50 Days 'til 50 Day 22--Talkxting

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50 Days ‘Til 50Day 22TalkxtingIt took me a long time to own that I was indeed an authentic creative type. I would watch my friends who I considered to be highly creative soar at their respective genres and just be amazed that they could translate whatever it was going on inside their minds into something tangible, something creative, and beautiful. I guess at its core this is Achilles heel of all creative and noncreative types. Those feelings of having something that you are so passionate about and if you don’t get it out of you, you’ll just burst. The people who not only have a vision for something, a talent for something, but who can then carry it through to fruition. This was always the kicker for me. Like most creative types my mind would swirl with creative ideas but when it came to actually getting to that point of completion I fell apart. I just couldn’t seem to see it all the way through. Whether I cared too much what others thought, didn’t have the appropriate resources, or was just plain lazy my creative thoughts would just fizzle and disappear only to be replaced with new ones. Probably the area that this holds most true for me is with music. As far back as I can remember music has just been one of those things that speak to me on the deepest of levels. There are moments when I will just play a song over and over again just in awe that the singer/songwriter can get those words from their heads to paper, marry it to the music, and put it out there for all of us to hear. Something so powerful it seems as if it has the ability to bring this crazy ass world together, if even just for a moment.So as the years went on my path would eventually lead me into the highly creative environment as a hair and makeup artist. It took me many years before I said that proudly. I had long suffered from the fact that I didn’t go off to college like so many of my friends. My mom worked at a university, which allowed for their children to get half priced tuition. I think it was a shock to us all when I just barely scraped through my last year of high school and had made no definitive plans to attend or even try to get into college. Beauty college just didn’t have the same ring as Harvard. Luckily and divinely I did have a hidden talent for this hair business and it has brought me 30 years now of working in one of the most dynamic, challenging, and rewarding communities I could have ever imagined. As the creative mind never stops, there have been many times in my career where I started having additional interests. As the technology age sprouted up all around me I began having an interest in graphic arts. I even went to college in Miami for this although not until I was way into my 30’s. I have always felt like a late bloomer to my own life. It always seems to have taken me a bit longer to get into what the status quo may have dictated, but it takes what it takes. Better late to the party I suppose than not at all. It was amazing to be in college. Although I didn’t have the typical on-campus experience, I was at a point in my life where I wanted to learn and wanted to hear what the professors had to say. A far cry from when I was 18 and had absolutely no interest in plopping myself into 4 more years of education.As I breezed through my classes scoring an almost perfect grade point average I realized I did have a talent for this. As graphic arts touches on so many different disciplines, it was hard to focus on just one area but one thing that kept popping up for me was the use of words, text, and creative words as it pertains to graphics. I would come up with these highly creative ideas, word play, double entendres, as long as it involved text I was in. Although I don’t regret not going to college at an early age, it was becoming very apparent to me that if I had, and had been more focused; I probably would have gone into some sort of advertising. It’s all that same creative process of conception through to completion. All my projects leaned heavily into using words, creating words, and even some product ideas. I took one of them as far as I could both financially and emotionally before letting it go. I came close to getting it to market but realized it’s a full time job to accomplish this or takes an incredible stroke of luck. I sure wish they had Shark Tank back then as I would have broken the sound barrier to have stood in line for that opportunity.Even though my life would return me to the beauty industry as a business owner, I have continued to play with graphics, ideas, text, etc. This blogging project is no doubt a continuation of this outlet. My partner Jeff and I were driving home recently from a trip away and the 8-hour drive gave me lots of time to think. I was laughing at myself, as I seemed to be spending hours of that drive on my smart phone, texting friends, writing on Facebook, and emailing. I said to Jeff, “I have been texting people so much, I've convinced myself I’ve actually had a real conversation with them.” Knowing me as he does he nodded, as he can confirm what a mad texter I am. I replied back to his head nod that “I’ve been talkxting.” We both laughed and again I patted myself on the back that I had come up with another fun word, a “Josh-ism” as friends have referred to some of the words I’ve come up with. I’ve also learned over the years that its highly unusual to come up with anything original anymore. It was my biggest challenge in school to come up with something that was an original thought or idea, not plagiarized from someone else, not something that I had already seen before and just embellished it, but a truly original thought. I was convinced that this word, talkxting, was going to be the next big word of the year. I could make an app, sell it to Apple, make appearances on the Today Show and all the late night talk shows showing off my original “word of the year”. By the way last years word of the year was “Selfie” (which I did not come up with.) "Selfie" beat out seven competitors, including "twerk," "schmeat" (synthetically produced meat) and "bitcoin" for the word of the year crown. It has spawned herds of images on social media. There are 57 million photos bearing its hashtag -- #selfie -- on Instagram alone.Immediately I went to Google. For if its not on Google it isn’t so, right? As in many searches online for my so-called original ideas, that completely crushing feeling passed over me as there it was glaring back at me from the screen; “Talkxting” was already a word. Damn it. Another brilliant idea crushed. (At least I could save money on having to buy a new suit for all my TV appearances I thought.) Now the definition I found is not identical to the same way I used to define it and it hasn’t found its way to Merriam-Webster’s dictionary just yet. I found it on Urban Dictionary. That infuriating online dictionary that I swear is just a bunch of stoners, sitting around getting paid for coming up with asinine words. (Again, I'm about 20 years to late.) They have several definitions with the main one being: “An exchange of more than four text messages making it a conversation.”  I still like mine better.Ahh……sigh.jf  

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 21--Fathers and Sons

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50 Days 'Til 50Day 21Fathers and Sons *this is a repost from my Facebook page this years Father’s Day with some minor editsFathers and SonsOn this Father’s Day, it seems almost impossible to read through FB without seeing a post in celebration of Fathers around the country. 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 anymore…or do I?If you’ve been following my blog you’ll know that my story is a bit different from the traditional mom, dad, sister, brother families I grew up surrounded by. As an adopted child, I as of yet have never met my birth Father or Mother. In a random stroke of luck years back I met one of my blood brothers, Bill Bowser, who actually found my family and me. It was an amazing moment to be sure and we quickly discovered many similarities including having grown up near each other and even attending rival high schools, I in Durham, NH and he in Somersworth, NH. He’s two years younger than I am and today lives in Tennessee with his wife and family. He had access to some then private information about all of us and I was to find out that there were 6 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 in the shows beginning thrilled me to no end, although I don’t know if we would have had an “Alice” in the center box or not. Bill went on to locate our natural Mother and was never contacted by her after she was made aware of his search for her. A story far to 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 of us in total. It was the 1960s 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. As I’ve written before I was adopted at age 3 into an amazing family, the Fullers. My fathers name is Enoch Doble Fuller, Jr. Sounded very impressive to me even as a young child. 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 my parents owned. 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 cool too. My Mother, Marylou Jordan would fill the role of all things maternal and paternal as Enoch passed away when I was just 11 and my sister Amey was 8. I also never got to meet Marylou’s Father, Guysbert Bogart Vroom Jordan. These names today sound so elegant and regal to me which is a far cry from growing up when I just wanted to be named John or Mark. They Jordan’s lived in Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania and my grandfather was sadly stricken with polio and passed away when my mother was a teenager. Her Mother, Corinne would also come to live with us all at the hotel. It was truly a family run operation, as my grandmothers would work in various “as needed” positions throughout the hotel. Abbie took a liking to the housekeeping department and Corinne, or Mimi as we called her, would set up her talents as the hostess and guest greeter in the hotels gift shop. Abbie was what they called “good New England stock.” A strong busty woman who had no problem wrestling up and down the stairs of the hotels three floors her arms full of linens and towels and a vacuum cleaner hose wrapped around her neck. I think she took her aggressions out on many of the linens in the hotel rooms each day flipping and swatting them into perfect position on the beds. Mimi enjoyed her time arranging the gift shop just so and would handwrite each days menu about 40 times over and then thumbtack them to bread boards which were placed in front of each guest at their table in the dining room. After the passing of my grandfather my grandmother, not having many trade skills would go on to reception at a local beauty salon and my mother would have to take odd jobs while still in high school. The Kelly family (Grace Kelly to be exact) were neighbors of theirs and my mom would go on to include in her resume babysitting the future Queen of Monaco.I had a few “uncles” of the family and a Godfather as well, but these men didn’t have much impact on my life to my memory. Maybe at the time they did but as a five and six year old, they just seemed like old men to me. I often think of my dad Enoch and what his life was like. He graduated from the University of New Hampshire 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 university gals? Was he a party animal? He had brilliant red hair and was given the nickname “Red.” I do know he was a hard worker as he had said many times, “running a hotel is a 365 day, 7 day a week operation.” I knew he was a sharp dresser from all the photos I have of him and of course being the hotel owner, he was constantly in the front of the house greeting all the guests and pouring drinks in the bar. He was gone 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 my memories of him are few. I think I’ve put a very heavy wall up surrounding him and my memories of him; as to lose a parent so young is extremely painful. Fortunately my Mom took loads of photos so I can squeeze out memories of him, of us, of things we did together, moments in time. In her retirement years my mom would go on to pursue her interest of writing and penned many books of which the first was about their lives as hoteliers. The book is called “There’s a Horse in the Ladies Room” and is a wonderful tribute to Enoch and filled with stories of what really goes on behind the scenes at a hotel. From the photos it was easy to see our family 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 to see the circus and visit family members (no, not in the circus). It was also evident in the photographs that both he and my mom loved my sister and I very much.So on this Fathers Day I celebrate and am grateful each day for having the family I do today. To Enoch, wherever you are, I know each day you did the best you could do. Through all the highs and lows of your life you left us to go out into the world and show true genuine care for people, to have respect and compassion for the people in this world. To show us affection so we could go out and show affection and lastly and maybe the most important when all else fails and on the days when you just feel like you can’t go on, put on a suit coat and cuff links 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 this world way to early and I wish you could see what pretty amazing kids we have grown up to become.Or maybe you can?Thanks Dad.jf  

50 Days 'til 50 Day 20--50 Shades of Gay

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50 Days 'Til 50Day 2050 Shades of Gay editors note: Blog #20. Woohoo. Almost half way there.The Today Show had another of their “unofficial” surveys this morning of what the cool men after 50 should and should not do. I'm jumping the gun here as I still have several weeks to go before I hit the big “5” “0” but it got me thinking what does cool look like and am I following the rules to preserve my cool status as I venture into 50? God, I hope so. LOL! Their lists were short but provided much banter between the hosts. The do’s list was: embrace your baldness, date someone your own age, and trim your nose and ear hair. The do not’s list was: don’t not follow your kids on social media, do not spray tan, and what seemed to be the most important, do not wax your chest. Since I don’t have children, or wax my chest, and have only spray tanned once(orange anyone?), I guess I will be cool after all, phew!I don’t remember at what age I started to hear the words cool, popular, the “in crowd.” My Mom told me when I started nursery school she had to sit in the back of the room for half the day as I broke into a hysterical sobbing fit. As much as I loved learning my social game was little to nil. My vague memories of those early years were not of me banding together with other groups of kids. I just wanted to get through the day, unscathed, and make it home safely. I was a painfully shy boy and even though I would try everything at least once, the feelings of low self esteem and low self worth plagued me almost from the start. My self esteem back then seemed to be linked to my performance. I was a good boy if I got good grades. I was a good boy if I cleaned my room, etc. So I was constantly performing for others for my value and for my worthiness. It took me a long time to realize I was just good. No strings attached, not because I behaved how I thought you wanted me to behave or did what you told me, but just plain good.I was able to hide for a while in the classrooms and various extracurricular activities but eventually, as I sadly still believe is a right of passage for every kid, the names started coming. I heard the word gay for the first time probably in 5th grade, which would have me at about 10 years old. I don’t even think the first time I heard it I even knew what it meant. My only reference to gay was in “don we now our gay apparel” each Christmastime. I knew from their tone they weren’t talking about my clothing. Whoever came up with the phrase “sticks and stones can break my bones but names can never hurt me” can suck it. You surely didn’t walk in my shoes. Of course at that age I didn’t have a full grasp of what this meant. I only knew that I would be chased around by the big boys and girls at school until I was out of breath, having to walk home with a head full of “fag, sissy, girly girl.” It was pretty exhausting. It seems like the labels we get at that early stage follow us through all of school. Since there were no activities after school in the “fag-club” I pretty much had to trudge through the years on my own, fending for myself as much as I could. My survival skills, which shouldn’t be any surprise, would start to develop from a sharp wit and tongue, which just antagonized my antagonizers and my ability to run fast. I was pretty short until about my sophomore year in high school so could easily run and duck into the bushes or behind buildings to fend off my fearless followers. I also would latch on to the other oddballs who in my limited perception I would think somehow less of them, which made me feel superior to them…sort of. If there are parents out there who are teaching their children that they are good just because, my hats are off to you. This is pretty progressive parenting. Don’t get me wrong, my parents loved me deeply and I'm sure they knew I was a bit gay way before I did. The fact that I would make up these plays to perform for my parents with my sister and I would play the wife might have been one giveaway. My mom also owned these kelly-green satin pumps, very chic for back then as she was and my Halloween costumes for about 3 years had to revolve around these shoes. Picture a black scuba outfit with snorkel and mask as a costume but instead of flippers, I sported those green heels. That had to be a sign, no? Being gay back then still had a dark stigma to it. It wasn’t talked about as openly as it is today. We have come a long way, just in my lifetime and I hope and pray that one day it wont even be a news issue at all. It won’t matter. Why do you think I was in the glee club?I’ve heard from many gay people over the years how they “felt different” from an early age. I don’t know if what I felt was different because I just felt like I was me. I didn’t know much different back then, I just knew I wanted to fit in. It wasn’t until all the labels starting coming my way that I would start to feel somehow less than, or strange, or bad for who I was. I'm a believer that you are born this way and you can do whatever it is you want to try and not be, but at the end of the day, it usually always comes out. I’ve met many men and women who came out in their 50s after being married for 30 years and raising families. It must take so much courage to do that. At least I was able to claim my gayness from a pretty early age. I had to get of school before I could officially come out. Even though most of my schoolmates knew, and by then so did I, I still had to wait. The summer I graduated high school I moved up to Ogunquit, ME. This gay friendly summer resort town was only an hour from where I lived and being young and sort of cute could land you a job pretty much anywhere in the town. I finally was cool. I finally fit in. I was surrounded by other like people old and young and it was heaven. All the names and labels that had been bestowed on me over the years just seem to disappear. All the courage that I had to exude over the years was finally vindicated. I think, all ego aside, the one word I could see on my epitaph would be courage. Coincidentally, or not, I also have a tattoo on the back of my neck that says courage.So, how do we cultivate the courage, compassion, and connection that we need to embrace our imperfections and to recognize that we are enough -- that we are worthy of love, belonging, and joy? Why was I always so afraid to let my true self be seen? Why was I so paralyzed by what other people thought? It’s an ongoing battle still to this day but has gotten much easier. That’s one thing turning 50 gives you. Having to apologize less for me being me, and not having to act the way I think others want me to or expect me to. A deep sense of love and belonging is an instinctual need of all of us. We are biologically, physically, and spiritually wired to love, to be loved, and to belong. When those needs are not met, we don't function as we were meant to. We break. We fall apart. We ache. We hurt others. This has led me many times to large amounts of suffering. Making the long journey from "What will people think?" to "I am enough” is definitely practicing courage. I don’t need to shove it in people’s faces to get my point across either. I did that for many years because I could, for one, and for the shock value as well. I looked up the word courage just now online. The root of the word courage is cor -- the Latin word for heart. Courage originally meant to speak one's mind by telling all one's heart. This is so beautiful to me. Courage is about putting myself out there, practicing the courage it takes to tell my own stories and tell the truth about who I am. I don’t think it gets any braver than that.By the way, I will still turn my head for a great pair of green satin pumps.jf

50 Days ‘til 50 Day 19--Through The Looking Glass

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50 Days ‘til 50Day 19Through The Looking Glass“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” I can hear the man screaming out to Dorothy and her friends. It used to send shivers up my spine as a little boy, even when I knew who the man was behind the big green curtain. We used to have the soundtrack on vinyl and I would set it to play on the stereo each night as my room was atop the staircase and I would fall asleep into my far away dreamland to the girl from Kansas dreaming of far off lands.  Hoping to meet my very own scarecrow, tin-man, and lion. Over the years I’ve had many thoughts on these children’s stories. The Cinderella’s, the Snow White’s, the Red Riding Hood’s. The fundamental innocence in all the hero’s and heroine’s of these stories. The same innocence that lie in all of us. The evil that would always rise up to challenge this innocence, only to be banished back to their dark depths where they came from, lying and waiting until the next time.   To see that the road is so much less terrifying going through it with people around you than by yourself. That love is the answer to everything. Think about it for a second. These stories are actually quite brilliant. There have been many times in my life that I'm convinced that these are all we needed to learn as school children and be totally fine to go out into the world to start our lives.I have always been a dreamer. I'm not sure if that is a trait of a creative mind or not, but I was and still am. My mom would share stories with me when it came time to bring the report cards home; they all had similar comments about me written on the cards. “Joshua would do so well if he wasn’t such a daydreamer” or “if Joshua would just apply himself more, his grades would be perfect.” Of course life happens to us all as we grow up and I know now, although I hope I never stop dreaming, I can’t just sit on a hilltop and dream my life to happen. I have to jump in and participate in my life. Sometimes I can still drift off. I see it a lot now in all this new writing fascination. Writing definitely makes me wander. I can be sitting here on a great run of thought and all of sudden I'm off somewhere completely different, somewhere far away, for minutes at a time before I come back. I’ve written several times in these blogs about my young years, about being adopted. Although I don’t use that as a way to feel sorry for myself today, things must have happened to me in those first several years that allowed me to become this dreamer. Maybe it was a way to deal with what was going on around me. Maybe it was to keep myself company when I was lonely or needed something and no one was there to provide it to me. I was in a foster home with 12 other children and 1 house-mother. I'm certain we all couldn’t have gotten our every need met all the time. It was probably a survival mechanism, even as a three-year old. I definitely came to my adopted parents as a confused child. My original name was Warren. These were the parents that ‘returned’ me back to the foster home after a bit citing I was too difficult for them to care for. My name in the foster home was Eric and then my name would change to Joshua. My mom tells me the story of after they had brought me home, I wouldn’t always respond to being called Joshua and one day I stopped in front of a hallway mirror and pointed to my reflection staring back at me and said to my mom, “there’s Eric.” I'm sure it broke her heart, to witness this but as time passed Eric disappeared into only a distant faded memory.So let me come clean about something. I’ve always had a fascination of looking into other people’s windows. Now before you call the authorities on me about this let me make this disclaimer:I don’t walk up to stranger’s homes and stand there and stare in their windows. For one, that’s not what I’m talking about and two, IM not that creepy. A little voyeuristic I guess, but not a sociopath.It started as a young kid. We would take lots of road trips and living in a rural area we would always be driving somewhere or another. We had a station wagon and I would either sit in the back seat or in the "way back"  facing out the back window. I’d put my chin in my hands and just stare out the window. I’d be fascinated when we would pass houses and the lights were on and I would see people inside. Of course in a car it all happens in about 3 seconds so I could never get a full look on what was happening but I would dream of what they were doing? Were they doing the same thing we did in our house? Was the woman happy washing the dinner dishes standing in the window staring out into the night? What were they all watching on the television? I could dream for hours on this. We also walked a lot in our town. We would take afternoon walks or after dinner walks. Screen doors and front doors were always open so I could get a sneak peek inside of the house. I could see the front door entryways and the coat racks, the family dogs or cats staring back at me from the doorway. I could smell the fresh-baked cookies or the roast in the oven. The holiday times were the best. To see the houses all lit up in their holiday finest made me so warm inside. To know that there was a family inside, a happy family perhaps, enjoying their moments and each other. I think it usually made me happy. My memories were of happiness, maybe some sadness, but mostly of curiosity. All except, of course for the creepy dark house on the corner. The one that had the urban legends surrounding it. The woman carrying a candle in one hand and a black cat in the other. I wouldn’t look for very long at those windows, but I would still look. I never saw the woman with the candle but I always walked a bit faster passed those houses.I have wondered many times what it was I was looking for through those windows? What it was I hoping I would see? I guess in my young thinking I was wondering if what they had going on behind the glass was better than what I had? I was wondering what it felt like to sit there at their dinner table and taste their food. I would wonder if they were all happy and if I would be happier inside with them? It’s amusing because I had an amazing childhood with loving parents, a sister, pets, friends, a nice house, and food in my tummy. Its funny I would even want to stray from all of that. I have learned much about myself over the years and now that I approach 50 it’s all become a bit clearer. I wasn’t so much looking into their windows and wishing I were there, I was looking out of my own window afraid that someone was going to come take me away. The answer was inside of me all the time, not in some stranger’s window. The view from my window today is pretty darn good, but I still want to see your Christmas tree.jf 

50 Days 'Til 50. Day 17--Road Trip

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50 Days 'Til 50Day 17Road Trip editors note*    having been on a short vacation and only having my ipad, it was a bit challenging to write it out my blog on the ipad and post it...i think this posted already and apologize if its a duplicate...still learning here...  jfIt was an early this morning as we knew we were going to face a 9 hour drive today from Palm Springs to San Francisco. Groggy out of the gate I fumbled around the house trying to get all the tasks on the "last minute list" accomplished. Last load in the dishwasher, last minute toiletries packed, our new Somos sleep pillows that are amazing and I knew I wanted to bring them with me since we would be driving and they could easily fit into the car as opposed to a sliver of overhead space on a flight. The dogs had to be loved quickly and then get them to where they were staying. I think it's kind of like a road trip for them as well. All the rushing around to then sit in the car seat for the next 9 hours. I was used to road trips in Florida leaving Miami to the Keys or to Orlando. Those clocked in at a bit over three hours and they were grueling I thought back then, but nothing like the 9 hours driving up the California coast. Since it's to what is probably my favorite city in the US though, we just pushed through. It's exciting going to a place you love and although my main reason for coming here is to say a final farewell to one of my dear friends who passed away a month ago, I will still enjoy being here.It's a magical, expensively gorgeous city and I do leave a bit of my heart here every time I come and go. My head is full of many emotions and I plan to honor my relationship with him in a proper more thought out blog this weekend while I'm here. For now I will just claim fatigue as my reasons for keeping my post so short today. I'm learning doing this 50 blog thing that sometimes they don't have to be pages long, that sometimes the most powerful words can be written in several words. This city is a constant source of inspiration to me and after a good nights rest I will be renewed and refreshed to jump back in the saddle and forge ahead with my writings. For now I'm here, safe and sound, with my love next to me, and at peace. Sometimes that is just enough.Good night.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 13--Parlez-vous makeup? pt.1

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50 Days ‘til 50Day 13Parlez-vous makeup? (Part 1)I couldn’t let today go by without an acknowledgement to all my French friends on this, their Independence Day, Bastille Day. Those of you who know me personally know that I am a total Francophile, lover of all things French. Being adopted I had access to my birth records many years back and discovered one of my parents was French, the other English. So Voila! It was set before I could even hum the tune of “Sur le Pont D’Avignon”. (Most of you can hum this along too so don’t get discouraged too quickly.)During my educational years, not a super brain when it came to things math and science I did have a love for language, writing, and reading. It seemed to come a bit more natural to me than the other side of my brain stuff that did not. To my memory besides some world history stuff that we were taught I didn’t have much exposure to other lands far away. We traveled quite a bit as a family, but usually it was within a few days drive or to Florida, which seemed like the other side of the world when you’re an 8 year old. Growing up in New Hampshire back then we weren’t a melting pot of various cultures and languages as we are today. We were pretty much white toast when it came to diverse and different cultures and their people. A Chinese restaurant in Portsmouth was about as exotic as it got on world culture. In school I only had two options when it came to taking any language classes, French or Latin. The Latin classes weren’t very full so the French class was packed full of girls and boys reciting our French numbers and alphabet and having to address the teacher only in French. Madame et Monsieur and a few other choice words were all I seemed to take away from those years of classes.After high school I made a quick exit from New Hampshire and ended up in South Florida where it became very apparent that I wouldn’t need any of my French skills but would go on to learn everything Spanish. It’s amazing to live in a city and adopt or be adopted in the culture by proxy. Today I can carry on conversations and do a little reading of the Spanish language thanks to an open mind and being a minority in a city of some 70% Hispanics.As my career as a hair and makeup artist began in Miami, South Beach to be exact, there was a big movement there in the industry of production. Production in this case were movies being filmed there, European companies were flying over to shoot their latest catalogues, modeling agencies were opening on every corner and of course it became a haven for artists living on the cheap. It was dirt-cheap. It was slowly changing out of an era where octogenarians, waiting to meet their Maker, lined the streets and the last of the cocaine cowboys lurked around the alleyways at night. It was an interesting time to be there. Having hardly any experience under my belt as a hair stylist (I had only worked in a few salons for short bursts of time and only did hair, no makeup) this whole new world seemed very exciting to me, highly creative, and I was to quickly find out highly lucrative. I could command $1200 a day for a photo shoot for a catalogue and the clients would even take you to lunch. I was hooked. Since I knew little of the industry the trick was to get hired into one of the modeling agencies that also represented hair and makeup artists. To get the good jobs back then you almost always needed representation from someone that already had the relationships with the clients and could keep you working.These people were called the “bookers”. Positions usually filled by assorted lesbians who secretly lusted after all the girl models, gay men who lusted after the male models, or frustrated women who never made it in the modeling world but could somehow maintain some vengeful power over all these young gorgeous girls. Telling them things like they “weren’t pretty enough” or “weren’t right for the job.” If I just bought these bookers a coffee, maybe a little gift here and there and were just visible and available you’d be in good favor with them and usually get the jobs, at least in the beginning. Mainly just some mild ass kissing would suffice. I was ok with that. The other must-have, as any artist will confirm with me, is the coveted portfolio. We’ve all seen the models walking around with their “books” under their arms trotting around to different agencies and casting calls. This was Mandatory. I'm sure today everyone has their portfolio online, or on their ipad as I do. Back then it was all paper photos slid into an 11” by 14” book that we shopped around to all the perspective clients. Also as technology was changing having your photos on CD was all the rage. The trick of course was to have photos in your book of 1, a famous person who you worked with or 2, pages of a magazine that actually printed your work (tear sheets as they are called in the biz.) Half of my time after a job was spent chasing clients, models, and photographers around to get a photo of my work that I could then proudly move to the first page in my portfolio. I have so much work out there I never got to see or get a copy of. It’s frustrating but you learn to deal with it and just move on to the next job.Stick with me, Paris is coming….I promise.Somehow heaven and earth moved and I got into an agency. Maybe being a smart ass 23 year old or good timing, or whatever it was I was in. The first thing they do is print a composite card for you. It’s usually a 5 by 7 card with images of your work and your name printed boldly across the top. These are skimmed over whenever a client comes into the agency looking for a hair or makeup artist or both. We also carried them around with us as sort of a giant business card to pass out to photographers we would meet, models that we wanted to work with, or basically anyone who would take one. After you had your comp made you would just hope and pray that your booker would call with your next gig with the agency taking a huge percentage of your pay but saved you from having to do all the footwork. I got a few small jobs to start with, mostly as just a hair stylist. I had been asked by the agency if I did makeup and of course I said yes. The truth was the only time I had picked up anything to do with makeup was when I wanted to put black eyeliner on so I could look like one of the Ramone’s. I thought I could wing it. I had zero skill and zero makeup in my possession but had to just go with the flow. Inevitably the call came for me to do a job as JUST the makeup artist and it was to be printed in a local arts and entertainment paper…on the COVER! My stomach dropped. I had to run to Walgreen’s and grab everything I could think of that I might need and with only $50 in my pocket, I wasn’t buying much. Calling what few friends I had that did makeup and borrowing whatever they would let go out of their collections. Makeup artists are very stingy when it comes to giving away our favorite eyeliners and lipsticks just for the record. The job came and went and to everyone’s horror after I saw the proofs of the job it actually was printed. Her makeup looked like I had driven over her eyes with a bicycle tire, all black and splotchy and sure enough, there was my name in the credits big as day as, “the makeup artist.” I wish I had a copy of that shoot that I could show you here. Later I remember talking to another makeup artist that I loved her work and who had seen the cover and she said “oh, that was you?” “I never quite got which direction you were headed with that makeup choice.” My first thought was to yank the weave out off her head”…but I opted to just say it was creative license. I left Miami a few weeks later.The owner of the model agency who represented me was always very sweet to me. She was a raving bitch to many others…alas, the roles of a business owner. She’d introduce me to photographers that I could work with on the side, she’d show me photos of other makeup artists work and try and get me to see the certain lighting of a shoot or the way it was photographed. She was very patient with me and since I did great hair, she kept me around. One day, shortly after my makeup fiasco hit the newsstands she called me into her office. She said, “Josh, I like you.” “You’re young and energetic and the clients like you.” “You’re an amazing hairdresser.” I knew what was coming next as I held my breath. And then she said it. “But your makeup sucks.” I think those were her exact words. I was exposed. There was no talking my way around those words, as she was correct. She didn’t fire me but did go on to tell me that they had just opened a sister office in Paris. Hint hint. She couldn’t promise a ton of work for me over there but she thought that it would be a perfect thing for me to do. I didn’t have strong roots in Miami, was still relatively young and free, and since that first day of French class in school I had a longing to go there. I thought to myself “Was I being run out of town?” Then it hit me. Paris! Paris, France! I was packed with two suitcases in two weeks. Hair and makeup in one bag and all my clothes in the other, a passport, and about 5K.I was moving to Paris.   (to be continued)jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 11--My World Cup Runneth Over

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50 Days ‘til 50Day 11My World Cup Runneth OverIt seems almost impossible to turn on the news, get online, and be around almost anyone lately when the conversation doesn’t shift to the world cup. Of course as the teams get eliminated the conversations are less and less but its still going. Fascinated by the extreme interest and obsession with this it got me thinking of my own sports experiences throughout my years.I was probably exposed to sports pretty young although I don’t have many fond memories of it. In gym class we were collectively forced to play whatever the sport was of the season whether we liked it or had any interest or talent for them. I suppose its difficult for teachers and coaches to zero in on each students likes and dislikes when it comes to sports let alone guide them in the right direction. Especially when you’re dealing with a large bunch of screaming third graders. I seemed to almost immediately shy away from the group sports. Softball, football, even red rover gave me anxiety. My one and only memory of playing softball was being put in left field knowing that nothing much would probably happen out there. I was probably daydreaming or counting the minutes until the class ended when I heard the pop off the bat at home plate and what seemed like only seconds that damn ball zoomed at me like a drone and whacked me right in the nose. A bloody nose and bruised ego later I never played it again nor did my schoolmates ever want me to play again. Four square seemed to be about the only thing I felt comfortable and competent to do and to this day I don’t think this qualifies as a professional sport.My mom and dad were great. As busy as they both were they made sure that my sister and I got out there and tried all different things. From piano lessons, gymnastics, dancing, skiing we were lucky to have the chance to experience all these after school activities. I remember walking up this long dark icy driveway in the dead of winter to my piano teachers house. It was a dark and cold place and she wore tight black lace dresses, black tights, and granny glasses looking like a character out of Downton Abbey. My first public recital had me playing along with the school chorus at a local school concert. Half way through my solo I completely went blank and had to sit there and suffer through the silence and what seemed like an hour later got my fingers moving again across the keys. That was the end of my illustrious piano career.I started noticing something however. I noticed I actually liked and even excelled at the sports that relied only on one person to perform. Me. I remember my first tennis racquet. It was wooden with a screw on wooden frame. I think it weighed almost as much as I did and I was a complete buffoon when I started. I liked it though, even loved it. Halleluiah. Everyone had finally found something that I could do that was sporty and that I enjoyed. The trend would continue. Our family also lived down the street from a small ski area. I mean so close we could walk there. It had a rope tow and two lifts to take you to the top. Again, after the usual lessons, I realized I had a liking and quite a skill to this kind of sport. It was just me bombing down the hill with no poles, just me and the mountain. I was given the lead torch to carry in an annual nighttime skiing event the town would hold where we came down the hill in formation carrying torches to the ooh’s and ahhh’s of all the people at the bottom. No fumble here.Summertime had me on one of the local lakes water-skiing and in school during the warmer months I somehow got into running. We didn’t use the metric system back then so my event was the 50-yard dash. A sprint. Free like the wind I was fast. I was a small kid and had no meat on me but my legs would and did go fast, very fast. I even entered the states junior Olympics competition. Don’t remember a gold medal, but think I did surprisingly well.Most of these fell by the wayside into my adulthood. I didn’t become the next Usain Bolt, or the next Roger Federer, or the next Bode Miller. My love of all non contact sports continue today and if lived closer to a ski area would ski as often as I could. I still love tennis and even though I don’t play as much as I would like I could watch the Tennis Channel until 4 in the morning and even longer during the Grand Slam tournaments. There’s something about the sort of personal integrity and fortitude it takes to do these kinds of sports. Of course you need the ability and the skill but at the end of the day it’s the savage fight between you and yourself that intrigues me the most. The intense will it takes to move yourself through all the highs and lows in these sports. When you’re on the tennis court getting your ass whipped, there is no one there to help you. You just have to dig deep and find a way. When you’re skiing down a super G slope at 75 mph, its what’s going on between your ears that is a huge component to getting to the finish line. Victory always seems to me to be so much sweeter when you can pull out that win.Not to knock team sports in any way, it just wasn’t my path. I love the energy that is produced around this World Cup. I love the unity that the Olympics produce around this entire world. It seems that just for those two weeks we come together. The world is somehow hushed, more quiet, more united, and more at peace.   Whether it’s the runners running themselves to the bone or the large soccer teams whose players rely on each other to get the victory there is a place for all of us to excel, to have fun, and to fit in.jf 

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 10--Breaking Bad

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50 Days ‘til 50Day 9Breaking Bad*note to self…when putting on headphones to listen to music while I write make sure they are plugged into the player before going all crazy that they don’t work…I don’t know why some random things, on any given day end up staying with me for a while. I usually will just acknowledge what I'm seeing or experiencing and just keep going. Most days I like to think of myself or try and act as a fairly conscious person. Even in the times that are the most traumatic and seemingly impossible to get through I have been taught first hand that this too shall pass. And it does. It may not pass into what I expect it will be or what I think it should be, but it does change and in hindsight gets better. Different, but better. The human experience has so many facets and detours and spins that I sometimes wish I could get up in the morning and see on my computer screen what will be happening in my life today and I can then choose whether to show up for it or just jump back in bed, covers over my head. Of course the latter option is not when I have my most enlightened days but it sure feels right sometimes.So I went to my little gas station down the street this morning to fill up my tank. It’s a small family run place, friendly, the coveted selection of candy bars and chips, and 4 blocks from my house. Since I'm a totally creature of habit, I frequent the same places most of the time. It’s a routine, it feels familiar, and I like to support the smaller businesses around town. While the tank was filling, I went in to get a pack of gum and noticed the front door covered in plywood and shards of glass lying around the entrance. It’s on a very busy street in town with lots of people around day and night. I tried to break the ice and asked something snarky like “were they remodeling?” One of the sons gave me a crooked smile as of course we both knew what had happened. Someone broke in. He shared with me a little of what had happened probably tired of people asking him what happened. They saw the guy on the video recorder, break the glass door open, and fumble to cover the camera with some fabric. He showed me the window next to the door that was cracked but not pushed in and then told me what was taken. A single pipe. That was all. No candy, no chips, no beer, but a pipe. The kind that all these one-stop gas shops sell that sits in a dusty acrylic display case next to register. Now in California pot is semi legal (crystal meth is still not) so in addition to candy they sell rolling papers, and other paraphernalia. I just stood there for a few seconds taking it all in. I’ve seen many more horrible things in my life and am not sure why this resonated so deeply with me but in that moment I felt such compassion for the owners and what they would now have to go through to fix this breaking crime scene. One of the guys even laughed (through his anger I'm sure) but just laughed at the absurdity of the situation. My thoughts left with me to the car outside and they quickly turned to the person who did the breaking bad. I kept thinking of the moments before they would smash through the door and wondered what would get someone to that point that their only option was to break down someone’s door, risk being caught and arrested, and for just a single pipe. Maybe it was a dare; maybe some young dare devil kids who all think as I did at that age. I'm invincible. I'm bulletproof. I'm the ruler of my world.When I was younger we lived next door to a man who had a chicken coop. It was a small town but not unusually rural. For as long as I can remember he had his handmade “eggs for sale” sign nailed to his front tree and with my dollar in hand I would grab my dozen eggs out of the refrigerator on his porch and leave my dollar in the cup. There were always many dollars in that cup and I barely ever saw the chicken man but the eggs and the dollars were always there like clockwork. It never occurred to me to take an extra dozen eggs, or to take a dollar for that matter. It just wasn’t the right thing to do and then Id have to explain to my mom and dad where the extra eggs or the dollar in my pocket came from. Our homes front door seemed to be always open. Of course we had the screen door, screened in the summer and glassed in the winter, but the main door was always open. People would come up the path and just enter the house when they came to visit. We would leave on an outing for the day and the door was wide open. We didn’t come back to broken glass and eggs smashed all over the house. I don’t remember in these instances ever feeling afraid and not secure. Except for the monster in the closet that waited for me at night but even that never came to pass and got old after a while.As I now secure myself many times throughout my day I wonder what it is I'm really trying to secure myself from?  I put on the house alarm, the car alarm, and the business alarm every day. I lock my doors and windows and computer each night. Surely this will keep them away. When did I learn to place all my supposed security in the hands of other people, places, and things? Tangible things that I can touch and feel that give me that false sense of security. The flight attendants arm I grab when the plane tips and dips on turbulent flights. The doorframe of the door I now stand in during an earthquake. My pillow and my blanket on my bed…thank you Linus. So although these make me feel secure in that instant, it’s not long lasting. Security is a bit of a delusion I’ve learned in this life. It has to come from a deeper place, a place where I can turn inward and realize that no matter what happens to me in this life I will be ok. When I have those fleeting moments of what that really feels like, it can be heaven on earth.One of my favorite quotes is from Helen Keller. That in itself always humbled me a bit and the quote is this:"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature; life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”jf 

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 9--Social Studies

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50 Days ‘til 50Day 9Social StudiesI remember when my Mom’s got their first computer. I remember the phone calls I would have with them trying to walk them through drafting and sending an email. I had already had mine for 10 years so felt the true genius when it came to all things cyber.  I remember them baffled at trying to open an attachment in their emails, and then saving them to their computer and lets not even talk about setting up a printer and actually getting something to print. I remember thinking how silly when they told me they were thinking of taking a computer 101 class.Its not that hard I thought…so much for my thinking.As I’ve begun this blog journey I’ve set up new accounts with Wordpress and Tumblr. I’ve had to refresh my knowledge of Instagram and Twitter, and after making the mistake of watching endless videos on You Tube about blogging, now it seems I need to make the decision about putting up a new self named website. They say it will increase my visibility, make me more popular, give me more credit to any potential employers, and I can even MAKE MONEY by allowing companies to advertise on my blog. Who knew??  I thought I was doing ok as I already use Dropbox for my professional portfolio, have a professional page on Facebook, have multiple email addresses for personal and business use.  This is surely enough isn't it?   Now that I jump between PC and MAC platforms I have a multitude of unused email addresses, countless folders of unknown documents, passwords and usernames that I honestly cant even remember; and lastly, for the love of all things Steve Jobs what the hell is the Cloud anyways? All I can think of is someone sitting there in a dark cubicle for hours on end looking through all of my computer stuff and getting ready to push a big red button rendering me useless. Thank you Edward Snowden.So, if I set up this personal website that I now realize I lack, I will be more popular online they tell me and be able to reach more people to read my blog. “Well, it must be done at once”, I say.  Go Daddy? Host Gator? Enom? OH MY!  Now why isn’t my name available for my dot com website? I will have to use DOT whatever they come up with next as my extension. I guess I waited to long. My popularity is losing ground by the nanosecond. It’s how much a month for hosting this website? Isn’t that what Wordpress is doing? I digress here; let me go back a few hours.When did this all become so complicated and how is that a fifth grader knows more about this stuff than I do? I am 49 years old after all, fairly competent, and organized, no? So lets start with the basics. Do I need a new computer? The slimmer, shinier, quieter ones with all the newest and latest bells and whistles and terabytes of memory? Like buying a new car that loses its value the second its driven out of the dealership, I’ll opt to just be ok with the computer I have. It still works, saves my documents, and I can check my email and surf the web. I'm ok with that. I was just told in a pop up message from somewhere out there that I have so much data on my computer now that even my external hard drive needs an external hard drive. Speaking of opt, have I opted in or out of all the things that need opting in or out of? How many emails can I get from Kenneth Cole per day telling me I need new shoes? Did I just mistakenly increase my daily email intake from third party websites by saying yes to Apple when they tell me I need to update my software because the one I have now is crap and wont work with all my other cross platform hardware and software? OY! I think I need some Advil…be right back.Wordpress is a great website for bloggers and I was happy to know that many of the Fortune 500 companies use this website. I must be in good company right? Oh but wait, I have to set up a profile on this website now as well; the one that anyone who reads my blog will see. I haven’t done that yet. I have profiles out there that list my age as still 35 and living in New York City, which I haven’t done in over 15 years. Doesn’t the Cloud know this already and if it’s so smart why can’t it just adjust all of my profiles across the board to my latest photo and residence location? So I now need to choose a photo for my new profile. Filter or no filter? Funny or serious? Photoshop or no photoshop? Forget the photo, Ill leave it up to the readers as to what they think I look like. After my blog is written and saved on Wordpress I then have the post-post option to link it to my Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Pinterest, Drop Box, Google, AOL, and Mac accounts. It’s not just enough to write it, now I have to spend more time linking it to all these accounts? Why cant there just be one button for them all? Why does all of this press so many of my own buttons? Why cant I just talk into the air and let Siri and the Cloud take care of the rest?Back in New Hampshire my Moms have a simple un-smart cell phone they use for emergencies when on the road and its never on when they are home. They use an answering machine and their phone at home has a cord on it. They send and receive emails and can print photos and fun things to hang on their refrigerator. Why are Moms always right?jf  

50 Days ‘til 50 Day 8--Baby It’s Cold Outside

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50 Days ‘til 50Day 8Baby It’s Cold Outside!When I lived in Miami, sometime in June I would start to hear it. “Isn’t it warmer than it was last year?” Or “Isn’t it hotter than it should be for this time of year?” Of course I noticed it also as the winters there are just so perfectly warm, no humidity, and even cool in the evening hours. I always felt much more alive and active in the winter months there than I ever did in the summertime. Now in hindsight, it was probably no warmer than the year before and no hotter than the year before. I think that we would just convince ourselves that it was so we could somehow hold on to those last days of spring. As I now approach 50 I seem to be even more sensitive to it. I heard someone the other day say something like “I didn’t really notice the heat until every person I came across today had to tell me how hot it is, of which of course then I felt it.” We all know it’s hot and I suppose we don’t need reminding of it. Now for people in Alaska this may seem like a bit of a moan and groan blog, but I don’t live in Alaska and would probably not even be writing this if I did.I grew up in New England. With 4 distinct seasons of which none of them lasted so long that you really got completely sick of them. By April the warm would roll in and by October it would roll out. Although my New England family and friends may disagree with me after this winter that just passed. Anyway, follow along. Summers were warm, and hot at times. We would have the luxury as a family of spending time on a lake outside of Fitzwilliam, NH and usually take a trip down to Cape Cod for a week or to the Rhode Island shore. Somewhere close enough to drive, but that felt miles away from everyday life. I never really got the gene to want to just lie in the sun for 8 hours a day. I guess it’s my French and English background and the curse of the light pink skin tone. I would burn very easily and then spend the next two days and nights peeling and scratching and being miserable. Although it was cool to show off your peeling skin to your friends, it was not cool to live through it. I was an active child though, swimming, water-skiing, biking, hiking and most of the things we did as children in that era. We didn’t have a TV in every room, or the internet, or TIVO, and I learned very early on growing up that all you need is a good imagination and some time alone and I could make up all sorts of games and fantasies in my head that would keep me busy and active for hours, even the entire day. I also had horrible eczema as a small child and it followed me into my adult years although not nearly as bad. If I sweat to much I would start to itch, the eczema would flare up even worse from the sweating and I always remember having a rash on the backs of my knees, my ankles, my elbows, etc. I had it so badly that when I was very young the doctor had told my Mother to wrap my hands and feet in some salve and cover them with plastic bread bags, to keep the moisture in I imagine while I slept. It would take me approximately 13 minutes to scratch the baggies completely off and my Mother would find me in the mornings with the torn bags still wrapped around my wrists and ankles and blood all over the sheets from my inability to not scratch. I was even convinced for a time that I was allergic to my own sweat. (This has had not one finding in my entire life just for the record.) I went on to have complete exhaustive tests done at the dermatologists and pediatricians in which I was diagnosed as pretty much allergic to everything. I had to receive weekly shots in both arms to reduce the effect of the allergies from horse, dog, cat, dust, pollen, food, tree, flower…you get the idea. I was a high maintenance kid to be sure. Many of these allergies went away into my adolescence but get me around certain dog dander, horses, and the usual spring and fall allergies today and I blow up like a big red balloon. Not so pretty.So I find it funny that I would live over 15 years in South Florida in the extreme heat and humidity and then most recently be living in the desert of Southern California. Its 112 degrees here today by the way. I would count the days in Miami when the summer would drift into winter and those first few days when the temperature would drop and the humidity would drop even further. It was like I was reborn all of sudden. I wanted to be outside, doing things with my friends, active; I was completely a different person. I guess if I were a season it would be autumn. Palm Springs summers are extremely hot. The locals have the running joke that “it’s a DRY heat” somehow excusing the fact that you could fry an egg on the hood of your car. When I got in my car today after work, the internal thermometer read 135 degrees. Of course it dropped quickly to the aforementioned 112 degrees as I started driving but it’s still damn hot. It’s kind of like carrying a blowdryer around with you all day and blasting it in your face, on the highest heat setting. The doorknobs of local businesses have coverings on them, as they get to hot to grab with your bare hands. You can’t walk to the mailbox barefoot without scoring a 3rd degree burn on your soles, dogs wear little booties to protect their pads from the asphalt and everything now tastes better on ice. Coffee, tea, maybe even mashed potatoes. Everything seems to happen here in the early hours of the day or days end when the sun drops behind the mountains. The temperatures do drop almost 30 degrees over night but quickly heat up in the morning. It’s a sort of reverse hibernation. Hibernate in the summer months and come out in the fall.There must be something that keeps attracting me to the heat however. I haven’t quite figured it out. I lived in Manhattan for many years and I was one of those who suffered from seasonal effective disorder where I would get very down during the long winter months and the void of sunlight. Maybe it’s that. They say sun in moderation is good for you, releasing vitamins and melatonin into the body and brain thus making you feel better. Maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s the light I find most attractive. The bright blue skies, the colorful majestic mountains that surround me, just like moths to a flame; I drift towards areas of brightness. Someone told me once that the human affinity for light is a mechanism of survival. Ok, Ill go with that one. I was watching a food show the other day and they were in Hawaii at an old family run business that serves only shaved ice with flavored syrup. Maybe that’s what I need?jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Day 7--Old Friends

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50 Days 'Til 50Day 7--Old Friends“Not for the first time I look backon my first loveUnable to speak or think or movehand in gloveBut what of it now and where is heHe who once meant so much to meBecause we are not, I can't pretendnow old friends”Old Friends – everything but the girlYes, its come to reciting song lyrics…and I'm only 7 days into the 50 of this blog series. This one however just seemed in line with today’s blog by one of my favorite all time bands, Everything But The Girl (thank you Eddie Sanchez and Todd Saunders). I suspect there will be a blog with more song lyrics(and friends) as music has and always will be a big part of my life so stay tuned on that…so lets see…where did we leave off?  Oh yes, the 3-day weekend.I hope you all had a nice and relaxing holiday weekend. I'm happy to report that a 3-day weekend is Bliss! It took me a day to realize I didn’t have anything to do and the next two just to stop, slow down, and enjoy the moments in time that I can so quickly miss or take for granted when I'm running 60 mph everywhere. This weekend was especially nice as I had an old friend from Miami stay with my partner and I here in Palm Springs. We were reminiscing on some of the old days and much to my horror we realized it was almost 30 years ago. I had moved to Florida when I was just barely 21 after having met someone who had sold me on the idea. “Its sunny all the time and the bars and clubs are open until 6 am” he told me. This was pretty much all I needed and off I went. A career path was not what I was looking for even though I had received my cosmetology license just prior to leaving. I just wanted to run, run far away, far away from everyone and most of all from myself. This guy proceeded to be gone in a flash and I never saw him again but there I was, in Fort Lauderdale living the life, or so I thought.Friendships to me from an early age were difficult. I had this dual persona I suppose and although my family name was well known in the town I was raised in I was a painfully shy little boy. My parents owned and ran a hotel, which sat proudly at the head of the town square, and people from all over New England knew of it and would come to patron the hotel in addition to the locals who would come to drink in the bar and eat in the restaurant and swim in the pool during the summer months. My sister and I were always smartly dressed each weekend as we would dine with my parents at the “captain’s table” which would include this weeks friends, relatives, and notables that they chose to join them at the very large table. We were raised very strictly when it came to proper manners. Mr. and Mrs. So and So were the only way we were to address our dinner companions, we were to sit quiet until spoken to, I was to stand whenever a woman would either leave or return to the table, and always be the first to pull out her chair for her. Later in the evenings after each guest was properly smashed, we were called upon to get up in front of everyone and sing a song with the band that was playing for that evening, or dance with one of the much older women or men for my sister. Mortifying for a 6 year old but it seemed to always get a good laugh or a hug afterwards and I think we were both probably afraid to ever say no, regardless of how we felt on the inside. During holiday months, or for my birthday month in August there was always a party being thrown at the hotel or at our house across the street. All my classmates, relatives, friends of relatives and it seemed pretty much anyone was invited to these parties. Again dressed smartly, these town kids and classmates would show up for the event, bringing gifts, and enjoying the festivities that would have been planned ahead of time by my mother and grandmothers. I would look around and see all these schoolboys and girls I would barely speak during school time but out of courtesy they would be invited to attend. The point is I had a lot of acquaintances but very few friends. I guess when you’re six and seven friendships didn’t seem so important to me as just getting through the school day and running home to be in my mothers arms and get a snack or watch some TV. Those were always the times I liked best.In regards to friendships someone once told me that people come into our lives for “a reason, a season, or a lifetime”. I’ve never forgotten when he told me that and even though its another one of those cute little sayings, it actually is pretty true from my experience. There have been people that have come into my life leaving me with a profound experience and are just as quickly gone as when they arrived. There are people who I have known through jobs that I completely adore but never would do anything socially with them and then they were forgotten as I was on to another job. There were the lovers that I would think would be there forever only to see them go out the door one day or sadly in one case pass on out of this human experience. Lastly there is that handful of people that are just there with you always. A collection of various types or people that you’ve either experienced something amazing with, the ones that just get you, and the ones that you can just let your hair down with. I am so blessed to have several of these in my life today. Sure, distance may keep us separated and not having my own private jet (yet) I cant run and see them every 5 minutes, but they are there and they know as do I that even though we don’t speak everyday, they are there. Even when we stray for a while, and we do stray, they always seem to be there for us when we return. I don’t know why that is? I don’t know what made them so special in the first place and how the test of time seems to be of no matter. Lately I’ve been wanting to reach out to these people more than ever. Maybe to tell them something new and exciting that’s happening in my life, maybe it’s to find out what’s going on in theirs. Maybe…maybe I just want to tell them how grateful I am to consider them an old friend.jf

50 Days 'Til 50 Days 4, 5, & 6--Long Weekends?

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Long Weekends?It occurred to me as I start to watch friends, family members, and other people in my life prepare for the upcoming long weekend that this is a concept completely foreign to me. I have worked many a long weekend but rarely have I enjoyed the concept of being off for a complete run of 3 days in a row. Of course it’s been of my choosing, the beauty industry, and Saturdays are religiously our busiest days of the week as are weddings and events that require me being available all the more. When I first started out and was working full time in a salon that wasn’t located in a mall, traditionally Sundays and Mondays were our weekends. There is even a code called “Industry Nights” which usually are Sunday or Monday nights for all those who work in the hospitality industry and share such erratic schedules. I grew over the years to love my Mondays off, as most businesses were open allowing me to do all my banking, grocery shopping, dry cleaners, etc. Back then businesses weren’t open on the weekends as much as they are in today’s world. Last year on a dream European vacation for a month I was amazed at how many businesses were closed on Sundays. A bit annoyed at times, but then remembering back to the days when most places were closed on Sundays and we didn’t work ourselves to death 7 days a week like we do now.I remember when the holidays would be on their respective calendar days and then when they were eventually all squeezed together on dedicated Mondays. This did me no good either, as I was already off on Mondays. Even when holidays were added to the calendar, they all seemed to fall on a Monday. Then after some time passed the salons started opening on Mondays as well and even Sundays. I was horrified for when was I to have even one day off, let alone 3 in a row?Having grown up in the hotel industry I suppose I was programmed from a young child to be around parents who worked most holidays, most weekends, and long into the evening hours. We always managed to squeak out a traditional holiday meal and time together though and for that I am truly grateful. I don’t know how they managed to do it looking back now. Moms and Dads are pretty amazing. I guess its no surprise I would end up in some form of the service industry. An industry I still love to this day even as it’s become a 7-day a week operation in most cities and towns.Less afraid now than I used to be to say no I’ve become better at setting some boundaries for myself and I’ve become better at taking time off. I still can’t seem to squeeze out a 3-day weekend so that’s exactly what I'm going to do now. Lets see how the normal folk live and what they do for these next 3 days.Ill see you on the 7th with my next blog.For now, Happy 4th, 5th, and 6th of July.jf

50 Days ‘til 50 Day 3--Better Late Than Never?

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50 Days 'Til 50Day 3Better Late Than Never?Why are putting the first words down the hardest? It’s been several days in my attempt to get 50 blogs down in 50 days. For my first blog it may have been a big undertaking. Do blogger’s have full time jobs as well? I wonder even if I didn’t work if I would have been able to keep up with the challenge. Ah, the life of a writer. I'm learning. An author friend of mine told me this week, “Josh, even if you just write a few words a day, that’s fine. Each blog doesn’t need to be paragraphs long.” I guess that helped a little.Well, no matter…here we continue…My first memory of truly running habitually late was in high school. I'm sure there were many more infractions prior to these years but my parents would have usually bore the weight of any of these delinquencies. I probably would have said something to the effect of “my Mom was running late” therefore excusing my own tardiness. God forbid I would ever lay claim to my own defects of character, especially as a teenager. I used to blame it on my sleep patterns. Accepting that I was and still am a sleeper and was always a bit slow out of the gate in the mornings causing me to have to sprint those last 10 minutes to my morning destination or appointment. My Mom used to come into my room to make sure I was still breathing after an 11-hour night of sleep. It never felt unusual to me even though no one in my household ever slept this way. I went to high school in Durham, NH, home to the University of New Hampshire. Our house was just under 2 miles from the high school, which was the cut off from receiving bus service to the school…of course. As both my Moms worked, it was usually by my own feet that I would have to get myself there. Through sleet, rain, and snow it didn’t matter. I had to get myself there. I remember many a day running out of the house with wet hair, in the freezing cold, sprinting the 2 mile run to the school and defrosting my frozen hair onto my paper work during first period. When it came to my senior year, my counselor at school somehow worked it out that I didn’t have any classes during that first period time slot, hoping and praying that this would get me there on time.It did not. Usually hungry by this point, my late arrival would find me in the cafeteria eating sour cream and onion potato chips and chocolate milk (breakfast of champions) with some of the other lucky students who didn’t have or wouldn’t go to their respective first period classes.Fortunately I was on time for my graduation but would then carry this horrible trait with me into my adult life both professionally and personally. Employers and friends would learn very quickly to tell me to be there 30 minutes earlier than I needed to be which I usually caught on very quickly and squashed any attempts by them to keep me timely.In my adult life from time to time I have sought the help of professional therapists. I know it’s not for everyone but they have helped me immensely in my life journey and getting through some very difficult times. It would not take long for them to realize I was one of the “late clients”. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve paid the fees for missed appointments, or receiving only 20 minutes of the hour booked and still having to pay for the full hour appointment.Something had to change and I knew that would have to come from me. Sigh…. This amazing therapist in Miami who I saw professionally off and on for almost 10 years decided to dig deep and get proactive in my recovery from this affliction. She actually did describe it as an “illness” citing many different medical terms for those of us out there in the world who cant seem to pull it together to be on time. She had labels for all the different types of folks who were on-time deficient. I don’t remember all the traits of each type but remember her talking about four different types. I don’t know if I was excited there was a diagnosis as to what I always thought of as “its no big deal, its just the way I am” or sad that I had to accept yet another label about myself.The first are called the Adrenaline Junkies, those who are addicted to the adrenaline rush of that last minute sprint to get where we need to go. When we fall short, we feel defeated and the positive quickly turns to dread. She determined this was the category I fell into combined with a bit of #4 (see below).The second type I think was called the Overachievers. These types over-schedule their days and are under the delusion they can make breakfast, shower, do a load of laundry, go to the bank and the grocery store and get to work all in under an hour. I used to make a joke with my clients and friends that I could get anywhere in Miami Dade county in ten minutes or less. (I really thought I could).Third, and I cant remember the name, but are those who are linked to attention deficit disorder and it is difficult for them to get from point A to point B without getting distracted by C, D, and E.Lastly and I remember this one well, she called this fourth one the Rebel. Its those types who actually enjoy being late, liking the idea of knowing people are waiting for them, and make a show out of being late just by, well being late.  It’s a selfish, self important kind of trait and to me bothers me the most in its description because it sounds so premeditated and just downright mean. It’s linked to control, ego, and of course fear.  Although she made me see some of myself in this one, I think its one of the easiest to overcome just by trying to live life and trying to be the nicest person you can be. Much of it falls away if I learn to be more kind, more tolerant of others, and more respectful of people and their own time, ironically just what I want from my friends and loved ones towards me.So sometimes its not enough to just say, “well, this is me and you’ll just have to deal with it”.  Sometimes it takes daily conscious work on myself to take each day as it comes, stay very aware of my behaviors and my actions, and just try and do the next right thing. The rest somehow just takes care of itself.  Until next time, I'm running late for my next meeting.jf