50 Days ‘til 50: Day 43 - Andrew and After

At lunch today we met a lovely Irish couple whom after talking about the usual introductory stuff asked us about the hurricane in Texas. We acknowledged that we did indeed have friends who lived in Houston and from their messages to us they were all ok. One couple had moved her friends in with them into their house. Their friends home had filled to the top of their kitchen counters with water. Basically they lost everything. A lifetime of memories now submerged under the murky waters. Two other friends, sisters who moved their last year from Palm Springs were also ok. Living on the second floor they were going to be fine but described the pandemonium of having to find a place to park their cars to higher ground and then getting back to their place and their dogs. Since we've left the States for our summer holiday abroad less than a week ago a natural disaster has all but leveled the Texas coast, a family member passed away, our beloved California sits under a brutal heatwave, and we are just starting to catch our breath of being away from our daily routines. Life is certainly an intense ride at times.After lunch as we were waking back to our place my mind was also flooded, with memories. Lots of memories. I lived on South Beach the year of the other worst hurricane of our times, Andrew. Of course we didn't take it that serious back then. When you live in Florida the news has a way of torturing you for weeks before the storms hit, if they ever do. They broadcast almost 24 hours a day, weeks before the storm makes any sort of landfall. Living on the beach at that time however this one was different. They knew it was big and they knew it was coming toward us. As required, the evacuation orders were posted and we had to leave. No question about it. There were six of us and four pets. We found a motel in North Miami that had one room left which we took immediately. Loading up in two cars we arrived at the motel with the appropriate snacks and drinks prepared to stay up all night until the storm passed. It came ashore just after midnight and as usual with any storm in Florida the power immediately went out. In the dark we could hear transformers popping and the rain and wind smacking the side of the motel. Slowly each one of us fell asleep crowded onto the two beds and on the floor using towels and whatever we could find in the room for some makeshift bedding. It wasn't so bad, we thought.The next morning we awoke, hungry and tired and ready to return to our little island of Miami Beach. The causeways were closed and were to reopen that evening. Not knowing much of what had happened we assumed our apartments were still intact and we we stayed with friends who lived close to the causeway back over to the beach until it opened later that night. Having no power or television we could only make out some news on the radio that said, "At the last minute the storm which was supposed to hit the north part of Miami turned and came ashore and went south and it was a category 5 direct hit into the south part of Miami. My partners parents lived in the very south of Miami. An area mainly inhabited by farm workers. Crops like strawberries and tomatoes, avocados and dates were grown their as well as nurseries of plants, palm trees, and other tropical foliage. As we couldn't reach them by phone we decided we would drive down to see them the next morning. Surely it couldn't be that bad we tried to convince ourselves. Our homes were fine, some sand had blown ashore onto Ocean Drive, trees were down and the power was out but it wasn't that bad. We truly weren't ready for what was to come.The following morning we got into our car, with our full gas tank and some blankets and towels, canned foods, some extra water bottles we had, anything we could think of that they might need. This was also just before cell phones became as common as sliced bread. We all didn't have one just yet so the news was still scarce. We had made that drive many of times before to visit his parents. A quick zip down the 826 into the Redlands, turn right and in about 35 minutes you were there. That was before.The first thing we noticed was there weren't any trees that normally graced the highways, in fact there weren't any trees standing at all, anywhere. It didn't register at first but it did strike as as odd we acknowledged to each other. We got to our exit onto the 826 and then it hit us. The National Guards lined across the highway stopping each car. Asking us where we were going, we told them we were going to check on his parents in Goulds. At first they said "No, that there was nothing left down there and for our safety we were to turn back to our homes."One thing I learned having a Cuban boyfriend is you don't tell them No. I still don't remember what he told the Guards but miraculously they let us pass and continue on. Not even a mile down the highway we had to start driving off into the edges of the highway, weaving our way around trees and palm frawns, pieces of debris, mailboxes, roof tiles, and even partial pieces of the actual roofs. I started looking for the usual points that we used as our guides along the way. The CVS on that corner, the Barnett bank on that corner, etc. They weren't there anymore. Nothing was there. It was as if a fire had ripped through the area and blackened everything. Now full of panic and dread we kept on, shaking in our shoes and holding each other's hands. To this day I don't know how we made it to their house. Instinct, pure self will, fear, probably all of it together. We found them in a structure that used to be a barn, now a half shell of a building. They had huddled together inside an old freezer that was stored in the corner to ride out the storm. We asked them again, "You stayed inside the freezer?" They nodded and told us "We thought the world was coming to an end." We hugged them tight and in that moment knew that things weren't going to be the same in the city of Miami. They were without power for six months, rebuilt their house and never left that area. For it was their home and even Mother Nature at her most cruel wouldn't keep them from staying where they lived and loved. Stories like theirs happened all over the city in the months to follow. People spray painted their home insurance policy numbers on their roofs to be seen from the air as you couldn't get to them as the roads were gone. The roads we traveled almost every day. Some people just left altogether never to return. It was horrific and we felt like we lived in a war zone. Not our beautiful Miami.Something happened after that time. The communities became tighter than ever. Neighbors had to become neighbors, real neighbors. Cooking for them on a backyard grill because they didn't have a kitchen anymore. Taking them to appointments in car pools because they didn't have cars anymore. Stretched to their human limits everyone helped everyone. It was truly miraculous to witness and be a part of. A time in my life I will never forget.Slowly by slowly the houses were rebuilt. The neighborhoods were reconstructed. The roads were rebuilt. The city came back. Better than before. Scarred but stronger. Out of the worst of times comes some of the best of times even though it doesn't seem it in the moment. I got my dog shortly after the storm as the shelters were overrun with animals lost and battered from the storm. I couldn't bare the thought and adopted one without even thinking twice about it. She remained at my side for the next 14 years. A true loving companion born from disaster.Those of you who have been through disasters, plagues, horrible times, well we are all scarred. How can we not be? We carry them with us through this life. Life wounds I suppose. It pushes us to our limits but we make it. Somehow we make it and we carry on.To all those who are suffering right now, all those who's lives have been ripped out from under you, you too will survive. You will be stronger and better than before. You will know great love and strength in these most darkest of hours, from the most unexpected of places and people. We did and so will you.❤️❤️jf

50 Days ‘til 50: Day 42 - Spanish Lessons - Part 6

Spanish LessonsChapter #6 (revised and update 2019)Back in Sitges now for what Jeff and I realized is our 6th trip here in the almost 10 years we’ve been together. We obviously like it. In fact we love it. Our friends always ask us “Why don’t you try someplace new?” We always say the same thing. Because it feels like home here. The living is easy. The pace is slow without being completely dead. Our gay brothers are also everywhere in this town. Jeff calls it Palm Springs by the sea. Inevitably we run into someone from the Coachella Valley. The prices also reflect this popularity. Contemplating a small apartment 10 years ago for a mere 60K, (you know that feeling you get when you travel anywhere new and different and after two weeks start cruising the real estate ads and job market). This year that same apartment is going for 325K. So our quiet little beach town isn’t so much anymore. But we still love it. What’s not to love about being able to walk a few blocks to the ocean and taking a dip in the ocean whether at 8 am or 10 pm? And lastly and maybe most importantly are the people. They are as friendly as they can be dealing with whatever life stuff they are dealing with and having to deal with the massive crowds that pour into this town like sangria from the pitcher. We already live in a resort town, Palm Springs, so maybe we are a bit more empathetic to their rolled eyes when someone asks them where the bathroom is or what the Wifi password is.It takes me a few days of being here to remember all that. I forget my excitement of being on vacation is not shared by them. Spain’s economy is still tough for them right now. To walk out of a store with an 8 gallon bottle of filtered water realizing you just paid the equivalent of 75 cents. Or when a delicious dinner with plenty of food, waters, wine for Jeff and coffees cost just $30 it’s a reality that we are definitely not in the US anymore.In my ongoing battle with being that kid with the nut allergy my entire life, our goal is to say the right phrase akin to “I have an allergy to all nuts.” This year we needed to learn the phrase in Dutch, German, and now in Spanish. Our first year here I was so proud of myself that I knew how to say the phrase. Thanks to Google translate I blurted out proudly at our first meal out, “I’m allergic to nuts.” After a few laughs from the employees and finding someone to translate to me that in fact what I had said was I was allergic to nuts.As in “Nuts and Bolts.”I guess that’s helpful if you’re eating in a mechanics shop or if you need to have your flat tire changed ( by someone else), otherwise my pride and my confidence was reduced to, well, basically a pile of nuts and bolts.As we dined last night in a place we go back to each year because the food is just so damn good, I had that server who lets just say needed her own vacation, and neeeed it now. All my charms, the smiles, the speaking to her in Spanish and my now fluent ability to tell them about my nut allergy were to no avail. She just wouldn’t budge. No smile, forgetting everything we asked for and we truly thought she might even spit in our food.But in a surprise twist toward the middle of service as the plates came flying out of the kitchen to our table with one dish having pumpkin seeds on it (which are totally fine for me to ingest), she leaned in and said to me,“I’m a really angry woman but I really do care about you not dying in our restaurant.”All was forgiven in that moment. And we wrote it off as just a Spanish thing.The French call is Joie de Vivre. I'm not sure what the Spainards call it or what’s it’s called in Germany or The Netherlands. Whatever it is it's pretty addicting. It's an atttitude wrapped in "nothing is that important and will be attended to whenever it's attended to. Something is Westerners still need to learn how to pull off. I watched a stranger on our train from Amsterdam to Berlin reach out her maternal hand to a solo traveler nervously fumbling for his train pass and checking his documents for his arrival into Berlin. She told him in her broken English "be sure to be careful always, but most of all smile, we are a friendly people." Spain’s people are like that. Once engaged with them it's a passionate place and they are passionate people. They will make you as comfortable as possible. The passion is what I find so attractive. The waving of the hands as they speak, the hugs between both sexes to each other, and the deep guttural accent that if you don’t think is at all sexy, maybe have your testosterone levels checked. And the universally practiced theme of as long as you say please and thank you, you will go far.After arriving here in Sitges, the first few days are always the same. Getting my bearings, finding the perfect coffee shop, not caring that I'm the whitest body at the beach, and not reaching for my phone every five seconds (this becomes my true barometer of relaxation in this day and age and as my partner calls it "completely disconnecting.") I continue to struggle with this but it is about progress not perfection I believe.Here are a few other lessons I’ve learned here in Spain:The only thing you bring to the beach is a sarong and a smileA quad shot of espresso is still a lost in translation item. The winning word or phrase is so simple. A doble doble ( a double double. 2+2 = 4. So easy)If you think you have a little bit of a tan when you get here you don't.If you try and speak Spanish they know you’re not Spanish in a second. They will smile and probably say something snarky to you after you turn your back.Eggs are not in a sturdy carton meaning they flip out onto the floor when you hold the end of the container. 3 second rule still appliesNo bathing suit in the world fits anyone properly. Which is probably why nudity is a popular.Dinner is never before 9 pm and waking up is never before 9 am.And Justin Bieber actually sounds good on the headphones here.I love being somewhere new, different, exhilarating, unfamiliar. I always have. This world and the people in it are fascinating and we all have stories to tell. Just like we do. Yet somewhere in my search to find things that challenge me into further opening my mind, or obsessing over the differences in all of us, slipping into what I think I should be, I'm returned in the end to the realization that we are all the same. When you scrape away all the stuff, all the distractions of life, we are fundamentally the same.Yes some are louder, ruder, bigger, smaller, more tan, LESS tan, more muscles, whiter teeth. Some can't stop talking about themselves, some are more maternal in their need to make sure everything and everyone is ok. Some are more athletic, some are better cooks, some can recite Proust, some can recite the stock market, some are more artistic and some are just downright glum. I've strived and struggled my whole life to be myself in all areas of my life not listening to all the chatter rattling about in my head. As a dear friend begged me once at the way to immature age of 23, "Josh, when are you going to get real?" It's to have been a lifelong battle. Trying not to compare myself to others but to relate. Not to dream of what I don't have but to be grateful for what I do, wishing to knock someone's head off but walking away instead, not to hate but to love.I suppose like anything in life's journey when you have that ah-ha moment where you realize that it's all ok, that all is as it is, and that it's really ok just to be where, who, and what we are. For its in these moments I get to be the real me. Without judgement, without feeling lack or feeling less than or better than. Being naked on a beach also helps. For in those sometimes fleeting moments of complete and utter acceptance of myself and all those around me as being exactly as it's supposed to be. I'm pretty convinced this is what's referred to as heaven on earth. For I think even the most masochistic and sadistic among us to their very core at day's end want a shoulder to cry on or a hug to make it all better. Don't they?Lying on the beach now for the 4th day in utter oblivion I start up a conversation with the man laying on his towel next to me. To be honest we caught each other staring at one of those cuter, tanner, taller, whiter toothed guys. We laughed about it and then most randomly over the next five minutes discovered we have more in common than we don't and in a few short minutes I felt so much a part of, rather than separate from. I will probably never see this man again but for those brief moments we shared with each other about each other and any feelings of separateness I may have been feeling just vanished just like the man sitting next to me just did.As I see a man in front of me now holding his towel and looking lost and alone I'm wondering if it's now my turn to go up to him and say hello?I think I will.......Adios. ❤️❤️jf

50 Days ‘Til 50: Day 41 - Fathers and Sons...again.

Fathers and SonsOn this Father’s Day, it’s impossible to read through Facebook without seeing a post in celebration of Fathers everywhere. I admit I’ve read many of them, touched of course by the photos and sentiments and yet a bit removed as I don’t have a Father in my life and haven’t for a long time…or do I?My story is a bit different from the traditional Mom, Dad, Daughter and Son families I grew up surrounded by. As an adopted child, I as of yet, have never met my birth Father or Mother and would almost guess they’ve both passed on by now. In a strange stroke of luck years back I met one of my blood brothers, Bill, who actually found me. It was an amazing moment to be sure and we actually grew up near each other even attending rival high schools, I in Durham, NH and he in Somersworth, NH. He’s two years my junior and today lives in Tennessee with his wife and family. One year as I was moving to NYC from Florida in a U-Haul and I stopped in Tennessee to meet Bill in what I can only describe was a true Oprah moment for me and for him. When you’re an adopted kid the deep subconscious fear that rules your life is something like “I’ll never be good enough, because if I was good I wouldn’t have been given away in the first place.” And equally insane is the thought that one day that doorbell will ring and the men in black will be there to take you away. “A mistake was made”, they would say. Or “You’re with the wrong family.” Or they don’t want you anymore. Lots of therapy got me to these deepest darkest causes and conditions of why I am the way I am, even today at times. I find therapy fascinating in the sense that things that happened to me as a two year old would be the under lying current for my entire life. I’ve also learned how valuable forgiveness is. Especially of oneself. We all have wounds. It’s part of the human condition I’m afraid and I have a choice every day when I get up and go throughout my day whether or not to be loving and kind or an asshole. Some days it’s a fine line.Bill had access to some then private birth records information about all of us and I was to find out that there were 6 of us children in total. I chuckled inside as I had longed to live like the Brady Bunch and now to find out we could have all filled that tic-tac-toe box with all those smiley freckled faces thrilled me to no end, and the thought of having an Alice made me laugh and smile.Bill went on to locate our natural Mother through the states help but she never responded after she was made aware of his search for her. A story far too familiar for adopted kids who go in search of their blood family members.No matter for me, I was completely satisfied to have connected with Bill.Of course I often wonder what my parents look like, what my siblings look like, if they are still alive and of course what happened to them, especially with 6 children?Were they Vanderbuilt’s or Rockerfeller’s? It was the 1960’s when we were both born so maybe they were cool hippies, who went to Woodstock, and wore beads and played guitars. Free love after all. I suspect their lives weren’t so free and easy however.It doesn’t consume me very much these days besides a fleeting thought. I was adopted at age three and a half into an amazing family, the Fullers. My fathers name is Enoch Doble Fuller, Jr. Sounded impressive to me even as a young child. He was a natural redhead and always was dressed to the nines. As a hotel owner he always looked immaculate, his red hair axe parted on the side, slicked back to perfection. Black horn rimmed eyeglasses. Always in a sport coat whether it was the dead of winter or with shorts in the heat of the summer. Again as a hotelier he had a reputation to uphold. And uphold it he did. Enoch Sr. had already passed on so I never got to meet him, and his mother Abbie lived with us for many years in the hotel.Since I didn’t take my Fathers full name, I never became Enoch the 3rd. Joshua Enoch Fuller would have to do. Or Greg Brady would have been really cool too.I often think of Enoch and what his life was like. He graduated from The U.N.H. with a degree from their hotel and hospitality program. I wonder what he was like on campus. Was he outgoing and liked by all? Was he a loner and introvert? Was he a smooth dresser attracting all the women and envied by the men? Was he a party animal? Due to his hair color his nick name was Red, appropriately. Everyone at the hotel called him Red as well. I do remember he was a hard worker as he had said many times, “Running a hotel is a 365 day, 7 day a week operation.” My Mom was an avid photo taker and I possess album upon album of him being the hotel owner and of our family. We did many things together, traveling, going out for special occasions, summering in lake communities around New England, taking trips to far off strange lands like Boston and Philadelphia and New York City to see the circus and visit family members (no, not in the circus). It was evident in the photographs of his love for me and my (also adopted) sister and especially our Mother, very much.As the master of ceremonies at the hotel he was constantly in the front of the house greeting all the guests, pouring drinks in the bar and would get there in the mornings before anyone else was awake and left after the last cocktail was served into the wee hours of the morning. I imagine he was very tired. Sadly any memories of him would come to a halt after this grand time in our lives. The diabetes that had been with him since boyhood, plus the excessive drinking led to his demise and he left this earth as I was just turning 12. I would carry his loss into my adolescence and have naturally put up some heavy emotional walls due to his death as to lose a parent so young is excruciating. And again, my adopted self was facing yet another person I loved now leaving me, just when I needed him the most. My life continued. I grew up, moved out, and started my own journey.Years later as I was a young man living in Miami. It was a horrid time. More loss was to happen in my life as AIDS was now here and devastated our community on South Beach. My friends would be laughing and dancing in a nightclub one week and then we’d be at their funeral a week later. It was too much to process and I stopped counting the dead. I lost several hundred friends. It was a time in my life that would change me forever. Those of us who survived were looking for anything and anywhere to talk about our loss. The guilt of the survivor. The sadness of burying my friends at age 25 when I should have been out loving and enjoying my 20’s. We went to counselors, grief meetings, sat through lectures by Louise Hay and Marianne Williamson. We were in a collective shock and later we all shared some sort of PTSD. How could we not? My path would lead me to a woman who for lack of a better word, was and is a psychic.Whether you’re a believer or not she was astounding. In touch with spirits in the afterlife, calm and safe in her delivery and manner, and she would hold a small table meeting of sorts at her house. We could sit there and do nothing. We could listen to her to see if she was being channeled by any of the spirits, which she would offer freely what they were there for. We could ask questions. It was beyond any sort of weirdness at this point. Our lives were so weird up to now it seemed to oddly console us all in some way. There were tears and laughter and I would go on to bring many many of my friends to sit at her table. Whenever I would walk into her house she would immediately tell me she saw the color red around me. Every time I came in she saw it and would ask me if the color meant anything to me for it was a very strong energy surrounding me. My friends and I would sit for hours and try and figure out what the color meant. I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me. It wasn’t a favorite color of mine nor did I own anything red, except for maybe some lipsticks in my makeup artist kit. But one day it hit. That day I sat down at her table and it hit me. Red was my fathers nickname (the red hair, remember?)Of course, as I banged myself on the head with my fist. She told me he was and has always been with me since his passing. That he was my guardian. A Heavenly Father. I finally let it all out and cried tears I didn’t even know I had left. It all came out. I did have a Father. He never really left me.I was always being protected and didn’t even know it. I felt him in that moment. I still do.And I would never see the psychic again after that day.So now, on this Fathers Day, I celebrate and am grateful each day for having the family I do today. To all the Fathers in my life who have been my mentors, my teachers, my friends. I am filled with gratitude for you all.And to Enoch, my Dad, wherever you are, I know each day you did the best you could do. Through all the highs and lows of your own life you left us to go out into the world we built for ourselves and show true genuine care for people, to have respect for the people in this world and the planet. To show us affection and that it was ok to share that affection with others. Even if it broke our hearts.And lastly you taught me when all else fails, put on a suit coat, cuff links, and some snazzy socks, slick your hair back, and show up with a smile on. You had the ability and the courage to adopt not one but 2 children, to love us and to care for us. You left us and this world way too early and I wish you could see what pretty amazing kids we have grown up to become.Well, I guess you can.Thanks Dad.Love,Joshua

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 40--Community

50 Days 'Til 50Day 40Community CommunityWhile the world debated whether grabbing pussy was enough to win or lose the presidential election yesterday our little beloved city of Palm Springs was dealing with a much bigger issue, rocked to its collective shaky knees. Not by the earth shifting and rolling under our feet from seismic activity, which was also a hot button topic all week, but by a 26 year old gang member living out his vigilante Rambo fantasy, killing two police officers, wounding a third, and rattling this community to its core by his selfish, crazed, and violent actions.Yesterday at 12:50 pm here in Palm Springs the residents received their 800 number computer voiced message. "Police activity in your area. Stay inside and lock your doors." I had to listen to it twice as I was just returning home from work. “In my area” was all I could hear. “Was it outside my door?” “Was it in my yard?” “On my street?” Immediately checking all the doors and windows and lowering my shades, as if this sense of false security would somehow keep me safe if there was a bomb or gang of thugs with guns slinking around the backyards of our quiet neighborhood. Only after finally locating a tweet from The Desert Sun, was I able to take a deep breath learning there had been gunfire at a home in the north part of Palm Springs involving police officers. I stayed glued to the page on the iPad incessantly hitting the refresh button for more news, for any news, all the while hearing noises in my house that I had never heard before. (Paranoia can do that to you.) The news came finally and it was bad. Three officers shot, two of them dead and the third in the hospital in unknown condition. Another gun related incident, in our city, on this weekend when one hundred thousand visitors were here for a gigantic music festival, in our community. Anxiously awaiting more news I tried to settle into my bed and nervously relax as I started to think of our community, and of community in general.I was transported to 1985. "Go straight to your cars, lock the doors, and drive right off the beach. Don't stay and hang out over here, leave the beach immediately!” Over here, referring to Miami Beach. The big man speaking referring to the bouncer at one of the only nightclubs that dared to be open on this long since deserted island which we all know today as South Beach. The hanging out there was something we did much of back in 1985. Those nights were fun from what I can remember and of course we stayed after the massive club closed. If you told us not to do something at my most mature age of 19, of course it meant we would. We slithered through the back alleys dodging pay-by-the-minute hookers, brushing passed the last of the cocaine cowboys, and darting over the octogenarian set as we bounced over porches and porches of the dilapidated Art Deco hotels of Ocean Drive.Being young and fearlessly naive it probably was worse than we knew but we banded together, making our own little community of kooks, clowns, and creatures of the night. For you see, something was happening. Our community started to grow ever so slightly as we would move into these run down apartments, our artist friends renting studios along Espanola Way for $100 a month, and the first daring shop owners scrounged for down payments and deposits opening their one-of-a-kind boutiques, restaurants, and yes, bars, lots of bars. We somehow knew as a community banded together that we were strong and we were. We were also, unbeknownst to us, turning this community around. On any given night a new business would announce their opening night festivities and we would all run, together to these amazing grand openings. This was life before Starbucks and Banana Republics on every corner and before the grand concrete high rises that now enclose South Beach into some tight urban prison. I remember the very first high rise that went up at the most southern point of the strip of beach called South Point. I marveled at the luxury and opulence of it with its glowing neon lights on the top. We now had landmarks, a sort of guiding light to guide us through those long nights, like a familiar friend that was always there for us.I remember when Barbara Capitman, one of the preservationists for the Art Deco style of hotels that lined Ocean Drive stood in the street, hands up, ready to get steam rolled by the construction tractors who were greedily mowing down any and all hotels and buildings that stood in their way. Luckily she didn't get rolled over and become a superstar in the community rescuing those old hotels from certain demise. Later on a street was named after her and for all her efforts. For any of you who know Ocean Drive and its candy colored strip of thriving Art Deco hotels, we have her to thank for that. Of course we were all there to watch and cheer at City Hall when it the announcement came; that these jewels would be preserved and the Art Deco District was officially on the national historical register. We were all there, our community was there to sit next to Gianni Versace drinking coffee at the News Café and later be shockingly slaughtered only blocks from that café in front of his grand home across from the beach. We all banded together when hurricane Andrew leveled half of Miami as we would go from friends to friends cooking massive amounts of food for all our friends who had lost their homes, who had lost everything. We were all there to guide the unsure tourists and friends who would come to visit always asking me before the drove over the causeway onto South Beach, "but is it safe there?" The arrogance of youth, mixed with half parts Cuban coffee and half parts chutzpah had given us the keys to the kingdom. We were invincible. We were the Kings and Queens of SoBe. We were the community. For any of you who have resided in any "up and coming" areas you'll know exactly what I'm speaking of, sort of like Palm Springs.It’s now 5:00 pm here in Palm Springs. The Chief of Police is giving the latest information to us through the television, holding back his tears identifying the two fallen officers now marked with a face, a name, and a story. Tears welled up in my eyes too listening to him talk about the man who was several months away from retirement after over three decades with the force but decided to pick up some overtime hours this weekend. More tears for the young woman officer barely on the force for a year and half having just returned from maternity leave and leaving behind a 4-month-old baby and a grieving widower and family. It all seemed too much to even fathom. It couldn’t be happening here in our city, in our community, but it was, and it did. All the anger, fear, and resentment inside me swelled to the top of my head. I started calling my friends who I knew lived in that neighborhood. After you’ve lived in Palm Springs for just a short while you know people who live in every neighborhood here. We are barely fifty-thousand residents. It doesn’t take long to meet members of the community if we are willing to go out and meet them. Having made sure they were all safe and sound even though they were not allowed to return to their homes for now, they were safe. I offered them a place to stay with us at our house if they needed to because that’s what we do for each other. I started seeing people on social media show up at the police station placing flowers and candles along the front stoop. They were so quick to act was my first thought. It warmed my heavily beating heart just a little. The news broadcast now announced that in and hour the fallen officers would be transported out of the local hospital followed by a caravan of cop cars, as they would be transported to the morgue in Indio, about 40 minutes away. I had to do something I thought. This is the community that I love.I grabbed my partner and we headed down to the site of where the caravan was to start. We were not the only ones there. There were hundreds of people already there. I started to cry out loud, in front of these strangers who were crying back to me. They kept coming; hundreds and hundreds of mutual strangers lined each side of the streets. Some with American flags waving, some with just a dirty tissue to wave, some just standing there because they needed to be there. I needed to be there. “We support each other here” said the strange but familiar woman next to me. “We love our community and we are all affected,” said the man on my other side. The sirens were deafening as the first car came around the corner and led this eerie parade of police cars and two white hearses. I counted at least 50 patrol cars, maybe more. We just stood there not knowing if they saw us but we were there. I prayed for the families of the officers. Palm Springs does things a little different. We have what’s known as community policing. Our officers are the ones you see everyday out in town on bicycles, on foot, and in their cars. They interact with us; they stop everyday to speak to the homeless that live near my partners work building. As if they are family too. And they are. Our officers are approachable; they don’t create this barrier between them and us making them more humanized and less vilified. They have pledged to defend us from harm each and every day. They are out on the streets and they know some of us by name. They know a lot of us by name and we know theirs. They are our adopted maternal and paternal guardians. To lose one felt like losing a friend or a parent.The cars now systematically and in perfect formation passed us on the sidewalk. This trail of blue and red haze would stretch out onto the I-10 highway for miles and miles. I had the chance to see it later on the TV. It was so hauntingly beautiful. I cried again for the brutal senselessness of it all. They were just doing their jobs. It was supposed to be a domestic dispute, easily rectified. It wasn’t supposed to be the last day of their lives, holding our community hostage for over twelve hours until they finally took the 26-year-old gunman into custody into the wee hours of this morning. When I looked around out here on the street I didn’t see anything but people being what I long have believed them to be. Good, honest, hard working members of the community. If that makes me naïve, then that’s ok with me. For if we don't have faith or believe in each other, how are we to survive? Cell phones lit and candles held high we lighted the edges of the road, illuminating a sort of pathway to heaven if you will for the slain officers. In that brief moment our scars turned to stars to illuminate their way. To show them we weren’t afraid, we are with you, and we will be here for you as you are here for us. Because when you hurt, we hurt. Because when you cry, we cry. Because all lives matter. Because when you need us we will show up for you.Because this is our community.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 39 Tails From Beyond

Tails From Beyond -- Giving New Meaning To The Word PoopyheadA long believer in the spirit world and afterlife ("can you imagine if this is all there is for us in this lifetime," a dear friend once asked me?), I have experienced many a moment after the death of a loved one, human or animal that can't be anything but a sign from beyond, or is it? I'll leave it up to you to decide on that one.What now seems as another lifetime ago I lost my partner Manny during the height of the AIDS crisis in the early 1990's. A devastating time for all of us who lived through that horrific holocaust. He passed on December 27th. A Christmas I would never ever forget. We were then and I still am today a lover of all things Christmas. Those of you who know me can vouch for this. We always had the biggest trees to adorn with our even bigger ornament collection. The trees would sway under the weight of crate after crate of collected ornaments. That Christmas was no different. The tree sparkled in its full glory for all to see. The only annual nagging issue was there always seemed to be that one ornament, you know the one. Probably one that someone had regifted to you as a gift, and like the crazy Aunt in the family that no one wanted to sit next to, we were always a little embarrassed to have it sit in between our most prized and most fun family of ornaments. It was also a sacrilege not to put every ornament on the tree. Kind of like no ornament left behind, we had to put it on. It was this little odd piece, purple in color, and just downright ugly but up it went, year after year. This year it was stuck high up on the back of the tree nestled deep in the branches. God forbid it would be seen and someone would call it out loud.After his funeral and after the last calls had come in and the last people had stopped by, I lay in bed exhausted and drained with our dog Mimi at my side. I was talking out loud to Manny cursing him for leaving me so soon and that I hoped he was a peace. I asked him to send me a sign if he could, proving to me that he was indeed ok. Which would make me ok. In no more than 5 minutes later I heard this sound from the other room. A tinkly-tink, crash sound that I could only guess was an ornament falling from the tree. I wasn't that concerned for I was familiar with that sound. (I always allow a margin of error each year for a few ornaments to break either from improper packing from the year before or user error when hanging them on the tree. Plus it's an excuse to buy new ones.). I got up and went to the living room to survey the damage and of course as I saw with my own eyes, there it was. That one and only ugly ornament that we secretly despised every year had fallen off the tree and broke into a thousand pieces. I laughed and cried as I swept it up and looked up to the ceiling and said "good one Manny, thank you."I knew he was ok.Last night, as my partner Jeff and I sat for dinner, we shared a few of our favorite Butch stories with each other. For earlier that day we had to put Butch, our Boston Terrier down. Butch aka Poopyhead had fought his long battle of illness and age and the time came for us to put our big boy parental boots on let him go and end his suffering. He was my companion for the last six years, always by my side doing nothing but loving me each and every day. Our eyes swollen and red we cried and tried to smile through chewing and swallowing our cold fast food. Jeff told the story of when, before I had come into the picture of the night Butch got into it with a skunk outside in the backyard. You know who won that battle as Butch ran inside and under the bed rolling into the shag carpeting to try and de-stink himself. Jeff told me both Butch and the house stunk for a week. I then told Jeff I had been looking for my sign from Butch since earlier in the day that he was ok and shared stories with him of previous experiences I had during these times of great loss. My spiritual teachers of this world taught me the spirit is the strongest right after they pass from their earthly bodies. The thing I love about my partner is he allows me to have my own beliefs even if he doesn't share in them himself. He just nods and loves me whatever comes out of my mouth or mind. Most of it anyways. 😛I climbed into bed to rest as I'm also recovering from recent back surgery. I have to get into bed a certain way now which requires a bit of skill, gymnastics, and luck as not to disturb anything my back surgeon skillfully put back together. Once I got into perfect position it hit me. That smell. It was a skunk. I've now lived in Palm Springs for almost 6 years and to my memory I've smelled a skunk maybe twice but far off in the distance with minimal stench by the time it hits our house. All of a sudden that putrid smell starting wafting under the patio door into our bedroom where I lay in the fetal position propped with pillows, heating pad, and remote control in hand. I started to dismantle my pillow fort and move to the edge of the bed thinking it was outside the door as it was so strong and it had to be close. I hobbled to the door and squeaked it open. It smelled like a hundred skunks had sprayed the side of the house. I yelled to Jeff who came a running to make sure I wasn't going crazy and he indeed verified that it was a skunk and he hadn't smelled anything like that since the night Butch got sprayed maybe 8 years ago now. I just started to cry and smile and laugh all at once for this had to be Butch no? What are the chances that on this night, after we had just talked about his story, just said goodbye to our dog, asked him to send me a sign, and we hadn't smelled or seen a skunk in almost a decade that this would happen now?I ran back inside to get my camera as I was going to record myself laughing outside at the smell, you know, just for fun or for social media. Jeff went to call his ex to share the story with him and by the time I wobbled back outside would you believe the smell was gone. Completely 100% gone without a trace of skunk smell anywhere to be sniffed. It took my breathe away as I stood there stunned. In complete and utter disbelief. I looked to the heavens, tears down my cheeks, and did what anyone would do in that tender other-worldly moment. I yelled "Butch, you Poopyhead, you Stink!"And he did.jf (one of Butch's humans)

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 38--Spanish Class

50 Days 'Til 50(or 13 Days After 50)Day 38Spanish ClassIt always takes me exactly three days, fourteen hours, and nine minutes when I travel far and away to completely let go. You know, to let it ALL go. The grueling 17 hour travel day to get here to Sitges, Spain combined with spurts of adrenaline and then complete exhaustion, this all experienced in the first day. The next several are getting my bearings, finding the perfect coffee shop, not caring that I'm the whitest body at the beach, and not reaching for my phone every five seconds (this becomes my true barometer of relaxation in this day and age and as my partner calls it "completely disconnecting.")I've been extremely fortunate to have been born with the travel bug. As a young boy growing up as a child of a hotel owner the hotel was only closed for one month a year, January. Not the ideal month to travel in the harsh depths of a New England winter but my sister and I were assured to be yanked out of school so the family could take off for what I now know was probably my parents favorite time of year. We would go to Boston at the closest and California at the furthest and I always had that smug grin on my face as we frolicked in the warm sun knowing most of our cohorts were shoveling snow and chopping wood for the fire. I guess if truth be known I have that same grin on me now, surrounded by the Mediterranean breezes and about 300 men and women mostly wearing nothing but their sunscreen.The truth is I love to experience, well, new experiences. As much as I love the routine of home life with my partner Jeff; going to work, making dinners at night, the occasional night out with friends, reading a good book, I love being somewhere new, different, exhilarating, unfamiliar. Yet somewhere in my search to find things that challenge me into further opening my mind, or obsessing over the differences in all of us, slipping into what I think I should be, I'm returned in the end to the realization that we are all the same. When you scrape away all the stuff, all the distractions of life, we are fundamentally the same.Yes some are louder, ruder, bigger, smaller, more tan, LESS tan, more muscles, whiter teeth. Some can't stop talking about themselves, some are more maternal in their need to make sure everything and everyone is ok. Some are more athletic, some are better cooks, some can recite Proust, some can recite the stock market, some are more artistic and some are just downright glum. I've strived and struggled my whole life to be myself in all areas of my life not listening to all the chatter rattling about in my head. As a dear friend begged me once at the way to immature age of 23, "Josh, when are you going to get real?" It's to have been a lifelong battle. Trying not to compare myself to others but to relate. Not to dream of what I don't have but to be grateful for what I do, wishing to knock someone's head off but walking away instead, not to hate but to love.I suppose like anything in life's journey when you have that ah-ha moment where you realize that it's all ok, that all is as it is, and that it's really ok just to be where, who, and what we are. For its in these moments I get to be the real me. Without judgement, without feeling lack or feeling less than or better than. In those sometimes fleeting moments of complete and utter acceptance of myself and all those around me as being exactly as it's supposed to be. I'm pretty convinced this is what's referred to as heaven on earth. For I think even the most masochistic and sadistic among us to their very core at day's end want a shoulder to cry on or a hug to make it all better. Don't they?Lying on the beach now for the 9th day in utter oblivion I start up a conversation with the man laying on his towel next to me. To be honest we caught each other staring at one of those cuter, tanner, taller, whiter toothed guys. We laughed about it and then most randomly over the next five minutes discovered we have more in common than we don't and in a few short minutes I felt so much a part of, rather than separate from. I will probably never see this man again but for those brief moments we shared with each other about each other and any feelings of separateness I may have been feeling just vanished.I think I love the people watching most of all when I'm away. Watching them go about their lives, some frantically, some at a snails pace. Wondering what their conversations are about, amused at watching them laugh, cry, eat, carry on. Watching people sitting by themselves, wondering if they are just alone or lonely. Remembering throughout my own crazy life how many times I was healed in that flicker of a moment just because someone listened to me.As I see a man in front of me now holding his towel and looking lost and alone I'm wondering if it's now my turn to go up to him and say hello?I think I will.......jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 37--#neverforget

50 Days ‘Til 50Day 37#neverforgetIt was a usual hot summer day in Miami. The time of year those of us who live there started to get really antsy for a break from the sweltering heat and humidity. According to the calendar summer was over, all the schools had returned to open status, and I didn’t want to wear white anymore. It was also however the time of year I loved most. Anticipating that first break in the temperature, seeing the leaves start to change just a little, the taste of that first scorching hot pumpkin latte. I was driving down into South Miami to meet a bride for her hair and makeup trial run on this day, September 11, 2001. She was only in Miami for a few days and was returning the following day, on September 12th, back to NYC to be with her fiancé. She had all her appointments with her vendors lined up while she was in town so we had to work quickly. I was also in a bit of a rush as well. I was also flying to NYC on September 12th to meet my good friend Jennifer. We had finally got it together to take our dream trip together. We had been friend’s now for almost two and a half decades and our pocketbooks could finally afford the trip we had always wanted to take together. Not the backpacking and hostels European experience but the first class, Relais & Chateaux version. Two weeks of living high on the hog, French style. To experience these beautiful places together that we had always dreamed of. I had wanted to do this for so long, just the two of us, and it was finally here.The soon to be brides hair now in rollers as I was just starting her makeup we both saw the news report break into the middle of the Today Show. That dreaded “special report” that to this day makes me cringe a bit wondering what’s wrong. I don’t think either one of us realized what Matt Lauer actually said. We were lost in a flurry of eyeshade’s and hairspray and it took a few minutes for it to register. “An airplane has flown into one of the World Trade Center buildings”, he announced again, for now the third time. There were no images yet and my first thought was a story my Mom had told me years ago about a small plane hitting the Empire State Building. “This must have been it” I thought. “Pilot error, a malfunction of a small plane, something sadly tragic but manageable” raced around in my head. For as you see, I have seen so much horror throughout my life; I learned to put up a shield around me when I hear of bad things happening. It’s my shield, my private protection. For if you really knew what hell I've experienced in my young 30 years, then you'd probably stop reading right here and now. Imaginary or not, it gets me through, it has to.She raced for her cell phone, screaming out to her Mother in the other room to call her fiancé on the house phone. She had to reach her fiancé. He worked in one of the small buildings surrounding the Towers. He had phoned her only an hour before wishing her good luck with all the wedding plans and he would see her again tomorrow. In this moment of constant busy signals and frustration I had no idea whether or not she would ever reach him. We both saw the images on the TV. This was not a small plane. It was a big plane. It looked bad from the first images but again I remained in my bubble, trying to offer solace to this stranger bride I was trying to put false eyelashes on. The images were frightening, almost unreal. Something out of a Hollywood blockbuster, not something for a Tuesday morning talk show. It became apparent as she was starting to go into full on panic mode that our session was over. Trying to wipe off the tears and eyeshadow off with a makeup wipe, she told me to just go. I packed up my bags and told her to contact me when she had heard something from him. She never would see or hear from him again I found out later and I wouldn't hear from her ever again.Jennifer didn’t live in the city, but up in South Fallsburg, about an hour north of the city. As soon as I got back to my home I phoned her, relieved to hear her voice and not her voicemail or a busy signal. By now the second plane had hit the second tower and we just sat on the phone together in silence. It could have been a minute or an hour; we were both, like everyone everywhere, in collective utter shock. I just started mumbling to her all the communal thoughts the entire world was having at the very same time, “This can’t be happening! This is unbelievable! How could this have happened?” We knew in that moment we wouldn’t be going anywhere.The whole world stopped today. The planes stopped, the cars stopped, an eerie silence draped over us all. I couldn’t help but stare into the television. Horror after horror played out in front of me again and again. The images I will never forget. The sight of these people, covered in soot walking over the Brooklyn Bridge like some post apocalyptic zombie movie will be forever seared into my brain. My thoughts were like all of us. “To be trapped up high in a building where you’re only two options for the last moments of your life are either to burn to death or to jump 100 stories?” I still get choked up on that one. How many times I had braved my own fear of heights taking my visiting friends to the top of the Towers when I was a New York resident? For this was New York City. This concrete impenetrable fortress, the most powerful city in the world where time stands still for no one, the city I love, the city I eventually had to move from, the city just stopped, cold in her tracks. To be completely and utterly powerless, until all the dust had settled is a moment I will remember always. My thoughts ran to all the men and women who ran in, bravely trying to save anyone and anything they could. My thoughts went to the animals. All these animals that sat alone in their apartments waiting for their owners to come home, only they never did. I turned off the TV. I cried. A lot. For what could I do?I was reminded of all of this today when I awoke and looked at the clock, the number 11 staring back at me. I was moved to get up and in a moment of silence, just remember. Remember it all. Feel the feelings, shed a few tears, and have immense gratitude that I am still here today. Immensely humbled by our resiliency as people and as human beings. I don’t know if NYC is any softer now, I suspect not, but I have hope that it might be. I don’t know if I am any softer now for the calluses of life have built up on me and in me. They are there. They are visible. I try to be a bit softer. I try and be better at lending a hand, or listening to someone share their story, or offering what I can in each given moment. I can’t save the world but I can pray. I can pray that I’m given the strength to get up each day and carry out whatever is in store for me this day. I can pray for all the people of the world. I can pray for world peace. I can pray for miracles. I pray that miracles replace war, that miracles replace judgment, and that miracles can replace fear both in me, and in the world. I hope that this is enough?jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 36--Disappearing Act

50 Days 'Til 50Day 36Disappearing ActI’ve written in this “50” series a few times about how exhilarating, scary, and challenging this has been for me. It has now been almost a week since my last post and although I'm totally ok with this; I entered into a bit of my natural ebb and flow of my life and disappeared for a bit. Of course the usual things in life that happen, having to work, spending some time with new and old friends, locked into the US Open and some insane hours of watch time has definitely chewed into my spare time that I was allocating to write. And lastly for the first time since I started this blog, I actually went back and reread the whole thing from start to finish. Mainly because I didn’t want to repeat the same stories again, forgetting what I’ve already written, and curious to see how this whole process has evolved for me and if anything has drastically changed since turning 50. Well, it hasn’t. I just can’t check the 46-49 year old boxes anymore. Let’s continue.Again, Facebook has connected me with some people from my past and it’s opening up a whole new block of my life that I had quite frankly just disappeared from. This time it’s with a group of students I had attended school with and befriended in Keene, NH. As usual with Facebook, once you’ve befriended one, whole slews of them join on and reappear as if it was just yesterday and not almost 40 years ago. As excited as these cyber reunions make me, this was a pretty sucky time in my life. I'm struggling a bit to put the factual memories together but the feelings are easy to remember so let me see if I can get to those quickly here. We all have a story and my stories are similar to some and completely foreign to others but when that’s all stripped away, it’s the feelings, and how other people made me feel and I them that is what’s most important.Once the hotel had sold when I was about 11, my Mom got a job in Keene, NH. It was only about 40 miles away from Fitzwilliam, but it could have been China for all I was concerned. We all were still a bit stunned from the death of my Father, but she somehow managed to pack us all up in the station wagon and go. She found a house to buy in a good neighborhood that was within walking distance to the schools so both my sister and I could walk and it wouldn’t be that far from her new job. I said goodbye to my charmed life I had known and entered into this strange world of new people, new schools, new surroundings, and a new way of life. I learned pretty early on that I didn’t like change very much. It stresses me out and although my life has been nothing but a series of change, it still stresses me out. Many days it took every bit of courage I had just to get my clothes on and out the door to school. The dreaded new school. It was the end of 5th grade. Most of these kids had started their school journey together from nursery school so entering into junior high school with them as a stranger, would prove to be extremely difficult. I was already disappearing a bit. Turning inward was my escape from life, dreaming, wandering off on my own, just unable to cope and deal with my reality was never an easy thing for me. Now even more unsure of myself and any of these new kids, I struggled to find my way in. I went from a class size of probably 25 to a class size of over 200. I was a stranger in a strange land and it would evolve to get even stranger. Something else was also happening as well…puberty. AGGGHHHH!!! On top of everything else I was now going through my passage into teen-hood. My higher voice had dropped to an almost unrecognizable bass level, hair was growing on all parts of my body where it had never been before, and I started to grow taller. I was always a small, skinny kid. Shrimp I think is what they called me. I also grew over 4 inches in height during this time. Never really a jock or a brain or a popular I didn’t seem to fit in many places. Like most kids of this age I see now, it wasn’t easy for any of us. It always seemed to me to be so much easier for all of them, but I now know it wasn’t. Everyone had his or her strengths and weaknesses. Everyone cringed when it was time to go to gym class, and we all surely had no idea of what life was really like, still shielded by our parents who still bore much of our weight in addition to their own. Having never been a parent but having many friends that are and have been, this is the age they all tell me is the hardest. This coming of age era when our personalities are set, the babies are gone, and the beasts are coming out. My coming of age would also take on new meaning.I now lived with three women. My Mother, her friend Marion, and my sister. Panty hose and bras hanging in the shower were the norm and there wasn’t much “guy” stuff around. I was desperate for the father figure I had recently lost. I would fantasize about having a Dad again. For now at this point in my life I longed for someone to show me how to throw a baseball, and catch it, toughen me up a little, show me how to defend myself. I would go on to blame my Mother for this until the time came when I was given the grace to realize that she did the best she could with what she had to work with. That it wouldn’t have mattered if there were 10 men in my life, I was going to be the way I was no matter what. We had a “gay uncle” of the family who we all knew from Fitzwilliam and who took his winters in Palm Springs, CA. It’s amusing I would be living here now after all these years. My Mom, who intuitively knew from the time I put on her high heels and danced around in them that I wasn’t going to be your normal boy. We didn’t really talk about it much but it was becoming apparent as I slammed into puberty that maybe a gay male figure in my life would do me some good. I couldn’t talk to my Mom about how I was feeling. I always thought this would be the worst thing ever. I thought she would be ashamed of me, hating me even more than I hated myself right then. I couldn’t bear to tell her of some of the things that happened to me during my school days let alone tell her I thought I was starting to become attracted to men. Keene, NH was most definitely not the place to be gay either. Although I barely knew what being gay meant or was for me, just being different was a death sentence. Every day I would have to take the onslaught of abuse at school from the bullies. The name-calling was the easiest part. It was the physical abuse that shook me to my core the most. Just walking down the hallway and getting punched in the head for no reason was probably one of the worst. I would scale the hallways ducking into a room if I saw one of my tormentors coming my way. I would have to duck walking into the school as these bullies would fling their lit cigarette butts at me, always seeming to make contact with my face or clothing, burning me. One night I was in the downtown part of Keene at a pizza place with one of my few friends and this group of guys ended up chasing me, knives in their hands, almost 2 miles away to the back of my house. I would have to sit in the bushes crying for an hour before I could even breath normally and walk into my house and face my Mom. Like most Moms’ she knew something was up. She loaded me onto a plane one Christmas break and off I went to California to stay with my “uncle”. It was amazing. He took me to amusement parks, to his favorite places in Hollywood, introduced me to his much older gay friends. Even though I was only 14 I didn’t want to leave. I saw for the first time that there were people out there who felt as I did. They didn’t judge me or want to burn me with cigarettes just for fun. They were so loving toward me and it was at this moment I knew. I knew that I was a gay man and that it was ok. I mustered up all the courage I had to tell my uncle that I thought I might be gay. We spoke for hours and all he did was be himself. He didn’t have any sage words of advice but just to tell me that it was ok, that I wasn’t alone, and that it would all work out for me.His phone call to my Mom beat my plane ride home so naturally when she picked me up at the airport she grabbed me, looked me in the eyes, tears down her face and told me, “Josh, I don’t care what or who you are, just be yourself, be honest and know I will always love you.” Of course I could hear her telling me this but I was still so afraid, still so terrified to tell her of my attackers that it seemed to just flow in one ear and out the next. I couldn’t stand the thought of telling my parent that I couldn’t defend or knew how to defend myself. Of course it was amazing to have a parent that would say those things to their child, but I still wanted to disappear. I still would have to go face the attacks every day at school and I would still have to try and find my voice somewhere in all this chaos. I was alone and I felt it. The pain was bad, the pain was real, and not having anyone to talk to you about it was excruciating. I never thought of suicide and being a dreamer probably saved me from that. I had more the dreams of revenge, of burning the school down or blowing up their cars while they were in it. Then I saw the movie “Heathers” and I was glad I didn’t choose that route either. This would continue on for a few years until a miracle happened one day. My Mom’s current relationship was coming to an end, she was desperate to find deliverance for me, and she had met someone that would change our lives forever. She met her life partner, Katherine. She would have to tell you exactly how they met but none of us would have any idea of what this woman would become to us in our lives, let alone my own salvation. It was quickly decided that we would move. To this day I'm not 100% sure if we moved for me or for my Mom. I think it was a bit of both. This angel of a woman took us into her house in Durham NH, home to the University of New Hampshire. It was a small town but extremely liberal due to the University. Although I was already off like a thief in the night and breaking every rule there was to break and then breaking them again, I felt free. Yes I had to take the heat of being the new kid in school again and the new gay kid at that, but I tell you, I was only in school with these men and women for 2 years and it was as if I had known them all for my entire 12 years. I was still on my path to out of control land, but I was free, I didn’t want to disappear as much anymore, I didn’t look over my shoulder anymore when I walked down the street. I wasn’t completely out of the closet yet, but I had one foot out and that was enough for me.So I still want to disappear sometimes. I still get overwhelmed by life on life’s terms. I just don’t do it for as long anymore. For I learn each day more and more about myself through all of you. I learn what works for me in my life by observing what I see working for you in yours. I guess I'm still that impressionable little boy I have always been. You have taught me how to parent myself. You’ve taught me how to be tougher, not to sweat the small stuff, and surround myself with people who get me, love and support me, and show me the way. I need you in my life whether I tell you each day or not. You are my lifeline, all of you. When people disappear out of your life, go find them. Call us out when we’ve been in hiding too long. You don’t know how many times a little pop up message on my computer, a text, or a smile from you whether you’re on my street or across the country have helped me. We need each other in this life I trust. Yes, its not always pretty and tied up with a attractive little bow but I think that’s what makes most of us interesting. Our different similarities. Our willingness to share openly and honestly with each other. Nobody in my life today knows what’s happening inside my head unless I share it with them. None of my friends (ok, except for one) in this lifetime have been a mind reader. I have to be willing to open up and share what’s on my mind. The good, the bad, and the ugly. The next time someone disappears out of your life, look him or her up, be a pain in their ass, and call them out of hiding. The next time you just happen to come across someone on Facebook you haven’t heard from in 25 years, say hello. Take a minute to tell them how wonderful it is to see and hear from them. For this one random, out of the blue person may end up being your salvation...and you just might be theirs.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 35--R.B.S.

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50 Days ‘Til 50Day 35Resting Bitchface SyndromeNo, I don’t think this is an illness that your HMO will cover or that you’ll be able to call in sick to work claiming you’re suffering from but I quickly became obsessed and wanted to share with you my findings. Now of course I know this isn’t a real illness, or is it? Resting bitchface syndrome.  It does sound pretty real.  Apparently it was real enough for these two ladies to make a video about it which I came across today on Facebook. Having heard of it before and seeing a skit on Saturday Night Live a few years back I never thought much about it, just laughing at the skit and the genius mind behind the whole concept. Before I go on, here’s the link to the video if you want to take a look before we continue. Scroll down to the video that is described as “Im sure thats an HR violation.”https://m.facebook.com/restingbf?refsrc=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com%2F&_rdrI know the world is now obsessed to the point of entering treatment centers over Selfies. The word has even found its way into Webster’s dictionary and Kim Kardashian will now score another gazillion dollars on a new book she’s putting out. Not a book about how she could be using her celebrity to do good in the world, or saving the polar bears, or reversing the climate change. It’s not even on how to do a proper ice bucket challenge, which seems to me to be so up her wheelhouse. No, it’s none of these. It will be a book of…you guessed it. Photos of herself. Page after page of her own Selfies. Since this probably won’t be a book featured in Oprah’s book reading club, I’ll pass on this one just in case any of you out there are already doing your early Christmas shopping. So before I wrote this I had to take a few Selfies. Probably for the writing it would have been best if my partner or someone else had taken it without my knowledge as I was trying to figure out my what my own resting face looked like. You know the face. The one you have when your zoned out in front of the TV, or trying to look interested over dinner with people you have nothing in common with. I wanted to see if I could take an objective look at my own face in this resting phase and make sure to watch out for any side effects of this new syndrome. Now, we can’t even just sit there and do nothing without worrying about what this new syndrome is doing to me and God forbid, those around me. Nonetheless, it’s here and needs to be looked at more closely or suffer the consequences of The Resting Bitchface Syndrome.First off, as grateful as I am to have a smart phone, it is now responsible for me wasting even more money as my Olympus camera and all of its accessories now sit in my desk drawer not having seen the light of day since my 45th birthday. This camera sits next to the one thousand personal checks I ordered (so I wouldn’t run out), and various CD and DVD parts, cables, and instruction manuals. I’m thinking I need a new bigger desk. Or will the smart phone just hurry up and do everything for me already? Again, I love the phone, however I do dislike very much the reverse camera lens on the phone. It shows me a reverse picture of myself. So if my nose was on the left side for the picture its now on the right side looking back at me from the phone. At certain times when I'm forced to use it, I almost don’t even recognize myself. Maybe this will come in good in trying to be critical of my resting face. The first thing I notice is my wrinkles. (OK, this is for a whole other story.) What I notice next is I’ve never been a wide toothed grinning smiler. Those of you who know me will know when I’m happy but an ear-to-ear grin with full teeth is just not part of my repertoire. My teeth aren’t bad or anything and I still have most of my original ones so I presume it’s just the way my face shape, structure, and DNA laid it out for me. I admire a beautiful smile just like the next person but it doesn’t feel right on my face. Kind of like squeezing into pair of jeans that’s 2 sizes to small. I can get away with it, but they won’t look natural and won’t be very comfortable wearing them for a long time. I would have never been a good game show host. My natural face does look a bit stark. My lips have a bit of a downward turn at the edge of my cheeks and I suppose if you didn’t know me, you could perceive me to be sad or unhappy in that moment. The only thing is, I’m not sad or unhappy. In fact if you could see my resting face right now, I'm laughing at what I'm writing, answering a few text messages, enjoying my late Saturday afternoon. I’m actually quite content even though I guess I now look like a bitch.I suppose it’s just the human condition. I don’t remember ever not looking at something and not having a preconceived perception or judgment over it. I’ve tried very hard my whole life to live consciously trying not to do this. If anyone has accomplished this, then I commend you. It is not easy for me. I used to blame it on the fact that I am a hairstylist. When I would meet you for the first time, in the flash of a second while I was shaking your hand, I was judging your hair, giving you a makeover, and patting myself on the back for a job well done. You would never know this and it’s almost as if it was happening without my permission. People tend to make me laugh. That’s about all there is to it. I see people and I’m instantly amused at their looks, their individual style, their aura, their quirks, their hair. It’s as if I assigned myself the position of comptroller of the entire universe. Quite frankly it’s an exhausting job. Now, let me say most of the time I don’t do it with malice or anything other than just observing however it is something that many times completely stops me dead in my tracks. I will be in line at the grocery store having already scanned you up and down and just waiting my turn and you turn around and say something to me. One woman asked me if I had a few extra pennies to help her make her bill. Another man asked me if I knew how to brown pine nuts he had ran out to buy for his wife who was making some over the top dish for her guests that night. Another time someone just agrees with me about a purchase I’m making letting me know “how delicious those corn chips are.” It happens to me many times in my business. A client will come in for a haircut and by the time they leave I feel like I’ve just been through a therapy session with Carl Jung. I am blown away at the pearls of wisdom that come out of peoples mouths when I just take the time to move out of my own way and listen. I suppose it’s in these moments when I am my most real. My veil is lifted, my guard is down and my perceptions have been completely squashed. These strangers have exposed me for my subconscious judgments without even knowing that they were. Maybe they were also judging me and our two judgments crashed into each other in mid air forcing one of us to open our mouths and say something. Maybe it’s my need in that moment for some human interaction. Maybe I’m just constantly learning about myself through everyone I meet. It seems the ones I judge the harshest, most of the time come back and set me right. I often wonder how many wonderful gifts and lessons I have missed out on because I’ve judged you or were too busy to stop and listen to you. I have been healed so many times in this lifetime when someone just stopped and listened to me. They don’t always even have to have the answer. They are just there, present, willing, and open to listening.Someone told me when this happens to start looking you in the eye. I was always looking up or down or sideways. I started doing this. Now when I would meet you I’d look directly into your eyes. Sometimes you are looking up or down or sideways too. Sometimes you look directly back into my eyes and sometimes we don’t even have to say anything. The conversation already happened in those few seconds. The eyes can tell the story I have been told many times and I believe it. So when I'm just sitting there with my resting bitchy face on, I’m not always angry or upset or sad. I could be contemplating life. I could be annoyed that I’ve just wasted an hour of my life watching some mindless TV show. I could be thinking about what I’m going to make for dinner. I could be thinking about nothing. And lastly, maybe, just maybe I’m giving you a new haircut.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 34--Thank You Notes

50 Days ‘Til 50Day 34Thank You NotesAs the big ‘50’ birthday celebrations have now come to a close, the calls and messages have returned to normal status, and the last gifts have been opened its time to write my thank you notes. Shuffling around through my desk drawer to find some of these cards got me thinking about my ‘thank you’s”, my acknowledgement to all who took the time to think of me and celebrate with me, and what these thank you notes truly represent for me; and that is gratitude. My Facebook page has not only been jammed up lately with the ALS ice bucket challenge (which I was challenged to take today, and did)but another challenge seeming to be this weeks on trend share, the gratitude list. I'm not sure where it started but these lists are not foreign to me. Throughout my years I’ve written many of these lists from time to time and find them to be amazingly simple to write once I just remember to do it. I have always received huge personal dividends from doing them as well, so I wanted to dig in a bit deeper and see why I don’t do these lists all the time. For those of you who read my “Lists” blog way back that may explain a little of it, but this is different.I have written before about how my sister and I were raised in my parent’s hotel. If there was one thing our parents drilled into us from the start it was a sense of graciousness and good manners. “Yes Sir.” “No Ma’am.” “Thank you Mister Smith.” “You’re welcome Mrs. Stone.” This was our norm as we were always being introduced to their friends and hotel guests at every turn. We learned to be gracious in all things before we even knew what the word meant. Even our closest family members, especially our elders were always revered with the utmost of respect and kindness. I don’t know if flapping my grandmothers’ underarm fat when I sat in their laps was the kind of respect my parents were talking about, but I was a work in progress lets just say.   I was fascinated by this odd ritual with them and lets just say they were good sports about it. I'm less fascinated with it now that I'm 50 and have noticed a bit of that flab here now on myself. Ahhh…growing old. I also learned very young what sort of repercussions came from my actions when I disrespected people. Teachers aren’t very smitten with you, especially as a first grader when you call them a bitch. I don’t even know where I had heard this word before but decided to take a spin on her with it, my first grade teacher, Miss Goodhead (for real). As I was torn from my seat and dragged to the back of the room where the communal bar of soap ended up in my mouth, I never called her that again. Another time a few years older I guess I had forgotten the soap lesson and took it out on a female classmate, again using the same word, in which she turned around and at the top of her lungs for the entire school to hear screamed, “don’t EVER call me that again.” I never did.Over the years, I wasn’t the kid that you’d associate the word gratitude with. At Christmas time, after opening more gifts than one child should ever receive, I’d be looking for even more gifts. I’d be looking for that one thing I thought I needed and didn’t acquire and would sulk in the corner because I didn’t get it. On my sister and my respective birthdays, we would give each other an “unbirthday” gift. This was so we didn’t feel like we were being left out while the other was lavished with gifts and a cake. We would each receive a small token gift to keep us quiet and sated. I was never sated and would wait and wait for that one little gift completely missing out on her birthday experience altogether. A spoiled child? Maybe. An entitled child? Apparently. I'm certain my parents were convinced they had created a monster. As I have written before of my fear of being without, of being left behind, of just being left alone, I would grab and cling onto these things like they were gold and hold them close to me, so no one could take them away from me. They gave me some sort of a false sense of security. So whenever a gift was given to me throughout the year I would then have to sit down and pen out a card to these people proclaiming my gratitude to them for the gifts received. By this point I had usually lost interest in the gift, or had already spent the monetary gift on something frivolous but at the stern watch of my Mom would always get those cards out. I couldn’t grab the concept of true gratitude. To be thankful for what I had and not longing for what I didn’t. Until the day I did.My father passed away when I was just 11. My mom held onto the hotel as long as she could but it was too much for her to handle on her own especially with a 7 and an 11 year old. We moved and the life I had known and came to expect took a complete 180-degree turn. My mom had to go to work full time and my sister and I had to do some growing up and some growing up fast. We became latch key kids, letting ourselves in our house after school and making our own snacks and sometimes dinner if my mom had to work late. We whittled Christmas down to several gifts each compared to my obscene hauls of years passed. Birthdays were the same, and although always celebrated, they became much more about the fact that we were all together and healthy and happy then about the number of gifts we had. We would now shop in second hand clothing stores just to have something that was “new” to us. Something deeply internal started to happen to me during this time. I know now what it was. I was experiencing a bit of humility. Not much, but a little. True humility I have learned produces one of the best effects in me and that was this sincere gratitude I had been so lacking of. Although I was still very selfish and self-centered I started having some gratitude. A little bit at a time, slowly by slowly I was starting to be grateful for what I had and not wasting time on what I didn’t have or even better yet, what I thought I should have. It probably started with the most obvious stuff. I was grateful to see a hummingbird in the garden while having my morning coffee. I would be grateful for the bed I had to sleep in, the roof over my head, the food in my fridge and that I even had a fridge. When I bought my first house I grimaced that it didn’t have a dishwasher. My thoughts were how could I have this house with no dishwasher? What would people think? So I bought a dishwasher immediately. Do you know this damn machine sat in the garage, in its box until the day came when I sold the house? I never even installed it. I would wash the dishes by hand each day and night knowing full well this machine I thought was so attached to my happiness and my status sat, collecting rust in the garage.I always thought “he with the most toys wins.” You work hard, you play hard, and you get stuff. My gratitude came from what I had materially. If I had the house I was grateful. If I had the nice car I was grateful. I knew however that this thinking wasn’t going to take me very far because I was never happy. I was that child again always looking behind the sofa for that next birthday gift. I would be envious of those that had more toys than I did and completely walk over those that had less. As I said I'm a work in progress. I’ve learned that gratitude is an action step. I can’t just think I'm grateful but I have to act as if I am. Act as if. Until I am. I have to make a conscious selfless effort to keep myself in a state of gratitude. When I accomplish this successfully great things come to pass for me. I’ve learned whatever I put ahead of my true self, will make me its slave. Whatever I cling to for that false sense of security whether it’s a person, place, or thing I am surely setting myself up to lose it. I know this to be true because I’ve done it. For it’s in these times of loss is when I learn my most valuable life lessons. I learn to be more humble and I learn the true meaning of gratitude.When I make the effort to write my gratitude list it lifts me up and away from the material world we all get distracted by. My relationships with people and friends are better because I don’t have any hidden agendas. I’ve now learned that the best gifts are the ones you give, without expecting anything in return. I now believe respect and gratitude go hand in hand. I cant proclaim I’m living in a state of gratitude and then go out and cut people off in traffic or make snide comments to the woman standing in the express check out line with more than ten items in her basket. I’ve been stripped down many times in this now 50 years. Stripped down bare. I’ve also had stuff  at times and at times I’ve had no stuff. When you’ve been stripped down to the bare bones it's easy to get very grateful, very quickly. To maintain this gratitude takes work, but its not hard work. I just need to remind myself each day of what I do have. A roof over my head. A partner that loves me, and that I love. Family that loves me and that I love and adore through all our differences. Friends that love and accept me which in turn only allows me to do the same with them. A job. Something that not only feeds my creative appetite but that I can sustain myself financially from. My health. My dogs. My ability to sit here and right this blog on my computer. Its not the shiny brand spanking new MAC book that I sometimes think it should be but it gets the job done just fine. Grateful that I have the eyes to see to write this with. When I do make these lists its amazing what a shift happens in me. I no longer have that feeling of lack. I know longer care if you have something that I don’t. I become less judgmental. I become more compassionate. I become more honest and real.   Gratitude makes me nicer, more trusting, more social, and more appreciative. As a result, it helps me make more friends, deepen my existing relationships, and improve my relationship with my partner. It makes me more optimistic and more hope-filled. It helps me to relax.I find it amusing in this life how I can turn one of my greatest character defects into one of my most valuable virtues. Gratitude is no cure-all, but I think it’s a massively underutilized tool. For if I don’t feel grateful for what I already have, what makes me think I’d be happy with more?jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 33--Prodigal Son

50 Days 'Til 50Day 33Prodigal SonAs a boy I was raised in the Episcopalian church because my family chose this faith so therefore it was to be mine as well. I remember Sunday school and other various activities to do with church. I was baptized when I arrived into my adopted family and was confirmed as young teen. I attended church functions, fundraisers, choir, and several church trips. As life started happening I had a very difficult time with the belief and a concept of God. In my limited thinking and perception my only thoughts leaned to “if there was this mighty and all powerful God, why did so many bad things happen to me during my early years. Why did my Father have to die when I was just 11? Why did my best friend die when I was in middle school? Why was I so severely harassed and bullied at school that my mother chose to move our family to another town in hopes that it might be better?” It was in these teen years when I turned completely away from the church. I knew it was important to members of my Family but I didn’t achieve the inner peace and solace that they had found. It became a bit of a chore having to give up my Sunday mornings and it was becoming clear to my Mom and Sister that I was drifting quickly away from them, the church, and God.At least once each year no matter where I was in the world I would return home. Generally for holidays and important life and death events and I would joke with my Mom that the Prodigal Son had returned. I was remembering this recently and realized I didn’t even know what the story truly meant and I had just been repeating some of the Sunday school teachings from my past. My understanding of this story was something like this. “A story about a son who left his family to go out into the world, returning back to them one day to tell them all about his wicked ways in strange far off places. Places that they would never see or want to see.” This was minimally accurate and maybe not even correct at all. I read a bit of this parable and its true meaning before writing this and realized I had missed the most important part of the entire story.  For those of you who don't know it, here is a summary of the story:There was a man who had 2 sons. The younger son asked his Father for his inheritance that he did receive and went out into the world and used this inheritance on wine, women, and debauchery. The other son stayed close to his father and helped him on a daily basis at home while his brother was running wild. When the younger brother ran out of all of his money, he had to resort to doing menial work just to afford to eat. He then decided to go home, in which his Father threw his arms around him and welcomed him back. The eldest son was pissed at his father’s reaction and had a fit. The Father told his eldest son that he had missed the point of his reaction toward his younger son. He explained to his eldest that he would always be grateful to him and that all that he had would go to him after his death. He explained that he was rejoicing in the fact that his youngest son had been lost and now was found, that his son was all but dead but was now alive and home.At 19, I didn’t have many thoughts or even look back over my shoulder when I said goodbye to my family, suitcase and dreams in hand. I just knew these far off roads were calling me. Calling me away from the comfort and familiarity of the roads I had grown up on. It was eventually the discomfort of these roads, which were now leaving me feeling confined and caged that caused me to go. The dream of the adventure that lay ahead was greater than the need to stay put in my tracks. Since high school graduation I had pretty much been a loner, the dreamer, the guy who would eventually show up at home to proclaim my latest great adventure with only a dime in my pocket and only the memories to share with a pretty disinterested audience. A bankrupt idealist I suppose. Self will run riot I’ve heard it described as and this was definitely me. My idea of my parents were the ones I called only when I needed something, usually money. The ones I called at the complete last resort, when my back was against the wall and I had exhausted all of my own resources. They always had and I assumed always would. They bought me my first car, paid for my first apartment while I was in beauty school, gave me what money they had when I asked for it. Looking back now it was probably easier to just pay me than deal with my wrath when I didn’t get my way. Maybe it was for the best I moved far away. I remember the look in my Mothers eyes when I left. She looked beaten down, barely a smile on her face. She looked tired and sad. It was sad. I had turned the one person that probably loved me the most in this entire world against me. I didn’t know it at the time but today it still brings a tear to my eye when I think about what a shit I was.I remember that fateful day. It was Thanksgiving Day. I had just borrowed my last dime to eat a chicken sandwich at a local Burger King that luckily for me was open on the holiday. I put my quarter into slot of the phone in the booth and dialed. I knew exactly what I was doing. I was calling for help, yet again. My Mom’s voice sounded different this time. She seemed more stern, more driven and although I heard her voice shake a little I knew I wasn’t going to get what I wanted this time. I cried to her how broke I was and how I had just ate my Thanksgiving dinner at Burger King. I used whatever was in my repertoire to get her to bend. I even sobbed that I wanted to come home. I will never forget to this day what she said to me. She said “No.” She said “I love you Josh but if you do come back here you cannot live in this house and you will have to make things happen for yourself without our help.” There were no “buts” or “maybes” in her tone, this was the real deal. I had long ago perfected the art of the temper tantrum. One of my most famous performances was on a family trip into Boston when I was four or so. I decided I wasn’t getting my way and decided to throw my tantrum inside my glass quarter of a revolving door going into the hotel. I was by myself kicking and screaming on the ground keeping anyone else from entering or exiting the building. I’m sure they probably just walked away until I worked it out, but it was memorable. Although I couldn’t lay down in this particular phone booth and stomp and froth at the mouth, with all my might I yelled a few four-letter words at her and slammed the phone down. I didn’t speak to her again for 2 years.A whole multitude of things can happen in 2 years. I spiraled even more downhill. I had my hairdressing license but chose to work at a small family run store, akin to a small Walgreen’s. When I lost that job because I couldn’t grasp the concept of having to show up on time I got another job. The very prestigious company Carvel hired me. In my best thinking I persuaded the manager to close early one night so we could celebrate by drinking in the back of the store. I don’t remember what we were celebrating, probably because it was a Wednesday. The district manager decided to do a drive by that night and when seeing the lights off 2 hours before they were supposed to be, we were both fired. I was living with friends who supported me the whole way. Scraping up our last dimes to make pasta dinners we could all eat for a week it was very obvious to me and those around me that I was going nowhere fast. Things happened to me during this two years of not speaking to my Mother. I don’t know for sure what happened and quite frankly I can only say it had to be a divine intervention. This God I had turned my back on so many years ago must have said to some of his angels, “this boy needs help and needs it fast.”I got honest with myself, probably for the first time in a long time. I had to. I had to take a good hard look at my behavior and myself. I had to surrender to the fact that my life was unmanageable. Hard for anyone to do, but even harder for this self centered, egotistical 23 year old. I had to change or I would die. It was that black and white. I had nothing left. I was done. I was more than done. In the months to follow I got this strange call one night from my Mother. We still hadn’t been speaking to each other and we didn’t speak for long as she whispered to me, “I know something is wrong and I’m coming down there to see you.” Nervously I got ready for her visit and was expecting the wrath that only a Mother knows for her children. I wasn’t sure I had changed enough to make any sort of proper amends to her but I kept an open mind.  Upon her arrival we hugged at the train station for what seemed to be hours. I didn’t care who was watching, I just knew I didn’t want to let her go. I cried in her arms as she did in mine. Something was different. I was different. During those following days I treated her like a Queen and behaved like her Prince. We shared miraculous moments together. I was able to honestly and sincerely apologize to her for my actions. Not expecting anything from her in return. She surprised me by revealing to me things I never knew about her before. How she had been married once before my Father to another man. How horrible he treated her, how scared she was, how she almost didn’t make it out alive. It was in that second I saw her, the real her. Not as my bank account, or strict maternal figure but as a woman. A real woman who had overcome some extremely difficult and scary times. All of my preconceived thoughts of her, all my unreal expectations I had put on her over the years just washed away. In that moment we were both baptized. We were washed clean in each other’s arms. At that moment we became friends.Unlike the Prodigal Son, I didn’t return home, home came to me. I was welcomed right where I stood by my family that night. I was forgiven. I was loved and had always been. I just didn’t love me, which was the problem. Like the Prodigal Son I did have to go out into the world and live, and lose, and find, and grow, and grow up. My family did embrace me when I returned home from my journeys. They were waiting for me. They had all just been waiting for me to come home.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 32--Halfway To A Smucker's Jar

The end of one of the strings.

On our way into San Diego I snapped this fast from the car. Reminded me of West Side Story, all the Jets on their scaffolding. Until I got closer...

...they were repairing the bridge...one man helping the other...it was musical.

Any hotel that has a dog guest list is my kind of hotel.

While walking the streets around the hotel I came across a cupcake lounge. Jeff told me to wait until after we ate...

the same cupcakes were waiting for me in the hotel room

New glasses. Thank you Mom.

and Jeff too.

So we ate...

and ate...

and ate...

and ate. (junifper and ivy's top chef master Richard Blais)

more cake...

Stick me in anything Mother Nature and my soul is fed.

jeff vines

succulents

lajolla

off to the zoo...

me and Elsa

Elsa and her Papi

50 or 5?

Needing some energy. oops...no wonder why everyone was buying this one instead.

even Marilyn is on the e-cig craze

if you hang around a makeup counter long enough...

more selfies

hot dogs and plastic surgery...perfect, no?

a good reminder

more gifts from George's restaurant...olive oil...brilliant

a night at the museum

no comment

getting very loopy...

LOVE

I dont think so, Ill let you know in another 50.

goodnight

50 Days ‘Til 50Day 32Halfway To A Smucker’s JarI have been so filled with gratitude having received so many birthday wishes, cards, messages and also how so many of you had mentioned reading my blog. I guess when I started out on this blog adventure, thanks to the nudges of a few of my friends, I didn’t go into it expecting the great American novel or anything even remotely similar. It was a way for me to do something I enjoy, writing. It was a way for me to honor people, places, and things in my life. To put to paper what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now as I approached this big milestone birthday. It has been a fun roller coaster ride this writing, and although I missed hitting the 50th blog on the actual day, having such great feedback from many of you just propels me to want to continue and finish it. It will now be a 50 days ‘til, during, and after I suppose.Willard Scott reminded me on the Today Show today that I’m just 50 years away from being on a Smucker’s jar. I guess that’s something to aspire to. Age is a funny thing. When I was 14 I just wanted to be 15 so I could get my drivers permit. When I was 15 I wanted to be 16 so I could have said driver’s license. When I was 17, I just wanted to be of legal age at 18. When I was 18, the drinking age was changed to 20 so I just wanted to be 20. Then I moved to Florida where the age was changed to 21 just days after my arrival so of course I wanted to be 21. Never seeming quite happy where I was at the moment I guess. I did many things along the way to appear older and sometimes they worked and sometimes they didn’t.Example #1. Four of us high school seniors took a trip to Florida. None of us being the legal drinking age we put our heads together to try and fast-forward the clocks on our ID’s. One of the girls had expert penmanship and we figured out if you carefully wrote over scotch tape that ran across the license and kept the ID inside your wallet behind the plastic covering it kind of worked. That’s genius we all thought, or at least according to our 17-year-old brains it did. We found out if you flashed it real quickly to any doorman at the Daytona Beach bars, you could slip in. We all felt instantly 21. Of course as the years have gone by and I’ve waited in many lines to get in the clubs I realized it was the lady on my arms outfit (or lack of one) that propelled you inside faster than any fake ID. What we didn’t realize is that although the bouncers may let it pass, the state police weren’t so forgiving. The day we left Daytona Beach to catch our flight home in Orlando of course we were running late and pedal to the medal had about 90 minutes to catch our flight. The siren signaled us to pull over in which my buddy that was driving immediately blurted out to the officer our urgency to get of Dodge. The officer wasn’t buying. He asked him to get out of the car and show him his license. As we had done all week at the clubs he automatically flipped open his wallet to show the officer his altered and scotch taped license. The office said to my now shivering friend, “Sir, Can you please remove the license from inside the wallet?” We all sat in silence thinking our vacation would now end in the county jail. The movie Midnight Express had just come out that year and all I could picture was all of us inside a Florida prison cleaning the concrete floors with a toothbrush dressed in our orange scrubs. Orange was not the new black back then. The officer pulled back the scotch tape and asked us what was going on? We all must have looked very frightened as he scoffed at us all to “go straight to the airport and think twice about ever returning to his town again.” Ironically as long as I would eventually live in Florida, I never returned to Daytona again.The years fly by and then you start hitting the milestones. The 30, 40, and now 50 birthdays always seem to me to need some sort of acknowledgment. Hallmark has built an industry on this same thought. The 29’s, 31’s, 39’s always seemed to be a bit anticlimactic but put a zero behind the number and its cause for celebration. As I went off for a few days to celebrate the big ‘5’ ‘0’ I was thinking I am ok being this age. I don’t want to be 29, or 18, or even 49. I have paid heavily to get this badge of 50 and I’m going to own it and wear it with pride. I’m ok (sort of) with the lines on my face and the grey hair. I’m ok with having to try on 40 pair of jeans before I find just one that fit me. I’m ok with younger people calling me “Sir.” It surely is better than what they called me when I was 18. I'm ok here. I’m ok with this half century. I have no idea what 50 is supposed to look like. This is what it looked like for me, unfiltered, unadulterated, and uncensored.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 31--Blood, Sweat, and Tears

50 Days 'Til 50Day 31Blood, Sweat, and TearsMy partner, Jeff just asked me what it felt like to be 49.93 years old as tomorrow I hit the big 50. I’ve been so busy I haven’t really thought about how I feel. I guess if I’m to be honest. I feel lucky, grateful, loved…all good. Wait. Let me see if I can say it better in song. I’ve been a lover of music most of my entire life. Born in 1964 and not coming out of the birth canal with an iPod strapped to my head I had to do a bit of a quick Google research on the news making musical highlights for that year to find out what was happening that year. It seemed to be a great year for music news. The Beatles performed in the US for the first time. The Rolling Stones released their first album. Placido Domingo made his international breakthrough performance in NYC. The Supremes hit the Billboard top 100 at #1 with “Baby Love.” Bob Dylan released his fourth album. The Kinks released “You Really Got Me.” Simon and Garfunkel recorded their first album with Columbia Records and Fiddler On The Roof opened on Broadway. I knew the 60’s were an iconic decade but who knew? Ironically this list of newsy events probably could sum up my musical tastes for this entire blog, but let’s make it a bit more fun than that.[audio m4a="https://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/3-02-it-had-to-be-you.m4a"][/audio] Music was a part of my life from as far back as I could remember singing “Do Re Mi”. Each weekend at my parent’s hotel was the big Saturday night buffet bash, which always included some form of live music. Partridge Family bands as well as swing and crooner bands from all over New England would arrive in the afternoons to unload and set up their keyboards, drums, guitars, and microphones for what was always to make for a fun evening. Into the evenings after much alcohol had been consumed at my Fathers “guest only” table and throughout the dining room, my sister and I were coerced onto the stage many times to “sing, sing a song” with that night’s band until we were whisked off to our bedrooms when the clock struck 10. Way to late for children to witness all the adult activities. I always wanted to run back and sneak a peek in the door as the lights and sounds would go on until the wee hours of the mornings but I was too afraid. I always remember a stereo standing somewhere in our homes with the prized vinyl collections behind the sliding doors of these monster music machines. I suppose my first memories of songs (besides Do Re Mi) I could hum along to were the classics my parents would listen to. The Sinatras and Streisands, Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes and some movie soundtracks seemed to be on constant rotate in our house. I wouldn’t say my mom and dad were adventurous in their music tastes but they loved the classics, so naturally I loved the classics.[audio mp3="https://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/weve-only-just-begun.mp3"][/audio] I took piano lessons at an early age and my sister and I both sang in choirs in school and in church. Music was all around me.  I remember the day I struck gold. I was given my very own record player that I could play in my very own room. It resembled a small plastic suitcase with a flip top that opened and closed and two very small speakers somewhere inside. It felt like I won the lottery except I didn’t have any records to play on it. I borrowed a “Barbra” record from downstairs and played it over and over again in the solitude of my room.[audio mp3="http://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/barbra-streisand-people.mp3"][/audio] On days when my Mom would take me shopping with her I would run to the music aisle and stare at all the 45’s lined up like soldiers in their paper uniforms. I had no idea what to buy nor did my Mom but I would daringly grab at something that had a pretty sleeve on it or was I name I had heard somewhere before. I think they were about 49 cents a piece which was probably about how many pennies I had in my pocket.  I would hold that thing like it was gold until I got home and run to my room and take a listen. The music world was changing and so was I. I played this 45 until it was played out.[audio m4a="https://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/04-ill-be-there.m4a"][/audio] Into my early teens I was branching out to include the classic rock anthems of the 1970’s, which was almost a prerequisite to growing up in rural New Hampshire. If you didn’t drive a truck, wear plaid, carry a rifle, and listen to rock and roll…well, it just wasn’t done. I found I was drawn toward the bands with the smooth harmonies and beautiful lyrics. America, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Fleetwood Mac, Toto, Chicago, The Eagles, The Doobie Brothers. Of course I got my share of Zepplin, Rush, Boston, and others as well but left to my own I would always seem to venture back to the smoother sounds.[audio m4a="https://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/09-dreams.m4a"][/audio] I love to sing harmony, always hovering a third above the melody or making up my own notes as I go along. I’m one of those you will see singing out loud in my car, lost in the moment, oblivious to what’s around me. Disco was also creeping in and in full bell bottom bliss I would swing my sister around the living room to the sounds of “Dance Fever” on the television. Dropping her on her head over and over as I teetered on my platforms. Ah, the good old days. I had no idea what was about to come to me in the form of music. Thank God it did.[audio m4a="https://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/01-you-should-be-dancing.m4a"][/audio] My final two years in high school were spent in a college town. The college pretty much swallowed up the entire town and you learned very quickly the names of the student halls and dormitory names as you walked through the town. It was almost impossible to navigate away from these buildings. These buildings always seemed to house those forbidden college parties that every university is of course now famous for. As a high schooler you had arrived if you knew someone who knew someone that could get you into these closed parties. Of course my curiosity for what these parties were like and my newfound introduction to marijuana would eventually find me inside these halls and dorms way passed my bedtime. All of sudden I was sitting in the corner of these rooms listening to the sounds of groups called the B-52’s, Romeo Void, David Bowie, Gang of Four, Roxy Music.[audio mp3="https://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/avalon.mp3"][/audio] This was now the early 1980’s. David Bowie had been around already for years by this time but I never had heard him until now. These kids with the tattoos, the blue and pink hair, and pierced lips and ears took me in like a little orphan eager to share their love of this music and of their pot. I was at a bit of a crossroads now. The good boy in me performed in choirs, school plays, and singing competitions around New England singing as much as my bass voice would allow me to. I always tried so hard to reach the notes above middle C and the harder I would try, the worse it would sound. “Open up your throat more, use your diaphragm” my patient music teachers would tell me. Alas it was to no avail. I had to be content sticking to the lower register of my now very deep voice. It was great in a quartet or in a small group of singers, but I never got those prized solo performances as they were all sung so much higher than I could ever reach.   The bad boy in me longed to be with these oddball college kids who showed me this world far beyond what my limited eye had ever seen and heard before. When school ended I was quickly out of the area, with my boombox, batteries, cassette tapes, and my newfound liking to anything with an alternative sound.[audio mp3="http://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/well-i-wonder.mp3"][/audio] I often referred to myself as “alternative-lite.” I never quite fully committed to the full on mohawks and full body mutilations of the punk scene, the sounds of Social Distortion and Black Flag were not on my playlists but I couldn’t stand the top 40 sounds on the radio of the time either although I was fascinated by the visual of it all. MTV anyone? The Stacy Q’s, Company B’s, Expose’s would irritate me to no end. ( I did wear black O rings up my arms though…thanks Madonna.) I guess I landed somewhere in the middle, dare I say the status quo?  Now in Florida my sounds consisted of anything in the dance and new wave clubs. New Order, Depeche Mode, Simple Minds, Bronski Beat, Grace Jones, Echo and the Bunnymen became my stereo staples. I surrounded myself with all the artist and music types that opened my mind and ears up even more. I was a DJ whore. Latching myself onto these God’s of the turntables mainly so I could get a new cassette tape to show off to all my friends. I was just a sponge for it all. Punk, Disco, Dance, Hip Hop, Top 40, Rock, Glam, not so much Country, but my mind was wide open. I had never heard anything like this before and it was a far cry from my am radio sounds of Barry Manilow in my Subaru back in my New Hampshire early days. I was becoming a bit of a music snob by now as well and if you didn’t like the music I liked or that I thought you should like, then screw you. I was 19 years old also and maybe I was a bit (of a) punk.[audio mp3="http://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/ultravox-dancing-with-tears-in-our.mp3"][/audio] Over the years I have been so blessed to have had these experiences with music. I can sit down today and listen to Pink Floyd, Chopin, Everything But the Girl, Andrea Boccelli, or Tony Bennett and be perfectly at peace and moved at times to absolute tears for the beauty and soul reaching music has always given to me. I don’t judge you anymore for your personal musical tastes and for not liking mine. Whatever sounds you prefer music, like movies or a good book, temporarily takes me far away from my ordinary troubles and tribulations, transporting me to a different time or another world. It can provide the solace of companionship for the lonely and lessen my sense of isolation. When I hear such tragic tales and the sorrow they provoke, whether in folk, country, R&B, standards, rap, or rock I relate to the performer and feel myself to be part of the tribe, my collective human family. It opens my mind of my constant spiritual quest. It makes me stop and think and feel. If you have ever listened to the Cocteau Twins and not thought of heaven at least once than I hope you listen to something that does.[audio m4a="http://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/03-bluebeard.m4a"][/audio] Listening to these tunes feeds my soul. Music makes me want to dance, in a joyous, spontaneous expression of life. itunes tells me I have over 6K songs on my computer and a box of CDs still waiting for their transfer. I don’t know if this is a lot or not? I do know whatever I decide to play transports me, makes me be aware of, makes me dream. It makes me feel connected on the deepest level for this human condition we all share. I am grateful I have the ears to listen to all this music with. I am grateful to all of you who share your favorite songs with me, opening my mind even further. I sit in wonderment at times of the songwriters who can tap into their deepest emotions and bring it to light for all of us to hear.  I thank you.[audio m4a="http://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/01-save-me-1.m4a"][/audio] I just saw a story on the TV about these new 3-D printers. Pretty mind boggling to think that in a few years we can clone ourselves in plastic and plop our doppelganger in the passenger seat of our cars so we can speed through the carpool lanes. Maybe this printer can make me my own personal DJ, or at least a new record player…and the records.[audio m4a="https://joshefuller.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/10-come-on-home.m4a"][/audio]jf    

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 30--In Memoriam

50 Days 'Til 50Day 30In MemoriamIn lieu of my post today I wanted to stop for a second, along with the rest of the world to pay a small tribute and say farewell to Robin Williams.I didn’t personally know him, but when it comes to celebrity, we spend so much time watching these actors in their iconic roles over the years, it’s almost feels like we do. Big screen, small screen, stage, I think he did it all. To watch his comedic rants left me dizzy at times marveling at his manic comedic genius. I was talking to a girlfriend of mine earlier this evening and through teary eyes she said to me, “It’s so sad that someone whom we all assume has everything in the world they would ever want or need would reach a point where this was their only option.” I thought about it on my drive home from work and she was right, partially.Addiction is an insidious disease. It’s the only disease I know of that tells you that you don’t have a disease. It’s cunning, baffling, powerful and sits and waits. It doesn’t always wait to show its ugly head when things are at rock bottom either. It can appear anytime, anywhere, just because. It’s a life long battle and if we are vigilant about our recovery the best we can hope for is a daily reprieve from our addiction. Help is available to those who want it. Add to addiction a mental illness, in this case depression, and it can be a frightening, isolative battle. I can only hope and pray if anyone is suffering in silence that they will have the courage to talk to someone about it, anyone. The phone number to the national suicide hotline is 800-273-8255. They can provide additional help or phone numbers to local resources in your area and real people you can talk to. You are not alone. No one ever really knows what’s going on in our minds, so many times just having the courage to tell one person can get it out of your head and into action. That one person you tell just maybe able to help or know someone that can.My heart is heavy for his family and for all those who knew the real Robin and my prayers and thoughts go out to all of them. Thank you for all your service Mr. Williams. Thank you for making us laugh, for making us cry, and for making us feel. Heaven has one more very special angel now.jf      

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 29--Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

50 Days 'Til 50Day 29Where There's Smoke, There's FireI can hear the boo’s and hisses already and I’m not even into the first sentence yet. I’m learning now when I put my words out there for all to read, whether they are funny, thoughtful or serious, I leave myself open to all comments, good, bad, and ugly. I’m ok with this. I’m pretty sure at different times in my life many choice words have been used to describe me. I’m ok with this too. I guess what I’m not ok with is this. Now collect yourselves…hold on…wait for it…I’m a smoker.  I was just hoping for an odd second that by my admission I’d be instantaneously rendered smoke free but I have this sudden urge to run outside and smoke a cigarette. There are many things in my lifetime I have overcome and for me to say this would be one I can’t conquer is ridiculous. I’ve even quit once before for many years so I know its possible. Of all my defects it’s the probably the one that I carry the most shame about. Since I do it out in the open, in front of other people, it’s not something I can hide from. It’s unhealthy, it’s smelly, it’s inconsiderate of those who don’t smoke, and it’s pretty much just downright disgusting. Besides the obvious addiction to the nicotine I try and dig a bit deeper into the whys and why nots of this unattractive habit.I’m remembering back to my boyhood days. Everyone smoked. My father, mother, grandmothers, relatives, friends of theirs, it just seemed so normal that I didn’t know a world any different. How many photographs I’ve seen from those years with the Instamatic eye capturing family gatherings complete with ashtray and half lit cigarette gracing the foreground of every picture. One of my favorites was of my mom holding my baby sister Amey in one arm, a spoon for her feeding in her other hand and the lit cigarette in her mouth. That ash would get 3 inches long and never fall off the filter until my mom’s expert manual finesse allowed it to. Another time, I had proudly made my sister one of her first birthday cakes, most probably an E-Z Bake oven original with pink day-glo frosting. We all sang the song as the candle quickly dripped its wax onto my expertly frosted creation. We all took a deep breath and blew. I guess we didn’t know our own breath strength as the collective blow released all the ashes from the ashtray onto the cake in a blizzard of post volcanic gray matter. I was mortified and probably started to cry seeing my beautiful, lopsided, cooked by the heat of a light bulb sculpture now reduced to ash. My mom probably had a back up cake somewhere or we just wiped it off as the Kodak again snapped my sister picking up the entire cake in one hand and gumming whatever morsel would break off into her willing mouth. When my sister and I grew older, old enough to start having those thoughts of what it must feel like to break the rules, well, we did. I remember my mom and dad dressing for the hotel one evening as my sister and I watched them making their nightly transformation. I reached over to the watered down Manhattan on my dad’s dresser and quickly took a swig before they saw me, my sister clapping proudly in the background at her brothers brave move. I remember the smell first. A bit sweet, almost floral. Then the taste. It could have been rubbing alcohol as far as my young palette was concerned. I had to run out of the room and around the corner just to swallow the gulp of turpentine that was now burning inside my mouth. We both agreed after that incident that this was an adult activity and we would be content with our cherry Kool-Aid and Fresca.As we grew up and were given our chores around the house, cleaning the ashtrays was surely included on that list. Knowing we would get some sort of reward for our chores we gladly did whatever it took to claim our prize. We had all kinds of ashtrays. Big square glass ones that sat on the kitchen and dining room tables, cute little round ones that had bean bag bottoms that would sit chair side in the family room next to each parents chair. Souvenir ashtrays that had city names like Boston or Philadelphia hot stamped on their bottoms. My mom had a small one she carried in her purse that had a flip top, that she could flick open at a moments notice when there wasn’t a proper place to stick her smoked butt. We had sparkly crystal ones that only ever saw the light of day at holiday meals and extra special events. I don’t remember my age but I’m guessing 11 or so when I passed one of these trays to see a smoldering half-smoked cig lying in its corner cradle. I flicked the ash as I had seen everyone do many times and pulled the hot butt up to my lips. Not really sure what I was doing, just mimicking the motions of those I had seen I pulled the air into my mouth through the filter. Coughing loudly and eyes watering I quickly dropped it back into its place and ran to the kitchen for some water. Yuck was my only memory. Just yuck. Again this was to be left for the adults.I wished I’d remembered that yuck years later, now 15, when one of my girlfriends pulled out a no doubt stolen pack of her mothers fresh cigarettes from her book bag. She said “come on, lets go smoke one behind the school.” Well, duh. Of course I went.   Awkwardly trying to maneuver this thing back and forth between us without dropping it, in between coughing and laughing we felt oh so grown up all of a sudden. It had an air of being bad about it, but also a feeling of refinement to it. I supposed I felt somehow empowered by this, doing something I knew was wrong but somehow felt so right. I would continue to dabble in this after school or after class activity until my graduation. I’m sure it didn’t take long for the addictive quality to kick in for I was all of sudden smoking a pack a day. I surrounded myself with the other smokers, which there were still many. It seemed so social, so easy. After a meal, or with a cocktail, or out at the club, it was just so effortless and accessible. When people would ask me what brand I smoked I would jokingly say “OP’s”. When they would question what that meant I would tell them. Other Peoples. I wasn’t brand loyal at this point and in the back of my head I always had that silly nagging thought which was “if I buy my own carton then I would truly be an addicted real smoker, so until such a time I would bum other peoples instead.”Years later my smoking buddies started to fall by the wayside. The lines outside the clubs and bars were not for the VIP’s but for the smokers. The airports posted signs “No smoking within 25 feet of the building.” No one smoked inside anymore. Even on recent trips to Europe I noticed that not “everyone smokes.” I started to feel a bit dirty, less glamorous, almost desperate in my attempts to sneak in a cigarette before a movie night, or a dinner out, or a long plane ride. It became harder and harder to find that secret spot where I could freely puff away not to mention the time it took to find a spot. I remember sending my moms a gift box one Christmas as I wasn’t able to travel to be with them. They videotaped the opening of the box which I had carefully packed with all the gifts and even sprinkling in some potpourri into the box for a little extra effect. The first thing my mom said when opening the box wasn’t how pretty all the packages were but “Well, I see your still smoking Joshy.” In all that beautiful packaging and scented potpourri the boxed smelled of cigarette smoke. I was devastated.My partner who is an avid nonsmoker even admitted to me recently that he never would date anyone more than one time once it was discovered they were a smoker. He said “I should consider myself lucky.” Although we have no secrets from each other I started to feel guilty each time I would go outside to smoke. I felt ashamed but as the addiction reared its ugly head I couldn’t stop. I think about how much time is lost when I have to feed my need for the smoke. I think about how many times I keep him and others waiting for me as I duck behind a building to light up. I see how selfish this habit really is. I’ve let go of so many things that don’t serve me anymore over the years so you would think it would be a natural for me to put it down. I finished making it a resolution every year as that didn’t work. I know from my personality that it usually takes a big event to make me see the consequences of my wicked ways. I pray that this will not be the case with smoking. My partner has been asking me for months now what I’ve wanted for my upcoming 50th birthday. I’m not sure what gifts I want from others, but I think I know what gift I’ll be giving myself.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 28--Just Add Water

50 Days ‘Til 50Day 28Just Add WaterI just realized as the 13th of August draws closer, now only 5 days away that there is no way in hell I’ll be able to pump out 23 more blogs by then. As usual I think to myself, “If I had only started earlier.” No matter, it will get done, as its supposed to get done and I will just keep plugging away even if it trails into September. It’s been an exhilarating and reminiscent journey, this blogging stuff, and I’ve enjoyed most every minute. Even though my intent is to move the writings more of what’s happening today with and around me, it’s been fun rummaging through my stories of the past that have led me to where I am today.   If I just keep reminding myself not to take myself so seriously, then I’ll be just fine.I’ll never forget the day that my partner said to me those electrifying, terrifying words I had been waiting to hear, “I’m ready for us to move in together.” We were involved in a long distance relationship after meeting in California on one of my vacations years ago. Our lives at that time were in such completely different places and we couldn’t do much except meet at different times throughout the year as we could. We had this very strong bond though that kept us plugging away at this long distance thing. Anyone who has ever done this I’m sure will agree with me. They are so completely difficult and stretched me to my absolute limit at times. The distance between us was excruciating for me at times. Also there is no guarantee that after you’ve put all this time and emotion into it that it will have a fairytale ending. It took me a long time to get to this point but it seemed by the time I could completely let go of all of my expectations surrounding it, the answer came. Sometimes the answer is yes, sometimes the answer is no, and sometimes the answer is not now. In this case the answer was yes.My life and world in Miami was coming to a very fast close. As I’m mentioned before my life had gone through a very rocky period, losing my best girlfriend to cancer, my Moms diagnosis of cancer at the same time, and my business not working out the way I had dreamed it would and my own health as well was now paying the price. I was at a pretty low point. I had let a lot of my friendships fall by the way and became very isolated. Isolation is a dangerous place for me to be for any length of time. The harder I dove into my work, the more isolated I became. It felt like I was an actor on a stage, suddenly realizing that I didn’t know a single line of my part. Having always been the social guy it was almost against my nature to hole myself up in my apartment and feign illness or fatigue every time a friend would call to go have dinner or even coffee. The thing about friends is as much as they love you and care for you, if I’m not willing to meet them somewhere in the middle then they will go away. I had almost 18 years of friends I had made over the years in South Florida and was down to my last one or two by the time I left. The dictionary describes a friend as “someone you enjoy being around and look forward to seeing.” Not many people were enjoying being around me during this time. I would just claim fatigue from work as my go to reason for not doing anything with them anymore. It’s sad really how much my isolation was affecting my friendships and me. I didn’t really put two and two together at the time but it took me getting on a plane and moving away before I started to realize and think about these friends, these good friends, these friends I just waived goodbye to as the plane took off.So now I’m in Palm Springs. A beautiful and magical town. A town on the move reminding me in many ways of what South Beach was like over 20 years ago. It quickly became a refreshing change from the hustle and bustle of South Beach. I love it here.  Long having had a love affair with California I always had a wish that one day I would be here.  I was with my partner and was working. It was scary but fun and felt right. Except now I really had no friends. I guess when you enter into a relationship with someone and even more so when you move to their town or city this is pretty normal. Their friends become your friends by proxy. Even though they are cordial and friendly to you, they really have no history with you and know nothing of you. It became very apparent to me that you can’t just add water and have instant friends. Something had to change, and something had to change with me. “Be careful what you ask for as you just might get it”, many of my friends have told me over the years.At the beginning of this year I had a horrible health scare. It was an incredibly difficult sinus infection that literally blew up in an exhausting series’ of bloody noses, ER trips, and a long recovery. I had a lot of time to think about things. When you’re expecting your nose to start bleeding just by getting up to go to the kitchen and back, I stayed pretty close to the bed. Not a fun time. I seem to be that kind of a person. I have to be beaten down pretty hard with things before I’m willing to change. Maybe it’s my ego, my inability to adapt to change, or my own self-will? Whatever it is, I usually have to hit some sort of bottom before the light goes off and hits me aside the head snapping me out of my altered state.On the road of recovery from the complicated sinus infection and getting my strength back up to speed I had this incredible urge to start reaching out to some of my old friends. I don’t think it was because I thought I was going to die or anything (ok, maybe once or twice), but just this need to come out of the shadows and reconnect, to reunite, to tell them what they have all meant to me and how I was so unable to reach out to them during my dark period. Maybe it was a moment of humility? Maybe it was just time. I knew that it had to be done. I first reached out to a friend who had moved to San Francisco years back. I professed to him how sorry I was for my absence and how I regretted missing out on so much of his life by not being there for him and his partner. He said to me, “Oh Mary, get over yourself.” Laughing like we laughed the first time we met over 25 years ago, I guess part of me did get over myself in that moment. Another girlfriend told me after I reached her, “I never went anywhere honey, I’ve just been waiting for you.” It was true. This has led to a series of reconnecting with people from all over. Some closer to me than others but nonetheless I am again humbled and amazed that just by my small effort I’ve been given these gifts over and over again. Facebook is good for this as well. For as much of a bad wrap that it can get at times, it’s pretty amazing in this way. It was apparent that I needed to get with the people. I am becoming more social again, meeting some new and some quite amazing people. I feel more connected. I feel like I’m getting my footing again for I always felt like I had my ladder propped up at the wrong building. I’m making some new friends. I don’t know where I went but it sure is feeling like I’m back on the right track.I miss my friends and even though I know I can’t be with them every second, I know that it takes more than just knowing they are out there for it to work. I still have work to do but it’s a start and a start is better than an end.   To all my friends that try and right me when I want to go wrong, that knew in their hearts that I was still in here somewhere, I thank you. My friends that know what a goofball I can be and still manage to be seen with me in public. My friends that can make me laugh so hard I want to pee my pants.  My friends who not only don’t care if I’m not looking my best or boring, but who don’t even think about it. My friends that will forgive me no matter what I do and who try and help me even when they don't know how. My friends that are honest with me as they make me want to be more honest.I think I have a lot of friends that fit this perfectly.jf

50 Days ‘Til 50 Day 27--In Triplicate

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50 Days ‘Til 50Day 27In TriplicateThe phone rang yesterday and it was my partner Jeff’s friend letting us know that he was in town from LA to see a specialist for a problem with his knee. Swollen and infected has him now walking around on crutches and staying with us for a few days until the antibiotics kick in. I was loading up the trunk of my car after working on a wedding today. I lifted my case of supplies into the trunk and my forehead made contact with the trunks latch causing two small tears in my forehead, which I only noticed when the blood dripped into my eye while I was driving away. After coming home from the supermarket to make dinner this evening Jeff’s friend came running out (well, limping out) to tell me Jeff had just slipped and fell getting into the shower. We have one of those “two steps down showers” in which he hit the first step and landed on his side on the shower floor. He seems to be ok and sadly it’s not the first time this has happened to him. My first thought was we need to sage this house and give it a good cleansing from any bad energy that’s floating around in here. I then said to myself, “well, this has to be it for now, no more bad things as everything happens in three’s.”My Moms’ (yes, I have two) dog, Rosie had been facing some old age and old man problems and finally succumbed to it and passed away the other day. I was at a meeting and one of the men was sharing that his dog has passed away in his arms the night before. Lastly that same night a girlfriend of mine was leaving a restaurant to be greeted by a very amorous and needy stray dog. She brought him home and put out pictures and messages on social media to see if she could find the owner. Again, it all seemed to happen in three’s. I’ve decided to dig a bit deeper into this common belief that bad things happen in sets of three. From natural disasters to celebrity deaths to household mishaps, the idea is embedded in the Western cultural psyche and in mine. Here’s some interesting information I came across.  Thank you to Scott C. Gruber for his words on Hub Pages that shed some light on all of this.“Why we have an affinity for the number three is a mystery, but it may be due to our natural tendency toward narrative. This is more than just a societal trait, but is wired into the cognitive processes of our brains.  Three is an important number in the Western literary tradition. Aside from its religious significance in the Christian concept of the Holy Trinity (Father, Son, and Holy Ghost) and in Hebrew Numerology, the number three is at the root of the narrative structure. Most Western literature follows a three-act structure, introducing characters and concepts in Act I, developing the plot through conflict in Act II, and resolving the conflict in Act III. In addition, the Rule of Three is a key rhetorical device used in children's literature, comedy, and public speaking. Fairy tales such as The Three Pigs, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and The Three Billy Goats Gruff invoke this rule by setting a pattern in the first two interactions between characters, then breaking it in the third.  The wolf blows two houses down, and then fails on the third. Goldilocks finds the bears' porridge too hot, too cold, and then just right. The troll passes on eating the first two goats and gets soundly beaten by the third.This format is also at the root of many jokes, setting up a pattern with two anecdotes and delivering a punchline with the third. Public speakers will also employ it when using three points to make an argument, or three adjectives to describe something the speaker wishes to emphasize. With this tradition of threes so deeply ingrained in our literary culture, it is little wonder we look for patterns of three in random events such as the aforementioned celebrity deaths and natural disasters. Alas, these patterns only exist in our minds.”I had always thought my lucky number was 7 and even 13. I'm not sure I can handle things happening in 7’s but I’ve learned it doesn’t much matter. For whatever comes along and there has been and I'm sure will be many things that come along, all I can do is try and smile through the bad times. To know on the most fundamental level that even the bad times are good. I avoided full participation in my life for years out of fear. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of the unknown, fear of people, fear of what may or may not come. To practice the opposite of fear, or faith, continues to be an ongoing challenge for me and takes a lot of practice. I’ve learned with every yin there is a yang so if it’s the bad that will come in 7’s than I believe that there will be some good 7’s just on the other side. The universe will look after me, and you. 3-fold.jf  

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 26--Wedding Daze

50 Days 'Til 50Day 26Wedding Dazeeditor’s note: This writing is by no means to bash any or all brides both past and present. It is my first hand account of all things bridal from my vantage point as a hair and makeup artist and all the names have been changed to protect the innocent and the insane. Again, the Today Show had one of its riveting stories this morning. This new trend in weddings to either purchase or rent a drone that has a camera attached to it and use it during the ceremonies to produce this dizzying footage that I guess even the most noted and skilled photographers now cannot produce. The newsman was in a building in Miami where I have worked on many weddings. I first noticed how loud this drone was. You could barely hear the reporter reciting his story as this giant space age insect thing whirred around his head. It sounded like a truck was circling the lobby in this landmark building. “This can’t be good” I said to myself.  My next thoughts were these. “How long will it take before a drone whacks a bride in the head trying to capture that perfect “I do” moment?” Or, “ how long before one gets caught in her veil lifting her off her Louboutin’s and into the air swirling around like a bridal cyclone above her guests below?” I’m really convinced this can’t be good as I'm now having flashbacks of a recent Tom Cruise movie in which drones zoom right up to your face and after a quick proper scan of your body and decide if you were good or evil . If they don’t like you, in a flash you are reduced to a pile of dust. Ok, now I'm really really convinced, “this is NOT a good idea.”When I entered the beauty industry I had no idea where my path would lead me. I had even less of an idea about doing hair and makeup for weddings. I would think that if I was called upon to help my girlfriends with their hair for their weddings it would be a sort of casual drive by hair styling involving lots of wine and lots of Aqua Net. I had no idea I would be lured into the world of weddings nor did I have any idea how much of a business it was becoming and how lucrative it would turn out to be. I had attended a wedding of a high school classmate shortly after we graduated, when I was still in beauty school and it was a lovely ceremony. This would be the last time for years to come that I would attend a wedding as a guest.My first big wedding I was hired to work on will forever be seared into my brain. It was a big one. The bride’s family was high up on the political ladder in Miami and I knew this was going to be no shotgun wedding celebration. One of the big old deco hotels on Miami Beach would serve as the backdrop for the ceremony as well as the reception. As with many of these older hotels that showcased musical groups of those eras gone by, many of them had theaters and stages inside the hotels. Back in its heyday you’d have Judy Garland singing at one hotel and the Beatles only blocks away performing at another. It had to be an amazing time there. These theaters were not huge like the Nokia’s of today but were adequate to hold a good amount of people; also the thought of this brides  wedding planner when she convinced this bride that the stage would be a great venue for the wedding and then the after party would move into one of the grand reception halls afterwards. I have learned over the years that wedding planners are actually close to God. When I bitch and moan about how tired I am after working 6 or 7 hours, they have been with these girls since the inception. Working tirelessly through what to eat, scouting locations, what flowers will flatter the brides eyes the most, and mostly playing big Momma to Mothers of the brides and all the bridesmaids and a stray groom here and there. This is not a blog about the phenomenon of the Bridezilla for its been done a million times already.  Just for the recore I have witnessed it first hand over and over again but this is not about that.  It’s such an emotionally charged event in these peoples' lives it’s almost impossible not to spew every one of your emotions all over anyone who is within shot distance.So the stage was set, literally. After the curtains opened to reveal a “Garden of Eden” theme it was agreed upon that the bride would be lowered from the ceiling on a swing and walk to the front of the stage to greet her “Adam”. Remember this was a working stage with catwalks, pulleys, scaffolding, ropes, etc all stored above the stage and in this wedding planners greatest thinking she somehow got the bride to actually scale a small ladder up into the eves of the stage, in her bridal gown, and wait to be lowered by stage hands that looked as if they should be working the local county fair rather than at this high profile wedding. As this was before cell phones and all the fancy ear buds and microphones the wedding teams use nowadays, to run without a hitch, it had to be done with the utmost in timing, counted out by the music, and a lot of hand gestures from the ceiling person to the floor person 20 feet below. I just had to pray that her hair wouldn’t get tangled up in the ropes of the swing. So the music started up, the curtains opened, and the bubble machine started blowing its little gems across the stage. I guess the ceiling person didn’t see the floor person flailing from below to not drop the swing. The swing slowly creaked down from the ceiling to the gasps of the audience. Her dress billowed up almost to her face from all the layers of tuille but she was happy, if not a bit scared from the height. The swing started to rock to and fro in a slow rhythmic stance to the music. Helped by her wedding party once she reached the floor, the choreography was supposed to be they would help her off the swing and walk her to the center stage to join her groom. In a surreal moment and after her bridesmaids whispered a few things in her ear it all became apparent what had happened.He never showed up.Left at the swing.  As the sad swing made its slow ascent back up into the rafters I didn't think I would ever be the same again. She went on to marry many more times over the years and hopefully stayed clear of any more swings.Ironically years later, I was back at the same hotel. You find that a lot in weddings. There are those half dozen places that everyone must use for their fairytales to play out. By now this hotel had received a 40 million dollar facelift and the stage had been removed. Thank God, I thought when I entered the hotel flashing back to that memorable night on the swing. This family, the Goldfarb’s were amazing. They had more money then I will probably ever see in my lifetime and they planned to show it off to everyone. As the father of the bride whispered in my ear when I saw the white horses (in the hotel), the 10 foot tall ice sculptures, and more food than I’ve ever seen on any cafeteria line I’ve ever stood in; he leaned over and said to me “Not bad for 100 thousand, huh?” Oy veh was all that came to mind. But heck, if you got it, why not go big. The Mother of the bride was fluttering around the room dragging the wedding planner over the coals with each breathing moment. When the planner was asked if her team had located 250 pashmina wraps for all the women guests I almost pooped my pants. Miami was going to be cool that night, a freezing 69 degrees and the brides Mother not wanting any of her guests to be cold sent the planner and her entourage out to all the retail stores in Miami and Miami Beach and actually found 250 of the coveted cashmere throws, all in black. Each woman was to be handed one as she walked onto the red carpet that runwayed from the hotel to the sandy beach at the oceans edge. God forbid the women would have to walk the sand in their heels. The waterfront was beautiful. The chuppah was amazing, red and white flowers as far as you could see and the perfect canopy for the soon to be wed couple. I was locked in the room with the bride so I had very little contact with the Mother as she was running around for her life to make sure everything was perfect. At the close of the wedding cages of live white doves were also to be released as the sun set over the horizon behind the chuppah. It was a gorgeous sight to be sure. If anyone has experienced any length of time in South Florida we all have witnessed these freak hurricane strength storms that blow in late afternoon, do their business, and are gone in 60 seconds. High up in the hotel we could see the black clouds moving closer and I swear for a brief second I could hear her Mother screaming, from 30 floors below. It what can only be described as a scene from an Irwin Allen movie, we all ran out to the rooms balcony to see the chuppah scooped up in the winds and carried up and over the hotel, never to be seen again. The waves washed up onto the shore to cover all the red carpet with seaweed and sand. The doves’ containers rolled on their sides releasing all the caged birds, in which they must have followed the chuupah as they were never seen or heard from again either. The guests chairs were floating in the water and it looked like a bizarre game of bobbing for apples from our vantage point. And then, we all saw her. The Mother was in the ocean in her 25 thousand dollar Armani Prive gown pulling chairs out of the ocean as if rescuing passengers from a shipwreck. She was soaked from head to toe, her hairpiece floating away behind her. She looked up at the bride’s room with only a bird feather in her hand screaming up to us, "the chuppah blew away, the chuppah blew away." I now thought I had seen it all.I’ve lost count on how many weddings I’ve worked on but know it has to be in the hundreds. I’ve witnessed and participated in things you can’t even imagine. The bride that took a few to many xanax in the room we were getting ready and got so relaxed and tired she announced to the room of her bridesmaids that she would be taking a bath. The bathtub sat in the middle of the suite as she filled the tub and sat there for an hour, completely nude, in front of us all, with her fresh hair and makeup not even touched by the splashing water. We had to keep checking her pulse to make sure she didn’t slip under the water. I had another bride who was so nervous compounded with this Tourette like tick where she would jerk her face for no apparent reason. Of course I was curling her hair during one of those jerks and the curling iron smacked her right on her cheek leaving a 3-inch burn mark down the side of her face. Try and cover that with makeup. I’ve seen more boobs and asses than any gay man should probably have seen but I was always deemed safe in their rooms. I would joke with these girls that I was the last man that would ever see them naked again while they were single. I’ve had to glue rhinestones onto these boobs in addition to their groin area so the groom would see her sparkle in the bedroom that night. I'm glad this trend of Va-jazzling was short lived. I lifted huge bridal gowns up and over my brides heads and guided them backwards into the powder rooms, navigating their bums to the toilet as they had forgotten to pee prior to being strapped into the dress. Ripped dresses, broken heels, crying brides, crying grooms, crying children, crying Mothers…Isn't this supposed to be a happy time?  I think now, I’ve seen it all.At the end of the day however the bride and groom or nowadays the bride and bride and groom and groom do get married. It may not be how they thought it would be but it does happen. They get union-ed, joined, remarried, divorced and married again but mostly they get married regardless of Mother Nature, Mothers of the brides, and Mother-in-laws. The love is professed and the sanctity takes place for all to witness. I’ve hinted to my partner many times of what he thinks of marriage. Hint Hint.  He says without missing a beat, “Hell no!” Alas, I’ll always be a bridesmaid.....Sigh.Now, I want to go price and research those drones. I think maybe it could be my newest money making venture.jf 

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 25--Half Measures

50 Days 'Til 50Day 25Half Measures“Half measures availed us nothing.” One of my favorite lines in a book that has saved me from myself many times over the course of my adult life. As I hit my half way point on my blog, I’m again faced with that predicament of “I did it, got half way and it was fun, now drop it.” Or “do I persevere through it and get to the end, feeling accomplished and satisfied that I stuck it out?” I must admit, I'm in a slump. The thoughts of what to write about, how to say it, and whether or not it’s what I truly want to say are just flying through my brain in a mess of a hailstorm. I’ve spoken of this before some blogs ago about one of my most debilitating traits and it’s certainly rearing its ugly head at the moment. The inability I seem to have to not follow things through to the end. Of course there are many things I have persevered at over the years, my career for one has kept me busy and satisfied for the last 30 years, so I know its possible. Of course many a person in the healthcare and therapy fields will just slap another label on me, in this case ADD I’m pretty certain. Since I cant bare to have one more label attached to myself, I'm looking for other reasons and if this really can be conquered or not? Keep it simple keeps popping into my head... so here goes.Even though my brain is a bit scattered at the moment, I’ve been enjoying feeling my feelings (mostly) and enjoying the smaller moments in life as of late. Is this a turning 50 thing? Stopping to smell the roses, dancing in the rain, just slowing down a bit more? If it is, I think I’m liking it. Since my brain jogs faster than my feet can move, it really takes some conscious work to slow it all down. Split attention I think was the term my therapist used years back when I was really struggling with my focus issues. I was starting my own business and I was basically a train wreck. “Attention is the most valuable thing I have” she would tell me. When I jump from emails to phone calls, to text messages, and then back to the computer screen, then a Twitter or Facebook update, I don’t get anything really important done. I allow interruptions and curiosity to hijack my day, without any meaningful benefit. The bouncing from one thing to the other turns into a habit over time, and I can’t seem to focus on anything for more than a few minutes. I have an addictive personality and I can be addicted to most anything I have learned, including adrenaline. She described it to me as “attention being a mental muscle.” Like all my muscles if I continue to work on them with exercise for example they will get stronger. It’s the same with a mental muscle. It takes time to build it and grow it and make it stronger.  "Do they make steroids for brains?" I'm wondering?(Ok, so I just got up, made a coffee, checked my Facebook, and answered my Moms email. On we go…)I’ve noticed the moment I ignore what’s important, everything in my head and around me becomes fair game, and I get lost in an illusion of urgency. There are these perceived urgent things that I have to do and although they do need to be dealt with its never quite on the urgent scale I perceive them to be. But when I’m in the middle of an important project and I realize I forgot to pay a bill, I don’t need to stop everything and do it. It can be taken care of after I finish what I’m doing. But instead I’ll jump on it and spend 15 minutes or so. Then I’ll remember something else. By that point I stopped working and resistance got the best of me. So I resort to numbing my brain with distractions. It all started with ignoring what’s important. It’s fairly easy to stop anything. It’s much harder to pick it back up, especially when I lose momentum. Knowing what’s important and choosing to do it, is a skill. I do get better at it with practice and other than matters of life and death, I plod away at the tasks at hand trying to do the most important things first and let the rest fall into place. I am amazed that I can even get myself dressed, showered, go to work, and come home and make dinner some days.15 years of therapy also bought me the knowledge that to commit to something is to give it my full attention, energy, and devotion. When I’m distracted, I’m not fully committed. I'm the one out at dinner who is on my cell phone checking us in on Facebook, taking the pictures of the food and missing half the conversation.  I’m toying with priorities and time and expecting to get serious results. Commitment means that I decide to do something and I do it, and continue to do it until I complete it, or just drop it. This feast or famine approach to productivity just adds to my stress level and quite frankly is exhausting. So I guess maybe its cutting down on distractions, and creating time for what matters that is part of the answer? When I do work through my tasks and move through the goals I do set for myself the feelings of being overwhelmed do dissolve their own. Maybe its knowing I cant be everything to everyone anymore, that I can choose what’s important in my life and focus on that, not get distracted by the constant chatter of the world around me. My therapist would tell me after I completed something that was important to me to give myself a treat or a reward afterwards. I would laugh and tell her that these “rewards and treats” are what get me in so much trouble in the first place. Moderation has never been one of my strong suits. I’m not sure if it ever will be or if I just reach a point where I accept this is the way I am? For when I’m accepting of all things is when I’m the most free, the most tolerant, and the most loving. Ahhh, this human condition sure is a rollercoaster sometimes.Ok, so I finished. Is this progress? It certainly isn’t perfection but its something. Something for me. Now, what to treat myself with today?jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 24--Inked

50 Days ‘Til 50Day 24InkedEditors note: This was a repost from New Years, a year and a half ago with some small edits. It was probably the first time I had written something of some length and thought and probably got me headed in this writing direction.A dear friend of mine said to me one day, “Josh, your emails and messages are so long. Just stick to the point and the facts and leave it at that.” She was right, except I haven’t quite learned to do that yet. Could this be a resolution for me? Ugh. So on I write.As I read all the wonderful FB messages for the New Year, the only thought I kept having was “wasn’t it just September?” It never ceases to amaze me each year, and we always say the same thing, "where did the year go?" I’ve learned over time there are definite natural ebbs and flows during the year yet it does some how feel sped up during certain times of the year. You’d think it would just feel normal by now. One of my clients at work today asked me what my tattoos meant that I had painted down the back of my neck. I paused for a second and then chuckled to myself as I had always said to myself that I would only use something that was extremely special to me if I was ever to get a permanent adornment on my body. For a few seconds I drew a blank in my explanation.As an artist I always admired the art form of the tattoo. In my early years I didn’t think to do it, as it always seemed like it was something extremely special and unless you were a biker or a rock star, which I was neither, I wasn’t to have one. Also they weren’t as common as they are now. I did pierce my ear, dye my hair black, and always had black eyeliner with me, but none of these were as permanent as a tattoo. My first, I remember was done in San Francisco with my dear friend maybe Amy Nash, now some 20 years ago. I had a card that I carried around with me in my man-bag for years (literally years) that had the Chinese symbol for the word "Love". I was just drawn to it and knew in my heart if I were to ever get one it would be this. We were walking through the Haight and she said to me, "here’s one of the best tattoo parlors in the city", pointing to a small storefront. We were probably on our way to get food and I had no intention of becoming inked on the spot. I thought this was something that you planned out for years, made an appointment, had the appropriate amount of numbing paraphernalia in you and then went for it. Some things happen in life very quickly so in we went and she held my hand through the whole process. It was surprisingly easy and almost painless and I knew it was right. The word love was emblazoned right over my heart forever. Amy and I were like brother and sister back then, for probably almost 12 years. Sharing some of the most amazing times together and for all intensive purposes, we grew up together. Her path would eventually take her around the states; she got married, has 3 beautiful children with her husband Tony, and now lives in Singapore. Her children speak fluent Mandarin, which blows me away and I guess there is some irony there getting a Chinese symbol as my first tattoo. I miss her dearly. It’s time to reconnect.So I said to my client “the three symbols mean Courage, Strength, and Hope.” He nodded and said “right on”. Remember I do live in California now. At least he didn’t say dude. (Oh wait, that came later on.) I suppose these next three inks are a sort of code of living, a recipe of how I try and live my life on this earth, a reminder when shit hits the fan, or not, that with these four simply complicated words, practiced with fierce diligence, I can weather any storm that may cross my shores. Clients don’t really like when you lift your shirt in the middle of their haircuts to show the other tattoos, so I opted to not and just to leave it at that. I chuckled again realizing that if these symbols were so important to me, why did I put them on my back where I cant see them? I’ve had to use all of these this year in different capacities. Courage to start the year off year, putting my foot down and telling MY truth in my work environment, no matter the consequences. (I was fired for that btw.) Starting anew, at 48, pounding the pavement, suiting up and showing up as they say and being led to a great workspace that I adore today. Strength to persevere through some tricky times that have rocked me to my core. Hope to understand that whatever this life may bring, whether big or small, without hope I have nothing.Lastly, love. For isn’t the love of those around you that gets us through in the end? I experienced a lot of love this year. To my families near and far, who at the end of the day love me in spite of myself. To my friends who are strewn all over the globe, to be blessed to know and have known you all in whatever capacity it is or may have been. Those random small moments that just lifts your spirit through another day. Those friends that will set me right when I’ve wanted to go wrong. Lastly, to my partner Jeff, my rock, my confidant, my best friend, my blanket of love who teaches me each day how to be better, that I can always do more for the common good and grounds me when I want to pole-vault over an anthill. Sometimes he even allows me to teach him. So my wish to you all for the New Year is that you may have courage, strength, hope, and most of all love in all its forms, when its needed, and even when its not. Thank you to you all for showing me the way. Onward and forward and Happy New Year!jf