Expiration Date

If you knew when your life was going to end, would you go sky diving, Rocky Mountain climbing? I would if the bastards with all the money would free up my line of credit.

Throughout history prophets, sages and fools have been predicting the end of the world without much success. No wait, without any success. Nostradamus, Hippolytus, Mayans, Jehovah Witnesses and countless others have marked a calendar with a day in the past. Careful study of the Book of Revelation against current events might give us a hint of the apocalypse, but with so many crying wolves, it's hard to hear the howl.

Charles Schultz of Peanut fame wrote, "Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It's already tomorrow in Australia."

But on a personal level you can calculate how much longer you have to live. Thanks to the Internet, you can go out to Death Clock and find out how many seconds left to dance, have sex, play golf, watch football, have sex, blog (based on my personal clock I'm giving this one up), drink, read, hike, have sex, go to the beach, camp, jog, and have sex.

For those who are interested, you have until Sunday, February 3, 2030 (668,858,844 seconds) to tell me you love me, or collect any money I owe you.

On Probation

When I was in grade school I loved getting my report card:

Addition - A+

Subtraction - A-

Spelling - A
Phonics - A
Reading - A
Religion - A

Recess - A+

"Robert has excelled in school this year and continues to uphold the Mullen brand of excellence established by his older siblings. Robert is prompt, courteous, witty, athletic and simply adorable. I am a barren woman now, but in a different world I would have married Robert. If his classmates were of the same caliber, I would not be resigning my teaching position at the end of the school term." Ms. G. Lollabrigida, 1st Grade Teacher.

Those were the days - straight A's, gold stars and the admiration of teachers and classmates alike. I couldn't wait to run home and show off my report card. I know I was only 6 years old, but JFK was in my sights. Ah, maybe that's not a good way to describe my presidential ambitions, particularly if the blogoshpere is being monitored. (Note to The Man: I couldn't even spell Lee Harvey Oswald in 1963). I was aiming high...oops, another poor choice of words.

I picked up a different report card today, some 45 years later - blood test results:

Thyroid - fine

Good Cholesterol - bad

Bad Cholesterol - good

B12 - deficient

Glucose - high

Testosterone - low

I'm not sure how the testosterone got so low. I spent last Saturday at an all day men's conference, I love football and I still stare at women for godssake. I knew I should have kept that shot gun!

No running home with gold stars pasted all over my report. Nope, instead I got a shot in the arm, a patch and a prescription for fish oil. No wonder people reminisce about the past.

Shopping for a Free Agent

I love going to high school sporting events. My own brood lettered in volleyball (All State), football (All Conference), hockey (All Conference), softball, baseball (All Conference) and track & field. Alas, it's been 5 years since any Mullen wore the Rockville HS jersey. The numbers have all been passed on.

Since that time I've enjoyed going to watch nephews and nieces, or friends of the family, take to the field of battle. My allegiance is to the blood of the clan, or those who drink with the clan. The latter loyalty allows me to cast the family net as wide as possible and take in some pretty good games.

But with the passing of Senior Night for the Bethel HS girl's soccer team, I've run through the starting line up and depleted the bench. I got no one left to cheer for unless I move from Connecticut to San Antonio, TX - home of the Mullen Clan South franchise. My other alternative is to go dormant until grandson Nathaniel suits up, but he's only 4.

With the high school football playoffs only 2 weeks away, I need to adopt a son. I hate to just show up and cheer for nobody. I think I'll Google "Mullen/Mullins/McMullen/Mullan" and see if anything pops up. Hey, maybe I'm somebody's long lost uncle.

Family Healing

My grandson Nathaniel isn't always crazy about his sister, Ayva. Close in age, they both tend to like the same thing. Often they like the same thing at the exact same time, especially when there is only one of that "thing".

But Nathaniel does like Hannah Montana. At age 4, he doesn't understand much of the dialogue, but Disney knows just how to push his buttons. Annette Funicello, Britney Spears, Christine Aguilera, Miley Cyrus...the place is a factory. Who's next?

Well, how about Ayva? She looks the part and it would greatly improve the relationship she has with her brother!

Playbook for the Good Guys

Saturday I spent the day with my boys and 800 other guys at a Catholic Conference for Men in Hartford.  It was a great day for men of faith to celebrate Mass, share life stories and inspire others to strengthen their spiritual efforts.  There were several outstanding speakers, but ex-NFL wide receiver Dan Abramowicz layed out a game plan that'll get anyone across the goal line:

1. Get down on your knees and pray every day;
2. Seek God's mercy and go to Confession regularly;
3. Receive the body, blood and divinity of Jesus Christ as often as you can through the Eucharist;
4. Trust and call on Mary to protect you from evil.

It's taken Danny a lifetime to lay out the plan for his own soul, but he swears by it.  I'm liking his playbook!

But it's a School Night

Jets v. Patriots on a Thursday night? Awesome.

I look forward to NFL Sunday, Monday Night Football and, through the end of the season, Thursday Night Football. Now if I only had something to do the other days of the week, life would be perfect.

Overweight

Today is Rant Thursday, isn't it? I really do want to write something whimsical and funny, but I can't seem to find anything other than things to complain about these days. I promise I won't keep going down the path of all that is wrong with the world, but I do need to tell you this one.

Yesterday, I'm walking on 34th Street in New York, just east of Madison Square Garden, and I see a sign in the window of Sbarro's - $6.99 Buffet - Hot & Cold Menu. A little after 1:00 PM and with my stomach growling, I think, "Wow, that's a great deal in New York - go for it!"

So, I stop in and Luigi says "welcome" and hands me a dinner tray. First stop, the salad bar - a little garden salad, some cut up fruit, cottage cheese but not too much, good. Next a portion of pasta, meatball (only one), 1/2 a patty of chicken parm and some extra spaghetti sauce, okay. Finally, serving of steamed veggies, a chicken leg and a piece of toasted garlic bread, great. Let's see, soda, water or ....I'll have the juice - mango, perfect!

"Nice buffet you put on, " I commented to the cashier.

"It ain't mine, I only woik here. Is that a bottle of soder or a juice on yer tray?"

"Oh, sorry, ma'am. It's a juice, " as I pushed my tray forward.

"Buffet and juice plus New York City taxes of 8.375% comes to a total of $19.48."

"Oh, she's not with me," I said pointing to the woman behind me.

"Who said she was?"

"Well, you must have rung up two $6.99 meals to get to ...what did you say, $19?"

"Nah, I DIDN'T MUST HAVE RUNG UP 2 MEALS, yer total is $19.48!"

"The juice cost over $10 dollars?"

"It ain't the juice Sweety, it's the $6.99 per pound of crap ya got on the plate. Hey, I got other customers waitin ya know. Keep it movin!"

Sure enough, the sign actually read:

$6.99 Buffet - Hot & Cold Menu

Per Pound

I had a sudden flashback to 1977, and a hot dog vendor in Flint, Michigan. We were at an all day music festival and having consumed my first 12 pack, I decided to spring for "hot dogs for everyone!" Ordering up 20 dogs with $20 bucks in my pocket, I was filled with love for all my pals, the hot dog guy and anyone else within a 50 foot radius - "I lubb you guys...I mean it!" The beer might have had something to do with it, but I think I actually was feeling the love at the moment.

Anyhow, after having the guy put mustard on some of the dogs, mustard and relish on a few others and ketchup on the rest, he gave me a tray and said, "That'll be $40 bucks." There was some dialogue and a few menacing faces before I launched the tray of 20 hot dogs back in his direction. The beer might have had something to do with it, but I think I actually was feeling the rage at the moment. A city policeman was called in to handle the fracas, and I thought for sure I was going to jail instead of back to my lawn chair. But being a good beat cop, he just couldn't get over a guy charging $2 bucks for a hot dog. I snuck back into the crowd as he and the peddler got into a heated exchange.

Staring down at my Sbarro's tray, I had an inkling to chuck the whole thing back at Luigi. That is until I saw one of New York's finest in front of the restaurant. No sense pressing my luck.

Damn, I just hate people who try to screw me...and do.

Rage Against the Machine

Did you by chance hear any politician tell us during the campaign the future career path for unemployed America will come through energy independence? Solar, wind, clean coal, nuclear, domestic oil, super batteries – we need it all. And we need people to find it, drill it, build it, distribute it, and sell it. Millions of jobs will be created.

This morning I heard an expose on NPR, post election of course, on a wind turbine company in Ohio with 150 jobs to fill who can’t find any qualified candidates. Makers of high precision ball bearings 2 stories in height (width too I guess), they claim the local unemployed machinist and steel workers don’t have the skills to do the job. A steel union representative says the Ohio workforce is filled with qualified workers and the gap has more to do with compensation than job skills.

Many of the unemployed machinists are in their fifties and, when employed, were making $60,000 a year. The entry rate for the replacement jobs is up to $30,000. It’s always a tough sale getting people to go backwards.

One comment made during the news report was the new employers “don’t want burned out workers with low morale…., but want people excited to be part of new economy they are helping to create.”

So the thinking is displaced American blue collar workers are supposed to enthusiastically line up for ½ pay to rebuild the same communities they built in the first place? Hey, look at it as the patriotic equivalent to enlisting in the Marines, but without the bullets.

What I heard was someone saying we don’t want to hire anyone over 50 and, for everyone else, you’re lucky to have a job. How fortunate we are.

I put together an annual budget for Joe the Machinist just to see how far a $30,000 paycheck would go:

Social Security Tax	2,295
Federal Income Tax	3,000
State Income Tax	900
Ford Motor Credit	3,600
Geico	750
Gas	3,000
Apartment	9,600
Electric & Heat	2,000
Booze/Pot	1,000
Dunkin Donuts	700
Marlboros	1,200
DirectTV	600
USA Today	100
Internet	400
Verizon Wireless	1,000
Food	7,500
Clothing	750
Bowling & Softball Dues	300
Powerball	250
Church	100
Duck Hunting	500
Christmas Presents	500
Health Insurance	1,500
Dentist	200
Visa/MasterCard	2,000
Total	43,745

Looks like the Joe is going to have to work a little overtime. No time for bowling.

Gridiron Classics

The Kennedy's had their family touch football game on the White House lawn. Okay, so they had a nicer playing field, but we'll put up our Mullen Clan traditions against any and all comers. On Sunday, 4 generations of "son of the bald one" were present for a little football, a ton of chili (9 crock pots), a birthday cake (Julie's 50th) and a lot of laughs. We were sharing the love!

Mass in the morning and football in the afternoon. Life doesn't get any better.

Heavenly Humor

Eight days ago I lost my cool and threw a fit of rage not seen in our household in decades. I mean I really lost it - a speaking in tongues conniption fit.

I apologized to my family for misbehaving, but I still had the urge to seek God's forgiveness and set my heart straight. On Saturday I drove to the Cathedral to go to confession. My wife tagged along to go to Mass afterwards.

Practicing to myself, "Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been 3 months since my last confession and these are my sins - jealousy, some slothfulness and a whole lot of anger. Father, most of the time I feel like I have my sword drawn just looking for an ear to lop off! Yeah, I think that covers it. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins...yup, good. I'm ready."

We arrived at the Cathedral 75 minutes before Mass thinking there would be plenty of time for the Sacrament of Penance. After all, who the heck goes to confession anymore? On Saturday, 10 people did. You can hear 10 confessions in 75 minutes if the faithful are reporting on venial sins, but throw in murder, theft or adultery and you need a priest with a good 2-minute drill. My guy fumbled as the clock ran out and left me holding the bag. I was pissed!

Truth be told, I was stewing the entire time I was sitting in the pew waiting to be heard. When we arrived there were 7 people ahead of me plus my wife. I think we arrived moments before another couple but they positioned themselves closer to the confessional and jumped up as soon as the red lights flashed to green. That's got to be a sin!

Another woman came in 30 minutes before Mass began and cut to the front of the line. She looked me off with a quick glance and buried herself in prayer. I was seething at the gall of this woman to place her sins above mine. She had no regard for how long I had been patiently waiting to spill the beans.

And finally there was my wife. I didn't see her as a threat because on the drive in she was having a hard time thinking of anything substantial to say. That's a good thing. Knowing she spent 20 minutes in the confessional the last time we went, I told her not to make anything up just to sound bad.

But sure enough, at 20 minutes to the hour, Julie drew open the curtain, stepped in and didn't step out for a good 15 minutes. The priest, needing to prepare for Mass, closed up shop.

We got a timebomb

We got a timebomb

We got a timebomb

Na na na na

We got a warning light

We got a warning light

We pull the plug out and we

Na na na na

Timebomb ticking

Timebomb ticking

It's a timebomb ticking

Tick tick tick tick

Timebomb ticking

Timebomb ticking

It's a timebomb ticking

Going

-Beck

I stepped out of church to gather my thoughts and reign in my emotions. How the heck did 75 minutes go by without getting into the confessional?

For a moment I thought I heard a chuckle and a whisper, "Excuse me, but did you have something to tell me, Robert?"