Parents Just Don't Understand

I remember when I was growing up, and my parents did something wrong, I thought it was high treason punishable by death! If I did something wrong, it was just a mistake and should be forgotten. For some strange reason, I thought parents weren't human. No. Humans went in one column, parents went in another. They were held to a strict double standard.

They were to dismiss my wrongs. I licked up theirs like an all day sucker. I kept a mental diary of all of their faults. Some were hurtful actions and failings, others were just resentments I held against them for not seeing things MY WAY. They had no feelings! I wasn't to be held accountable or judged based on my behavior! I knew everything! My screw ups were different!

As parents we don't keep lists. We have been where our kids are. They think we were hatched, or beamed down from a distant galaxy... just before THEY were born. When we share our experiences with them they look at us as old fashioned, preachy and hypocritical. They say, "times are different now," and that "they just don't understand." Advice burns like hot pokers in their ears. I remember that those hot pokers burnt mine closed for years.

Parents see things from both sides of the fence. Sometimes we are the good cop, on other days the bad one. We too, reflect on things we wish we had handled differently during our kids tender years. We also see where we were wrong in our youth. Some incidents trouble us greatly. We wish we could have a mulligan. Time makes memories clearer when we take an honest look back at what we have said and done. There are regrets for actions taken, and those that were not.

Each of us has a mental time freeze on an age our parents never out grow.  My parents were frozen at around thirty five. When they reached their sixties, I was shocked! I wondered what had happened to their calendars? Theirs didn't match mine! My God! They're old!

 Sometime around thirty, I started seeing my folks as humans. I realized that much of the advice they offered was right. I began to see that my perceptions of their wrongful actions were based on their fear for my safety and guidance. They had not been hatched. They moved into the human column with a parental asterisk. They really did know a lot about life. They weren't clueless.

I understood that they really had already experienced the pains and tribulations of growing up. I had been a bit hypocritical in my assessment of them. They had parents! Grandma and Grandpa had a couple as well!

I did make mistakes as a kid and parent. I still do. Check that! As a human being, sometimes I fail. I know we each share common ground in our victories and failures. I know there is no double standard... we all try our best....

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe and Kindle. Personalized copies can be purchased at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Christian Fishermen... Not Hunters

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is available on Amazon.com and KINDLE. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

I am a Christian. I will never back down from proclaiming that. This posting is not intended to imply that Christianity has all the answers. I don't. No man on Earth does. I read the Bible. I pray often. I serve in the community and I try to help other addicts find sobriety. I am happy to share my faith with those who wish to hear about the amazing things the LORD has done in my life. I do not think I am better than you or any man. The people who make me feel the most inadequate and demoralized about my faith are... CHRISTIANS.

I am a church going man. I serve on the baptism team. I am grateful to share my resources with my house of worship. I don't like war unless it is a means of last resort. I believe in helping the poor and sick. I am an Independent who tends to vote DEMOCRATIC. However, I don't vote a straight ticket. I vote based on what the man stands for, not if he's got an elephant or donkey on his lapel.

I have read the Bible cover to cover. I have my favorite verses. Psalms 40:1,2 are my life verses. I try to spend time daily in the words of GOD. Then I turn on the TV or go out in the world and am often shocked by the behavior of people who call themselves CHRISTIANS. They seem to talk from the mountain down on the foolish unenlightened SINNERS below. "If you don't love elephants you have no faith!" Donkeys are crazy, evil animals! Nothing could be farther from THE TRUTH. To say so is a sin. You don't know me. How can you judge me? Both animals have strengths and weaknesses. Faith can not be measured here.

I can't quote chapter and verse from the Bible very well. I can summarize the stories and paraphrase the content. There are actually 11 Commandments. The words JESUS left with the disciples before heading off to sit next to the FATHER were, "Love your GOD with all your heart, mind, soul and strength", and "Love your brother like I have loved you." It doesn't say, "sometimes," or "some of the folks." Those seem like pretty wise words to live by regardless of your faith. When Moses came down from the mountain with the TEN Commandments he did not call them the "Top 10 Commandments." Jesus goes on to say that ALL sin is EQUAL in the eyes of his FATHER.

I get confused when a political party or people in certain demographics call themselves the "Godly." Throwing your name in the ring with HIM is dangerous territory for any man. What gets me most is that people who claim to be the "GODLIEST," seem to pick and choose their favorite couple of commandments and chuck the rest out the window.

The sins of Adultry, Greed, Envy, Coveting, Lusting, Stealing, Judging and LYING are equal in the eyes of God. It says it in the book. Stretching the truth is a lie. Leaving out all the facts is deception. Taking things out of context is bearing false witness. I have been guilty of many of all of these sins. I will sin again and again as a MAN. I strive to be a better one everyday.

All who call Jesus, Lord, and follow him are Christians. I have seen the well dressed Christian man call his child stupid on the way into church. I have seen homeless people with the faith of David. I am amazed that the elite call people of their station with drug and alcohol problems as suffering with "chemical dependency" issues. Men with the same problem who don't subscribe to the same beliefs are "junkies." When the CHOSEN commit adultry it is a "Family Matter." The commoner is called a "CHEATER!" How can you question someones' faith? Jesus sees through our motives and into your heart. Yep, that's in THE BOOK too. What you think, is as bad as doing it. Motives are actions in the eyes of God.

I don't see how people misunderstand "ALL" and "BROTHER." How I LIVE and SERVE is what GOD is looking at. People who vote Democratic, Republican, Independent,or don't vote at all, can be CHRISTIANS. Helping the poor and feeding the sick are what JESUS did in the short time of his ministry on earth. Yet a man who wants to see the under served cared for is called a liberal. That's another word for generous. He is chastised for wasting taxpayer money. Weapons are good. Being a "Good Samaritan," and helping the elderly and sick is irresponsible. I seem to recall that helping the less fortunate was WHAT HE DID when he was here. How many barns do you build for YOUR grain?

The Bible says to "Give Ceasar what is his." Yet the well-to-do scream that they pay too much. Remember the woman with the two pennies who gave it to God? She did so with a glad heart. How much do you really NEED? Faith and works are the measuring stick in the kingdom. You can't buy your way into heaven. You can steal your way into hell. This kind of complaining is like a man relaxing on a beach complaining that the sun is too warm. Giving with a cheerful heart is great. Gratitude for your good fortune is humility.

Christianity is open to all who choose to receive it and HIM. It is not based on how I vote or look. If I vote to help the few and hurt the many, what have I done? It's time to show that we are one in the body. People turn away from religion or houses of worship because of OUR infighting and the intolerance towards each other! The hypocrisy is staggering. Goodness comes from the man, not the labels.

When I see GOD'S name thrown around and hijacked by one group of people I am saddened. All those who wish to drink from the cup are welcome. It doesn't matter what color you are. It means nothing if your hair is pink and your nose is pierced. If you are not a Christian, your faith is your faith. Who am I to judge? Faith is personal. Many men turn away those who wish to follow because they are made to feel as if they can't measure up. None of us can. So they walk away! Everyone is welcome at the table.

I am far from perfect. I sin. I pray for the day when as CHRISTIANS we unite in our faith. Politics is not the baseline for faith. There are Commandments. All of them are to be followed or he would not have included them. Not one or two. We are all God's creatures. I've heard he knows my name and the hairs on my head. That must mean he knows that stuff about all people. I am not gonna be the one to judge God's work.

A love and Faith in Christ is ALL INCLUSIVE. I hope we get to a place where we share that ideal  with ALL men, not through gritted teeth but outstretched arms. We will all stand before our maker. He looks at our hearts. He is love. There is not a line. It is one-on-one. He won't look at how long my hair is, if I have a tattoo, and a pierced ear. He doesn't check voting cards. He looks at what I have done while on earth. I'm pretty certain he likes love more than hate...It's written right there in the handbook....

You GIT What YOU GIVE....

The last words that the Beatles recorded, before breaking up, was taken from the Abbey Road album. A lot of people think that Let It Be was their last. That is common but incorrect. The message that closes out their final collaboration is, "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you made..." The words are right on. I am saddened when I hear it, knowing it was the end of my favorite group of all time.

Yesterday, I was leaving a film shoot at Studio City in Chicago. As I pulled out of the parking lot I noticed a haggard, dirt covered guy. He was holding up the oft seen, "HELP PLEASE" sign. First I looked away, then I rustled up a couple bucks in quarters, and gave him a Coke I had grabbed before leaving. It was a nice gesture. My thoughts before I decided to do my good deed ... were not so noble.

I never pan handled for money when I was homeless. I stole, conned and pawned my way through those days. When I saw this guy I thought to myself, "Why help him? He's just going to take the money to buy booze or dope!" I have also wondered if the guys are scamming me and cruising home in a Benz.

I was disappointed in myself  because I predetermined where my charity was going to end up and didn't approve of the possibilities. That would make it easier to drive right on by. I figured it was going down his throat, or in a vein. Aye, There's the rub.

When I buy a gift for a loved one or friend I don't stop and wonder if they are going to return it for fishing or shopping money. If that thought does arise I figure that it's okay what they do with the gift I have given. I don't care. I am grateful to have shared the gift with them. I am happy to put a smile on their face. I don't think twice of throwing a few bob into a firemen's boot, help a baseball team or High School band at the supermarket.

When it comes to gift giving within our circle of comfort, we never think, "I'll do it tomorrow," or " I'll just look away at the barbecue and act like Aunt Judy isn't standing right next to me." There is no locking of car doors in my neighborhood. I like to stay within that safety nest. It's really comfortable there. I know of a married couple who look for help on opposite sides of the expressway while their kids are in school and between their part time jobs. The economy is ravaging right now. They are wonderful people and just can't make ends meet. It must be a bitter pill to swallow.

Charity is Charity. If the person you help buys a bottle, so what. It may be the last drink they need before they sober up. It may be that they are truly in need. Why question them? The Good Samaritan didn't cross to the other side of the street, even though the man in the street was a bitter enemy. The affluent acted as if he wasn't there.

Nothing makes me feel better than when I help or inspire a friend. I try to put a smile on people's faces daily. I also try to help a stranger in a small way. There are lots of ways to share. The more you give to others, the longer you stay out of yourself. When I'm alone a fight usually breaks out. When I extend my hand and boost a fella up, I feel contented and...HAPPY!

Just for today get out of yourself. Getting out of your comfort zone is rewarding. Be grateful for what GOD has given you. More importantly, be grateful for what he hasn't. The guy who needs a dollar is worth the toll change in the cup you have in the car. We can't help everyone. The change you give, may change you. "The love you take...is equal to the love you make..."

"You'll Ride Life Into Perfect Laughter" - C.Bukowski

This is my favorite poem of all time! DO IT!

There may not be a tomorrow. BE HERE NOW!

From Pamelasblog. Credited.

Charles Bukowski – Roll The Dice

If you’re going to try, go all the

way.

otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the

way.

this could mean losing girlfriends,

wives, relatives, jobs and

maybe your mind.

go all the way.

it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.

it could mean freezing on a

park bench.

it could mean jail,

it could mean derision,

mockery,

isolation.

isolation is the gift,

all others are a test of your

endurance, of

how much you really want to

do it.

and you’ll do it

despite rejection and the worst odds

and it will be better than

anything else

you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,

go all the way.

there is no other feeling like

that.

you will be alone with the gods

and the nights will flame with

fire.

do it, do it, do it.

do it.

all the way.

all the way.

you will ride life straight to

perfect laughter, its

the only good fight

there is.

–

And I’m doing it

Enduring the long distance between us

Facing myself when there’s silence and darkness

Working while loosing my passion for it

Living in a city that left me long ago

Pushing time forward

Trying to live my dream

Holding my future closeby

Reading Wilde’s words

And still smiling

Because

I’m doing it!

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com (12.95) and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 

Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

"Is It Me...or a Moment?" - Roger Daltry

I remember when I was growing up, and my parents did something wrong, I thought it was high treason punishable by death! If I did something wrong, it was just a mistake and should be forgotten. For some strange reason, I thought parents weren't human. No. Humans went in one column, parents went in another. They were held to a strict double standard.

They were to dismiss my wrongs. I licked up theirs like an all day sucker. I kept a mental diary of all of their faults. Some were hurtful actions and failings, others were just resentments I held against them for not seeing things MY WAY. They had no feelings! I wasn't to be held accountable or judged based on my behavior! I knew everything! My screw ups were different!

As parents we don't keep lists. We have been where our kids are. They think we were hatched, or beamed down from a distant galaxy... just before THEY were born. When we share our experiences with them they look at us as old fashioned, preachy and hypocritical. They say, "times are different now," and that "they just don't understand." Advice burns like hot pokers in their ears. I remember that those hot pokers burnt mine closed for years.

Parents see things from both sides of the fence. Sometimes we are the good cop, on other days the bad one. We too, reflect on things we wish we had handled differently during our kids tender years. We also see where we were wrong in our youth. Some incidents trouble us greatly. We wish we could have a mulligan. Time makes memories clearer when we take an honest look back at what we have said and done. There are regrets for actions taken, and those that were not.

Each of us has a mental time freeze on an age our parents never out grow.  My parents were frozen at around thirty five. When they reached their sixties, I was shocked! I wondered what had happened to their calendars? Theirs didn't match mine! My God! They're old!

 Sometime around thirty, I started seeing my folks as humans. I realized that much of the advice they offered was right. I began to see that my perceptions of their wrongful actions were based on their fear for my safety and guidance. They had not been hatched. They moved into the human column with a parental asterisk. They really did know a lot about life. They weren't clueless.

I understood that they really had already experienced the pains and tribulations of growing up. I had been a bit hypocritical in my assessment of them. They had parents! Grandma and Grandpa had a couple as well!

I did make mistakes as a kid and parent. I still do. Check that! As a human being, sometimes I fail. I know we each share common ground in our victories and failures. I know there is no double standard... we all try our best....

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

The Dough, Ray and Me....

THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM A FICTIONAL PIECE I STARTED WHEN I BEGAN WRITING SOUL PAROLE CALLED "THE DOUGH, RAY AND ME." I might as well have called it non-fiction. IT WAS... ME....

This is the original unedited copy from March, 2011. It contains crude language, grammar and spelling.....


3:30am. I'm painfully awake. My head is pounding with dehydration and demons. They're not the little red guys with horns and trident tail. They jab at me though. They never stop.They are my demons, created from my fears and wrong choices. They were forged from broken hearts and failures, pains of my making, and the agony handed to me by everyone else's reality. They never sleep. They're relentless. Sometimes they let me catch a nap. Then they poke at me in my dreams. They must not sleep, because they are always there to wish me hell-o. They are the only constant in my life, beyond  booze and misery.

I have to get up and shower. My terry cloth diaper didn't hold again. I'm drenched in my own urine. It has grown cold, and leaves me shivering to the bone. The maid hates me. Cleaning my room must be how they break in the new girls. The tiny motel box, I know as home is the litmus test to check the intestinal fortitude of the new hires. I don't feel bad for them. The dozens of roaches that cover me at night, and shoot into secret corners when I turn on the lights, have dulled me to apathy. I don't hate them. They know it. They taunt me as I splatter them on the wall. I leave their guts there for the others to see. It doesn't matter, they have legions to replace my victims.

I have become like them, crawling in the darkness, feeding on the garbage people have tossed aside. Poison has no effect on my body. I ingest it nightly. Sometimes I  run my fingers through my thinning hair. I am convinced that tiny feelers are sprouting from my head. They are survivors. I am a survivor, if not a hanger on. They are oblivious to me while I exist in oblivion. I am a creature of the night too. Light hurts my eyes and attempts to brighten up the darkness of a world too much for me to witness. I am no threat to them. I am either drunk, working, passed out or too sick to care about their take over. They are the only family I have left.

I slip in my own vomit as I fumble into the mold covered bathroom to hose myself down. I don't remember being sick. I've blacked out again. Blackouts scare and delight me. I come to, day after day, with strange objects in my room, bruises on my body. There's more or less money in my pockets than when I left the cave that night. I am grateful for not remembering. It's like my gratitude for cheap vodka or cheaper beer. My fingers and knuckles are painted in cracking blood. I was shooting my mouth off the night before, or punished someone for shooting off theirs.

Sometimes I wake to find a woman laying next to me. I don't remember her name or where she's from. I don't care. I know why she's there. I hope her expectations weren't high when we staggered back to my palace. I am useless as a lover when I'm drunk. I'm a useless drunk when I'm in love. I may have hurt her feelings by my impotency. I don't remember. I would have made it perfectly clear when I picked her up at the bar that I only wanted sex. I find comfort in sharing a bed with someone as lost as I am. I dread it when they wake up. I hate morning conversation. I loathe it with people whom I don't know. I have to guess what to call them. It's rare to find them next to me. I usually kick them out before I pass out, to prevent the uncomfortable morning chit chat.

I turn on the shower. The cold numbs me further. The piss and puke slide from my body. The freezing water dulls my headache and offers the closest thing to sobriety I'll feel that day. I see my roommates are enjoying the mess I have spilled on the floor. I scrub my self like an animal is tearing at my flesh. No matter how hard I try I can't wash myself off of... me. I try to shave with shaky hands and aching soul. The cheap razor tugs at my face. When I feel yesterday has been washed away I dry off. First my hair, then my back, then my front and legs.

There is only one thing left to do, comb my hair. I squint through blood shot eyes like two piss holes in the snow. I try to neaten my thinning hair. I quickly look away. I hate mirrors. I won't look into another one until tomorrow. I will do the same thing tonight as I did the night before, and the hundreds before that. I will try to drink my way out of feeling. I hate how I feel drunk or not as drunk.. I don't need the reminders a mirror offers. I know what I am.


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

So Busy You Forget Your Own Memories....

There is an old adage hung on young baseball players who are entering their second year in the bigs. It's called the Sophomore Slump. It is a reference to players having career setbacks in their second season. Some go through it, some do not. Most of them have some growth, and a few setbacks.

July 21, 2012 marked the second anniversary of my father's death. Ironically the official release of my book SOUL PAROLE is this weekend the 28th. I didn't plan for it to work out that way. The day was based on the publishing date and hall availability. The exact time of Dads' death was 7:27pm.

I decided to write about how I'm feeling a few days before the weekend. I was thinking that his passing was this weekend at 7:21 pm. Thinking of dad, and my mental mix-up is eye opening. My melancholy has been replaced with shock that I had dropped the ball.. I could cry on a dime. When I think about the friends who are coming out to support the book launch, I could cry on that same dime. The first is born from a loss. The second a mark of accomplishment. The reconciliation and personal success was a direct result of teamwork. For this whole week I've been thinking his death was on 7-27-10 at 7:21pm. I was scheduled to do an interview on the 27th. I made a mental note that it was ironic to be honoring his memory on that date. I thought Pop would think it was pretty cool.

I wrote about my Pop in Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself quite a bit. It was a natural. Although we only lived under the same roof for the first two years of my life we were together quite a bit as I grew up. I yearn to hear his unmistakable laugh. I have been so busy, I flipped the date with the time of his passing.

I often write about starting over. We can do it any day, or moment, we choose. Before the Big Bopper moved on to the Isle of Green in the heavens I was given the gift ofgrace before his passing. My despair would be doubly compounded if I had not squared the wreckage of my past with him before he moved on. I am glad he is at peace. I am grateful the book was closed free of regrets.

It is easy to conjure up smells that please us, and some we would love to forget. When you read the words buttered popcorn and burning leaves, the aroma immediately wafts into your mind and nose. They are permanently burned into our honkers. The same can be said for dead skunk. Our snouts have uncanny recall.

My Dad had a smell that was unique to him. I'm recalling it now. They say we are dirty Irish but that refers to mixed blood lines, not personal hygiene. It seems our clan got an extra chromosome of oily hair and skin. With it comes it's own. The smell our hyper oil output creates is not foul. It is just one of those smells I can recall like popcorn and leaves. I have the same condition sans the unique smell. If the day comes that I do, I will know I have lived a rich life, and be reminded of my Pop daily.


When I received the initial shipment of books from the publisher I ripped open the first one like a kid at Christmas. The smell of cardboard, and new book surrounded me. I bathed in it. I felt contentment as I gazed upon the piles of my creation. It was burned into the "never forget" smell file.


There was a time when I thought I had written a book. I now see that my Dad and friends wrote it with me. I just held the pen. There are at least 100 of my friends nestled in the pages. Each one of them should be listed as contributors. I do mention several of them in the  Special Thanks section. If I listed all the people who have touched and enriched my life, it would read like the family trees from the Old Testament.

Last weekend I was relaxing in my garage after work and was enjoying the sights and smells of a mid summer night evening. I could hear the calls of frogs and cicadas. The wind was whispering and a few of the neighborhood dogs were taking claim of the night. Their howls were like challenges between canine warriors. I was just taking it all in.

For a moment THAT smell wafted around me. I turned quickly to see if he was standing behind me. I called Squeaky into the garage. She said she didn't notice. I would like to think he was there. It lingered for about a minute or so. I called out and told him I missed him. I could imagine his pride in how far I have come in recovery and life. The smells I longed for disappeared as quickly as they had befallen me. It was the 21st.

We all have goals we want to achieve. There are people whom reside in the dark places in our hearts. This is called the human experience. How we approach them is unique to the individual. Fear can paralyze us from even attempting to catch our dreams. Difficult, and often deeply seeded pains can keep us from trying to reconcile with loved ones. We get busy, and say we'll get to it.

Nothing compares to the liberation you feel when you reach out for a goal or mend a relationships broken fences. I'd rather live at peace with the world than fight to be right. I would rather try and fail, than never try at all. Regrets are living through the retching of daily self poisoning, without death...ad infinitum.

I don't think anyone would say that facing the pink elephants trapped in our souls is easy. It is rewarding, or creates closure on the poison drinking. I know I have a better day when I'm free of the anxiety of fear and resentment. My moods are directly proportionate to how much good or bad energy I'm adding to the cosmos.

It's never to late to become a new you. The Beatles nailed it in Tomorrow Never Knows. This weekend will  be filled with mixed feelings and conflicting emotions. No matter how I feel I will be contented by the fact that I am reaching for the stars and mending life's fences. There will forward progress and some failures. In either case, I am cleaning up my side of the street. My Dad would laugh at the fact that I flipped the date and times. I say good night to him every time my head hits the pillow.

Learning to say "Never Say Never," is an attitude. I like keeping my mind open. I also know that "missing the bus" is a reality.  I hit the sophomore slump with my revised calendar. It's time to get back to the fundamentals, and start over. In the past I have said  that I would give anything to hear my Dad repeat the things I ignored as a kid. If he could talk to me again I know he would say, "Good job kid." I would look back and say, "Thanks Dad. I gave it my best. I couldn't have done it without you." I think about you every day...



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Grandma's Fat Black Typewriter

I have loved reading for as long as I can remember. As a kid my favorites were "Where The Wild Things Are," Encyclopedia Brown," and any book about baseball. I imagined I was the kid in the boat heading for Wild Thing island in his tiny sailboat. I helped Encyclopedia Brown solve the latest neighborhood caper. I read to escape the real world and disappeared between the pages. My love for reading has never left me.


I measured each book between my fingers. I slowly removed my hand, then stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that someone had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as the the space grew between my digits. The bigger the book I consumed, the better I felt. When I zipped through "The Hobbit," it was ecstasy. I never let my buddies know I was a reading fanatic. Back then it meant you were a geek. I was one, but was not ready to lose my place in the cool club.


I decided I was going to become a writer when I grew up. It was going to be a fat book, with lots of words. People would gobble it up. They would measure it's girth with their fingers and be amazed at my work. I set out, at once, to achieve my goal of literary greatness.


My grandparents lived in the city. It was on the South Side of Chicago, on Karlov Avenue, just east of Harlem and Pulaski. I adored the predominantly Irish neighborhood they lived in. As kids we didn't ring the doorbell when we were seeking out a playmate. We stood on the porch and would call out, "Yo, Johnny can you come out and play?" Our singing pleas were repeated endlessly until someone came to the door. If they didn't come, you moved on to another house replaying the same song with a new subject.They didn't do that in Mokena where I lived. I thought it was the coolest. 


In the summer time the ice cream man would cruise the streets in a white painted cube truck that blared out "Pop Goes The Weasel," to announce his presence. I thought that was the coolest too. My heart would race as the sounds of the droning song got closer and closer. Grandma would pull some change from her tiny clasped purse. I would barely have my hand clinched around the coins before I dashed out the door. We would sit on the curb licking away at bomb pops or the latest Good Humor treat.


Grandma had an old Smith-Corona typewriter in the basement. A ribbon was stretched between two spools. The top half was red. The bottom half was black. The red served as highlighting back then. When you got to the end of the spool, you simply rewound it back to the left and continued with the task at hand. I loved plunking away on the fat round keys. When you wanted to capitalize a letter you would hold down the caps key. The heavy rubber roller would rise up from the black machine as the keys hammered at the paper like piano hammers hitting the strings stretched taunt inside.  When you released the key it would fall back into place with a thump. I worked feverishly as the slender arms slapped the ribbon to the page.

My first work was called "The Monkey and the Eagle." My mother still has it. It was a simple paragraph. The plot revolved around a monkey who steals an egg from an eagles' nest, then returns it after he realizes the mother eagle was sad. I went through pages of paper, and rewound the spools a few times, before I got the story just right. Inevitably I would near completion of my masterpiece and hit the wrong key. The spindle whizzed and whined as I ripped the botched up paper from the machine and replaced it with a fresh one.

I presented it to the world with glowing satisfaction. I was an author just like the ones' who pecked out my favorites. I wrote story after story. I was the hero of course. Sometimes I would type out a sad theme. In those works I tried to save a person or animal from doom. My heart fell to pieces when I couldn't. Now I see that people pleasing, and my desire to save the world, crossed into my reality.

I feel blessed and grateful that I reached my goal of becoming a published author. Writing SOUL PAROLE was a cathartic journey. As a kid I thought my works would be about safaris and daring rescues. I never thought I would pen the recounting of years of self destruction. I hope someone finds it as intriguing as Encyclopedia Brown.

When I got the first proof copy I stared at it for a few minutes. I flipped through the pages in disbelief that I had pecked out the words. I measured the book between my fingers. I slowly removed my hand, then stared at the gap between my pointer finger and thumb to review its thickness.I was fascinated that I had cobbled all those words together. I felt a sense of achievement as I carefully removed my fingers to keep my measurements true. I sat in awe, fixated on the space between the two. I was bathed in a sense of accomplishment. I have come a long way from "The Monkey and the Eagle."


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of this page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

"Signs, Signs Everywhere There's Signs"....

I love the song SIGNS. We sang it in Mr. Lamb's music class when I was in grade school. The original version was written by The Five Man Electric Band. A lot of people think it's a Tesla song. It reminds me of the sixties. The lyrics that revolve around accepting change, and seeing the signs around us, are profound.

For the better part of my life when the world said zig, I zagged. It was intentional. I hated conformity, and being one of the crowd. I was fiercely independent. My definition of independence meant defiance. I thought rules were suggestions. If I liked a rule, I followed it. If I didn't care for it, I dismissed it because I knew better.

Recently, I was issued a ticket for pausing at a stop sign. I paused. No one was around, so I interpreted the sign as pause instead of stop. It was clearly marked. I know what a stop sign means. It means stop, not pause. I had my reasons for the infraction. My wife was in mid-flight on a trip to Germany to visit our daughter. I was praying for a safe flight. I was making deliveries and needed to get back to work. My reasoning for committing the violation were my perceptions, not the reality. It was not what the sign read.

We all have a small still voice inside of us. Before I have said or done anything hurtful or wrong, the small still voice warned me for a split second before I acted. I used to dismiss it. Sometimes I still do. Once again, I knew better. The voice was wrong! Some call it conscience. I call it GOD.

My third marriage was a disaster. My ex wife and I were toxic together. In our abbreviated  marriage we never lived together for a week. We were very much alike. That's what made things so volatile. I was trapped deep in addiction. She had a violent temper. We were not on the same page. I dismissed our troubled beginnings. I thought they were growing pains.

There were signs all over the place before we got married. I saw her instantaneous anger rear its ugly head towards her two year old daughter at Christmas. The little girl opened a present and didn't like what was inside. Her mother became enraged and tossed all of her gifts into a garbage dumpster. After I left the house I returned to the dumpster to retrieve the toys and wrapped packages.

I figured I could change her. I felt as if the insanity is what I deserved. My addictions, and low self esteem talked me in to, what I knew I should run from. I ignored the signs. I jumped in to marriage with her against the advice of my friends and loved ones. I drew closer to her because I thought people were attacking her. Nobody knew her like I did! They were right. I reacted in spite. I knew in my heart that it was a mistake. My drive to zag overtook me. It was going to be me and her against the world. She threw my belongings out into the street the night we were wed.

If I had listened to the voice, heeded the signs I witnessed, and listened to the people observing the situation from the outside, I would not have made the choices I did. Nobody needed to tell me. I knew it, but tossed it, out of the window.

When I get into an argument with someone, in that split second before I say the words I'm going to regret, the tiny voice warns me not to do it. In my younger days I told the voice to SHUT UP and out spilled the venom. On some occasions it still does. I pay the price, often after wounding someone I care for deeply. Then I ask myself why I didn't listen.

As I mature, the tiny voice has gotten louder. I don't ignore it anymore. I realize that the voice is my gut feeling. If I went with that early warning system all the time, I would find myself in better places, with more positive outcomes. I realize the tiny voice is usually right. I can not recall a time when it was wrong.

There are signs everywhere, inside and outside of us. From getting a new job, to buying that shirt I can't afford, there are always signs I can follow or dismiss. I am glad that I can see, and hear, them now. I listen to them when I am unsure. Acceptance does not mean that I am compromising my independence. It proves that I am growing in it.

I now know that zigging doesn't mean I will always like doing it. The outcome is usually to my benefit. Now, I halt at stop signs, and look both ways. The cost of the ticket was enough to teach me it's a stop sign, not a suggested pause. There will be a price to pay...If I don't read the signs....

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW  on Amazon and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

I had Amnesia...What was I Just Saying?

When I share a post about day to day life, I try to keep it real. I have done a fairly good job of that to date. I have been candid about my journey to today. I report my triumphs and tragedies, as well as the silly and the insane. In every entry I try to give a piece of myself to my readers to identify with.

When addiction is active in a household, roles are formed and the family adapts around the sick. Mom or Dad steps in and makes decisions on their own to cover for the user. Enablers are confused when the user gets sober because they no longer have a codependent partner. Kids who were pushed into becoming  grown ups prematurely, are suddenly given their chance to be kids again. The whole family dynamic is thrown into flux. Roles are redefined, and there are growing pains that go with that.

Early in my recovery I had the emotional I.Q. of a young adult. I will turn 47 shortly. Thirteen years ago I began a relationship with a woman who came equipped with three beautiful children. I instantly became a stepfather, a word I loathe. I dove in to my new position head first. For the first few years, there was no water in the pool. It was as if I decided to become a brain surgeon and started doing operations the next day. I was suffering from untreated alcoholism and had lots of issues to work through. I did not handle my new role very well. I have done my best with the job, but quite frankly, I don't really know what I'm doing sometimes.

When it comes to being a good husband and father consistently, I often slip into old thinking. That is an honest assessment of myself. I didn't have a traditional upbringing. I grew up in a single parent home. My mother worked very hard. My father had a family of his own. My sister went her way. I went mine. My grandparents were our neighbors. They were caught in the middle.From my late teens on, we were pretty much on our own. That's not a knock on anyone. That's just the way it was.

My first 3 marriages were not even marriages. I was so far gone. I was barely human. The loss of two children made the relationships impossible to mend. The losses fueled my anger at God and the world. My addictions deepened.  Now I AM a husband and stepfather. I love my kids as though they were my own. Some days I am a champ and on others am clueless, jealous, thoughtless and selfish. I sometimes wonder if I'm fit for either job at all. I am just learning what I am all about, and I seem to make mistake after mistake in the "other people" category. I don't do it intentionally. It just happens.

I have grown in my relationship skills over the last 45 months of recovery.  I still have gaping holes in my "big boy" abilities and skills. There are moments when I see my wife with the kids and feel left out. I understand they are her babies. They will always be held in a different light, as they should. When they disrespect me because "I'm not their Dad," it burns me up when she says nothing. I am her husband. I feel she should demand my respect from them. Now, I understand that respect is earned, not an entitlement. She says it's me. I say it's me against them. Our lives can move from, "A deluxe apartment in the sky", to "Funky Town," in a flash. Not knowing where my youngest daughter Mouse is, makes it all the worse.

We both have expectations. Sometimes we don't meet each others. Sometimes others don't meet both of ours'. I know I have a big mouth. I am learning to keep it closed more often. It shrinks with each day in recovery. It doesn't open as wide as it used to.  I have said, and done, many stupid things as a husband and stepfather. I will again. This is still new to me. Each day I learn positive and negative things about myself and the world around me. Getting sober is truly like being reborn. It is like I had amnesia and am being reintroduced to my life. I really don't know how I feel or which way is up. The old me says run. Just run. The new me says go ahead and run. You can help yourself unpack when you get there.


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW  on Amazon and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

"I Need Serenity." - Sully-Godsmack

Serenity is one of those words that has the feel of the word wrapped up in itself. Words like agitate, make my tongue live the definition as it lurches uncomfortably through the three syllables. Caress soothes my mind and body as I utter the invitingly crafted letters. When I say the word serenity I feel the lightness of the elusive word barely hovering on my lips. Tranquilly means contentment with who I am and where I'm at.

I have known moments of serenity. I bathe in it when stuck right dab in the middle of it. I get chaotic chasing after it. The feeling of being completely at peace with myself, my creator and my universe is like nothing else. The paradox is that serenity is like a drug in itself. Now that I have had fleeting glimpses of it I want more. My whole problem with myself, and my conflict with the real world, is my desire for ME and MORE and NOW!

The harder I seek serenity, the farther it seems to be from me. I remember when I was a kid I would gaze at the clouds endlessly as I sat in the backseat. As the car would be going along I would pick out a cotton candy cloud and wait for the car to catch it. No matter how fast we went, or how long I stared, the cloud was always just out of reach. Then suddenly we had passed it by.

I also watched the races between the corn row runners. If you lived in corn country as a child, you know the corn runners. When you drive by great spans of cornfields and stare at the rows of corn, they seem to come alive. The rows begin to take the shape of legs and begin to run. No matter how many fields you pass, corn runners never tire. They just keep on going. The corn runners are either are just in front of you, or right along side of you. They can run all day and into the evening, as long as the shadows and light, are just right.

It's like paper pad animation. You start on the first page. Draw a circle and turn the page.As you flip from page to page you move the circle up or down. Continue page by page until the circle hits the bottom, and you reach the end of the pad of paper. Now flip the pages through your fingers and the bouncing ball comes alive. I used to do this for hours, through many pads of paper.

Serenity is defined by the American Heritage Dictionary as, "Clear," "Tranquil," "Unruffled" and "Unclouded." I was surprised by the definition when I read it. I though it would be much more mystical and Dali Lama-like. That is how things tend to go for me when I pre-decide how outcomes should be. They rarely live up to the billing or grand notion my mind has erected. People and their lives, feelings, choices and reactions keep messing up my paper.

I have come to realize that serenity isn't a chosen conscious feeling or experience. It happens when it happens. Usually, when I go with the flow and let things be. What I shoot for now is "surrenderty." I can make that happen by letting go.When I force things to happen I end up feeling agitated. The situation at hand, usually gets worse.

I choose to be happy today. The same can be said for unhappy, angry, resentful, unforgiving and all the negative emotions that are produced through human interaction. I don't have to take the bait. It's like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die.

It's all in how I decide to accept and surrender to the people and circumstances who are in my reality that are going to determine my serenity or lack of it. I look forward to when it comes again. For now I am grateful to have moments of serenity, and a philosophy of "surrenderty." 


I will still chase clouds and dreams. I will still watch the corn runners keeping pace alongside my car. I don't waste the paper I used when I was creating my crude animations. I know one thing for sure. If I think I can control outcomes, run other people's lives and worry my way to serenity, I'll never even catch a glimpse of it. Thanks God for giving me the wisdom to realize how little I know. I appreciate the insights finally realizing I don't need to.


 SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW  on Amazon and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Belief In GOD Is Personal...Hypocrisy Is Universal...

Recently I had a talk with my son. It was a talk where we take off the labels of "dad" and "son," We just rapped like a couple of dudes. I didn't tell him that he messed up mowing the lawn, taking out the trash or blowing his curfew. We just talked about girls, driving, jobs, life..and God. I told him whether he believed, or how he believed, was his choice. It was a decision I could not, or would not, make for him.

I call my boy Bro. It is my nickname for him because his biological father calls him son. When he was little I chose not to call him son and add to the confusing "STEP Parent" thing. These days I call him son. I also call him "Biggie" and he calls me "Smalls." That's fine because the size between us make the monikers fit quite well. He is a big man. He fully understands that when it comes to the law of the land I am Biggie, and he is a resident of the land.

There are times when I have to talk to him like the sheriff, and sometimes like Smalls. Sometimes talking to him as Smalls makes for a  deeper conversation. He opens up more. He hears me. He shares his feelings. He is honest and we both walk away feeling good.

When it comes to being a Christian, I state with conviction that I am one. I will do so until the day I die.. That is what works for ME. As soon as soon as you read that statement, some of you rolled your eyes and thought "Oh man here we go..."  Your ears probably began to close. Your mind drifted to preconceived notions of Christians gone by. The word hypocrisy rang in your head. I don't blame you. I feel the same way about self righteous Christians. Religion was created by man. God is undefinable. To assume that I am like EVERY other Christian, is just plain wrong.

You see, where many of us go wrong, as Christians, is that some exude an air of superiority to the non-believer, spiritualist, agnostic, atheist or members of other religions. I am no better than anyone. I am not worse either. We will all meet our maker. What God is, is open to interpretation. How people choose to address their maker, is optional and personal. Some can not, or will not, consider the concept of there being an architect of the cosmos. That's cool with me. Ranting on me because I am a Christian is no different than a Christian ranting on others. The intolerance is equal. The hypocrisy shouters are spewing intolerance at those they accuse of being intolerant How is it different? Hypocrisy is a universal shortcoming.

I have never told anyone to convert or burn! I have never called a man a heathen. I have friends who are Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu and Agnostic. I don't check their Spiritual Identification Card before deciding if I want to continue our friendship. My GOD! I have friends who are Muslim! What a Christian who breaks bread with a Muslim? I don't consider other religions, no religion, or agnosticism wrong. It's not up to me. IT"S UP TO YOU. I respect people based on how they act, and treat others, not based on their politics or ideologies. I search the content of a person's character. The connection we make with our higher power is one on one.


I post a positive message on my Facebook page every day. The themes usually focus on hope, catching dreams, and the power of growing with each other. If I post a Christian themed message, the wolves come out and rip me to shreds. They find it offensive. I see posts that are vulgar. Inappropriate photos are often offensive. I do not turn on those who post things I dislike. I say nothing. What is the difference? Last time I checked the Constitution, free speech made the "Top Five Countdown."

I talk to God daily. I do it on the toilet, on my knees and in my car. I do it in short sentences and long diatribes. I ask Him to talk to me through other people. He does. I know He speaks through me sometimes. I am grateful when He does. I am humbled when I am of use to Him. I am grateful when someone says I have inspired them, or given them hope. I kick the compliment upstairs. I am a messenger. That's it. We all are, wittingly or unwittingly.

To the reader: I ask that you not lump everyone into one big pot. To the Christian on the mountain of righteousness, please look at the log in your eye, before pointing out the splinters in the eyes of the masses. God is not a marketing tool, a campaign slogan or a political platform. To use Him, as such, is just plain wrong.

For years I had a hole inside of me that I couldn't understand. Something was missing. I see now that the hole was a PERSONAL relationship with MY GOD and Creator. I have a "Bat line" to him that is always open. I don't know if it's red, and under a glass cake cover, like on the TV show. I do know he's always there when I call.

Jesus works for ME. Worship works for ME. I did have to reassess the one I grew up with. He seemed really mean. The church I attend leaves me feeling love, not guilt. I am not pummeled with guilt and dictates that I am on a one way ticket to hell. However, buildings are not a requirement. Before Jesus left he had two instructions for man. Not 374 rules, and who to vote for. They were, in paraphrasing, Love God with all your heart, mind, soul and strength, and LOVE your brothers as yourself.

There was no color, orientation, party affiliation, caveats, "buts" or "except those people" in his statement. That is where the trouble begins. When man twists God's plan of love for power, greed, personal and public agendas and condemnation he goes against those two suggestions. Shame, shame, shame! Those who do will have to stand in front of the maker just like the hippies, artists, atheists, liberals and tree huggers.

God is love. Go out and share some Good Orderly Direction with someone today, no but's about it. He loves you! If you choose not to embrace GOD, being nice to the people in your orbit is good karma, and a decent way for all of us to live peacefully on this big ole' ball we call EARTH! 

My book, SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon .com. Personalized copies bought through PAYPAL are available at tommyconnolly.com. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Great Expectations!

There are few things sweeter than when people, places and things meet my expectations. I make the plans and sit back, waiting for the universe to meet my deadlines. When they aren't met, it can be crushing. Sometimes things work out better than I had planned. Trying to predetermine what they will be, is a mistake.

My mind races. My melon becomes the Daytona 500 of anticipation. I picture myself taking the victory lap, before I have even gotten in the car. I know I only need to make left turns, put the pedal to the metal and wait for the glory. Ah, There's the rub. I can't control the race, only my driving.

My expectations are that everything will go EXACTLY as I want it to. I know I have everything carefully mapped out. I wait with confidence that the players in my model will do what I want. Each new day illustrates the futility experienced when predetermining that plan A is a sure thing.

When it comes to relationships, I often have the dialogue written before I have even met the actor. I am certain that the plot is intriguing. I know that I have carefully considered the blocking, and action that should be followed. I am filled with wonderful intentions, then POW! On cue the actors and action in my grand productions deviate from the script.

Have you ever seen a person at a stop light yelling and they are not on the phone? That's me. I have arguments with people, who aren't even there. That is because I'm rehearsing my lines for the face to face meeting that waits for me down the road. I have even gotten into loud expletive filled rants with myself when things don't meet my...expectations.

One night I planned a surprise romantic dinner for Squeaky. I went to the store and got some steaks and the biggest baked potatoes I could find. I was giddy with ANTICIPATION, delighted by the thoughts of what the magical evening had in store. There were candles on the table set in a center piece that would make Martha Stewart swoon. I made a CD of romantic music, and had placed the player on the counter just a few feet from the mood lighting.

I would lay in wait, with ears tuned in for the familiar sound of the garage door lurching its way up. When Squeaky walked through the door I would light the candles with one hand, and perform a yoga like move to hit play on the music box. It was a scene right out of a Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant film. I could have taken a picture of it for Lifestyle magazine. The caveman would prove, once and for all,  that he was full of mush and cuddly stuff.

She would walk in ravaged by her day at the office. When she passed through the doorway of our lower level she would be greeted with sweet smells and the sounds of Frank and Deano lilting into her tired ears. Her anxieties would melt away. I was dressed in big boy clothes, confident that I was dressed to kill. Everything was just right.

I finished cooking and had considered every detail. As she stepped into the family room I would whisk her off her feet. There would be the sweet, dove like coo's of mutual adoration. I would say, "You look amazing." She would smile and return an equally flattering remark. As the aroma and music overtook her, I would gently take her by the hand and lead her to the Queen's chair. I would become Benson, sans the sarcastic remarks.

I waited, and waited some more. The traffic must have been heavier than usual. I turned down the heat on the oven, to prevent overcooking the culinary delights. I could hardly contain myself as I scanned the grand scene before me. There must have been an accident on the Stevenson. No problem I will sit patiently. The payoff would be worth the few moments of uncomfortable anticipation.

My cell rang. I dashed across the kitchen, scooping up the phone and hitting the answer button with graceful assurance. It was my wife. I had a secret I wasn't going to spill on the call. Tee Hee! In that moment, I was the Don Juan of suburbia. She began the conversation with a tired greeting. "I have got a migraine, a real pounder," she groaned.

As each word spilled from her lips I was suddenly thrown into Charlie Brown's body. All I could hear was the slow motion, "whah, whah, whah," that rang in Charlie's ears as he listened to the teacher drone on. I was a shrinking violet. "I forgot about your appointment," I whimpered meekly. "If your headache is that bad, maybe you should come home." My expectations would soon be dashed, then smashed to pieces.

"I have a hair appointment. Courtney doesn't work any other nights this week. I can't reschedule." She droned on, with a tinge of regret, that she had to honor her commitment. "Well, I'll have something ready to eat for you when you get home," I meekly replied. I was moving in to plan B. "No thanks, one of the vendors brought in subs and I ate at the office. Between that, and this headache, when I get home I'm going to take a shower and go to bed."


"I hope you feel better," I chimed with sincerity mixed with disappointment. I heard her words fade into the distance as she finished our chat with a sweet knock out blow."I'll talk to you later cannoli. I love you." I muttered an I love you and laid my phone on the counter shocked at what I had just experienced. I felt as if  I had  just learned that they were placing a ban on chocolate ice cream.


I sat down with my steak, and wrinkled baked potatoes. I'm surprised I was able to get food past my puckered out boo boo lip. I chewed slowly. I turned on the music that was meant to melt my girl's heart. Sinatra songs can be interpreted as happy or sad, depending on the moment. "All the Way," tormented me as I chewed my cud. How could this have happened?


I cleaned up the table of  plates and circuses, and went up to bed. Soon, I heard the dogs barking as Squeaky pulled herself up the stairs, hair perfectly quaffed. I asked her how her headache was. It had not lessened. She washed up and fell into bed. She remarked that the house smelled good. I told her I had made steak. She returned a weak smile and half attentive nod, then was out like a light.

I stared at the ceiling, as I listened to the lift and fall of her breathing pull her deeper into sleep. Where had I gone wrong? The plan was perfect! The execution was performed with precision. There was nothing left to chance...except life on life's terms. I had failed to figure uncertainty and reality into my grandiose vision.

I could have looked at the calendar on the fridge. She had told me about the hair appointment a few days earlier. I had forgotten which night it was. I could have called her and asked if she would be home on time. Nope. I only counted on my plans and outcomes. I did not consider hers.

I slowly faded into a slumber understanding that I had made the miscalculations. There would be no freeze out the next morning as we drank coffee. Self pity morphed into an understanding of the pains that come with assuming the world is going to do things my way. I was glad she could sleep her headache away. There was a delicious lunch sitting in the fridge. It would be alright. Stupid hair salons....

My book, SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon .com. Personalized copies bought through PAYPAL are available at tommyconnolly.com. Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

Racism, Math Not Genetics, It's Taught Not Caught

THIS IS A BLOG FROM EARLY 2010. IT DOES NOT APPEAR IN MY BOOK SOUL PAROLE: MAKING PEACE WITH MY MIND GOD AND MYSELF AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM AND AT WWW.TOMMYCONNOLLY.COM. IT WAS AN HONEST LOOK AT HOW THE WORLD AROUND US CAN SHAPE US...OR WE CAN SHAPE IT....


Recently I was offered a leading role in an urban film being shot in Chicago by a bright, young film maker.  I had to turn it down due to a scheduling conflict. The script was well written. The production team was well organized. The cast was carefully selected. The marketing and distribution was well thought out, and I'm sure the project is going to be a success. I am honored that they chose me for the role, and disappointed that I could not take the part.

The cast and crew was 95% African American. I was to play a single parent father who has inappropriate relations with his daughter. He is a dark, flawed delusional character.  When I was presented with the opportunity to audition for the part my first reaction was "NO WAY!" I didn't want to be the BAD WHITE GUY! My personal attraction to trying things "outside the box" and a great conversation with the director led me to audition.

The first audition, on film, was an ad-libed "personality" audition. I stepped in front of the camera and proceeded to act like a stereotypical urban white street thug. I "assumed" that was what a black urban film called for. I got a "call back" with a script and did my next audition which was of me talking to a telemarketer after a long day at work. I talked like a blue collar, foul mouthed, white trash idiot stereotype. Shame on me on several levels. I was offered the part because my anger in the scene, and portrayal of the character was what the director had moved me to do. After I had to turn the project down I thought about the whole experience and came away very disappointed in myself.

First of all I was only one of about 5 actors who were not black in the production. It made me uncomfortable. Why? The money was just as green no matter what color the hand was that was giving it to me. Second, I used urban slang and gestures in my "personality" audition. Why? That is not my personality! I let the word "urban film" take me to "New Jack City" and "Boyz in the Hood" (both amazing films) to predetermine my approach. This was before the director even told me how he wanted the role played.

Lastly, when I had my callback and had my scripted conversation with the telemarketer why did I play it like I was a "blue collar worker?" Doctors, teachers, scientists, cops, computer geeks and professionals live in "urban environments!" I defaulted to the steel mill worker or the tire shop guy. Shame on me! I place labels on things I don't fully understand to make them easier to cope with instead of asking questions or researching the other side of the story. I jump to conclusions.

I am not a racist. I base my relationships on content of character. Invariably, I think, we all have subtle or blaring forms of it. It is passed on from generation to generation like a cookie recipe. It is math not genetic. We are taught it and pass it on. We are not born with it. We can continue the cycle, or break the chain. White people have hurt me more than all the other ethnic categories put together.

I can say that when I am leaving a Sox game at 35th and the Ryan after a night game sitting at a traffic light where a group of black teens are gathered, I lock my doors. I also do the same thing at night in Plainfield when a group of teenage white kids are by my car at a light. My fear sees no color, only fear. Where I am disappointed in myself is that I made some predetermined assumptions about the urban project that I turned down.

What a horrible habit! Sometimes, I let media, TV, movies, music, magazines and the internet worm their way into my opinions, instead of learning the facts for myself. What a rotten way to see the world. It's the easy way out and the fast track to stereotyping. I know better.

This doesn't go to just people of a color, it goes to how people live, where they live, what they wear, how they talk, what God they worship, what food they eat, what books they read and so much more.  Who am I to decide what is the good, the bad, and the ugly?


My kids have been raised to treat all people equally. Their cliques are more diverse than when I was growing up. They see the inside not the outside. I guess I have done some things right.When I have contempt prior to investigation on any subject, I am judge, jury and executioner. Then I have failed myself, My GOD and everyone in my orbit....

I Hate Intolerance

There is nothing that get's my panties in a bunch more than intolerance. It is the politically correct word for hate. I hate... hate. I am having a hard time watching all the hate and intolerance, that is so prevalent in America, and around the world these days.

Yesterday,during the course of my day, I was bombarded with it. As I was driving around on my night job it was everywhere. Impatience is the evil twin of intolerance. The two create anger and ultimately unhappiness.

Now that NASCAR has become so popular, it seems like every male driver thinks he's Tony Stewart in the last lap of the Daytona 500. I have nothing against racing. For many years my second mother raced in the men's division at Santa Fe Speedway. She held her own. When she won races her male counterparts couldn't stand it.

As I sat at a stoplight, and it turned green I didn't push the pedal to the metal fast enough for the guy behind me. After less than two seconds he layed on his horn like I had fallen asleep at the wheel. It was ridiculous. I have experienced it more than once. If you are one of those drivers I can assure you that the two seconds you are trying to make up with your impatience, is not going to get you to your destination any faster.

When I pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall a driver was waiting to make a left hand turn. She did not leave enough room for the driver behind her to turn right. He promptly drove up on her back bumper. He was less than three inches from it. She was startled by his actions. I was too.


 I headed out on my next delivery. A Good Samaritan paused to let another driver into traffic. The soccer mom behind her layed on her horn to voice her automotive distaste at the drivers kindness. Everywhere I go bumper stickers preach hate with vile slogans designed to shock the car behind them.

What the hell is wrong with people? Why all the anger? I understand things are tough, and we are all facing new pressures and anxieties. It seems to me that impatience and intolerance only feeds an already distressed society. It has grown to proportions I have never encountered in my forty-six years on this planet.

Religious intolerance is growing to the point of evilness. Followers of the same beliefs are infighting between themselves to the point of physical confrontation, lies and the distortions of facts. We are all entitled to our own opinions, but the facts aren't open for interpretation.

I really don't think GOD cares the way I vote, or if I vote at all. I have not seen him/her or it come down from the cosmos to endorse a candidate or agenda. There is a little good in the worst of us, and a little bad in the best of us. That is called humanity.

I believe his message to be that we love each other like we love ourselves. Using his name to admonish or condemn a proposal or policy they don't agree with is hypocrisy at its worst. I believe the Bible, and most spiritual themes is to promote peace, love and truth. They ALL speak of honesty peace and watching what we say.

It is saddening to see people who preach righteousness while spewing hate. Whether you are spiritual or not, I think that living life in a positive, peaceful coexistence with our fellow man is a good way to live. The more we hate, and intolerable we become, the more destructive our words and actions become.

There is much talk about Armageddon coming in the near future. I am certain that the earth, as we know it, will experience a cataclysm that pushes humanity into extinction. That could be tomorrow or in ten thousand years. I don't think a calendar will determine it. I do not think the weather will do it. I think it is more likely that we will destroy ourselves before then. If hate and intolerance continue to leach its way on to, more and more, people it is inevitable.

Every Day IS A Gift. Why spend it hating? I hope to die peacefully. I'll start by being tolerant and patient today. My day will be more enjoyable. I would HATE to think that if today is the day I take my last breath I spent it it ticked off. Let's all give it a try. You just might find your day, and life, more peaceful....

Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself

Soul Parole: Making Peace With My Mind, GOD and Myself is now available on AMAZON.com and Amazon Europe. Foreword by Tom Dreesen, Epilogue by David Brenner.


Proceeds will benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health facilities for the under served.


It's hard to believe that Soul Parole is finally complete. I have wanted to be an author since I was old enough to read Dick and Jane. I never would have imagined that reaching such a lofty goal would come in the recounting of 28 years of alcoholism, addiction and undiagnosed Bi-Polar Disorder.


My first work was called "The Monkey and the Eagle." I tapped it out, on an old black typewriter, in my Grandmother's basement. It was 1972. There were at least 20 drafts. White out and delete were not invented yet.


Each time I would carefully peck away on the old machine I would near the completion of the work and BANG, I would make a typo and start again. I wanted it to be perfect when I presented it to my Mom. My obsession with trying to do things "perfectly" had gotten a hold of me already.


The book is not perfect. As I read through it, I can say with confidence that it is an interesting read. I also see that I have a penchant for run on sentences, and should use more commas. You can see the growth in my writing abilities as the book progresses. It reflects my growth as a man.


I decided to leave things raw to show my metamorphosis from hopelessness to confidence. Soul Parole (Volume 2)will be more polished. I am grateful to have written all of it. The conception of the book was created, right here. I am humbled by the fact that "Every Day Is A Gift," is read in 62 countries world wide. When I see that a thousand people are reading the blog each month when I am writing so few assures me that I am touching hearts.


I hope people will look at my story from the perspective of overcoming fear. It is not an alcoholic manual. That has been written already. I hope that earthlings see that it is about victory over the things that hold us back from achieving our dreams, or conquering the fears that paralyze us.


Sharing accounts of failed marriages, addiction to darned near everything, and explaining how THIS addict reacts to life was unfurled. It was difficult to put some of those intimate details to paper, but I am glad I had the courage to do just that.


You can do anything with hope, faith and the hand of a friend. Take it from this 46 year old goof who didn't free himself from the bondage of fear until he was 43. I did not do my first film or commercial until I was 44. There are no age restrictions on catching your dreams. Go out and grab what you were meant to do! FEAR is the only thing that is holding you back.


I guarantee that if you put 10 percent of the effort into working on how YOU CAN catch your dreams, versus the 90 percent that you spend THINKING YOU CAN'T, you will be amazed with the results. At the very least, you can walk away with one less obsession and one less regret.


Don't leave any cards on the table. Nobody lays on their deathbed wishing they had made an extra hundred bucks. Many do bemoaning regrets and sadness over the things they DIDN'T do while here. We are all messengers. God gave us ALL gifts to share with the world. I hope people like Soul Parole. The sales will help many.  I have one less regret on the table and another dream realized.


Go out and DO IT! The only thing you have to lose is your fear.


God Bless you ALL for supporting the blog and helping me grow in my sobriety and life. You made it happen. I just wrote it down.

"Listen To What The Man Said" - McCartney

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. I extend those well wishes to the mothers, who have to wear both hats, due to circumstance or happenstance. This past Father's Day was one filled with mixed emotions for me. If the tone of this entry seems rife with self pity, it is not. I am grateful for where I am at on my journey.

Over the last few years, Squeaky and I have made it a tradition to visit Montana Charlie's on Father's Day. Charlie's could be called a flea market. It is different than most, because there are more new items for sale, than used.

Steamy weather has made our visits a tradition as well. Over the last couple of years it has been scorching hot as we walk the aisles of the fair grounds. We search out our favorite spots, haggle over a few items all the while wilting away. Soon after, one of us calls it quits. Then we high tail it to the car for the chilled  breeze of  the air conditioned car.

I started the day burdened by a melancholy that hung around my neck like an albatross. It is the second Father's Day without my Pop. It wasn't easier than last year. My feelings of loss and longing for his company sets itself deeper within me on each passing day.

I was taken back to Father's Day 2010. It was 6 weeks before his death. On that day, as we visited, I knew it was going to be our last together. He would enter hospice just a few weeks later. I don't know if the sudden loss of someone you care about hurts worse than knowing that the end is imminent. It was my  second sober holiday, and the clarity of the situation was hard to process. I was, and am, grateful that I felt all of it. Going to any length to avoid feelings was my M.O. for years.

While we scanned the aisles of Charlie's for spices and jewelry I had another moment of clarity. A couple of years earlier we ran into my Dad, and my Second Mom. He was decked out in a Bears shirt with goofy shorts, and white tube socks that went halfway up to his knees. My Pop was not a fashionista. I guess I'm not either.

On that particular day we weren't talking on a regular basis. We had a disagreement a few months earlier and he had put the freeze on me. My dad was always right, even when he wasn't. He never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. We made small talk, for a moment or two, and went our separate ways. I remember vividly looking down the aisles for him as we worked our way through the maze of people.

I had forgotten about that until yesterday. It fell on me like bricks. The heat of the sun mixed with the flashback sent me reeling with anxiety. Squeaky looked at me as if she was reading my mind. She held me as tears dripped from my burning eyes.

When I sprinkled part of his ashes at Soldier Field shortly after his death, I bought a Bears hat from the 1963 Championship Team. I told Squeaky it was to be my last Bears hat. I never wanted her to buy another one for me again. It sits in my office next to the two Bears hats my dad wore the most.

Squeaky knows me like no one else ever has. I suppose it's because I let her in to my heart. She can read me like flashcards for a third grader. We are connected. As we broke our embrace I looked left and spotted a Chicago Bears mug, not less than five feet away. We gave each other the look and I bought it on the spot. We dispensed of the ritual haggling and simply bought the mug. It was to remember my pop.

Being a step dad on Father's Day is an experience in itself. Even though I live with Bro, see Sunny often and hear from Hemingway regularly I am not DAD. Throughout the day I waited for them to call or text. I reflected on their younger days when I was an angry insecure jerk. I wished I could take every moment back and have a "do over," like when we were kids playing baseball in the school yard.

I tried to shake the darkness from me on such a bright day but it clung to me like plastic wrap on a bologna sandwich. As I pulled free from one side, the other flipped back to cling on again. I knew I had to think my way out of the situation. My feelings were getting the best of me. I took my mug and we headed for home.

When I returned home and switched on my computer there was a message from Hemingway. She said she loved me and I fell apart like a two dollar watch. Out of all the kids, I wish I could have the years of her late teens back to give it another approach. I was unbearable. She is an amazing woman. Later in the day I got texts from Bro and Sunny. My day was almost complete.

Mouse, my youngest daughter, is still AWOL from my life. She is twelve. I am not sure where her mother has taken her to. I have to be patient. I know in GOD'S time it will work out. Maybe it won't. I will endure whatever outcome I face sober. I am ready to take her back into my arms in a minute. My years of alcohol abuse has left her mother angry and I'm sure few positive remarks are made about me to her.

In recovery I have encountered many people trying to repair the damage of their past. I am troubled by those who say, "I will NEVER apologize or FORGIVE them!" Those are hard words to swallow after being so easily spit out. I would pay a million bucks to have my dad repeat all the things I ignored as a kid. I long for his laughter. I miss his stories that he repeated ad infinitum.

Life is short. Wounds can be difficult to heal. Scars remain. I plan on leaving this earth with a few scars and no open wounds. Anger and resentment is too overwhelming. Being right doesn't have to be the end game. I have said it a million times, like my dad would. Don't leave any regrets on the table. Swallowing your pride is easier than choking on your tears. I have learned that facing problems is easier than living with the ones you'll never have the chance to fix....

Soul Parole: Making Peace With My Mind, GOD And Myself, with Foreword by Tom Dreesen and Epilogue by David Brenner, will be available July 7, 2012. Look for it on Amazon, Amazon Europe and Kindle. Personalized copies will be available at soulparole.com.


         Proceeds will benefit Chicago Area Addiction, Homeless and Mental Health facilities