I'm a Bozo Hater with Bats in My Belfry!

The fact that I had to put our yellow lab "Cooter" down Tuesday, 8 months after I put down our Pug Ruby, has devastated me and our family. Being the guy who takes our beloved pets on their last car trip is an unenviable task I dread. I love God's creatures. Most of them, that is. When talking about facing fears great or small, should I or shouldn't I, and what defines great and small?

I have mentioned in other chapters about my fears of clowns, dentists and bats. My ultimate fear is going to the dentist only to find him dressed in a bat costume with a rubber nose and rubber shoes. Those are real phobias. I use comedy to deflect real feelings of discomfort. Taking them one by one, I never took my kids to the circus. Remember that chapter? I still have no guilt! That phobia is easily managed. No circus, no problem. The dentist has a note in my file about my phobia and I get gas, even for a cleaning. Problem solved. That brings us to the bats.

Everyone knows of my love for rescuing animals! I like animals better than people for the most part. I know, not very Christianly. Giving it to you straight has been my thing, why change now? I know others who fear the dentist and clowns. Being a comedian all 3 phobias can be material for me. Animals are God's nonspeaking buffers between humanity that bring us happy. That is except for bats. I find these creatures to be the most vile creation in God's animal playbook. I know he was very busy during those days of creation. It is a part bird, part rat-like thing, part blood or bug sucking thing, it is blind and only comes out in the dark to prey on the unsuspecting.

I don't get it! Birds are beautiful! I adore hawks and birds of prey! I think bats are actually what people see when they encounter the chupacabra! Why is a bat turd called guano? That sounds like something I want to dip a tortilla chip into! Why do bat turds get such a prestigious name for a dump? Cows have pies, okay. Horses have apples, okay. If you've been on a farm those are pretty good visual descriptions of what they leave behind. Guano sounds like the latest hot spot martini bar on Rush and Division. Why does such a filthy, deplorable, rabid beast get a designer turd moniker? Stop the madness!

Growing up in Mokena and around Joliet we saw bats. I was horrified by them. The way they flew erratically, possibly carrying rabies, lice or bubonic plague or a chunk of cow hair they took off poor Elsie in the field next door was paralyzing. The articles I still read in the papers freak me out. "2 rabid bats found in Joliet Forest Preserve." Plainfield bat tests confirm rabies!" I know it seems silly, but is my phobia silly?

You may say "Tom you made it through 20 years of addiction, alcoholism depression, anxiety, panic and homelessness. Why are you worried about the bat phobia? The roaches didn't bother you that much." The answer is multi-layered. We all have fears and inner conflicts. My addictions and depression were massive obstacles that had to be faced. The clown and dentist phobias had solutions I created to get around or deal with them

We all have fears, phobias and things that freak us out which we don't talk about for personal or societal reasons. I had a bat experience that terrified me as a kid. It involved me, my sister, my mom and my stepfather. I remember it like yesterday. I can tell you details including weather. I called them both this morning. My sister vaguely remembers the incident, my mom not at all. I think I remember it because the incident was between me and my stepfather and this bat that I dreaded going near. If I didn't I felt I would be a sissy. To fear bats in general is feminine, not that there is anything wrong with a man being in touch with his feminine side.

I have let these little flying varmints freak me out since I had the ability to remember things. I have stories about Mammoth Cave Kentucky and the exhibit at Brookfield Zoo that almost killed me with a panic attack because bats fly free in the enclosure. Note to self: Read zoo instructions before entering.

I don't talk about this fear with people because I feel it's stupid but it genuinely effects me if there is a bat situation occurring. Do you have a silly fear that maybe isn't so silly? I have only taken my kids to the zoo once. We have never been to a circus and never to the forest preserve (particularly after dark) all because of this bat thing. It kills me because I love animals so much and I let this one bastard flyin' rat prevent me from showing my kids 100's of other species I adore.

I can face an inferno, but I am terrified by a match. Laugh. I make jokes. I have never turned to my friend Patrick and said "Bats scare the shit out of me." Dudes don't do that. He would probably push me out of the car. No, really. If you knew Patrick, he really would push me out of the car.

I submitted to an ad to appear on a program that deals with fear of animals. I did it on a whim, half joking, half secretly crying out for help for this insane phobia. They called me and are interested in my fear of bats. Now I have to decide if I want to apply or not and tell the world I don't like bats. God sure has a sense of humor. God bless us all. If you're looking for something to do tonight, head on out to Guano. They have a live band Billy Bozo and the drillers.

I Hate Clowns, Bats and DENTISTS, I'm Not a Hypochondriac Drama Queen!

Alright I have shared with you my phobia list in past chapters. By order of ranking, for those scoring at home, number one is clowns. Number two is bats. Number 3, with a bullet, is Dentists. My sister Chris has labeled me a hypochondriac. My wife has labeled me a "drama queen." I feel that these descriptions are slanderous generalities. I am merely convinced that I have "monsters inside me" and a trip to the dentist may be my last gasping moments as I shuffle from this Mortal Toil. That sounds normal to me.

In the idyllic village of Mokena there was one dentist in town while I was growing up. His name was Dr. Killian, a moniker that fit him to a T. I remember my first dentist trip like it happened a half an hour ago. I have a big mouth. We all know that. Structurally my mouth is very small. As Dr. Killian entered the office with his neatly parted hair and white smock, I couldn't help but notice he had huge hands! I am talking hands like those plastic "Incredible Hulk" slip ons kids wear. The only difference was Dr. Killian's hands were white not green, and they didn't slip off, exposing wee tiny hands underneath.

For those of you who love Dr. Killian, I salute you. It is possible that my perceptions were slightly altered. From the moment he hovered over my pint sized choppers, I was convinced that he was a Russian operative there to extract information from me about my candy and sugar intake, by any means necessary. He had a sterile, neatly organized set of shiny tools on a silver tray, ranging from simple mirrors and picks to the "jaws of death." He could extract my tooth or remove the crushed roof from a mangled Pinto, with the tools splayed out before me.

As he checked and stretched my mouth there were simple instructions for me to follow. They were "open" and "bite down." These are easy to follow dog-like commands, but I was a psychological wreck and obviously being monitored by the Kremlin. At one point he asked me to "open" and I misunderstood it for "bite down." His commands became louder and more concise as I was tortured. By inflicting pain upon his Hulky finger he was going to exact his revenge on American freedom, via my mouth. I felt as though Sir Laurence Olivia was standing over me and I was Dustin Hoffman in the "Marathon Man."

This experience actually bothered me so much that I didn't go back to the dentist until I was 18. I had no problem with bad teeth. It wasn't slowing Great Britain or Ireland down and I thought the banjo playing kid in "Deliverance" was kinda cute. I did take care of my crooked teeth and was thrilled when my trip resulted in only 3 cavities. I do not remember the name of the second Mokena dentist but I found his bedside manner much more pleasant. I don't mean pleasant like Carol Brady checking on Marcia's broken nose. It was more of a pleasant executioner, making sure my straps were comfortable before my lethal injection proceeded.

My phobia is so bad that I need gas for a cleaning. It makes for a more enjoyable cleaning and doesn't violate my sobriety. I talked to my mentor before going and I follow prescription medication instructions carefully. I do not abuse them. I can also say that the internal terror I experience at the dentist office doesn't trigger me or put me much in the mood for a party. All people are different. Check with your recovery mentor or doctor before taking any medication if you are in recovery.

I have had a toothache for about 2 weeks. I was scheduled to perform tonight in Elk Grove Village at the Korner House. It was a competition and I was looking forward to going. The pain in my tooth decided that being funny tonight wasn't a possibility. I made an emergency appointment with my dentist, Dr. Shindollar, and his faithful sidekick Tammy. They are familiar with my phobic condition and they have a custom fit nose inhaler for my visits. As I entered the office I took my last few deep breaths of the sweet fresh air as if they might be my last. I don't know the statistics but I am convinced there are hundreds, if not millions, of deaths that occur during simple dental exams yearly, worldwide. "THEY" just don't talk about it.

As they cajoled me into the chair with their scripted "this won't hurt a bit" ploy. I saw through their mind games. This wasn't my first dental rodeo. We started with a simple x-ray of my tooth. It seems so innocuous in its' simplicity. In reality, I am fairly certain they placed an 8"x10" plate into my mouth. I was stoic and only slightly whiny. The color would return to my knuckles after I was done gripping the chair. I said my I love you's to my wife, family, friends, and thanked God for giving me an interesting life. I then waited for the x-ray results.

It was a gum abscess that would not require surgery or extraction, just a scraping and cleaning of the gums, and removal of the infected area. There was hope I would see my loved ones again. The gas fairy hooked me up and told me to breathe normally. I must have misunderstood her because I was sucking in gas like I was huffing paint behind a local hardware store. I was amazed at my lungs capacity. As I took each lung filling dose of my phobic relief, I relaxed more and more. I wish dentists would paint Pink Floyd-like murals on the ceilings of their offices. It would make the trip all the more enjoyable for everyone.

I heard no angels but as my mood was becoming more dental friendly, my phone rang. It was my wife calling. Her ring tone is Etta James' "At Last." I could see Etta belting out the blues classic and pictured my wife wondering if she had been widowed. It took 3 shots of Novocaine before the doc could clean up my mouth. The first two didn't work. He asked me if I needed a third. I said "sure." Imagine a dentist phobic, hypochondriac, drama queen requesting another needle in the mouth! At that point he could have built a birdhouse in my mouth and I would have been perfectly happy with the work.

Well as you can see I made it through the ordeal. If you suffer from this condition I am here for you. I didn't care for the uncontrollable drool I dripped on my shirt as I left. I felt like Leo DiCaprio in "Benny and Joon." I am grateful for the gas that dentists offer to guys like me. The drugs have worn off and I should be able to whine my way into my wife babying me for the evening. I will return again to the dentist in a few days for a follow up. As long as he doesn't enter the room in clown make up and a Batman costume, I think I will make it through like the real man I am. As long as he still has the gas, I've got the guts!

Three Blizzards, Three Lives....Three Me's!

ARMAGEDDON THE DAY AFTER! This was the big one. Out of the last dozen or so predictions by my local weatherman that were false alarms, he finally called it RIGHT! Weathermen have it perfect. They can screw up day after day and continue to hold their job. It goes back to man trying to figure out things we have very little control over. God keeps us on our toes.

In the tiny hamlet of Plainfield we got pummeled. When you combine the fact that I live on the top of a cul-du-sac, that sits at the highest point at the end of our street, my house got extra rocked. Snow drifts are naturally attracted to my driveway and back yard. The deepest ones were about five feet tall. The funniest moment of the morning was letting the dogs out for their morning relief. My 2 labs were in heaven jumping and thrashing in the fluffy whiteness. My Pekingese, Grace, ran straight into a drift.

This drift is 5 foot tall, and was just a foot from my patio door. Grace, who is all white, disappeared into the massive drift but came out bewildered, chunked with snow, but otherwise okay!

The dump of snow took me back to 1979 and 1999. They were polar opposites when they occurred in my life. The blizzard of 1979 was heaven for a kid. School was called off for a couple of days. I was 12 and eager to make some money off the back of old man winter. Dressed like the Marshmallow Man I started through the neighborhood, seeking out the homes of the elderly and lazy, practicing my sales pitch to shovel their drives. I trudged through the snow, sinking up to my hips with each heavy step.

Visions of a radio controlled car danced in my head as I counted my yet undeserved earnings, over and over again. I peeked back at the house. I had made it about 50 yards from our Mokena condo. I felt like a character out of a Jack London, Alaskan wilderness story. I wiped my nose on my glove, and turned once again to the vast Yukon of snow that lay ahead of me. The moisture from my breath was freezing on my Mexican Wrestler styled face mask. My eyes winced, peeping through the narrow slits. My face was growing an icy goatee.

I looked back again at my permanent campsite, 100 yards and counting. My legs became granite, punching their way through the snowy dunes that faced me. As I took each tiring step my drive and entrepreneurial spirit began to wain. "Who wants a stupid radio controlled car in the middle of winter?" My toes were chilled to tingling. My fingers wet and raw from the prerequisite snow bombs I was tossing around the street. I was certain I was miles from home and on the open road to riches. I glanced back once again. I was 150 yards from home.

I looked at the frozen carpet that faced me with fear and discouragement. I questioned if I was the right man for the mission. I looked forward and back to my homestead. I remembered Bozo would be coming on at lunch time and the debate began. "Bozo or big bucks, big bucks or Bozo?" My brain was on hyper drive nestled between my cool crispy ears. I turned, my decision made. I must go watch Bozo. My road to riches could wait another day. There would be comfort in the comical Bozo, even though I loathe clowns. Bozo was an exception. He was on TV, not in my living room. Retracing my steps I returned to our cute Mokena condo and began to warm up. I watched Bozo, careful not to sit too close to the TV, just in case.

1979 was the last winter of innocence for me. My introduction to alcohol was only months away. Fast forward to January 1, 1999. I was living in a transient hotel in Stone Park. My job in Melrose Park was an easy 2 mile drive. I was quick to work and quicker home so my daily party could begin. I was staying at The O'hare Kitchenette. It was strategically located next to a bar/liquor store that sold pretzels and Slim Jim's. All of an alcoholic's four food groups could be had there. The store had booze, beer, cigarettes and snacks. Alcoholic paradise.

There was a blizzard hitting on that start to January. I had no boots or winter coat. All of my possessions gathered could fill a couple of Walmart bags. It took about 20 minutes to fight the head wind and drifts that stood between me and my obsession. My sneakers soaked, the trip bitterly cold. I could see the drivers on Lagrange road looking at me like I was crazy. They were right. I made it to the store and gathered my provisions. 1 wwelve pack of cheap beer, 1 pint cheap vodka, 1 can of orange soda for chaser and 1 bag of pretzels to prevent throwing up the previously listed items.

I fought my way back to my temporary home and quickly downed the pint of vodka accompanied by the can of soda. I polished off the first beer and was struck with panic. I only had 11 beers left. What if the liquor store closes because of the blizzard pounding the area? What if I ran out of beer? That can't happen! The obsession and compulsion of alcoholism is unrelenting in the depths of addiction. The insane and absurd, from an earthling's point of view, are normalcy and common place to the drunk. I slipped on my wet shoes and summer coat and retraced my journey to the store. I purchased the same items I had picked up only an hour earlier. I was comforted that I had all I needed to get through the next few days.

Flash to February 2, 2011. The official Plainfield snow total was 18 inches. My estimation, 34 feet! My wife and son, whom I call Bro, are at home. School and work have been cancelled for them. It is just another day of searching for gigs for me. I looked forward to the day, picturing the three of us laughing and playing board games while roasting marshmallows and smores over the fireplace. Note to self: you are sober now and facing reality. Oh, what a day it was.

Our "idyllic" Rockwellesque day began quite pleasantly. We sipped coffee and watched the war footage of the blizzard on local TV. The morning passed and the reality of life and wife set upon me. My son bundled up and retreated to the back yard to create safe passage for the dogs to have room to get their business done. Each plop of snow rang in my ears like gun shots as my guilt for not helping him grew with each shovel toss. I knew he could handle it! He is 15 years old, 6'1" and 200 pounds. I am 45, weak and fragile in the cold. He is Goliath. I am an aged David with a heart attack phobia.

The pictures played like well edited movies in my mind. I am assisting the lad in the drive when a pain shoots up my arm. I fall into the drifts, clutching my chest. "Hear that Elizabeth? I'm coming to join you honey, with a guilt complex and frozen bottom!" I think I see my Dad. No that's just snow in my eyes. Who will miss me? Who will come to my funeral? I didn't call the mortgage payment in! Lord I'm coming home!

Another plunk snaps me out of my Sanford dream soliloquy. My wife is acting as if she is going to go out and help my son. I am trying to teach him a life lesson honey! Plus, I'm paying him! Do you really want me to help him and cut into his profits? There's a plunk on the outside, and an icy, emasculating cold front coming from Squeaky inside. I can not escape my fate. I hang my head low and pound up the stairs, like a spoiled child, to slip into my long johns and snow gear. 

Armed with my shovel I join my son in the wintry battle. I toil for 10 minutes then sit for 5. The Fred Sanford visions are still haunting me. I secretly envy my buck-like son as he tosses the snow left and right like he's shoveling confetti. Why does my snow feel like granite? We attack the drive together. He tosses 3 shovelfulls for every one of mine. I find myself laughing with him. He has grown into a man. Our roles have reversed. When he was little he would use his tiny shovel to help me with snow removal, usually making more work for me, but his efforts appreciated. Now he has taken the lead.

After an hour or so, we have reached the end of the driveway and had cleared it of the Kilimanjaro mounds that once daunted us. I am happy to have spent the time with him. He is growing into a fine decent man. As we toss the last remnants from our mission onto the pile, we look across the cul-du-sac and realize, even though we have a clean drive the streets are still not cleared. We are still trapped in our home with a really clean driveway. We nod to each other, man code for a job well done. We return to the warmth of the house where my once icy queen has hot cocoa and coffee waiting for us. The blizzard of 2011 is one I won't soon forget and one I am glad to have shared with my son. My wife smiles at me with approval, my testosterone level replenished. I am sober, I am not homeless, I have a great family, and Bozo has been taken off the air. It has been a good day indeed.