps expectations and ambitions for achieving great feats at bay. It is a call to just populate the universe for the next 24 hours. It isn't far reaching or filled with pressure. It is quite calming and not too far reaching.

To an addict like me, having another "day" of sobriety is amazing. To the couple in marital distress on the verge of separation, having a day may be the one that starts them on the road to reconciliation. To the person at the end of their rope, having a day may be the one that moves them towards hope. To a sick or dying loved one, having an extra day with them is a gift.

What a perfect thing to wish upon someone. Try it tomorrow when the moment is right. Tell a stranger to "have a day!" Wait for their reaction. It may be a laugh. They may think you're nuts. But this simple statement guarantees a response. Give it a shot and until I talk to you again I hope you "have a day."

Old Habits Die Hard or... I'm Mad As Hell and I'm Not Gonna Take Anymore!

Two nights ago as I was sitting down to write my blog for the day, I was shocked to find out that it had been blocked from publication on Facebook because someone had reported it as "Abusive" or "Spam." The news infuriated ME as I tried over and over to get my daily prescription of "hope" delivered to my readers. The blog is read around the globe and it has become an integral part of my life.

The thought that someone would find a blog that's content revolves around addiction recovery, hope and faith being "abusive" took my temper from 0 to F.U. in 10 seconds. Anger is normal for everyone, but for me I can take it to extremes and it can be very destructive. An alcoholic things emotionally, not logically. He bases his opinions and actions on what his feelings are screaming from inside, instead of looking at the facts, making a reasonable decision, and going from there. It is rattlesnake thinking. Bite first, ask questions later.

My mind raced through my list of friends and the "possible" suspects in the case against me. Was it Joe, or Slovenia? Was it Poland or an Atheist? I literally had myself sick at the thought that a positive message could be construed as "abusive" and I wanted revenge. Thoughts of a Facebook revolution rioted through my head. I would start a boycott! I even went as far as to put a graphic of the 1st Amendment up as my profile picture!

Once I have allowed myself to get into a frenetic state, I start having some really dark thinking. Visions of marches in the streets and the glow of Molotov cocktails blaze in my eyes. At the core of addiction is obsession and I can slip into the ol' obsessive me faster than a 6 legged cheetah! I travelled back to the days of The Sons of Liberty and their tea party in Boston 200 plus years ago. I made my stand and told others to contact my oppressor and demand justice. My anger and desire to "even the score" is not healthy because it consumes my every thought once it gets a hold of me.

The ironic thing was that it happened on the day of my 2 year sobriety anniversary. I should know that anger is a "trigger" for me to use, as the anger turns to craving. I should have developed enough coping skills to let it slide. But I reacted first and then considered the consequences, a truly unhealthy way of thinking and living. I learned a lot about me and what I am that day. I am still capable of resentment, anger and a desire to lash out. That is just plain humanity.

These are all a part of of human existence, not just addictive thinking. I am never going to be Gandhi or the Dalai Lama. That is one of my character 
defects. I want to be perfect, saintly and wise. I have come a long way in 2 years but there is a lot more work to be done to overcome my addictive personality. I used for 20 plus years! The drunken addict is still in there looking for a way to come back out and get me to join the party.

Most people think that the ultimate goal of a stand-up comedian is to get a laugh at the jokes they tell. That makes sense. While talking with David Brenner about my material, he gave me a new perspective on performing comedy. To paraphrase he said "A groan is just as important as a laugh when you tell a joke because you have still created a reaction from the audience." It confused me at first but I understand it now.

The person who reported me for "abusive" or "Spam" blogs was giving me a groan. One of my blogs touched them in a way and they felt they had to lash out. Maybe they connect with my story. Maybe they don't believe in hope. Perhaps they don't like my references to God and Faith. Whatever the case, I evoked a response in them that made them act out against me. Every joke I tell doesn't hit a home run each time I perform it. Sometimes my best joke bombs and my worst gets the biggest roar. Next week the opposite happens.

The bottom line is that I live in a country where I can have a blog and freedom of speech. There will always be detractors. I can say that there are many things posted on FB that offend me but I know I am not the morality police and can choose to not read or click away from something that I disagree with.

For the person who reported me, next time just click away. If you see an ad for a movie you find offensive, don't buy a ticket. If you have such strong opinions, start your own blog. This is America, the greatest country in the world. There are many reasons for being the greatest, and freedom of speech is literally at the top. Sometimes the voices of others offends our sensibilities. That's the catch 22 of our amazing country. When it comes to enjoying my blog, some will, some won't. So what?