When an addict is using and at the times when we're not, we think the world revolves around us. It comes with the territory. The lies, cover-ups, scheming, denial, justifying, manipulation and self focus is relentless and continuous. I had no control over these thoughts and actions. My disease was all powerful and pulled my strings like a marionette trying to imitate a real person. The physical craving to use and the obsession to escape create a world of "self". The desired drinking or drug effect starts out as self-medication and self-satisfaction, self-confidence or self-indulgence, but to an alcoholic or addict those feelings slowly evolve to the other side of "self".
It's important to note that if you ever experience any of the following descriptions you don't have to run to your doctor or local recovery group. My definition of addiction, combined with the proper definition paraphrased, is as follows. I am an alcoholic and addict because I cannot use mind altering chemicals safely, and once I start I can not stop, even if I want to. When these drugs hit my blood stream, and mind, I think only of more, me, mine, more, now! While the rest of the "earthlings" chat and sip their Chablis I begin to panic that there isn't enough left for everybody, particularly me! When I would go to BYO parties, I would drink other people's booze then take mine home. If you held the doob too long I would tap my foot nervously waiting for my next hit, all the time thinking you were a bogart and wasting the stuff! Don't talk son, smoke! Hit it fat, then sit and chat!
When I am under the influence I can describe all of my avenues of thinking in two statements. "What about me?" and "WHAT ABOUT YOU!" The what about me was that I wanted to be the center of the world I was in at any given moment. The attention should be directed and conformed to my wants, needs, feelings, desires and moods. "Yeah Me, ME, Mine...." as JWL sang. If too much attention was paid to other planets (people) in my orbit it was "What about me?" I don't care about your day or how bad it was. That's a bummer about your dog. Can't you see I am in pain here! Everyone in a room was thinking or should be thinking and talking about me. I'm the lost child here! Can't you people hear my screams? "Excuse me Tom, this is your addiction speaking. I am the only one in the universe who gets it! Follow me and you know you will feel better. They don't care about you like I do. Trust me! Have I ever let you down?"
At the end of my run all of the good "self" related terms made a 180 degree turn to the negative and neurotic. My "WHAT ABOUT YOU?!" statement is how I reacted when my improper behavior, ignorance, lack of feelings, guilt and selfishness were pointed out by a friend or loved one. I could be caught stealing money from your purse and lay the "WHAT ABOUT YOU?" attacks out until you believed me or just wanted me to shut up. I was never wrong, never to be questioned and never took the blame, even for my blaring screw ups. It was always because of you, or my boss, or my family that I did the rotten, unfeeling things I did. It was not MY fault.
I hold a vast data bank in my head cataloguing every mean or hurtful thing that anyone ever did to me and everyone else. If you cornered me on something that I was clearly wrong for saying or doing, I could scan my database and spit back every rotten thing you ever said or did to me or anyone else from the time of your conception. I always wrapped it up with a shot to your most vulnerable secret corner of pain, the bulls eye of your darkest secret. Nothing was off the table. I would say what I had to to get out of my uncomfortable spaces.
The whole time these two dialogues went through my head my addiction played me all the way. It was like Mick telling the Rock to "Get up and get the bum!" Addiction knows how to push the right button to get the user to turn on and then push the hot button that made others turn off! I often would start fights out of nowhere to cover both bases and give me a reason to escape into oblivion again. The negative "self's" consumed every fiber of my being at the end. In recovery these thoughts don't evaporate. I spend each day trying to recognize my faults and eliminating them. God helps me with that.
The end of my run was filled with "self" as well. Self-loathing, self-serving, self-gratifying, self-pity, self-denial, self-destruction and selfish self, self, self's! If I didn't stop using and drinking when I did and don't work on my recovery every day, it is an absolute certainty that I will end up all by my SELF! I will end up like Pluto cast out of everone's orbit and floating alone on the outside of my universe.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Seven Hundred and Thirty......Todays!
Today is the 2 year anniversary of my last mind altering drug or drink. The date is an important milestone in many respects because it is a date of reference to when my life was given back to me. I take little credit for the 730 days of sobriety. I just didn't use drugs or alcohol during that time frame. The physical end to my using was just the beginning. I am sober because I surrendered to a God whom I have a relationship with and the support of other alcoholic addicts who have shown me how to live life as it comes. I also have a supportive wife and family whom I have discovered are really beautiful people.
731 days ago I was trapped in my addiction. I was enslaved to its unrelenting domination of my body and soul and I wished I was dead. Those last few days I could no longer handle my drinking and couldn't imagine life without drinking. I was trapped, a dog chasing his tail that he would never catch. I would wake up with a urine soaked bed, hatred towards myself and indescribable shame, self-loathing and cold isolation. I was having multiple anxiety attacks daily, my wife was secretly shopping for a new home and I was soon to be fired. I drank to forget these painful experiences but created even more pain in doing so.
On January 17, 2009 I had a revelation. It was quite simple. I could not, not drink through my own will power. No matter how many times I made promises to my wife and myself that "This time I mean it," I would end up drunk that very evening. On that day I surrendered. I knew I had lost the battle and was on a fast track to death. I begged to God, whom I thought was Santa Claus up until then, to help me quit drinking today. He heard me that day and I haven't been drunk or high since then.
As each new today came, I asked him to take control of my will power and spend time with people who were trying to stay sober just like me. For the longest time I thought these people didn't exist. I was "one of a kind". "My problems were different than yours," "you don't understand!" I found out that they had all said the same things when they stopped using. The excuses and denial wrapped in justification was the same in all the addicts I met. We were doing the same things and feeling the same agony as each other. We were just doing it with different people in different places.
I kept my life simple and easy to manage. I didn't obsess about the uncertainty of the future or guilt and shame of my past. I began to live one 24 hour dose of life at a time. Hours were easier to manage than weeks, months, years and decades of fear and remorse, self hate and self-destruction. I had tried for 20 plus years to figure EVERYTHING out on my own. An impossible feat for even the healthiest of minds.
As the days go by, the desire to use has miraculously left me. Today I can look in a mirror and not want to spit at the guy staring back at me. Today I can look people in the eye instead of staring at the ground or shooting my glances away, certain they could see the fear that paralyzed me in the windows to my soul. Today I have a wife who has a husband, not a baby, to raise. Today I have self respect and respect for others. Today I don't have to be right all the time or know all the answers.
Today, when my depression and anxiety build up in me, I have people to turn to to help me cope. Today I am a good husband, father, son and friend. Today people can depended on me and believe the things I say. Today I am free to choose life instead of dwelling on death. Today I can do all the things I would plan for tomorrow when I was wasted. Today I am a man, not a child. Today I am not a victim or martyr. Today I am sober because I turned to God and my fellows and sincerely reached my hand out for help. Today I reach my hand out to people who once felt like I did 731 days ago.
Today I am alive, sober, free and sane because I started living each today one at a time. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow may come. Today is all I have. I might have another shot tomorrow at a new today. Today I am grateful for what I have, and more importantly, what I haven't been given. Today I am ALIVE!
If you are trapped in addiction or depression make a plan for today only. Just don't use today. Call a friend to watch over you, email me, share your pain and accept that we can do nothing alone in this world except breathe and pray. We all need each other every today. The last 20 plus years have shown me that when I go it alone, I don't manage as well as I think. With the help of God, people and hope, I can make it through today.
731 days ago I was trapped in my addiction. I was enslaved to its unrelenting domination of my body and soul and I wished I was dead. Those last few days I could no longer handle my drinking and couldn't imagine life without drinking. I was trapped, a dog chasing his tail that he would never catch. I would wake up with a urine soaked bed, hatred towards myself and indescribable shame, self-loathing and cold isolation. I was having multiple anxiety attacks daily, my wife was secretly shopping for a new home and I was soon to be fired. I drank to forget these painful experiences but created even more pain in doing so.
On January 17, 2009 I had a revelation. It was quite simple. I could not, not drink through my own will power. No matter how many times I made promises to my wife and myself that "This time I mean it," I would end up drunk that very evening. On that day I surrendered. I knew I had lost the battle and was on a fast track to death. I begged to God, whom I thought was Santa Claus up until then, to help me quit drinking today. He heard me that day and I haven't been drunk or high since then.
As each new today came, I asked him to take control of my will power and spend time with people who were trying to stay sober just like me. For the longest time I thought these people didn't exist. I was "one of a kind". "My problems were different than yours," "you don't understand!" I found out that they had all said the same things when they stopped using. The excuses and denial wrapped in justification was the same in all the addicts I met. We were doing the same things and feeling the same agony as each other. We were just doing it with different people in different places.
I kept my life simple and easy to manage. I didn't obsess about the uncertainty of the future or guilt and shame of my past. I began to live one 24 hour dose of life at a time. Hours were easier to manage than weeks, months, years and decades of fear and remorse, self hate and self-destruction. I had tried for 20 plus years to figure EVERYTHING out on my own. An impossible feat for even the healthiest of minds.
As the days go by, the desire to use has miraculously left me. Today I can look in a mirror and not want to spit at the guy staring back at me. Today I can look people in the eye instead of staring at the ground or shooting my glances away, certain they could see the fear that paralyzed me in the windows to my soul. Today I have a wife who has a husband, not a baby, to raise. Today I have self respect and respect for others. Today I don't have to be right all the time or know all the answers.
Today, when my depression and anxiety build up in me, I have people to turn to to help me cope. Today I am a good husband, father, son and friend. Today people can depended on me and believe the things I say. Today I am free to choose life instead of dwelling on death. Today I can do all the things I would plan for tomorrow when I was wasted. Today I am a man, not a child. Today I am not a victim or martyr. Today I am sober because I turned to God and my fellows and sincerely reached my hand out for help. Today I reach my hand out to people who once felt like I did 731 days ago.
Today I am alive, sober, free and sane because I started living each today one at a time. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow may come. Today is all I have. I might have another shot tomorrow at a new today. Today I am grateful for what I have, and more importantly, what I haven't been given. Today I am ALIVE!
If you are trapped in addiction or depression make a plan for today only. Just don't use today. Call a friend to watch over you, email me, share your pain and accept that we can do nothing alone in this world except breathe and pray. We all need each other every today. The last 20 plus years have shown me that when I go it alone, I don't manage as well as I think. With the help of God, people and hope, I can make it through today.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Illinois State Second Year, Second Arrest, Second Call to Dad...
After my first year at ISU, I was placed on academic probation and was risking expulsion. I was drinking everyday and smoking about 7 grams of pot alone a day. While my friends went to class and were preparing for their careers, I was doing the wake and bake and watching Bozo or the newly created MTV. I had a radio program on WZND, the ISU radio station. The show began with the Ramones jamming "Do you Remember Rock-n-Roll Radio?" Ironically the show was called the "Happy Hour Show" as I broadcasted from 4-7pm. I took requests and played the songs I liked and disregarded the requests for Culture Club and the Thompson Twins.
My sophomore year picked up right where my freshman one left off. I flunked 4 classes the first year and started year 2 on probation. To me, college was "Animal House" come to life. I was being treated for a spastic colon with medication. I now believe the condition was a symptom of my depression. As I got older the runs went away and the desire to run from everything took over. I remember very little of my academic career at ISU, but I can remember the parties and the drugs. By this point I was using drugs and alcohol day and night. Classes were recreational.
I would go home on weekends to see my girlfriend and hit my dad or grandma up for money. When I started my first year of college I had $5,000 dollars of spending money in an account for necessities. I went through the money in that first semester and was mooching my dad by the second. While I was home, I would lay a song and a dance on my dad and grandmother about my financial woes and could always weasel some cash out of them. Addicts know how to play each character specifically. We are chameleons. We can be smooth and gentlemanly, street wise and slick, loving and pathetic all to get the money we need to continue our run.
On one trip back to Bloomington from Mokena, I was drunk and high after a party earlier in the day. As I headed down I-55 in my '74 Buick Le Sabre, I was nodding off and clipped the bumper of a car in the lane next to me. I freaked. I hit the gas and the car chased me for about 25 miles before I finally pulled over. While they were moving in on me I knew they had my plate numbers and I was planning my scheme on how to get out of this latest pinch. I switched into an often used addicts' role. I acted like I was completely nuts!
I pleaded with the driver not to call the police. I gave them my insurance card and my father's phone number assuring them that the damages would be repaired. I cried or sobbed to gain their sympathy. I ranted and mumbled apologies, I paced and scared the driver enough for him to accept my proposal to keep the law out of it. Another scrape I escaped through the cunning tongue and acting of an alcoholic addict. These skills have been useful in my comedy and acting career. Now they're used for character identification and visualization, not for manipulation of family and friends.
I made it back to campus and called my father. He said he would take care of it after I balled like a baby. That always got him; to hear his grown son sob. I played him like a fiddle. When the call was ended, I wiped the crocodile tears from my eyes, had a beer and smoked some more hooch. I was completely immersed in chemicals now, including mushrooms and LSD. Like most users I did it to "expand my senses" and "write poetry." I knew the greats like Hemingway and Lennon were drunks and addicts and I thought my creative genius would be fueled from these "trips". The poetry was bad but the music was good. The toll the hallucinogens took on my body left me bed ridden for 2 or 3 days after use. I was the pariah of my Manchester Hall roommates. A joke, really. They talked to me but laughed behind my back at how truly pathetic I had become. I was the center of a joke that every one was in on, except me.
Early in the year campus officials were considering banning alcohol on campus and at parties. The students cried NO! I took part in an evening melee that even brought Oprah down to Normal, Illinois for a story on the pandemonium that ensued that night. When there was revolution or anarchy in the air, I took the lead and cheered my fellow hooligans on in their destruction. They knocked over garbage cans and when they began to break stuff my anarchist participation ended. I was in support of keeping the booze flowing but not at the expense of a campus window or innocent bystanders' property.
The police were making themselves more visible in the Cherry Street neighborhood and fraternity row. I was still bringing booze in from home and had connections for anything else I fancied right there on campus. On Halloween I was especially drunk and stoned. We were planning to go out to the costume parties. As a drunk I had to drink and use before we went out and drank and used in case they didn't drink and use at the same level as I did. You follow me? One of the greatest fears of an alcoholic addict is that they will arrive at a social function and find out there wasn't enough to reach the oblivion we so desperately seek. That made getting primed justifiable and necessary before heading out.
I had gone to the thrift store and bought a yellow rain coat, a fisherman's hat, and stopped at the Kroger for a box of fish sticks. I was going dressed as the Gordon Fisherman, that tiny guy in the corner of the box of fish sticks. I thought I was hilarious. Another commonly held notion of the active alcoholic is that we are an absolute riot when drunk. We don't realize that people are laughing more at us than with us. Me and a bunch of guys headed for the party. I smoked dope all the way and was blotto when we got there.
I poured a beer and snaked my way through the overcrowded house to get some fresh air. As I was stepping into the night air, a Bloomington police officer was stepping in. I tried to make my way around him but he shifted over to block my way. He asked if I was the one throwing the party. They were cracking down heavy after the campus and property damage, resulting from the earlier riots. I casually responded "no" and tried to move past him once more. He stepped in front of me with more resolve. His night stick was in hand, no doubt for protection, unsure of how the crowd would react at the announcement that the party was over.
He questioned me further, his night stick resting on my chest, and inquired if I knew whose party it was. The adrenalin and chemicals mixed with the interrogation began to anger me. My response of "no I don't" was more cocky and less respectful. His third question was accentuated with a poke to my chest with the night stick."How old are you?" My polluted mind and misdirected testosterone bubbled up until I spat out, "I'm 15!" He felt my sarcasm and knew I was older than stated. He asked for my student ID and asked me to wait in the front yard until his return.
In an alcoholic fog, the injustice of being singled out ate at me. The ache in my chest from the poking of his night stick made it more real and I was fuming. One of the crazy things alcohol and drugs creates in the user, beyond the removal of inhibition, is the dismissal of reality and the consequences our actions may hold. I shouted some expletives and left for another party, leaving my ID with the officer. I had directly disobeyed an officer.
I moved from party to party and was in complete blackout, an early sign of alcohol dependency. When I got rocked I blacked out nearly every time. I was an alcoholic and knew it at 18. It didn't bother me. There were plenty of boozers throwing them back around my family tree. Somehow I made it back to my dorm and convinced them to let me up to my room without my ID. The fact that I had thrown up down my shirt most likely contributed to their decision to allow me entry.
I passed out in my room and came to early the next morning, startled by the shaking of my arm from my roommate. I mumbled a greeting and asked what was up. He said,"What's up? You don't remember last night?" My response was clouded and honest when I said, "No I don't. I had a bit too much." He went on to explain that a police officer had called my dorm room late the night before and my roommate couldn't rouse me to take the call. In his efforts to revive me, and explain that the officer was on the phone and wanted to speak with me, I blathered a "Tell him to go screw himself!" loud enough that the officer heard my response. He instructed my roommate that I had better be at the police station early the next morning or a warrant would be issued for my arrest.
Nursing a hangover that would blind a rhino, I staggered to the police station still drunk from the night before. The officer greeted me and reviewed the nights events with me. He had returned the ID's to the party goers and left the party. I had fled and told him to screw himself. I was arrested for underage drinking and disobeying a police officer. It was my second arrest in a year. As I stood before the judge, the same one I had for my first arrest, he remembered me. He informed me that it was my second alcohol related arrest in a year. If I were to be arrested again at ISU or in Bloomington for any alcohol related offense he would recommend the maximum penalty that could include jail time.
I was scared and called my dad again. This time he was speechless but his silence stung worse than if he were screaming at me. I knew I had hurt him again. I hated hurting him but I seemed to do it over and over. It was a little over a month until the end of the semester. I was on academic probation and the law had it in for me. I did what any alcoholic would do in this case. I decided not to return to ISU and run as far from Bloomington as I could.
Alcoholism is like your shadow. Wherever you run to, it's there to help you unpack. The problems are inside you, not outside your door. I finished the semester and decided to transfer for "educational reasons". My alcoholism was happy to go to any school or any destination I chose. It wanted me dead but would settle for me drunk.
My sophomore year picked up right where my freshman one left off. I flunked 4 classes the first year and started year 2 on probation. To me, college was "Animal House" come to life. I was being treated for a spastic colon with medication. I now believe the condition was a symptom of my depression. As I got older the runs went away and the desire to run from everything took over. I remember very little of my academic career at ISU, but I can remember the parties and the drugs. By this point I was using drugs and alcohol day and night. Classes were recreational.
I would go home on weekends to see my girlfriend and hit my dad or grandma up for money. When I started my first year of college I had $5,000 dollars of spending money in an account for necessities. I went through the money in that first semester and was mooching my dad by the second. While I was home, I would lay a song and a dance on my dad and grandmother about my financial woes and could always weasel some cash out of them. Addicts know how to play each character specifically. We are chameleons. We can be smooth and gentlemanly, street wise and slick, loving and pathetic all to get the money we need to continue our run.
On one trip back to Bloomington from Mokena, I was drunk and high after a party earlier in the day. As I headed down I-55 in my '74 Buick Le Sabre, I was nodding off and clipped the bumper of a car in the lane next to me. I freaked. I hit the gas and the car chased me for about 25 miles before I finally pulled over. While they were moving in on me I knew they had my plate numbers and I was planning my scheme on how to get out of this latest pinch. I switched into an often used addicts' role. I acted like I was completely nuts!
I pleaded with the driver not to call the police. I gave them my insurance card and my father's phone number assuring them that the damages would be repaired. I cried or sobbed to gain their sympathy. I ranted and mumbled apologies, I paced and scared the driver enough for him to accept my proposal to keep the law out of it. Another scrape I escaped through the cunning tongue and acting of an alcoholic addict. These skills have been useful in my comedy and acting career. Now they're used for character identification and visualization, not for manipulation of family and friends.
I made it back to campus and called my father. He said he would take care of it after I balled like a baby. That always got him; to hear his grown son sob. I played him like a fiddle. When the call was ended, I wiped the crocodile tears from my eyes, had a beer and smoked some more hooch. I was completely immersed in chemicals now, including mushrooms and LSD. Like most users I did it to "expand my senses" and "write poetry." I knew the greats like Hemingway and Lennon were drunks and addicts and I thought my creative genius would be fueled from these "trips". The poetry was bad but the music was good. The toll the hallucinogens took on my body left me bed ridden for 2 or 3 days after use. I was the pariah of my Manchester Hall roommates. A joke, really. They talked to me but laughed behind my back at how truly pathetic I had become. I was the center of a joke that every one was in on, except me.
Early in the year campus officials were considering banning alcohol on campus and at parties. The students cried NO! I took part in an evening melee that even brought Oprah down to Normal, Illinois for a story on the pandemonium that ensued that night. When there was revolution or anarchy in the air, I took the lead and cheered my fellow hooligans on in their destruction. They knocked over garbage cans and when they began to break stuff my anarchist participation ended. I was in support of keeping the booze flowing but not at the expense of a campus window or innocent bystanders' property.
The police were making themselves more visible in the Cherry Street neighborhood and fraternity row. I was still bringing booze in from home and had connections for anything else I fancied right there on campus. On Halloween I was especially drunk and stoned. We were planning to go out to the costume parties. As a drunk I had to drink and use before we went out and drank and used in case they didn't drink and use at the same level as I did. You follow me? One of the greatest fears of an alcoholic addict is that they will arrive at a social function and find out there wasn't enough to reach the oblivion we so desperately seek. That made getting primed justifiable and necessary before heading out.
I had gone to the thrift store and bought a yellow rain coat, a fisherman's hat, and stopped at the Kroger for a box of fish sticks. I was going dressed as the Gordon Fisherman, that tiny guy in the corner of the box of fish sticks. I thought I was hilarious. Another commonly held notion of the active alcoholic is that we are an absolute riot when drunk. We don't realize that people are laughing more at us than with us. Me and a bunch of guys headed for the party. I smoked dope all the way and was blotto when we got there.
I poured a beer and snaked my way through the overcrowded house to get some fresh air. As I was stepping into the night air, a Bloomington police officer was stepping in. I tried to make my way around him but he shifted over to block my way. He asked if I was the one throwing the party. They were cracking down heavy after the campus and property damage, resulting from the earlier riots. I casually responded "no" and tried to move past him once more. He stepped in front of me with more resolve. His night stick was in hand, no doubt for protection, unsure of how the crowd would react at the announcement that the party was over.
He questioned me further, his night stick resting on my chest, and inquired if I knew whose party it was. The adrenalin and chemicals mixed with the interrogation began to anger me. My response of "no I don't" was more cocky and less respectful. His third question was accentuated with a poke to my chest with the night stick."How old are you?" My polluted mind and misdirected testosterone bubbled up until I spat out, "I'm 15!" He felt my sarcasm and knew I was older than stated. He asked for my student ID and asked me to wait in the front yard until his return.
In an alcoholic fog, the injustice of being singled out ate at me. The ache in my chest from the poking of his night stick made it more real and I was fuming. One of the crazy things alcohol and drugs creates in the user, beyond the removal of inhibition, is the dismissal of reality and the consequences our actions may hold. I shouted some expletives and left for another party, leaving my ID with the officer. I had directly disobeyed an officer.
I moved from party to party and was in complete blackout, an early sign of alcohol dependency. When I got rocked I blacked out nearly every time. I was an alcoholic and knew it at 18. It didn't bother me. There were plenty of boozers throwing them back around my family tree. Somehow I made it back to my dorm and convinced them to let me up to my room without my ID. The fact that I had thrown up down my shirt most likely contributed to their decision to allow me entry.
I passed out in my room and came to early the next morning, startled by the shaking of my arm from my roommate. I mumbled a greeting and asked what was up. He said,"What's up? You don't remember last night?" My response was clouded and honest when I said, "No I don't. I had a bit too much." He went on to explain that a police officer had called my dorm room late the night before and my roommate couldn't rouse me to take the call. In his efforts to revive me, and explain that the officer was on the phone and wanted to speak with me, I blathered a "Tell him to go screw himself!" loud enough that the officer heard my response. He instructed my roommate that I had better be at the police station early the next morning or a warrant would be issued for my arrest.
Nursing a hangover that would blind a rhino, I staggered to the police station still drunk from the night before. The officer greeted me and reviewed the nights events with me. He had returned the ID's to the party goers and left the party. I had fled and told him to screw himself. I was arrested for underage drinking and disobeying a police officer. It was my second arrest in a year. As I stood before the judge, the same one I had for my first arrest, he remembered me. He informed me that it was my second alcohol related arrest in a year. If I were to be arrested again at ISU or in Bloomington for any alcohol related offense he would recommend the maximum penalty that could include jail time.
I was scared and called my dad again. This time he was speechless but his silence stung worse than if he were screaming at me. I knew I had hurt him again. I hated hurting him but I seemed to do it over and over. It was a little over a month until the end of the semester. I was on academic probation and the law had it in for me. I did what any alcoholic would do in this case. I decided not to return to ISU and run as far from Bloomington as I could.
Alcoholism is like your shadow. Wherever you run to, it's there to help you unpack. The problems are inside you, not outside your door. I finished the semester and decided to transfer for "educational reasons". My alcoholism was happy to go to any school or any destination I chose. It wanted me dead but would settle for me drunk.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
My Dad, Bear Fan, Husband, Bear Fan, Father, Bear Fan...He was Da' Bears!
In the previous chapters I have written about my dad and his passion for the Chicago Bears. They were his Juliet. They were the very oxygen he breathed. Quite literally, my dad could wear something with a Bear logo on it daily for months without repeating an outfit. He bled orange and blue. To Joseph Robert Connolly the Bears were the one thing that always gave him happiness. Sometimes to a point of distraction to life itself. I say that with understanding, not resentment.
Through frustrating losses and pathetic seasons my dad was a Homer, a loyalist! If the team didn't win a game for an entire season he would be there to cheer them on.To an Irishman, loyalty and commitment to a cause is as thick as blood itself. He took that loyalty to heaven with him. While he was here he taught me that loyalty to friends is unshakable and unbreakable. I live with that loyalty to those I love, almost to a fault.
I may repeat some bits and pieces about my dad here, but forgive me if I do. He is heavy on my heart today. The game against the Seattle Seahawks is more than just a playoff game in my world. It is part of the final act of the season he lived and died in. He is also a permanent part of the Bear's legacy and Soldier Field itself, as you soon will know. The Bears were a part of our last conversation before he went to meet Walter, Halas, Piccolo and all the other great Bears that have long since past.
My dad was a season ticket holder from the days when they played on Pulaski Street, Wrigley Field and Soldier Field. I started going when I was a wee boy. It was a frigid day at my first game and we ate bologna sandwiches in the parking lot. We always had great parking at the games. My dad always "knew a guy." The Bears were no exception. It was Porky, a city of Chicago event employee, who would bend the rules and move a sawhorse to allow my Dad to park right next to the stadium. As a kid I was amazed as Porky let us drive right through. My pops gave him a special "handshake" to thank him for the favor he had done.
Our seats were in the north end zone in the 130's section, straight between the goal post and about 30 rows underneath the giant scoreboard. I would be dressed in a snow mobile suit provided by my dad that was packed with about 12 beers. I was a mule, a runner at the tender age of 6. I would waddle up to our seats, heavy laden and lumpy. I was a miniature beer Michelin Man. As I approached our section the cat calls would begin. "Oh No! It's the kiss of death!" This was a nickname I held for years because every time I went to the game the Bears would lose! After the first few losses I really began to think I WAS A CURSE! They were right! I was too young to realize they just plain stunk.
It was at these early games that I tasted pepperoni for the first time. An Italian buddy named Lou always brought a huge bag of the stuff and I couldn't get enough of it. When I would come to games in my young days, Lou would shout out to me as I climbed the stairs, "Hey Tommy, I brought you some pepperonis!" After I plunked myself down in my seat the beer stash would be unloaded from my overfilled winter wear and distributed to the "crew." In those early days the seats were wooden planks, scaffolding actually, and if you dropped something it fell 3 stories to the gravel below. This was perfect for cleaning up the evidence of our smuggled contraband.
Transistor radio tucked in pocket, and ear piece shoved in ear, my dad would escape into football heaven. I was just learning the game. I would watch my dad during the game and see his face light up at a rare touchdown or turn beet red at a fumble or interception. I enjoyed just staring at his contentment at where he was in the moment. His love for the team transferred over to me easily and we enjoyed many, many games together.
By the time I got older, tailgating was a ritual my dad reveled in. There were multi-grill cooking stations and a seemingly endless variety of meats and snacks for all to enjoy prior to the game. He would later be known for the "Bobby Burger", a hamburger mixture that was accented with a ring of pineapple on top. He would invite brother fans into our camp to enjoy a burger or beer at will. He loved anyone who loved his team.
When he was nearing the end of his season here, I told him that I would take some of his ashes back to Ireland and also sprinkle him on Soldier Field. He cried at the thought. They were endearing tears, filled with the love of his team and thanks for the permanent gesture. He passed on July 21, 2010. His last intelligible words to me were "Don't forget the Bears game is on tonight..." They were not playing but I just kissed him on the cheek and said, "I will Dad." It hurt thinking about his words for awhile after he passed. Now I hold the deepest gratitude that those simple words were his last to me and a testament to his love for me and his team.
On November 17, 2010 the Bears faced off against the Seahawks. I had 2 vials of my dad's ashes with me. One was to be sprinkled where we tailgated, the other on the field. I knew that it was against the law to sprinkle ashes on the field, but a night in county jail was the price I was more than willing to pay for making my Dad a permanent part of the place he loved so much. That Irish loyalty to my dather would not be broken, no matter what the consequences. He laid his ass on the line for me a million times. A night in jail was not foreign to me and his final tribute would be completed at any cost.
My uncle Bob took his seat inside while I made my way to the museum parking lot where so many memories live. A bus staging area now inhabits our original tailgating land claim. Over the years we sometimes had to move to another spot if an earlier bird staked claim to our spot before our arrival. A small row of trees lines McFetridge at Lake Shore Drive. I went over to a spot we once used for our pregame party and introduced myself to the revelers there, announcing my intentions. They found the tribute poignant and held hands around the tree as I gingerly poured my father's dusty remains under it. I said a prayer. They took a picture and cheered in my father's honor. Now for the complicated part, the field mission.
I made my way into the stadium and down to the field. Security staff lined the sidelines and end zones, spaced out about every 30 yards. I told a gentleman my plan and he said I should work my way down the aisle centered between 2 of the field security agents. I was shaking and knew arrest was possible, if not likely. As I made my way through the front row, honing in on my drop point, I kicked over the beer of an already drunken fan. I apologized and explained my intent. His reply was, "That's illegal you know." I was shocked and angered by his insensitivity and shot back, "So is drinking and driving!" I gave his buddy 10 bucks to cover damages to his friend and continued on.
Now situated between the two field watchdogs I was thrilled to feel the wind at my back coming off the lake. God was lending me a hand. I darted my eyes back and forth between the two gentleman and uncapped the second vial. When they were both looking away I tossed my father's ashes, letting the lake breeze do the rest. My mission completed, I said an I love you to my dad and ran up the aisle into the crowd. Certain that I may have been seen, I removed my coat and put on a cap to change my look. Irish cunning at it's finest. I slipped into the masses and made my way back to my uncle Bob and sat in my dad's seat. I was overcome with elation and adrenalin.
As the F-15's roared overhead my uncle Bob and I hugged. My dad was a proud Vet. I looked around for security closing in but they never arrived. I remember little of the game, beyond the fact that we lost by a few points. I spent the game reliving the many memories I had shared with my dad in the beautiful stadium and pictured him smiling down from heaven at a job well done.
I knew we would make the playoffs this year. It was the year for my dad. Many FB friends can recollect the predictions my dad was sending me from beyond during the regular season. He was right most of the time. The game tomorrow against the Seahawks will be won by the Bears. It is as simple as that. They may not make it to the Superbowl but in my heart I truly think they will. The line from my Pop on the game: Bears 24, Seahawks 17.
As I finish up here I am sitting in my dad's favorite robe, wearing a pair of his many Bear pajama pants. He is with me always. The tears have spilled out and give me relief. I don't cry often and when I do it seems to relieve a mountain of pent up stress. Win or lose, I know my Dad is enjoying his new life above and hanging with the "Bear Crew". Remember, I said this is HIS season.
On one last note always remember that we really only have today. Our family and friends can be gone in an instant. So can we. If there is a family member or friend who you are on the outs with CALL THEM. It may be your last conversation. Life is too short for anger and resentment. The years of not talking to a friend or loved one can most likely be traced back to a silly or insignificant disagreement. You may have even forgotten what the disagreement was about. Don't leave this earth with "I shoulda's and coulda's!" Forgive! Live! Living life free of enemies and resentments is liberating and contenting. Pick up the phone now! Remember today is a gift, that's why it's called the present! Go Bears! Dad, I love you! Thanks for taking me to all those games and sharing your passion with me. I am a proud Bear fan and your grateful son!
Through frustrating losses and pathetic seasons my dad was a Homer, a loyalist! If the team didn't win a game for an entire season he would be there to cheer them on.To an Irishman, loyalty and commitment to a cause is as thick as blood itself. He took that loyalty to heaven with him. While he was here he taught me that loyalty to friends is unshakable and unbreakable. I live with that loyalty to those I love, almost to a fault.
I may repeat some bits and pieces about my dad here, but forgive me if I do. He is heavy on my heart today. The game against the Seattle Seahawks is more than just a playoff game in my world. It is part of the final act of the season he lived and died in. He is also a permanent part of the Bear's legacy and Soldier Field itself, as you soon will know. The Bears were a part of our last conversation before he went to meet Walter, Halas, Piccolo and all the other great Bears that have long since past.
My dad was a season ticket holder from the days when they played on Pulaski Street, Wrigley Field and Soldier Field. I started going when I was a wee boy. It was a frigid day at my first game and we ate bologna sandwiches in the parking lot. We always had great parking at the games. My dad always "knew a guy." The Bears were no exception. It was Porky, a city of Chicago event employee, who would bend the rules and move a sawhorse to allow my Dad to park right next to the stadium. As a kid I was amazed as Porky let us drive right through. My pops gave him a special "handshake" to thank him for the favor he had done.
Our seats were in the north end zone in the 130's section, straight between the goal post and about 30 rows underneath the giant scoreboard. I would be dressed in a snow mobile suit provided by my dad that was packed with about 12 beers. I was a mule, a runner at the tender age of 6. I would waddle up to our seats, heavy laden and lumpy. I was a miniature beer Michelin Man. As I approached our section the cat calls would begin. "Oh No! It's the kiss of death!" This was a nickname I held for years because every time I went to the game the Bears would lose! After the first few losses I really began to think I WAS A CURSE! They were right! I was too young to realize they just plain stunk.
It was at these early games that I tasted pepperoni for the first time. An Italian buddy named Lou always brought a huge bag of the stuff and I couldn't get enough of it. When I would come to games in my young days, Lou would shout out to me as I climbed the stairs, "Hey Tommy, I brought you some pepperonis!" After I plunked myself down in my seat the beer stash would be unloaded from my overfilled winter wear and distributed to the "crew." In those early days the seats were wooden planks, scaffolding actually, and if you dropped something it fell 3 stories to the gravel below. This was perfect for cleaning up the evidence of our smuggled contraband.
Transistor radio tucked in pocket, and ear piece shoved in ear, my dad would escape into football heaven. I was just learning the game. I would watch my dad during the game and see his face light up at a rare touchdown or turn beet red at a fumble or interception. I enjoyed just staring at his contentment at where he was in the moment. His love for the team transferred over to me easily and we enjoyed many, many games together.
By the time I got older, tailgating was a ritual my dad reveled in. There were multi-grill cooking stations and a seemingly endless variety of meats and snacks for all to enjoy prior to the game. He would later be known for the "Bobby Burger", a hamburger mixture that was accented with a ring of pineapple on top. He would invite brother fans into our camp to enjoy a burger or beer at will. He loved anyone who loved his team.
When he was nearing the end of his season here, I told him that I would take some of his ashes back to Ireland and also sprinkle him on Soldier Field. He cried at the thought. They were endearing tears, filled with the love of his team and thanks for the permanent gesture. He passed on July 21, 2010. His last intelligible words to me were "Don't forget the Bears game is on tonight..." They were not playing but I just kissed him on the cheek and said, "I will Dad." It hurt thinking about his words for awhile after he passed. Now I hold the deepest gratitude that those simple words were his last to me and a testament to his love for me and his team.
On November 17, 2010 the Bears faced off against the Seahawks. I had 2 vials of my dad's ashes with me. One was to be sprinkled where we tailgated, the other on the field. I knew that it was against the law to sprinkle ashes on the field, but a night in county jail was the price I was more than willing to pay for making my Dad a permanent part of the place he loved so much. That Irish loyalty to my dather would not be broken, no matter what the consequences. He laid his ass on the line for me a million times. A night in jail was not foreign to me and his final tribute would be completed at any cost.
My uncle Bob took his seat inside while I made my way to the museum parking lot where so many memories live. A bus staging area now inhabits our original tailgating land claim. Over the years we sometimes had to move to another spot if an earlier bird staked claim to our spot before our arrival. A small row of trees lines McFetridge at Lake Shore Drive. I went over to a spot we once used for our pregame party and introduced myself to the revelers there, announcing my intentions. They found the tribute poignant and held hands around the tree as I gingerly poured my father's dusty remains under it. I said a prayer. They took a picture and cheered in my father's honor. Now for the complicated part, the field mission.
I made my way into the stadium and down to the field. Security staff lined the sidelines and end zones, spaced out about every 30 yards. I told a gentleman my plan and he said I should work my way down the aisle centered between 2 of the field security agents. I was shaking and knew arrest was possible, if not likely. As I made my way through the front row, honing in on my drop point, I kicked over the beer of an already drunken fan. I apologized and explained my intent. His reply was, "That's illegal you know." I was shocked and angered by his insensitivity and shot back, "So is drinking and driving!" I gave his buddy 10 bucks to cover damages to his friend and continued on.
Now situated between the two field watchdogs I was thrilled to feel the wind at my back coming off the lake. God was lending me a hand. I darted my eyes back and forth between the two gentleman and uncapped the second vial. When they were both looking away I tossed my father's ashes, letting the lake breeze do the rest. My mission completed, I said an I love you to my dad and ran up the aisle into the crowd. Certain that I may have been seen, I removed my coat and put on a cap to change my look. Irish cunning at it's finest. I slipped into the masses and made my way back to my uncle Bob and sat in my dad's seat. I was overcome with elation and adrenalin.
As the F-15's roared overhead my uncle Bob and I hugged. My dad was a proud Vet. I looked around for security closing in but they never arrived. I remember little of the game, beyond the fact that we lost by a few points. I spent the game reliving the many memories I had shared with my dad in the beautiful stadium and pictured him smiling down from heaven at a job well done.
I knew we would make the playoffs this year. It was the year for my dad. Many FB friends can recollect the predictions my dad was sending me from beyond during the regular season. He was right most of the time. The game tomorrow against the Seahawks will be won by the Bears. It is as simple as that. They may not make it to the Superbowl but in my heart I truly think they will. The line from my Pop on the game: Bears 24, Seahawks 17.
As I finish up here I am sitting in my dad's favorite robe, wearing a pair of his many Bear pajama pants. He is with me always. The tears have spilled out and give me relief. I don't cry often and when I do it seems to relieve a mountain of pent up stress. Win or lose, I know my Dad is enjoying his new life above and hanging with the "Bear Crew". Remember, I said this is HIS season.
On one last note always remember that we really only have today. Our family and friends can be gone in an instant. So can we. If there is a family member or friend who you are on the outs with CALL THEM. It may be your last conversation. Life is too short for anger and resentment. The years of not talking to a friend or loved one can most likely be traced back to a silly or insignificant disagreement. You may have even forgotten what the disagreement was about. Don't leave this earth with "I shoulda's and coulda's!" Forgive! Live! Living life free of enemies and resentments is liberating and contenting. Pick up the phone now! Remember today is a gift, that's why it's called the present! Go Bears! Dad, I love you! Thanks for taking me to all those games and sharing your passion with me. I am a proud Bear fan and your grateful son!
Friday, January 14, 2011
Marriage 3...I Created My Own Prison...
Earlier I wrote about the once unthinkable euphoria I had on my first professional commercial shoot. The memory I am about to share isn't as rosy as yesterday's giddy description of life on a production set. It is quite the opposite. I flashback to darker "yesterday's" along with my "today's" to illustrate what we can endure and overcome in the challenges of life. I am not a martyr, nor feel sorry for myself. I understand that my todays were crafted and shaped from those yesterdays. God's plan was written for me exactly how he wanted it. My addictions and pain are my reality. If you take anything away from this chapter, I hope that it is that we are all haunted by yesterdays and fearful tomorrows. Today is the day to live. Through pain comes strength, wisdom and appreciation for what we have. Not what we have not.
I have written that between 1992 and 1998 I was married and divorced three times. My alcoholism and speed addiction were running my life. My third wedding was March 13, 1998. It was not the sweet romantic storybook ceremony like the one Squeaky and I had in Las Vegas. It was quite the opposite. It was filled with chaos, pain and confusion. Let the ceremony begin.
I have said that my marriage to my third wife was a business deal. It sounds cold but that's the way it was. I know I told her I loved her. I was always the first person to say I love you in a relationship. I have really only been in love a few times, but I said it to all the girls I dated. I also meant it when I said it. I didn't say it to be deceitful. I was a "love" addict. I craved the excitement, butterflies, favorite songs and giggly walks that come with love. The endorphins of love created a high for me and got me out of myself. I could direct all of my attention onto my significant other. That way I could forget about hating myself so much and ride the psychologically manufactured fantasy for awhile.
She was an illegal alien from Poland and needed a green card. I wanted a child. It was simple. I thought that a child would provide me an opportunity to right the perceived wrongs my parents made and raise a healthy, open minded mini-me. She didn't realize that the documentation process took more than just marrying an American. There is a several year waiting period and piles of bureaucracy to climb over before becoming legal. As for a child, I was unable to manage my own life. The good Lord new I was not prepared to shape the young mind of a child. Nor was I responsible enough to care for them. I thought that having a child would be like getting a puppy.
I was working nights as an ad room supervisor for a weekly car publication and she did what she did. I didn't know for sure. She was pregnant and that was all I needed to know. I had slept at the YMCA the night before and packed my bags to move in to my soon to be bride's apartment in Elmwood Park. I took a handful of speeders and drank a half pint of vodka on the way to her place from Lagrange. I was dressed in a sweater and slacks. What she wore I can't say. I don't remember driving to the Maywood Courthouse, the vows, the "I do's" or returning to her place. I do have a flash memory of being in the judge's chambers realizing I was actually getting married again. I was a 3 time offender and should have been banned from ever marrying again. I am glad there was no such rule or I wouldn't have Squeaky today.
I unpacked my plastic bags of belongings in a drawer in her apartment and laid down for awhile to get some rest. Yes! I worked on my wedding night. There was no party or family celebration. My family knew I was nuts. Her family was in Poland. I woke up, kissed the little lady goodbye, took some more speed and headed off to work. My hours were from 7pm to 5am. I had picked up a bottle of booze to calm me after work and loosen me up for my trip home to the latest Mrs. Connolly.
During the night, the first night of wedded matrimony, my wife called and asked me how much money I made. I told her and she said that wasn't enough. I assured her that I would look for another job. She called again and again berating me and anyone else who picked up the phone in my office. I was the "boss" and her barrage of calls was making for some juicy office gossip. I knew she had a temper but thought there would at least be a slow transition from miffed to rage. Not a chance. In fairness to her, she was getting a drunken, underachieving speed freak with an inferiority complex. We were a match made in hell.
I made it through the night and drove from Addison to Elmwood Park. I turned the key to the outer door of our 6 flat and was greeted with a wedding surprise. All of my belongings were smashed back into my disposable luggage and piled by the door. My knocking came with no answer. I retrieved my things and headed back to my car/mobile home. My plans of consummation were dashed. I was married less than 24 hours and it was already over.
I opened the bottle of vodka in front of her apartment and put in a CD. The band was Creed. They were edgy and heavy on the lyrics. I am a lyric guy when it comes to music and Scott Stapp could write about pain like nobody's business. One particular track, "My own Prison," captivated me. It was my biography neatly crammed into 4 minutes of emotional confession. Without quoting lyrics the song revolves around a man trapped in a prison of sin and being sure of his conviction and sentence to hell. I listened to the song over and over. "I created my own prison" played endlessly in my racing mind.
I felt sorry for myself and took a gulp. I realized I was a prisoner inside my own body and took another. I cried out to God as if to ask Him why He was putting me through this. He didn't answer me right then. Years later I found out that the song is actually about finding peace with God, not being trapped in the prison of our minds. On my wedding night I passed out in my car and headed back to the YMCA as dawn broke. If you have a moment, go to YouTube and enter Creed My Own Prison Lyrics. The pain I identified so perfectly with in that song was misinterpreted. It was just one more experience in my life when I chose pain instead of looking for hope.
I have written that between 1992 and 1998 I was married and divorced three times. My alcoholism and speed addiction were running my life. My third wedding was March 13, 1998. It was not the sweet romantic storybook ceremony like the one Squeaky and I had in Las Vegas. It was quite the opposite. It was filled with chaos, pain and confusion. Let the ceremony begin.
I have said that my marriage to my third wife was a business deal. It sounds cold but that's the way it was. I know I told her I loved her. I was always the first person to say I love you in a relationship. I have really only been in love a few times, but I said it to all the girls I dated. I also meant it when I said it. I didn't say it to be deceitful. I was a "love" addict. I craved the excitement, butterflies, favorite songs and giggly walks that come with love. The endorphins of love created a high for me and got me out of myself. I could direct all of my attention onto my significant other. That way I could forget about hating myself so much and ride the psychologically manufactured fantasy for awhile.
She was an illegal alien from Poland and needed a green card. I wanted a child. It was simple. I thought that a child would provide me an opportunity to right the perceived wrongs my parents made and raise a healthy, open minded mini-me. She didn't realize that the documentation process took more than just marrying an American. There is a several year waiting period and piles of bureaucracy to climb over before becoming legal. As for a child, I was unable to manage my own life. The good Lord new I was not prepared to shape the young mind of a child. Nor was I responsible enough to care for them. I thought that having a child would be like getting a puppy.
I was working nights as an ad room supervisor for a weekly car publication and she did what she did. I didn't know for sure. She was pregnant and that was all I needed to know. I had slept at the YMCA the night before and packed my bags to move in to my soon to be bride's apartment in Elmwood Park. I took a handful of speeders and drank a half pint of vodka on the way to her place from Lagrange. I was dressed in a sweater and slacks. What she wore I can't say. I don't remember driving to the Maywood Courthouse, the vows, the "I do's" or returning to her place. I do have a flash memory of being in the judge's chambers realizing I was actually getting married again. I was a 3 time offender and should have been banned from ever marrying again. I am glad there was no such rule or I wouldn't have Squeaky today.
I unpacked my plastic bags of belongings in a drawer in her apartment and laid down for awhile to get some rest. Yes! I worked on my wedding night. There was no party or family celebration. My family knew I was nuts. Her family was in Poland. I woke up, kissed the little lady goodbye, took some more speed and headed off to work. My hours were from 7pm to 5am. I had picked up a bottle of booze to calm me after work and loosen me up for my trip home to the latest Mrs. Connolly.
During the night, the first night of wedded matrimony, my wife called and asked me how much money I made. I told her and she said that wasn't enough. I assured her that I would look for another job. She called again and again berating me and anyone else who picked up the phone in my office. I was the "boss" and her barrage of calls was making for some juicy office gossip. I knew she had a temper but thought there would at least be a slow transition from miffed to rage. Not a chance. In fairness to her, she was getting a drunken, underachieving speed freak with an inferiority complex. We were a match made in hell.
I made it through the night and drove from Addison to Elmwood Park. I turned the key to the outer door of our 6 flat and was greeted with a wedding surprise. All of my belongings were smashed back into my disposable luggage and piled by the door. My knocking came with no answer. I retrieved my things and headed back to my car/mobile home. My plans of consummation were dashed. I was married less than 24 hours and it was already over.
I opened the bottle of vodka in front of her apartment and put in a CD. The band was Creed. They were edgy and heavy on the lyrics. I am a lyric guy when it comes to music and Scott Stapp could write about pain like nobody's business. One particular track, "My own Prison," captivated me. It was my biography neatly crammed into 4 minutes of emotional confession. Without quoting lyrics the song revolves around a man trapped in a prison of sin and being sure of his conviction and sentence to hell. I listened to the song over and over. "I created my own prison" played endlessly in my racing mind.
I felt sorry for myself and took a gulp. I realized I was a prisoner inside my own body and took another. I cried out to God as if to ask Him why He was putting me through this. He didn't answer me right then. Years later I found out that the song is actually about finding peace with God, not being trapped in the prison of our minds. On my wedding night I passed out in my car and headed back to the YMCA as dawn broke. If you have a moment, go to YouTube and enter Creed My Own Prison Lyrics. The pain I identified so perfectly with in that song was misinterpreted. It was just one more experience in my life when I chose pain instead of looking for hope.
The Angry Man, Sean Penn and Christopher Walken...
Do you know what Sean Penn, Chris Walken and I have in common? Nothing much! They are, however, 2 of my favorite actors. The role types and characters they play are right up my alley. I have been told I look a bit like Penn, but have also been told I look like Dave Coulier, Jeff Daniels, Robin Williams and Danny Aiello. The Coulier and Daniels I get. The Penn is wishful thinking. Robin Williams looks nothing like me, but we share a racing mind. I look more like Snookie than Danny Aiello!
Before I get to my first "real" acting gig I experienced today, I must shatter a Hollywood myth. I hope you will forgive me but I can not keep this information secret and sleep with a clear conscience. Besides COPS and a few other shows: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS REALITY TV. If you understand this fact, and still enjoy the entertainment, good for you. However, if you think you are watching "REAL" conversations that are unrehearsed or never reshot, you're canoeing with a short paddle. If there is a camera following you, or in every room, it is not real. It is not natural behavior. No one has a flawless dramatic encounter or dialogue with someone in every day life that is perfect!
NO ACTOR can deliver lines perfectly every time. Tweaks and adjustments are made on the spot and reshot. The shows may have elements of truth in it, but they are developed and then reshot. Think about it! When you are at a party, unless someone takes your picture when you're not looking, you change. You are aware of the camera and you mug it up for the photo. You change into an "I'm getting my picture taken mode." How many times have you asked the photographer to take another because you didn't like the first shot? I sound like Andy Rooney!
I recently got offered an audition for a production involving "people leading double lives." Who is going to audition for that? I can just see myself sitting down with my wife explaining to her that I am auditioning for the part. Don't ask questions honey. I have another wife in Hoboken. We can talk about it later. Have a great day at work! Some of the submission requests are just plain far out and border on unbelievable! One was looking for a couple to climb mountains in Norway. To Squeaky, staying in a hotel without room service is camping. The vision of her in snow shoes toting a backpack is as ridiculous as my fantasy of owning an Alpaca farm.
As for my day, it was an amazing experience. I can't share a lot of details about the company or product but will fill you in on the day's events. I arrived at the set location 30 minutes prior to my "Call Time." That is the time you are to report for duty. I told you I hate to be late and I arrived at 2:00pm.
They were shooting 3 commercials in one day and mine was to be last. I was immediately greeted by a production assistant who is basically a concierge, gopher, cattle herder and organizer. He explained that the 2nd commercial was running an hour behind and I would be needed in about 2 hours. Note to the would-be-actor: if you do not like waiting or being hurried up and then told to wait, Show Biz ain't for you.
I was directed to the "holding" area, a grand term for waiting room. Then I was shown where "Craft Services" was located. These guys are the actors' source of coffee, sugar, protein and snacks to get them through the long shooting schedule. I grabbed some coffee and sat with my fellow actors chit-chatting about rumored projects and local gossip. Note two to the would-be- actor: if you're uncomfortable changing clothes in front of people, acting is not for you. There is a locker room mentality to wardrobe. Seeing both men and women in skivvies just comes with the territory. That new thong you like is not a good choice for the day of your shoot, especially if you weigh 300 pounds and are male or female. It doesn't phase me changing in front of others. I am Irish and have nothing to hide. Literally!
To give motion and perspective to a scene, multiple cameras are used and the shots are done and redone from every angle conceivable. There are long shots, prop shots, close-ups, rear shots, safety takes and a myriad of others to create the magic. Our 60 second spot took 3 and a half hours to shoot. On a TV series episode I did, a two minute scene took 14 hours to shoot. Some scenes are done with pantomiming to print the action with sound added later. Many scenes are shot with a visualized focal point that represents the person or object that the scene revolves around. It's a lot more involved than you thought, huh? Staring at a cameraman and convincing the audience that you are conversing with a dying friend is challenging.
When it was time to shoot, the first step was to wardrobe. After you are dressed as your character you move on to hair and make up. I get satisfaction and have appreciation for these often overlooked invaluable cogs in the acting wheel. It is quite comforting having make up put on and very relaxing. I always tell the make up artists that they should probably grab a spackling knife to put my makeup on. My face looks like it caught on fire and they put it out with a meat tenderizing hammer. I was the "Angry Man" in a spot with two really nice guys. One was 19 and the other was 24. In the scene they try to play a prank on me and it goes terribly wrong. After their mishap I come running to physically "thank" them for allowing me the opportunity to be the recipient of their mischievous prank. I really liked the guys but had to separate from them before shooting. Some actors use the "method" style and others use the "character" style of acting. I subscribe to Uta Hagen's notion that acting is a combination of both. Note to the actor "wannabe," books by Hagen, Lee Strasberg and Constantin Stanislavsky are great reads and amazing tools to help develop skills. I am obviously a novice, but greatly appreciate reading the books and articles these acting gurus have contributed to the profession. I especially adore Uta Hagen.
To paraphrase Hagen's approach to a character, it is better to be yourself in the role of the character instead of trying to act like a stereotype of the character. Drawing on your own past life experiences and emotions makes a character more believable than trying to think like someone you are not. By combining method and character acting a more complete authentic performance is created. I really learned a lot from the many "extras" roles I have had because the physical movements of a character are equal to, or sometimes more important than, the lines they spit out.
I was feeling great about my first mortgage paying job and was supposed to be angry. I have 3 daughters and I asked my two co-actors if they were dating. What kind of women do they like? What was the craziest relationship they were in? Then I took those answers and applied them to the image of them dating my daughters. The two fine young men I was giggling with moments before, now felt the ire of a father. Mission accomplished. I also reflected on missing my youngest daughters' 11th birthday. I was catapulted into pissed off in an instant. The pain and rejection, isolation and hopelessness I felt when trapped in my addiction have become useful tools for channeling a feel into a character. The different personalities I use in my comedy performances also have been very helpful in acting.
Prior to the commercial I had only worked on films and television programs. There, a director has a vision and calls the shots and directs the path he wants the actor to follow. In a commercial you have the director's vision and the ad agency client's, both combining and colliding to create the desired message the spot is supposed to deliver. The director wants it like this. No! The client wants this. You do a scene as told and then are told to do it differently. I had no idea the clients were sitting on location. They were holed up in a room watching the shooting on closed screen monitors and passing on tips and recommendations to the film crew for each take. My first solo scene took 8 takes. I was frustrated because I was doing the scene as layed out by the director. As he became frustrated with me I didn't realize then that the clients were changing things as we went. Note to the new actor: if your feelings are easily hurt or you can't take criticism, this is not the life for you.
My second scene I did in one take. I was thrilled and so was the crew because we were shooting outside in 17 degree temperatures. My final scene was with myself and the other two principal actors. My anger toward them was genuine as I thought of them around my daughters and exacting my revenge for their ill conceived prank they were playing on me. The final shot is called the "Martini shot." This is a cue to the actors and crew that it is the end of the day. The term explains itself. We then recorded some "wild" audio. That is where the principals record audio of lines in different tones and emotions to be inserted into the film later.
I really enjoyed the waiting, the filming, the standing around and camaraderie that fills a set. For the hours you are together, you are a family. The cast of characters and personalities are diverse and amusing. I loved everything about it and was wiped out by the time I got home. As I drove home through the icy snow pelting my car, I reflected on my day and took pride in knowing I was now a professional actor. I made more money doing that spot than all of my comedy appearances combined. I thanked God for giving me the talent to do a good job and was grateful to be a part of "show biz". I don't think that I would recommend it to just anyone. Actors are an odd but driven lot. There are lots of unpaid gigs learning the ropes, but the drive to perform is powerful. Well paying jobs are few and far between and it isn't as easy as it looks. For me I'm all in! I have found something I have a great passion for.
My wife has been calling me a drama queen for years! The queen part is a slam but I know I can be a big, dumb baby sometimes. As for the drama part I love it and will continue to compliment it with my comedy. The more sober I get, the more I appreciate my life and the new experiences sobriety brings. I am no longer afraid to try for fear of failure or success. Edison failed thousands of times before he got the light bulb right. All of our life experiences combined only make us wiser and more prepared for whatever gig God has planned for us in every today we live. Enjoy TODAY!
Before I get to my first "real" acting gig I experienced today, I must shatter a Hollywood myth. I hope you will forgive me but I can not keep this information secret and sleep with a clear conscience. Besides COPS and a few other shows: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS REALITY TV. If you understand this fact, and still enjoy the entertainment, good for you. However, if you think you are watching "REAL" conversations that are unrehearsed or never reshot, you're canoeing with a short paddle. If there is a camera following you, or in every room, it is not real. It is not natural behavior. No one has a flawless dramatic encounter or dialogue with someone in every day life that is perfect!
NO ACTOR can deliver lines perfectly every time. Tweaks and adjustments are made on the spot and reshot. The shows may have elements of truth in it, but they are developed and then reshot. Think about it! When you are at a party, unless someone takes your picture when you're not looking, you change. You are aware of the camera and you mug it up for the photo. You change into an "I'm getting my picture taken mode." How many times have you asked the photographer to take another because you didn't like the first shot? I sound like Andy Rooney!
I recently got offered an audition for a production involving "people leading double lives." Who is going to audition for that? I can just see myself sitting down with my wife explaining to her that I am auditioning for the part. Don't ask questions honey. I have another wife in Hoboken. We can talk about it later. Have a great day at work! Some of the submission requests are just plain far out and border on unbelievable! One was looking for a couple to climb mountains in Norway. To Squeaky, staying in a hotel without room service is camping. The vision of her in snow shoes toting a backpack is as ridiculous as my fantasy of owning an Alpaca farm.
As for my day, it was an amazing experience. I can't share a lot of details about the company or product but will fill you in on the day's events. I arrived at the set location 30 minutes prior to my "Call Time." That is the time you are to report for duty. I told you I hate to be late and I arrived at 2:00pm.
They were shooting 3 commercials in one day and mine was to be last. I was immediately greeted by a production assistant who is basically a concierge, gopher, cattle herder and organizer. He explained that the 2nd commercial was running an hour behind and I would be needed in about 2 hours. Note to the would-be-actor: if you do not like waiting or being hurried up and then told to wait, Show Biz ain't for you.
I was directed to the "holding" area, a grand term for waiting room. Then I was shown where "Craft Services" was located. These guys are the actors' source of coffee, sugar, protein and snacks to get them through the long shooting schedule. I grabbed some coffee and sat with my fellow actors chit-chatting about rumored projects and local gossip. Note two to the would-be- actor: if you're uncomfortable changing clothes in front of people, acting is not for you. There is a locker room mentality to wardrobe. Seeing both men and women in skivvies just comes with the territory. That new thong you like is not a good choice for the day of your shoot, especially if you weigh 300 pounds and are male or female. It doesn't phase me changing in front of others. I am Irish and have nothing to hide. Literally!
To give motion and perspective to a scene, multiple cameras are used and the shots are done and redone from every angle conceivable. There are long shots, prop shots, close-ups, rear shots, safety takes and a myriad of others to create the magic. Our 60 second spot took 3 and a half hours to shoot. On a TV series episode I did, a two minute scene took 14 hours to shoot. Some scenes are done with pantomiming to print the action with sound added later. Many scenes are shot with a visualized focal point that represents the person or object that the scene revolves around. It's a lot more involved than you thought, huh? Staring at a cameraman and convincing the audience that you are conversing with a dying friend is challenging.
When it was time to shoot, the first step was to wardrobe. After you are dressed as your character you move on to hair and make up. I get satisfaction and have appreciation for these often overlooked invaluable cogs in the acting wheel. It is quite comforting having make up put on and very relaxing. I always tell the make up artists that they should probably grab a spackling knife to put my makeup on. My face looks like it caught on fire and they put it out with a meat tenderizing hammer. I was the "Angry Man" in a spot with two really nice guys. One was 19 and the other was 24. In the scene they try to play a prank on me and it goes terribly wrong. After their mishap I come running to physically "thank" them for allowing me the opportunity to be the recipient of their mischievous prank. I really liked the guys but had to separate from them before shooting. Some actors use the "method" style and others use the "character" style of acting. I subscribe to Uta Hagen's notion that acting is a combination of both. Note to the actor "wannabe," books by Hagen, Lee Strasberg and Constantin Stanislavsky are great reads and amazing tools to help develop skills. I am obviously a novice, but greatly appreciate reading the books and articles these acting gurus have contributed to the profession. I especially adore Uta Hagen.
To paraphrase Hagen's approach to a character, it is better to be yourself in the role of the character instead of trying to act like a stereotype of the character. Drawing on your own past life experiences and emotions makes a character more believable than trying to think like someone you are not. By combining method and character acting a more complete authentic performance is created. I really learned a lot from the many "extras" roles I have had because the physical movements of a character are equal to, or sometimes more important than, the lines they spit out.
I was feeling great about my first mortgage paying job and was supposed to be angry. I have 3 daughters and I asked my two co-actors if they were dating. What kind of women do they like? What was the craziest relationship they were in? Then I took those answers and applied them to the image of them dating my daughters. The two fine young men I was giggling with moments before, now felt the ire of a father. Mission accomplished. I also reflected on missing my youngest daughters' 11th birthday. I was catapulted into pissed off in an instant. The pain and rejection, isolation and hopelessness I felt when trapped in my addiction have become useful tools for channeling a feel into a character. The different personalities I use in my comedy performances also have been very helpful in acting.
Prior to the commercial I had only worked on films and television programs. There, a director has a vision and calls the shots and directs the path he wants the actor to follow. In a commercial you have the director's vision and the ad agency client's, both combining and colliding to create the desired message the spot is supposed to deliver. The director wants it like this. No! The client wants this. You do a scene as told and then are told to do it differently. I had no idea the clients were sitting on location. They were holed up in a room watching the shooting on closed screen monitors and passing on tips and recommendations to the film crew for each take. My first solo scene took 8 takes. I was frustrated because I was doing the scene as layed out by the director. As he became frustrated with me I didn't realize then that the clients were changing things as we went. Note to the new actor: if your feelings are easily hurt or you can't take criticism, this is not the life for you.
My second scene I did in one take. I was thrilled and so was the crew because we were shooting outside in 17 degree temperatures. My final scene was with myself and the other two principal actors. My anger toward them was genuine as I thought of them around my daughters and exacting my revenge for their ill conceived prank they were playing on me. The final shot is called the "Martini shot." This is a cue to the actors and crew that it is the end of the day. The term explains itself. We then recorded some "wild" audio. That is where the principals record audio of lines in different tones and emotions to be inserted into the film later.
I really enjoyed the waiting, the filming, the standing around and camaraderie that fills a set. For the hours you are together, you are a family. The cast of characters and personalities are diverse and amusing. I loved everything about it and was wiped out by the time I got home. As I drove home through the icy snow pelting my car, I reflected on my day and took pride in knowing I was now a professional actor. I made more money doing that spot than all of my comedy appearances combined. I thanked God for giving me the talent to do a good job and was grateful to be a part of "show biz". I don't think that I would recommend it to just anyone. Actors are an odd but driven lot. There are lots of unpaid gigs learning the ropes, but the drive to perform is powerful. Well paying jobs are few and far between and it isn't as easy as it looks. For me I'm all in! I have found something I have a great passion for.
My wife has been calling me a drama queen for years! The queen part is a slam but I know I can be a big, dumb baby sometimes. As for the drama part I love it and will continue to compliment it with my comedy. The more sober I get, the more I appreciate my life and the new experiences sobriety brings. I am no longer afraid to try for fear of failure or success. Edison failed thousands of times before he got the light bulb right. All of our life experiences combined only make us wiser and more prepared for whatever gig God has planned for us in every today we live. Enjoy TODAY!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
My First Big Money Gig... and I ALMOST Didn't Make it!
I have been a lifelong resident of the Chicagoland area. I love almost everything about it. I am a southsider, through and through, from my baseball team, to blues music and soul food. When I cross State and Madison I feel somewhat like an alien, out of place and definitely under dressed. No knock. I love all of Chicago. There are places North of Madison I really enjoy. I love Navy Pier, Oak Street Beach, Lincoln Park and the zoo, and even though I've done it a hundred times, I still get a rush when I navigate the slow curve at Lake/Oak, on Lakeshore Drive. Rush and Division our Bourbon Street, "City Style". I have performed at a lot of clubs on the North side, but they often don't enjoy the brilliance of my south side humor.
I had to got to a wardrobe fitting and run through for the automotive commercial I am filming tomorrow. I am really anal retentive, leaning towards O.C.D., about some things. The list is long but here are some of the major qwirks.
1. I have to have something to drink with me at all times. God gave me a big mouth and shorted me on the saliva to lubricate my mouth for the crap I spew. 2. I smell everything! This is not limited to food. I feel the need to smell all the world offers. If I scratch my head, sniff-sniff. Smells pretty clean. If I hug or kiss someone sniff-sniff. It gets more neurotic than that. But for the sake of common decency, we will leave the smell thing there.
3. I obsess about my wallet and keys. When I lock my car door someplace. I stand there saying to myself, "door is locked, key in hand," "door is locked, key in hand," 10 times staring at the key.
4. I wear sunglasses on sunny days or won't drive. I have sun sensitivity. There are dollar pairs of shades all over my house and car.
5. My number one neurotic habit, that is really not so bad, is I that hate to be late to anything except my own funeral. I have an uncanny ability to calculate time, distance and arrival, taking into consideration wind, barometric pressure and sun conditions. This used to fascinate my wife but with the introduction of GPS my talents were robbed from me by technology. Like the ice and coal delivery men, my once unique skill has become obsolete. I am not afraid to ask for directions when lost. This too has lost it's chivalrous novelty when only a few button strokes can get you anywhere you need to be.
As I mentioned before, I appeared in several episodes of "The Chicago Code," and "Shameless," along with 2 feature films. These opportunities were exciting and I will continue to do them. The pay is decent, the experience invaluable, but it's not enough for a condo on the Drive. A major no-no is being late. It can be fatal to the actor or comedian, or a factory worker for that matter. I planned my journey with the precision of Lewis and Clark navigating the Ohio river.
I decided to take the train from Joliet to Lasalle Street Station and arrive with 71 minutes to spare before my final wardrobe fitting and call time review. I carry a small writing pad with me to jot down comedy and writing ideas or to remind me of something I need to do. Yesterday, as I reviewed the project details with the wardrobe coordinator, I carefully wrote the address in my notebook and sat back smugly. I was proud of my attention to the details of the shoot, at which my appointment location and logistics were logged.
The address provided was 15 N. State Street. My many years of college and adventures around the city of Chicago should have screamed "timeout" when I took the address. I arrived with my 71 minutes to spare. I prepared for my journey North of Madison and State, the dividing line between two clans living in one village. I shot from the train bundled and accompanied with a wardrobe menagerie for whatever look they wanted for the "Angry Man."
Before heading out I purchased my return ticket home to prevent any delays on my departure and bought a roll of antacids to calm my churning tummy. I was off to 15 N. State. I headed North on Lasalle cutting through the Board of Trade. I crossed over to Washington Street and was frozen solid. Note to occasional travellers to this amazing city: streets named after presidents and lakes run east and west. It is simple and well designed. I made it to the corner of Madison and State crossing into the north side, unaware that I was on a collision course with my acting destiny.
I tread gingerly to the north side of State and suffered no ambush or sneak attacks from the northern dwellers. The first building I came to was 10 N. State. Easy only 5 more buildings to go. I ventured past what will always be the Marshall Fields Store to me and noticed it was 17 North State. What? I retraced my steps. There was no 15 N. State Street. Panic set in as my 71 minutes had shrunk to 30 with walking time. I returned back over Madison to my comfort zone thinking maybe it was 15 S. State. No such luck. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number of the wardrobe coordinator and went straight to voice mail. I was sunk. There goes my Oscar or "Weeney of the year" award.
I called again, knowing if I was late it would be. Ball four! You're out! I searched my mind for some timely solution to the dilemma. How could I have made such a touristy mistake? The curse of the north side was weighing on me and I had to think fast. I breathed in a deep gulp of the frigid air and muttered to myself, "What would McGyver do?" I immediately found a pen, a gum wrapper and a paper clip and began to fashion a compass! No! Not enough time! I remembered that my phone had Internet capability. My pride could be trampled on with no permanent injury to reach my date with destiny. This gig paid real dough and the baker was gonna get there on time.
I had remembered the name of the ad agency that was handling the account and entered the name and State street in the magic answer box of the great and powerful Google Oz! Boom! The address popped up. I was only five hundred blocks off with 22 minutes to showtime. I sprang into the street and hailed the first eager cab. "515 N. State Street and step on it." I always wanted to say that to a cabbie and my chance had finally come.
I arrived at the address and paced in the elevator waiting for my number to chime. I blew my nose of the cold and smelled the tissue. Sorry! I told you. I then gave my hair a quick comb through. I put my game face on and my panic in my pocket. With the style of George Clooney I pulled the clear glass door open like I had just dined at a cozy bistro just down the block. "Are You Tommy Connolly?" The reception asked me. "Yes,yes I am." "Right this way sir". I had made it with 5 minutes to spare. I wasn't late. I looked completely in control as I strode toward the room filled with directors, wardrobe, technical staff and interns. "Hello, I'm Tommy Connolly, the Angry Guy."
I had to got to a wardrobe fitting and run through for the automotive commercial I am filming tomorrow. I am really anal retentive, leaning towards O.C.D., about some things. The list is long but here are some of the major qwirks.
1. I have to have something to drink with me at all times. God gave me a big mouth and shorted me on the saliva to lubricate my mouth for the crap I spew. 2. I smell everything! This is not limited to food. I feel the need to smell all the world offers. If I scratch my head, sniff-sniff. Smells pretty clean. If I hug or kiss someone sniff-sniff. It gets more neurotic than that. But for the sake of common decency, we will leave the smell thing there.
3. I obsess about my wallet and keys. When I lock my car door someplace. I stand there saying to myself, "door is locked, key in hand," "door is locked, key in hand," 10 times staring at the key.
4. I wear sunglasses on sunny days or won't drive. I have sun sensitivity. There are dollar pairs of shades all over my house and car.
5. My number one neurotic habit, that is really not so bad, is I that hate to be late to anything except my own funeral. I have an uncanny ability to calculate time, distance and arrival, taking into consideration wind, barometric pressure and sun conditions. This used to fascinate my wife but with the introduction of GPS my talents were robbed from me by technology. Like the ice and coal delivery men, my once unique skill has become obsolete. I am not afraid to ask for directions when lost. This too has lost it's chivalrous novelty when only a few button strokes can get you anywhere you need to be.
As I mentioned before, I appeared in several episodes of "The Chicago Code," and "Shameless," along with 2 feature films. These opportunities were exciting and I will continue to do them. The pay is decent, the experience invaluable, but it's not enough for a condo on the Drive. A major no-no is being late. It can be fatal to the actor or comedian, or a factory worker for that matter. I planned my journey with the precision of Lewis and Clark navigating the Ohio river.
I decided to take the train from Joliet to Lasalle Street Station and arrive with 71 minutes to spare before my final wardrobe fitting and call time review. I carry a small writing pad with me to jot down comedy and writing ideas or to remind me of something I need to do. Yesterday, as I reviewed the project details with the wardrobe coordinator, I carefully wrote the address in my notebook and sat back smugly. I was proud of my attention to the details of the shoot, at which my appointment location and logistics were logged.
The address provided was 15 N. State Street. My many years of college and adventures around the city of Chicago should have screamed "timeout" when I took the address. I arrived with my 71 minutes to spare. I prepared for my journey North of Madison and State, the dividing line between two clans living in one village. I shot from the train bundled and accompanied with a wardrobe menagerie for whatever look they wanted for the "Angry Man."
Before heading out I purchased my return ticket home to prevent any delays on my departure and bought a roll of antacids to calm my churning tummy. I was off to 15 N. State. I headed North on Lasalle cutting through the Board of Trade. I crossed over to Washington Street and was frozen solid. Note to occasional travellers to this amazing city: streets named after presidents and lakes run east and west. It is simple and well designed. I made it to the corner of Madison and State crossing into the north side, unaware that I was on a collision course with my acting destiny.
I tread gingerly to the north side of State and suffered no ambush or sneak attacks from the northern dwellers. The first building I came to was 10 N. State. Easy only 5 more buildings to go. I ventured past what will always be the Marshall Fields Store to me and noticed it was 17 North State. What? I retraced my steps. There was no 15 N. State Street. Panic set in as my 71 minutes had shrunk to 30 with walking time. I returned back over Madison to my comfort zone thinking maybe it was 15 S. State. No such luck. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number of the wardrobe coordinator and went straight to voice mail. I was sunk. There goes my Oscar or "Weeney of the year" award.
I called again, knowing if I was late it would be. Ball four! You're out! I searched my mind for some timely solution to the dilemma. How could I have made such a touristy mistake? The curse of the north side was weighing on me and I had to think fast. I breathed in a deep gulp of the frigid air and muttered to myself, "What would McGyver do?" I immediately found a pen, a gum wrapper and a paper clip and began to fashion a compass! No! Not enough time! I remembered that my phone had Internet capability. My pride could be trampled on with no permanent injury to reach my date with destiny. This gig paid real dough and the baker was gonna get there on time.
I had remembered the name of the ad agency that was handling the account and entered the name and State street in the magic answer box of the great and powerful Google Oz! Boom! The address popped up. I was only five hundred blocks off with 22 minutes to showtime. I sprang into the street and hailed the first eager cab. "515 N. State Street and step on it." I always wanted to say that to a cabbie and my chance had finally come.
I arrived at the address and paced in the elevator waiting for my number to chime. I blew my nose of the cold and smelled the tissue. Sorry! I told you. I then gave my hair a quick comb through. I put my game face on and my panic in my pocket. With the style of George Clooney I pulled the clear glass door open like I had just dined at a cozy bistro just down the block. "Are You Tommy Connolly?" The reception asked me. "Yes,yes I am." "Right this way sir". I had made it with 5 minutes to spare. I wasn't late. I looked completely in control as I strode toward the room filled with directors, wardrobe, technical staff and interns. "Hello, I'm Tommy Connolly, the Angry Guy."
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