One Less "Hitch in the Giddy-Up"

Tom Froehlich

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” That’s what Albert Einstein said, anyway. I say let’s give it to the guy even if he couldn’t seem to get a comb through that damn hair. If you don’t believe in God and even if you actually believe in coincidence, which I don’t, you have to admit that sometimes things happen that at the very least make you sit back and go, “Hmmph?!”.

I had just spent two amazing weeks in Door County Wisconsin, (“The Happiest Place on Earth”. Screw Disney!). It was great to see so many people that I love and spend time together in a place we all love. If you ever need to let time and your troubles fall away the place to do it is 2301 S. Lake Michigan Drive.

For the past several months I have been working toward a speaking career. I have been writing speeches, refining them, recording them and preparing to go out into the real world and actually do this. Those of you who know me personally most likely have no doubt that I have more than enough to say and probably would agree that I take more than my fair share of time in saying it. However, it may surprise you to know that when I know people are actually listening and may actually hold me accountable for what I seem to believe are pearls of wisdom, it can scare the shit out of me. I used to spend a lot of time in bars. In my current sober state I am now well aware that my “bar room buddy”, who seemed to be giving me his full attention, was hardly focused on whatever it was I was yammering on about just having downed his 5^th mojito. Yet if memory serves me correctly, which is certainly questionable, somewhere in between the bartender mulling more mint leaves and crushing ice we did clink glasses while slurring the mutual sentiment, “I love you man”. That however, is not the market niche I am going after.

My plan is to speak to high school and college students about rising above bullying and learning to accept & celebrate everything that they are. As it would happen, two of my dearest friends who have worked both as teachers and administrators in the school system joined me at the happiest place on earth. I asked them for suggestions regarding promotion, who to contact etc. and after offering me their ideas they both said, “Well let’s hear the speech.”

Not too long ago I was the kind of person who would quickly don the suffocating cloak of insecurity, which I own in several colors. However, I have since developed not just a comfort in, but a craving for the limelight.  By the time I finished my speech they were both sobbing. Searching for affirmation that I was in fact just that good, because at times I still feel that cloak of insecurity resting comfortably on my shoulders, I threw out a self seeking comment like, “Get it together girls! You’re probably only reacting so strongly because you know me.”

Wiping tears from their eyes they said, “No. You have to do this. There are so many kids out there who need to hear what we just heard.”

Getting a thumbs up from two people I love and respect did two things. Number one. Fed my ravenous ego. Number two. Made it all seem so much more like a real possibility, which in turn scared the shit out of me. This always results in me looking for any excuse to delay progress. I always like to put a bit of a “hitch in the giddy-up”. I am the master, as many of us are, in finding any and every excuse, real and imagined, but mostly imagined, to not move forward.  The hitch I found in this particular giddy-up was that I wish that my roommate who has a job she hates would get going on the photography career that she continually talks about. This somehow has a huge bearing on my future success. My loving and supportive friends gave me a look that made it clear that I may be selling this line of bullshit, but they certainly weren’t buying. I stammered on, “Well…it’s just easier to chase a dream when the people you spend time with are doing the same, even if it’s not the same dream…besides, I need head shots.” Evidently I had convinced myself that there are no other photographers in Los Angeles, the film capitol of the world who could take my head shots. Take a little fear, give it an ample splash of insecurity and my excuses can feed on that like maggots on road kill.

Two weeks later I was heading back to the land of shattered dreams that is Los Angeles. While waiting for my flight to be called, I said a little prayer. It went something like this. “Okay. I think I am really supposed to do this speaking thing, but I could still use a little reassurance. Like you know…a sign or something. I’m not going to apologize for my insecurities, we both know who we are talking about here. I’m not sure what those signs look like, that’s your job, but I will be looking for them and please make them ridiculously obvious as at times you know it is difficult for me to catch on.”

At that point, Southwest Airlines announced they would be boarding the “A” group, numbers one through thirty. The “A” group is those of us who paid an additional $25.00 for the “Early Bird” perks Southwest Airlines offers. Looking at my ticket I saw that I was number 30. The last passenger in that particular “Early Bird” group. Yup. It seems I am the guy who will be boarding the plane and choosing his seat right before the guy who is number 1 in the “B” group and didn’t pay an additional twenty-five bones. I am tall and mostly interested in getting an emergency row seat with extra legroom. In the past there was a full row of seats, but Southwest has now reconfigured their seating so only one seat with extra legroom exists. They have simply removed the seat next to the emergency exit and the passenger sitting behind that space gets to stretch out. Being number 30, I figured the odds of my getting that seat were remote at best, but thought perhaps I could at least get an aisle seat and stick my legs out in the aisle until the flight attendant came by tossing out bags of rip-off Ritz and Oreo knock-offs.

As I boarded the plane, I saw a man about my height of 6’3” talking to two flight attendants who were standing right next to the much-coveted emergency exit seat.  The other twenty-nine passengers had either chosen their seats already or were scurrying right past him, but my eyes locked onto that seat like XXXXX. Apparently I was not being as subtle as I had thought and as he gave me a cock of the head and an inquiring look I said casually, “Oh, I was just hoping to get a seat with some extra leg room, but it’s all yours.”

He gave me a big grin and said, “No, your wrong, I’ve been saving it for you. I just want the seat in front so I can use the extra tray table for desk space.”

A smile broke out on my face as I extended my hand, “Bless you, my name is Tom,”

He gripped my hand and simply said, “Frank.”

“I’ll be saying an extra prayer for you tonight Frank.” Yes, I pray okay? What did you want me to do? Offer Frank my Ritz?

Frank sat down in the aisle seat. Yes, this detail is important.

I pulled out a book and began to read. A few moments later a man sat down in the aisle seat in my row. We had been warned it was a full flight but it seemed everyone kept walking past my row, as well as, Frank’s.

Looking at my row companion I said, “Just look intimidating and maybe we can keep this seat between us empty and have some extra room.” At that moment a man stopped in the aisle next to us and was obviously choosing between the seat between the two of us and the seat to Frank’s left.  When he asked Frank if the seat to the left of him was taken, Frank said, “Well, actually I would prefer that seat. I am happy to move over, which he did, and the man took the aisle seat.

My row companion looked at the book I was reading, “Crafting your Life into a Work of Art”. He said, “Wow,” and laughed.

“What?” I asked. He motioned to the book. I said, “Oh, well I speak (I believe you need to talk as if things are already a reality to help manifest them) on discovering, accepting and celebrating everything that you are and this book kind of resonates with that.”

At that point he threw his head back and laughed and said, “Wow! My wife is going to love this! Hi, I’m Bill and don’t believe in coincidences,” he said, shaking my hand.

Looking confused I raised an eyebrow and he continued, “I’m going to a three-day seminar on the very same subject by her suggestion. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to go. I guess you are the sign I was looking for. I could have sat down next three hundred other people but I chose to sit next to you. Like I said, my wife is going to love this. She doesn’t believe in coincidences either.”

“Neither do I,” I said with a grin. I told him about the prayer I said. He told me he was meeting his son at the seminar. The same son he hadn’t felt that close to until a few years ago when he was driving him home from college from Denver to Milwaukee. On that trip Bill was hospitalized and almost died. He fought back tears as he told me that while lying in his hospital bed he heard his son say to the nurse, “I don’t care what your visiting hours are. You don’t understand, that’s my dad in there and I’ll sleep in a chair in the hallway if I have to.” He unashamedly wiped a tear from his cheek as he said, “The kid that I didn’t really feel close to,” and shook his head. At the time the family business of generations had been struggling and that is where Bill had been focusing all of his energy. He told me that experience didn’t just change their relationship, but changed his life.

I commented that it was great that he was able find the blessing in that near tragedy. He said, “I can tell you this. If that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be going to meet my son for a three-day mind, body & spirit seminar on creating your life. Our relationship has completely changed. I am a very lucky man.”

He asked about my plans for my speaking career and after I shared some ideas with him he laughed and said, “Hell, Tom, they should just give you the microphone and you can get started right now. If this is you talking impromptu, you are going to do great.” 

I thanked him and said, “I hopes so. Sometimes I am so incredibly sure of myself and other times I think I’m completely nuts.  It’s wild. At times I feel like I’m in alignment with the Universe and I am in exactly the right place at exactly the right time doing exactly the right thing. It’s amazing. I just need to remember to get out of my own way and things will happen as they are suppose to if I am on the right path.” `           

Bill had some work to do to prepare for his seminar and I told him I would leave him alone to take care of it. Looking forward I noticed that Frank had the additional tray table covered with notes and was typing away on his laptop. I had no plans on reading what Frank was typing, really I didn’t, but as he scrolled down a line of bright blue type read, “And then I realized I am not a hero on this journey…if anything, I am an obstacle.” Had I or had I not just mentioned to Bill that that at times I feel as if I am in alignment with the Universe and am in exactly the right place at exactly the right time doing exactly the right thing and just need to get out of my own way? Correct. I had.

I leaned over and said, “Excuse me Bill, but I have to interrupt. Things just got weirder,” and I shared with him what Frank had written. He laughed and said, “I’m calling my wife as soon as I get off this plane.” Then he added, “Oh my God, you realize you would not even be able to see his laptop…”

“…if that guy had chosen the seat between us instead,” I finished with a smile.

“First I sit next to you and am going to this seminar and now he is writing about exactly what you speak on? What are the odds…?” Bill wondered aloud.

“Albert Einstein once said, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

Shaking his head in disbelief he went back to his book and said, “You know, you have to talk to him when the plane lands.” I agreed.

I spent the last hour of the trip thinking about how best to tell Frank I had been invading his privacy by reading over his shoulder. The nice guy, who had told me he was saving the seat just for me. What was he going to do? Punch me? It’s not as if I had been reading top-secret financial records or something. Then again, privacy is privacy. But then again, I am a writer and I am flattered if someone asks about my work. I continued with this kind of insane debate and then just as the plane hit the ground I thought, “My God! You asked for a sign and now you get two and you are too ridiculously chicken shit to follow through? If you truly believe what you say you can’t believe this JUST happened.”

As Bill pulled his carry-on out of the overhead bin, he nodded toward Frank and gave me a smile. Bill walked down the aisle and I said, “Frank I want to thank you again for the seat and I have to admit I happened to catch some of your writing and it really resonated with me. Particularly the line, “And then I realized I am not a hero on this journey…if anything, I am an obstacle.”

He paused for a moment, seeming a bit uncomfortable and then said, “Well, thank you.”

I asked what it was he did for a living and he said, “Well, I sort of changed course mid-way through life. Right now, I’m a writer and a professional speaker.”

As I stood in front of the luggage carousel waiting for my two checked bags to roll off, I said, “Thank you,” to the Universe, aware that if I had been looking for signs it couldn’t have gotten much clearer that that. In my mind I asked the asked, “What else could I ask for?”, and as I looked up, one of my bags rolled onto the conveyer belt…followed by my other bag. When does this happen? How many bags were in the belly of that plane? One hundred? Two hundred? And my bags come out one after the other? All I could do was laugh. Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.

Oh, I almost forgot. My roommate picked me up at the airport. She just happened to be free that afternoon. She got laid off from that job she hates and has been busy building a portfolio of headshots all week long. We’ll be doing mine next week. Here’s to one less hitch in the giddy-up!

If any of my followers are interested in my speaking to your school or organization feel free to take a look at my website. I travel, so Midwestern followers don’t be shy!

www.tomspeakz.com

You Haven't Seen the Last of Me!

Tom Froehlich

Sorry, I’ve been gone for a while. Sometime life gets in the way and sometimes we get in the way of life. But, you haven’t seen the last of me. We all go through down times. Sometimes we understand where it’s coming from and sometimes crazy just grabs a hold of us and won’t let go. And then we realize that in many cases, it is actually us who has grabbed a hold of crazy with a life crushing strangle hold. And no matter how hard we try, we simply can’t let go. It seems as if no matter where we look life sucks. Everyone else has more than us. Everyone is prettier than us. Is more successful than us. And of all unchangeable and horrific realities, is younger than us.

The disparaging and unchangeable reality that they are younger doesn’t really have to do with the fact that they have gym-toned asses you can bounce a manhole cover off of. It has more to do with time. They have time. Time to experience new things. Time to fall in love. Time to get their heart broken, heal and fall in love all over again. Time to climb the corporate ladder and time to chase dreams. Assholes.

“Bitter! Table for one!!”

I once saw an Oprah interview with Cher and Tina Turner after they had both turned sixty. Oprah asked the question, “But don’t you think that it is true that with age comes experience and wisdom and that makes it all worth it?” Both Cher and Tina laughed and Cher responded with a bleep, “Are you kidding?! Getting old @#$%^ing sucks!”

Tina pointed to Cher and said, “Like she said!”

The thing about getting older is that we tend to look back at our lives and see the things we would have done differently. And the shockingly unsurprising result is that when we rewrite the script for our lives it all turns out great! I mean, only an idiot would write a shitty ending, right? Unfortunately the harsh reality is that if we did it all over again we would probably be just as stupid and probably make the same stupid mistakes. Fall in love with the wrong person. Take the wrong job. Have the twelfth shot of tequila and think riding that mechanical bull is in fact a terrific idea. Yet for some reason our minds can’t help but get caught up in the endless loop of “what ifs” and “how comes”. The thing is, rewriting our past does nothing to help us create our future. Letting go of it does.

Now back to Cher. Recently I watched a video of her current concert tour. If you want to feel bad about not making something of your life take a look at that woman! That’s what I like to do if I have yet to attain a suitable level of self-loathing. I mean, here is a woman who other than that little glitch with Sonny, has had a career beyond belief. Grammy awards, Emmy awards, Golden Globe awards, Academy awards, you name it. She even has the aforementioned ass you can bounce a manhole cover off of!  Really! Have you seen her lately!? It’s as if the woman has in fact, “turned back time”! And I don’t care if she has had work done! She looks amazing! Even if you strip away the feathered headdresses, sequins, garters, booby-thrusting bustiers, she is smokin’ hot at age sixty-seven! In her last concert she did in fact strip away much of that finery and appeared on stage wearing nothing but a pair of heart-shaped pasties showcasing her amazingly firm and shapely breasts. Yup! And trust me, if you look that good at sixty-seven you will be wearing pasties too!

Have you noticed that since she gave Sonny the ole heave hoe it seems she does whatever the hell she chooses? Her career and her life have been on her terms. Her choices. Nobody else’s. And you never hear about a drug bust or her careening down the Pacific Coast Highway shit faced with a bottle of Jack in one hand and a crack pipe in the other. Sure, she has had some relationships that the rest of the world, although it’s none of their God damn business, has chosen to question. Really?! Have you seen the “Bagel Boy” Rob Camilletti? I would have bought a baker’s dozen as well!! Heavy on the “shmear”!!  At any rate, I think not allowing anyone else to call the shots as she prances the path that is her destiny has kept her centered. She doesn’t need to look back and wonder, “What if?”, because she in fact did.

Where is all of this going?! What is my point you ask? My point is that it is ridiculous to compare our lives to that of others. We are all unique human beings and are here to manifest everything that we are meant to be. I mean, we can’t all be Cher. Let’s face it. There simply aren’t enough sequins to go around.

And secondly, we can’t “turn back time”. One of the sad realities of life is that we all get older and we eventually die. Case closed. We can’t change that. What we can do, is make sure that we take advantage of every single moment and opportunity life offers. That is in fact one of the benefits of getting older. We realize that our time on this planet is finite and therefore we are willing to take more chances and live life on our terms. No one else’s. Only you can walk the path the Universe has laid out for you. Only you can become the you that you were meant to be. Rock that shit!

And lastly, it is nobody’s Goddamn business what you choose to do with your life! Just do it for God’s sake!! I got a news flash for you. Nobody really cares all that much what you do anyway. Really. They don’t. At the end of the day they are too self-absorbed with their own lives to care about what you are up to so let it go. 

So Cher and I may be walking different paths and I most likely won’t be sporting heart shaped pasties at the age of sixty-seven (Oh! Who am I kidding! I’ve already mentally fashioned one of them into a strategically placed thong!! I wonder if she has a spare?!), but I’ll tell one thing I do know, just as Cher belted out the in lyric from the movie Burlesque, “You haven’t seen the last of me!” 

Superstar

Tom Froehlich

You never know if what you say or what is said to you in the moment is going to stick. Going to make a difference. If years later it is still going to resonate with the recipient. Yet every once in a while, exactly the right thing, said at exactly the right time, can make all the difference.

When the phone rang I looked at the caller I.D. and smiled. It had been over a year since I had spoken with Tyler. Tyler and I met twenty years ago when he was the musical director of a production of “Jesus Christ Superstar” I performed in.

It all happened through well…serendipity I guess. A friend of mine and I were taking acting classes just for something to do other than go out to a bar on Thursday nights. It was fun, but I think we both took it a bit more seriously than either of us were willing to admit. We had both just turned thirty years old. An age when you still so easily believe in the possibilities. But as I said, it was mostly just for fun and to keep us sober one night a week. I had hair down to my shoulders and a beard at the time and my buddy said, “You know, if anyone ever does ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ you have to audition. You look just like Jesus Christ! We both laughed and thought about it no further.

Three months later, I awakened one morning and for some reason what my friend suggested months earlier came to mind. As I rolled over to turn off my alarm I saw the Shepherd Express, a local newspaper, lying next to bed open to the “auditions” section. It’s not as if the section was large. I mean it was Milwaukee, Wisconsin for Christ sake. (That was intentional!) In fact, it may have been the only advertisement for auditions, but there it was in black and white. “AUDITION: JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR-ALL ROLES.

I’m not sure what happened next exactly. If it was me being amazed at the insane coincidence that I had just been think about this very thing and the call for auditions being laid before my very eyes or my ego being torn between auditioning for the role of Jesus or Judas. I mean, keep in mind my sum total of musical theater experience amounted to being the chorus of “Guys & Dolls” my junior year of high school and the role of Nana in “Peter Pan” the following year. And yes, you are correct. Nana was the dog. And no, there were no musical solos for Nana and, in fact, no speaking lines either. Although at curtain call I did receive a standing ovation. I guess I did a hell of a whimper, growl and bark. Anyway, the point is, at that point in my life, as much as I felt the limelight craved my presence, I was actually sort of embarrassed to sing along to the car radio. So where this delusional idea was coming from that I would get a major role in “Jesus Christ Superstar” is beyond me. In retrospect, I guess I was at one of those “reinventing” periods in my life and when that hits I somehow believe I can do anything. So off I rushed to the library to check out the “Jesus Christ Superstar” album. Yes, in those days they still had albums.

After a couple days of rehearsing, I thought I needed an unbiased critic so I gave my cousin Herb a call. He was the kind of guy who would be honest yet kind and even if he wasn’t kind, there would be some humor in the delivery to soften his brutal critique. I still remember facing out my living room windows onto Prospect Avenue because I was too nervous to face him. This did not bode well for my forthcoming audition and certainly not an opening night facing a theater full of people mentally waving palm fronds chanting, “Hosanna Heysanna Sanna Sanna Ho!”

When my number came to a close I faced Herb and said, “Well?”

He looked at me with a smile and said, “Well, I gotta tell ya Cousin Tom, I was more than a little nervous when you asked me to come over and give you my opinion. I was afraid I would come over here and listen to you make a jackass of yourself and just laugh out loud. (This is the kind of compassionate and supportive family I hail from).”

“So let me get this straight. You were really here just to watch me humiliate myself and have a good laugh?”

“Yeah, pretty much. But you were actually pretty good. No need to be embarrassed at all. In fact, I was mildly impressed.”

Somewhere in there I was able to ferret out the compliment I needed, giving me the courage to go to the audition two days later.

Tyler was sitting at the piano, crazy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail with the band from an old dress sock, when I arrived. After we got to know one another he told me, “Hey dude, when you are poor you need to know how to reinvent your wardrobe.” Hence the dress sock/ponytail deal. He asked what song I wanted to sing and I told him, “Heaven on Their Minds”.  After I sang the first few lines he stopped playing, turned to look at me and said, “Wow! You can hit low “E”! You’re in!!”

Now, I wasn’t sure what this low “E” thing was, Nana was allowed to bark and whimper in any key, but I assumed it was a good thing. He then added, “But all the major roles are taken. You would look awesome holding a spear though. Want to be a soldier in the chorus?”

My ego took a hold and I said, “ I was really hoping for a bigger role, but thank you for your time,” and headed for the door. But as I reached for the door handle common sense, sanity or providence took a hold and I turned around and said, “No. Actually that sounds great!”

Through the next six weeks of rehearsal I showed up and showed up on time. This apparently is not always the case in community musical theater. So when King Herod dropped out two week before opening night Tyler asked me if I wanted the part. At this point in the game I saw how talented the other leads were and realized my ego may have been just a tiny bit larger than my talent. As I hesitated, Tyler looked at me with his disarming grin and said, “Come on “T”, we really need you. You show up for rehearsals and we only have two weeks.”  So now I realize my break into this production had to do with the fact that I could hit low “E”, looked good with a spear and was actually present at rehearsals. Not really the boost my ego looking for, but an in is an in. I accepted. I know you’re shocked. However, very quickly my insecurities surfaced and the fact that opening night was only fourteen short days away suddenly became very real. I did my best not to quiver and whimper as I admitted, “Tyler, I really want to do this, but I may need extra rehearsals. I don’t really know the song.” 

He said, “ Hey “T”, whenever you’re available I’m there for you. Let’s rock this shit!” Little did that poor bastard know the passel of insecurity he was in for. Perhaps I could have been a bit clearer. Then again, he had based his choice on the fact that I could hit a low “E”, looked good with a spear and showed up for rehearsals. He was desperate. Clearly, a major portion of the onus was on him. This is the confidence I carried with me into our private rehearsals.

We rehearsed every day for a week. After a week I seemed to know the words and the melody. The delivery though? Anything but inspiring. Why? Why do you think?! Now that I finally had the opportunity to show whether or not I had what it takes, I was scared shitless. And we had one week before curtain. “Again,” Tyler sighed and began to play and again my half-hearted effort came out of my throat. Tyler stopped playing, looked at me with kindness, coupled with frustration and confusion and peppered with just enough anger and said, “Look “T”, I KNOW you can do this! Would you just stop being so fucking afraid and sing the Goddamn song!!? We open in a week for Christ sake!!” This may seem harsh to you, but trust me, after hearing me half ass the song for a week he was entitled to all of the frustration and four letter words he chose.

Somehow my fear was overcome by determination. As my momma Ginny would say, “It’s time to show them where the bear shits in the buckwheat!” I took a deep breath, exhaled and let my fear go. Tyler played the introduction for about the two-hundredth time. When I opened my mouth for the first note, I almost stopped for being amazed by a voice I had never heard before.

When I finished, Tyler gave me a grin and had an, “I told you so,” look in his eyes. And then he said it. “I told you so. That was fucking awesome dude!!”

Opening night my family was in the audience. My parents, my brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles.  After the show my younger brother told me that when I started my song, which I began on a chaise lounge so I was not completely visible to the audience, my dad heard me and said, “Wow! I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s really pretty good!”

My brother responded, “Dad, it’s Tom.” He said our dad just smiled.

There are details to the story that I could share, but it just doesn’t seem necessary. When Tyler called the other night, I brought up the rehearsal when he told me to “…just sing the God damn song!!”. It was a vague memory for him. Yet years later it still resonates with me. Funny how that works isn't it? I guess this is one of this instances when exactly the right thing was said at exactly the right time and it has made all the difference. 

Whenever I think of Tyler or hear a song from “Jesus Christ Superstar” I'm reminded of a time when someone believed in me more than I believed in myself. When I am faced with a new and perhaps daunting challenge and think maybe I don’t quite have what it takes, I think of a guy with crazy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail with the band from an old dress sock and I hear him say, “Just stop being so fucking afraid and sing the God damn song!!”

So I do.

Junk Cars

Tom Froehlich

The other day I came out of the grocery store to find a business card tucked under my windshield wiper blade. It read, “We Buy Junk Cars, With or Without papers.” I know. The last portion of that really makes you feel the business is on the up and up doesn’t it? But that’s not the point. The point is that prior to the vehicle I currently own, I owned a Saab 9-3 convertible in titanium grey. Although I looked spectacular cruising up and down the California coast in my Saab, it seemed to spend a great deal of time at the Saab Service Center. In fact, I spent $3000.00 on repairs over a period of six weeks in an effort to pass the smog test…and then I totaled it.

I now drive a 1998 Toyota Tercel Blackhawk. It has no grill. No. I don’t know. It came that way. The hood is black primer whereas the rest of the Blackhawk is your standard black gloss finish. This is not factory issued. Again. Don’t know. The best part of the Blackhawk, other than its name, is the fact that in the two years I have owned it I have spent zero dollars on its upkeep other than standard maintenance. She’s not much to look at, but she’s a runner. My point is, our society seems to devalue things as they get older and have lost their sheen. Just like that jackass who put the card under my wiper blade.

The following day I had yet another advertisement waiting on my windshield. It read, “Botox & Fillers Beauty Party-Come join us!” The photo on the card featured a straight up martini with two green olives skewered by a hypodermic needle. Nice. Just what a recovering alcoholic with a busted capillary or two needs to see. I am curious as to why they thought I might possibly be interested in attending such a gathering. Had they been watching from the nearby hedge of bougainvillea? I’m pretty pleased with my appearance for fifty-five, but living in LALA Land you can’t help but feel as if you could use a can of “Spackle” with a putty knife to fill in a few cracks and crevices or maybe a shot or two from a hypodermic needle filled with poisonous neurotoxins, here or there, rendering your face an expressionless line-free mask. Especially after that guy you may or may not have been hitting on calls you, “Sir”. Hey! He was twenty-two at the very least. I swear!! Almost old enough to drive a rental car!!

Is it just me or does it seem as if our society is far too ready to discard things, and this includes people, as soon we show the slightest sign of wear and tear? Is it so wrong to show the signs of having lived a little? Of being passed our first bloom of youth? Perhaps even past the second bloom? I don’t know about you, but I still have a few things to do. Botox and bondo or not!

I once read that back in the day, when an Eskimo became more of a burden than an asset to his family they just perched him out on an ice flow and let him drift away. Just prior to that he had saved his ass by chewing on sealskins to soften them. This was part of the tanning process and a way he could contribute to his tribe.  He gets to do that until his teeth are worn down to nubs and then it’s sayonara. A one-way ticket to the Sub-Zero meat locker on the iceberg express. Frankly, I may punch that ticket before they have me gnawing on seal hides. It’s a personal choice. Say what you will.

On the flip side, the Japanese have a technique for repairing broken pottery developed centuries ago. It’s called Kintsugi. The seams of the broken piece are repaired with a resin filled with gold dust. Rather than trying to hide the flaws in the broken ceramics, craftsmen would highlight them in gold, baring the cracks and scars. The restored piece of pottery is considered even more beautiful than the original.

I am working toward becoming a professional speaker so I can share my words with you not just in the written form, but give you the opportunity to listen to me endlessly yammering on. Is it too late in life for me to make that happen? Sometimes it feels that way. But then, last week I entered a competition in my Toastmasters group. (For those of you who think we just raise glasses of straight up bourbon in a toast, you’re wrong. Remember! I’m a recovering alky!! Toastmasters is a group of people who gather to work on their public speaking skills.) I was competing to determine who would represent our group at the regional competition. I really wanted to win.  I guess I needed to prove to myself that I was good enough. That it wasn’t too late.

I won. I didn’t just win, but there was overwhelming applause and hooting and hollering as I closed. I guess it’s time to start believing I am good enough. Maybe better than good enough. But, what about too late? Do our dreams have an expiration date? I believe that answer to that question is, “No”. You see, one of the people I competed against was my friend Ida Lee. Yup! My friend from this blog post “Ida Lee & Me”, on October 29, 2013. At the age of ninety-three Ida’s philosophy is, “Well, I ain’t dead yet!”.  It wasn’t until Ida was in her sixties that she was cast in the movie, “The Right Stuff”, with Ed Harris, and then in, “Defending Your Life”, with Meryl Streep and Albert Brooks. When she was seventy she was cast as the lead in “Grandma’s House”. When I asked her what part she played she exclaimed, “What the hell part do you think I played!? I’m an old lady! I played Grandma for God’s sake!!”

Evidently, Ida Lee believes it is never too late to realize your dreams and I stand by her on that one. Let someone else chew on the sealskins. I for one have no interest in riding that iceberg anytime soon. I don’t know about you, but I still have a few things to do.

 

There are times in life when dreams seem unrealistic. Even foolish. My mind can get overwhelmed with thoughts of “It’s too late!” or “Aren’t you a little old for that?” or “Shouldn’t you have already arrived by now?” I don’t believe I would have won that contest ten years ago. I wouldn’t have had the courage that allowed me to be truly authentic. To value what I held in my heart, trusting that it would be valued by others as well.  That only comes with life experience and the passing of time. With falling down and getting back up again and salvaging the broken pieces of who we are. It is only now, looking back, that I can recognize that when I put the broken parts of who I am back together, time and time again, that I was filling them with gold.

Too late? Not a chance. I don’t think you can put an expiration date on dreams. Besides, I ain’t dead yet and it’s not over until I say it’s over. And I say, I’m right on fucking time!

I Am Not Alone

Tom Froehlich

It’s a clear, sunny, beautiful southern California day.  It had rained the day before, wiping everything clean. I can smell the cool, salty breeze as I bike along the ocean. I know I should enjoy this. It is something I once longed for when living out the long Wisconsin winters until I moved to Venice seven years ago. But somehow it is not enough.  In it fact almost angers me that I am expected to be fulfilled by this. To not allow myself expectations and a longing of something greater. I am expected to live in the moment rather than that of wanting. Yearning for a great job, financial stability, a life partner, tired of walking life’s path on my own, tugging at my joi de vive’ and pulling me down.  Making this moment less than. Not enough. I know that I know better and this knowledge only succeeds in frustrating me further.  I believe in a higher power and am aware I should be grateful yet ashamedly I am not. 

I do my best to push all thoughts out of my mind.  Biking can be a meditative experience for me if I allow it.  I down shift and push harder praying for something to help me find a shift in my perspective for the day about to unfold as I don’t want to spend it in a state of wanting.  As I negotiate a turn on the path that snakes along Venice beach I see a couple walking.  They are older. Perhaps in their early eighties. He wears a light blue baseball cap, which makes me smile as it reminds me of my father who passed away soon after I moved to California. She wears a straw hat, its visor shielding her eyes from the sun.  She cradles his left arm in her right, covering them both lovingly and protectively with her other hand.  She is obviously the more ambulatory of the two and gently leads her partner forward, supporting him, making his steps more confident.  As I bike passed them I overhear them talking about how beautiful the day is after the previous days rain.  I hear them laugh and I smile. I can feel my body chemistry change. Feel my energy shift.

I imagine the years the couple has spent together. Years necessary to earn that kind of comfort and familiarity. Comfort that allows you to set aside your pride and be cared for. The mutual understanding that many years ago you left behind the me and you of things to become us.  I think of them, hoping one day I will have enough years with someone, to have logged enough time, to rest in that cradle of comfort and familiarity. Alternating back and forth from leading to being led.  But I refuse to allow my thoughts to fall into the forlorn.  I am blessed that too much forlorn bores me and it is one of the tools I have to work my way out of it. 

Instead I choose to think of those people I love or have loved and how they have loved me in return. I think of my best friend who now lives in Arkansas who somehow finds me flawless and is always ready with what she finds an obnoxious laugh, yet brings me nothing but pure and utter joy.  We find one another perfect in spite of our flaws. A mystery, eternally unsolved that adds to our mirth. 

I think of my cousin Lizzie who asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding telling me that she and her fiancé had fought over whose attendant I would be and she won because she was blood. We laughed about how my mom would be afraid I would be wearing a dress and then laughed even harder when my mom later asked Lizzie that very question.  I remember a few years before that when her brother Joey asked me to be in his wedding as well. Being in my late forties and my cousin fifteen years my junior, I felt being a member of a wedding party a bit ridiculous and told him so. He said, “I sure as hell hope you’re not trying to wrangle your way out of this. You are not just my cousin, you are one of my best friends.”  Not just loved, but sought after. What was I to do? I said, “Yes.” 

I think of my older brother hugging me for the first time when our dad died saying, “I am so glad you’re here.”  I remember holding the hug and sharing our pain.  I remember my mom slipping her hand into mine as we walked down the aisle of the church after the memorial service and telling her I would stay as long as she needed me. I remember her telling me she would have to have me teach her how to be single again because she hadn’t done it for over fifty years and I seemed to do it pretty well. And I knew she meant it and knew I would be there for her. 

I remember over twenty years ago on Valentine’s Day telling my parents I had lost my job and was getting a divorce.  They told me to come home so they could take care of me.  Three years later I told them I was gay and they told me I was their son and they would love me no matter what and we would figure things out together.  

I remember ending a relationship with a man I loved more than I thought I could ever love anyone and my dad calling to tell me they may not yet understand what I was going through, but wanted me to know they were there if I needed anything.  I remember breaking down and crying into the phone and sharing my pain.  They listened quietly and began to understand it was the loss of love just like anyone else.  I remember when I first met him and how my stomach would flip when his long blonde lashes flashed across his blue eyes. Those same eyes glistened with tears, his heart racing, the first time he told me how much he loved me.  To this day my breath still catches in my chest at the memory. 

I think of my niece and nephews and how they nicknamed me Uncle T., because I just didn’t seem grown up enough to be Uncle Tom.  I think of when they entered college and how it became just “T.” and they explained to me how I was more like their friend than their uncle and hoped I felt the same way.  I think of my nephew calling me when he broke up with his girl friend looking for advice and comfort.  He asked me if I had ever been in love and I told him about the guy and how amazing it had been while it lasted. He merely responded, “Wow T. that’s awesome you got to feel that way. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” 

I think of a friend leaving a bouquet of flowers at my door when I was going through a particularly difficult time with a note telling me what a wonderful person I am.  Not only did I believe her, but saw what a wonderful person she is as well.

I realized that the time I had spent single was not spent lamenting the aloneness, but rather gathering a wealth of relationships and nurturing those relationships when I otherwise may have been busy with a significant other.  I realized it was not at all as if I was lacking in love, the love was merely different, but of just as great of value and offering as much comfort and joy. With these people I will share my life always and me theirs to the end of our days.  Should I need someone to cradle my arm in the crook of their own while we walk in the sunshine I have many from which to choose.  I realize that I am not alone. I am far from it.

The Mexican Leprechaun

Tom Froehlich

He was a 5’6” Hispanic man with a lost and frantic look in his eyes. Kind of like a squirrel locked in a cage, eyes frantically darting about looking for an exit. The family member who brought him in said he had been living on the streets of San Francisco for seven years and he had no idea what combination of drugs were in his system. Another staff member did the in-take, doing the paperwork and getting him settled into his room. I just kept thinking, “This guy may last a week, but most likely he will be gone by morning. He’s never going to make it.” His name was Peter.

An hour later, I walked into the dining room and Peter was eating dinner by himself. I will admit that it was more out of a sense of duty than compassion that I sat down to join him. No one should eat dinner alone their first night in a rehabilitation facility, right? Caged squirrel or not.

His frantic eyes darted my direction as he looked up from his plate of pasta and said, “I lived on the streets with hookers and dealers and crooks, you know.”

I simply said, “I know,” and offered him a gentle smile.

He continued, “But it wasn’t scary or anything. I mean, I became one of them so I could study them and write their stories with my painting. I even took out my front tooth so I would blend in.” He smiled at me, more to show me the gap where his false tooth had once been, than for any other reason. His smile held no shame, it was more of a “You can accept me or not, this is who I am” kind of smile, with a bit of mischief and mirth thrown in. I couldn’t help but smile in return. With that, his smile broadened and I think it was in that moment I unknowingly made a new friend.

He went on to tell me of the hotel he lived in a down and out part of San Francisco. Of how he was not just a drug addict, but a well-respected artist and writer as well. It had just gotten out of control and he wasn’t sure of the time period. His brain wasn’t working well enough to make that determination.  He told me of how he lived among the homeless. How he quietly observed. Silently watch and listen and finally see inside of them, seeing who they truly are and then tell their story in his paintings. Tell of their trials and challenges, as well as, their joy and happiness. “Because everything on the street isn’t all bad you know. There are some amazing people out there,” said this little brown man.

My thought was, “Probably the only truth I’m hearing is that he lost his front tooth. Maybe sold it for an eight ball of heroin.” But truth or not, it was one hell of a story!

A moment passed as he twirled the few remaining strands of pasta on his plate. And then, as if he had made a decision and wanted to act on it before he changed his mind, his frantic eyes looked at me and he asked, “You want to see one of my paintings?”

I said, “Sure,” figuring I may as well ride this one out and see where it landed. I’m not really sure what I expected. Maybe some sheets of Manila paper with crayoned stick people and cauliflower clouds or psychedelic, schizophrenic swirls of watercolor. He left for a moment, going into his bedroom and returned with a canvas folded into a two-foot square. Walking into the living room he unfurled the canvas that was longer than the seven-foot sofa it rested on. I was speechless and trust me that is a rare occasion. All I could say was, “Oh my God!” It was far from the stick people and cauliflower clouds I had expected. It was as if Pablo Picasso, Edgar Degas and Salvador Dali were all mixed together in a blender and spit out onto a canvas.  It was Egyptian hieroglyphics and Roman bas-relief sculpture and stained glass cathedral windows. It was amazing. As I continued to look along its richly colored and intricately designed length I once again uttered a profound (not!), “Oh my God!!”

“You get it don’t you? I knew you would,” and he flashed me a joyous smile, no less radiant for lack of a tooth and the look in his eyes was no longer frantic. It was simply a look of trust, knowing that you see beauty in what I see.

I smiled in return and said, “Yes, I do. This is amazing.”

He began to walk me through the story told in this eclectic work of art. He told me of the people who walked across the canvas and showed me the hotel in which he lived. Not much talking was really necessary because the canvas easily told the story. That was the beginning of an unexpected friendship.

As time passed Peter’s body rid itself of toxins and more art manifested itself. Everyday I came to work I looked forward to seeing what he had created the night before. He ran through paints and canvas at a rapid pace, but when he ran out of traditional supplies that didn’t stop him. An old discarded spool of wire was spun into mobiles housing Barbie Dolls in cages. A box of old wire hangers meant to be thrown away were transformed into a serpentining Op Art room divider.

No matter what medium Peter used he found the magic in it. He explained to me that you had to let the paint or wire or a piece of junk he had pulled from a dumpster do what it is supposed to do. Not force it into being something it’s not. “You just don’t get street art do you?” he said. “Kind of like life, you know what I mean? It’s kind of like life. You have to accept it for what it is and work with it. Not try to make it something it’s not.”

I thought, “Frankly, Peter I’m beginning to think I didn’t get a lot of things before I met you.” Over time, I began to see things not so much through Peter’s eyes, but through rediscovering my own.

When I told him I had been planning on painting again after many years he just looked at me and said, “You should. I bet your work would be amazing. Spectacular.” He said this based on nothing other than his sense of who I am and I believed him. I believed him, because Peter saw people for who they are. No bull shit. No facade.

One day he said to me, “You know, Mike the cook talks a lot about all of his accomplishments. I think it’s because he really needs a lot of recognition to feel good about himself.” I was shocked because he was spot on. He continued, “And Sean, the house manager, acts frantic all of the time, but I think he just needs people to see how busy he is because he needs to make sure he gets credit for all he does. It’s okay, I don’t judge them. We all need to feel good and all ask for attention in different ways.”

“And you? You could be big scary guy, because you’re like a foot taller than me, but you’re not, because you’re just a big doofus who everybody loves, because you are so kind to everyone.”

“Doofus?!” I questioned, somewhat surprised by his assessment. Surprised mostly by the fact that he was once again, “spot on”. My ego was fleetingly bruised, but I knew it was not said unkindly. I have a very difficult time pulling off cool and sophisticated.

“Yeah, but a lovable one!” he said giving me the grin I had grown to love accompanied by his mischievous laugh. Whether it be oil paints or people, Peter saw it for what it was. Maybe it was that his eyes saw it before his brain was able to reinterpret into something else. Something other than its authentic self. I think we often reinterpret people and things to make them fit more comfortably into our world. Peter was building his world by seeing and accepting things for what they truly are. An authentic world. And I learned from him.

Pointing to the sunset above us, filtered through the clouds, he would say, “Look at that color. It’s almost hot pink.”

And I would add, “Except around the edges, they’re almost peach.”

Peter would continue, “You mean right by that wedge of a cloud that’s almost…”

“…turquoise.” We would finish simultaneously, and laugh out loud.

Peter helped me find the eyes I thought I had lost. The eyes that had become clouded by my reinterpretation of reality. Trying to make it something it is not meant to be.

I went to the art supply store this week and bought paints and brushes and a couple of canvasses.  My easel is coming through the mail.  The best part is I am going to let it be what it is. And I bet it’s going to be spectacular. And the fact that this is all a metaphor for my life has not been lost on me. I get that. I am learning that life does not need to be reinterpreted for it to make sense. Seeing it in all its authenticity and perfect imperfection is where the beauty lies. The place it truly makes sense. No bull shit. No facades.

If the Mexicans had a leprechaun in their folklore it would be Peter. A 5’6” little brown man who taught me to once again see the world, through my own eyes, unfiltered by what I expect it to be. To learn to be comfortable in the uncomfortableness of authenticity. If you are waiting for me to tell you, Peter showed me how to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I will have to tell you he did not. Rather, he has taught me that there is no need to chase happiness to the end of the rainbow. He has taught me that if I am brave enough to see the world in all of it’s beautiful, perfect, imperfection, I will find that my pot of gold is right in front of me.

The Envelope

Tom Froehlich

I awakened this morning and decided my life was far too difficult. Far too difficult for a never-ending list of reasons. A list that I myself created. A list of things that made me want to throw myself in front of the number ten bus.  In the long run, I decided the pain involved in that solution was more than I cared to endure and besides, I may just end up crippled. Always flexible and open to change, I decided I would rather go the homicidal route and grab someone, anyone, I’m not particular, by the scruff of the neck and choke them until dead. Relax. Obviously neither of these scenarios were actually going to happen.

Before I even opened my eyes this morning I had unconsciously made a decision that today was not going to be user-friendly. Sure, you can tell me that I am acting as if the world is out to get me and I will tell you that it in fact it is. And actually, your trying to convince me of my own delusional state leads me to believe that you are a part of this conspiracy. Intellectually, I am fully aware that everyone has bad days and I should just shake it off and get on with it, but I can’t. I simply can’t. I have this psychotic episode in a firm and unshakeable chokehold and I refuse to let it go. Hey! I’m sure even Mother Teresa had days like this. I mean, she had that whole leprously thing to deal with and all. Logic has no part in this. It is simply a self-fulfilling prophecy run wild and I am determined to suck the joy out of today any way I am capable.

For simplicity sake, please allow me to enumerate the things that have me teetering on the brink of insanity.

1. I need to drive in L.A. traffic. This alone is enough to make a recovering alcoholic relapse. In fact, I would rather have open-heart surgery with no anesthetic.

2. Those women who choose to use their baby stroller like a battering ram, as an indicator that they will be crossing the street. In fact, they will use this technique in the grocery store, parking lots, anywhere they feel it is necessary. They seem to have no qualms about risking their beloved newborn child’s well being in an overt display of maternal power. They believe this privileged right of way is due them for simply having given birth.

3. While we’re at it, I would like to mention the resurgence of those annoying signs people have suction cupped to the interior of their vehicles reading “Baby on Board”. Excuse me for just a minute, but as a single adult male, I don’t really care to get critically injured or die of vehicular homicide either. I feel as if I should hang a sign in my car window that reads, “Middle-aged, yet very well-preserved male on board. Please don’t hit me either!”

4. People in the lines at the grocery store, car wash, dentist office, even the library who think I want to hear their lengthy, involved telephone conversation with their girlfriend about the totally super cute shoes they bought at DSW Shoe Warehouse. I don’t care. Really, I don’t. Oh, I totally understand that you have some time to kill while waiting in line like the rest of us, but you don’t hear me chatting away with my buddy about how I totally scored a pair of size fifteens on sale at the Broadway Shoe Warehouse. Mostly because I know my buddy doesn’t give a rat’s ass, very much like I don’t give a rat’s ass about your pumps with the four-inch heel that make you look like you should be working the corner of Hollywood and Vine.

5. I chose to ride my bicycle to the grocery store to get some exercise, fresh air and avoid the frustrations of driving in L.A. traffic. See! I’m trying to be proactive! Unfortunately, the guy in the sporty, white convertible was busy enjoying the fresh air as well when he decided to run the red light while making a left hand turn almost broad-siding me and fulfilling my earlier “throw myself in front of a bus” demise. When his car came to a screeching halt he said, “Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t see you!”

I wanted to respond, “Well buster, I’m sorry too, because I’m 6’3” and 235 pounds and really pretty hard to miss so maybe you should try pulling your head out of your ass!” Hey! He’s driving a car far nicer than my ’98 Toyota Tercel Black Hawk (Isn’t the name “Black Hawk” awesome though!?), which means he has far more money than I do and he is also far younger and looks like one of those guys who never has to work out and has the body of an Abercrombie model. In short? I hate him.

Finally arriving home, I believed beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the world is in fact out to get me. To get final verification on this I decided to check the mail, ready to wrestle with the weekly flyers and bills, reminding me that the money I earn is only mine for a very short period of time.

Instead, I opened the brass door of my mailbox and found resting serenely inside, a lone pale pink envelope. The return address told me it was from a friend in Wisconsin. We met through a mutual friend and have actually only spent time together maybe five times, but have stayed in touch via facebook. A week earlier, she had surprisingly sent me a private facebook message, sharing that she was going through a difficult time in life, full of uncertainties and doubts.

She wrote, “I asked out loud in prayer to give me someone non-judgmental and someone who has the wisdom to hear me and understand.  It was you Tom.  It was your name that popped into my head and I knew I could talk to you.”

You may be asking, “Really?! You?! The guy who hates babies in strollers and girls with new shoes?! The guy who is certain there is a conspiracy out to get him?!” Yes. That is correct. Me! We all have our dark side! Stop judging!!

She went on to say, “Oh my dear sweet Cousin Tom... (I am “Cousin Tom” to many) what helps you to keep your sanity when life feels like your world is slowly falling apart around you?  You have been through so many life-changing moments and honestly you are the only one I can think to turn to. Somehow you have managed to find peace and happiness within yourself.  I need to find that too.”

I was flattered and honored that she would turn to me yet also humbled by my own uncertainty. Our lives seem so radically different. She has a wonderful husband and two beautiful children and I’m just an alcoholic gay man living on the beach in Venice, California who is so pissed off some mornings he wants to throw himself in front of the number ten bus.

Then it dawned on me that we are all just people doing our best trying to get through life and sometimes find ourselves in a dark and lonely place. A place that no matter how hard we try, we can’t seem to climb out of it on our own. I have visited that lonely, dark place. And I have climbed out. I understand.

I responded, “I am flattered and honored that you would think of me. When I feel as if I am totally fucked (eloquent, aren’t I?!), I remind myself that the Universe has a plan greater and grander than I could possibly imagine. And if that is in fact the case, that means that some of these bumps and yes, sometimes huge fucking bumps in the road are necessary to get me to where I need to go. Somehow that gives me peace and a belief that the Universe is not out to get me and that these troubles will in fact pass.

I mean really, isn't it sort of ridiculous to think that all things will go smoothly all of the time? Certainly it would be nice, yet still ridiculous. I do my best not to add drama to challenging circumstances that are simply part of life. It is usually my drama that clouds my mind and gets me in trouble. A guy I once dated said, ‘Tom, I just figure that as long as everyone I love is safe and healthy I can handle the rest, because the rest is just life. What are you going to do? Not live it!?’ Other than that he was kind of a douche bag (Well! He was!!), but I will always be grateful to him for that. Last of all I would like to share with you a quote from my book I hope to publish, ‘I am a Very Spiritual Yet Vulgar Man’.

'It’s an awesome day when I am humbled, as well as, enlightened by the realization that life is not as difficult as I try to make it.'" Peace & Blessings.


Love, Cousin Tom

I opened the pale pink envelope and slipped out the card. The pre-printed message read, “We keep you in our hearts because it is safe there and full of love.” And then in her own hand was written, “Love you Tom! You are an inspiration…yet so real to all of us. Thanks for being you.”

I gazed at her words and felt a smile spread across my face, as the conspiracy against me slowly slipped away. I saw the bigger, grander picture. I saw that it doesn’t matter how annoying L.A. traffic is. It doesn’t matter whether there is a ”Baby on Board” or an angry middle-aged man.

What matters is that we take the time to share our life’s journey with others with the hope it will enrich their own. To give of ourselves with no expectation. To help someone we care about heal and breathe more easily.

And then, every once in while, on a day when we have fallen back into the darkness, we open our mailbox and find a pale pink envelope filled with love and light and realize the healing has come full circle. We are reminded to breathe more easily. And we are reminded that it is when we step outside of ourselves, for even the briefest moment, to help someone else, that we find peace.