We ordered out tonight from the Oriental Cafe in Vernon. They have an awesome selection of Chinese and Japanese food with a great sushi bar. A slice of sashimi dipped in soy sauce with a hit of wasabi and goodbye sinus problems!
I opened my fortune cookie at the end of dinner and this is what it read:
Your faith carries you through difficult times; Lucky Numbers 20, 24, 47, 3, 18, 6.
Tomorrow at Mass I'll have to ask Father John where he's hiding the roulette wheel.
Once in awhile you get lucky and have a row to yourself. Not that I don't want to meet new people, but there is an awkwardness to striking up a conversation and the risk of being rejected. Besides, it is awfully nice to stretch out. In case you haven't noticed, most airplane seats are made for a manikin and not a real flesh and blood McDonald's Big Mac eating human being.
The airplane is an odd place for communication. Right up until flight time the majority of travelers will be in the airport yaking away on their cell phone talking to someone a thousand miles away. As soon as they board the plane they turn off the phone, sit within inches of another person and clam up!
Not everybody is so shy. Thursday I flew back from Tampa, FL and sat next hip hop artist Armageddon - maybe. The photo I took of my new found friend and the only photo I could find online of Armageddon don't really match up too well, but for purposes of this story it doesn't matter.
Geddie, as I call him, was one of the last people to board Song #2009 to Hartford. He strolled down the aisle of the half-full flight all pimped out with the gold chains, cool shades and a new pair of sneaks.
"Yo man, is dis 29D?"
"Yes it is," I replied. (Confession: in my mind I actually impersonated Robert Deniro and said, "You talkin' to me?")
"Cool!"
Such was the start of a new found friendship. Over the course of the next 2 hours we traded stories about our lives up until that moment.
I told him about my family, selling software and bird watching. He told me about gangsta rap, being shot twice, and the secret of his Cadillac Esplanade ("it makes all the girlies take their panties off" - don't tell anyone).
He introduced me to the world of hip hop including Fat Joe, Jayzee and a "new nigga" he was going to see in Hartford - Papoose. Papoose wants to buy a few rhymes and a beat from Geddie. 15 G's and it's all his.
15 G's is just pocket change. Last year as part of the Terror Squad he grossed over $250,000. He's got an accountant in NH that takes care of his money and pays his bills. Only 20 years old, he just spends it.
Some of it he spends on his mom. He bought her a house in Belchertown, MA just outside of Amherst. He also bought her a Benz. He loves his mom. We listened together to one of his songs about the miracle of birth - his own. Evidently his mom was told she couldn't have children, but out came Armageddon.
He grew up in the Bronx and still hangs with his boyhood friends. Those that are still alive. Besides being shot twice and he has been stabbed 8 times. The scars are visible, but that is just the way it is. As he said, "when your kids were playing with G.I. Joe I was cooking crack."
More than a few passengers glanced over at our row as Geddie popped off some rap while the two of us listened to his CD using 1 set of earphones. He had the left bud in his right ear and I had the right bud in my left ear. We made quite the pair. The lyrics were raw. Some of it would make you wince, but when a guy with 8 scars and 2 bullet holes ask you if you like it you say yes.
what goes around comes around homes i ain't lying thats why this scar is on my face cause bad karma is violent - Armageddon.
I enjoyed meeting Geddie. I hope he sheds the scars someday. There is a nice young man waiting to come out into the light.
Peace out!
It's so nice to have good friends. They understand you when others don't and support you when others won't. Good friends often think of each other when time and distance keeps them apart. With good friends you just say hello and start where you left off. Pretty darn comfortable I must say.
Today, I got a new t-shirt in the mail. It's a bit coarse to wear on one of my photo shoots for the Catholic newspaper, but there is a good story behind it.
Back in October, Buck sent me the following email:
From: Paul Leclair
Date: 10/12/05 20:46:26
To: Robert Mullen - Home
Subject: Hockey is back.
Hello Mooner,
Did you watch the first game for Boston? They played Montreal - guess who won again - even though they got out shot 2-1?
Love ya,
Buck
I responded:
From: Robert Mullen - Home
To: Paul Leclair, Jr.
Sent: Thursday, October 13, 2005 12:39 PM
Subject: Re: Hockey is back.
I didn't watch it. I can't get into the hockey just yet. Part of it is there is so much else on right now it is hard to transition to hockey - baseball, pro football, college football, golf, pro basketball, NASCAR...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The other part is I am still pissed at the NHL and especially the Bruins. I think they all suck. The strike was all about the money and how the clubs are losing money and fans can't afford to go to the games so we need to lower payroll. A good ticket to the Bruins game cost $75. They aren't worth $75. You never know if guys are going to play hard during the regular season. At least in the NFL every week counts so no teams slack off. Pro sports suck in general. The Bruins suck the worst. They are still running ads of Bobby Orr floating through the air from 35 years ago! Holy shit, all they make me do is realize I am a few years closer to death. Thanks a lot Harry Sinden. The Canadiens suck too and I still hate Courneyer, Lemaire, Lapierrie, Mahavolich, Dryden, Ferguson, Savard, Shutt, Robinson, Corson, Carbenneau and every other idiot to don the stupid "C". No one even knows what the hell the "C" stands for. You suck too come to think of it. The whole world sucks. Bite me!
Your friend,
Moon
You can imagine how surprised I was to get my new t-shirt in the mail today. Stuffed inside the sleeve was a copy of my 6 month old email with the words "bite me" circled and a hand written note that said, "Moon, thought of you in the Bahamas last week, Buck."
I told you time and distance can't separate true friends; you just pick up where you left off!
You often hear Americans complaining about immigrants who don't want to assimilate to the American way. Speaking our native tongue - English - is the primary complaint.
I sort of agree with most folks on this. Everywhere you turn the first choice you have to make is English or Espanol. Some of it borders on the ridiculous.
Go to an ATM machine in Island Pond, VT and your first choice is English or Spanish. Really? I could almost understand English or French, but Spanish? 0.9% of all Vermonters are of Hispanic or Latin America descent. Zero live in Island Pond.
Well, for all you border patrolling Minutemen, lay off the Jamaicans. While in the car today, I heard a Rasta man call WFAN 660 Radio in New York to talk about the Yankees. What made the call so impressive was that he was calling to talk about the general manager, Brian Cashman, and not Derek Jeter.
"Hey Mon, I tink da last caller does not know what it is he is saying, Mon. Im tinks da reason da Yankees are starting soooo slow is because of da pitching, Mon. All di while I'm tinking da reason is Brian Cashman, Mon. The bredda wants to blame dis and dat on di players, Mon. But let me aks you dis - eff di general manger cannot git the right kind of players to be wearing da pinstripes isn't im to blame?"
"That is one helluva point, Jimarcus! And for your call today we're going to give you 2 free tickets to the game this coming Chewsday...I mean Tuesday. Hold the phone and we'll get your address."
"Aright."
I think inches were important to the surveyors of the transcontinental railroad. If they had been off in their calculations by 3 inches both the Union Pacific and Central Pacific would have dead ended in Promontory Point, Utah. Today we'd be celebrating St. Patrick's Day and the Chinese New Year in the land of the Mormons.
I also think inches were important to the engineers of the George Washington Bridge. Leaving 3 inches off the span across the Hudson River would have made the bridge the world's largest and most expensive diving board.
3 inches are very important in a football game. Have you ever been to a football game where the officials say "close enough" on 4th and inches? When a defense stops the offense on the goal line just inches short of a touchdown, 65,000 people go bananas and remember the play forever.
And finally, (you knew it was coming) 3 inches is extremely important to a guy. Whether you are talking about adding or subtracting 3 inches to the male organ, either would be a life changing event. Making it bigger would result in needing larger underwear, while making it (any) smaller would turn you towards the Lord.
So, when wouldn't 3 inches be important? Well, how about when your fence of the last 20 years is 3 inches over your neighbor's property line?
My mom's neighbor came to her house last week to ask Mom to move the fence. Apparently they had the lot surveyed and come to find out the fence at the far end of their yard is off by 3 inches. I want to know what bastard in the neighborhood tipped them off!
The Mrs. came over to my mom's to give her the bad news. My mom was surprised to see her because in the 2 years these stiffs have lived behind Mom, they never once visited her house. The Mr. hasn't acknowledged my mother once. This is the norm for most neighbors today, but you wonder what the hell they think when they see an 80 year old lady (Mom, are you 80 yet?) raking leaves, shoveling snow or mowing her own lawn. I think I know, because now they want her to move the fence.
How important could 3 inches in the back of a suburban lot be to someone? When Mom invited the neighbor in for a cup of coffee, she refused the offer and said all she wanted was "to get her land back". Upon doing some research I found out this gal's great great grandfather was a tenant farmer in Ireland and her great grandfather was a participant in the Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889. I think Mom's fence is sitting on the spot where the neighbor wants to plant her pansies.
These people aren't qualified to be called neighbors. Neighbors say hello when they see you in your yard, neighbors wave to you when you drive by, neighbors send their boys over to shovel your front steps when it snows and their girls visit when it's time to buy Girl Scout cookies. Neighbors help and respect each other.
My mother respects and helps her neighbors - even these low lifes. She told the woman she would not only move the fence, but she would replace it as they had boldly mentioned before it wasn't to their liking. This coming from people whose house is colored feces brown.
So, my mom is thinking about what type of fence to get to separate the yards. I already have thought of two alternatives.
My first thought was to buy a 6 foot stockade fence and paint the side facing the neighbor's house fire engine red. The risk here is that they may actually like the color red.
A better idea would be to buy a 3 foot white picket fence and start to store all the shit in the garage behind the shed near the fence. If there is enough room left over we'll park the old Cadillac back there too! Now that we know where the property line starts and finishes we might as well use the whole lot.
This just might be the thing to get them talking in a more neighborly fashion. Maybe I'll introduce myself to them next time I visit Mom and see what option they prefer.
Happy Birthday to all the kin born in the month of April. You are in good company. Apologies if I am off by a day or two:
Gayle - April 5th
Jo Jo - April 9th
Geoff - April 11th
John - April 13th
Adam - April 15th
Janice - April 18th
Jason - April 18th
Alex - April 19th
Robert - April 24th
Danny - April 30th
The downside to not getting a newspaper or watching the evening news is missing all the community reminders.
Like the one that says, "Only 2 more days until your taxes are due."
And the other one that says, "Only 1 more day until your taxes are due."
And the final one that says, "The post office will remain open until 11:59 p.m. tonight for all you last minute filers. Don't forget, if you file for an extension you still owe the estimated tax. And make sure you use the 39 cent stamp; Uncle Sam won't pay the postage!"
I can't believe it is April 17th already. A 2 day extension and I still don't have my taxes done. The TurboTax box has been sitting on my desktop for more than a month. Oh well, as soon as I am done ripping out my hangnail, I'll start on my Schedule A.
The story goes that one winter Eostre came upon a bird with frozen wings. To save the bird, Eostre turned the bird into a rabbit (coincidently the first magic trick - "watch me pull out rabbit out my hat"). Because the rabbit was really a bird it could still lay eggs, hence the Easter Bunny, Easter Eggs, etc, etc, etc.
The story sounds nice, but a quick Google indicates contradictory stories and even accusations that the Eostre story is "fakelore". Apparently this story didn't exist until it was published in a children's magazine in the 1990's.
A more traditional explanation has the German Protestants making up the Easter Bunny so their children could get colored eggs without having to adopt the Catholic rite of fasting. Eggs (considered meat) were forbidden to Catholics during the fast of Lent, and so treasured on Easter morning. The German Protestants didn't want to diss the Catholic tradition, so they invented Oschter Haws (Easter Hare) who would drop off the colorful eggs to all the good children in the community. This one sounds pretty good to me.
Well, I don't know how it started or where the holy hare came from, but he hopped all over our house today. In his wake he left jelly beans, licorice bits, M&Ms, sour balls, gummy bears, malted milk balls, marshmallow chickadees and of course solid milk chocolate bunnies.
Warning to all the uninitiated, don't eat the chocolate bunny in one sitting. I did this when I was 10 and within the hour of devour had streaming milk chocolate coming out every orifice in my body. Chocolate through the nose is most painful. These days I like the jelly beans.
Hip hop hippity hoppity!
Do you think anyone will be singing "Blue Suede Shoes" 600 years from now? Me neither. It's only 2006 and if you aren't a subscriber to XM Radio you probably don't hear it today. Elvis isn't really the king.
Last night at the conclusion of the Easter Vigil we sang "Jesus Christ is Risen Today" - a timeless piece. A chart buster at the end of the 14th century, it rose to number 1 again this week some 6 centuries later.
Sung at the end of a 2 hour service filled with solemnity, it caps off a majestic evening that begins in total darkness and ends in brilliant light. When the choir crushes the first stanza, a wonderment of awe surges through your body. It is a religious experience for the ages.
I started work this week just like any other. Run through a list of everything I didn't finish last week and tack it on to longer list of plans for the coming week. Given I have other interest and that time does have boundaries, completing the list is a zero sum game. And this week the list lost.
I decided to take the week off. No travel. No meetings. No plans.
As of late I felt like a 45 playing on 33 1/3. People talking to me were making unintelligible sounds and my ability to respond was even more retarded. I was a bit worried I was going back into atrial fibrillation - fortunately not. I think we all just overload once in awhile and a bit of time to clear the mind is needed.
So I decided to read a book. I picked "A Retreat with Pope John XXIII - Opening the Windows to Wisdom" by Alfred McBride. Not a NY Times bestseller, but a pretty good choice for Holy Week.
John XXIII was a loving little character who became pope at the age of 77. A very unassuming man, his words are full of wisdom and simplicity. Sit quietly and listen.
"I want to talk to you with the greatest of frankness...Things have been said and written about me that greatly exaggerate my merits. I humbly introduce myself. Like every other man on earth, I come from a particular family and place. I have been blessed with good physical health and enough common sense to grasp things quickly and clearly; I also have an inclination to love people, which keeps me faithful to the law of the Gospel and respectful of my own rights and those of others. It stops me doing harm to anyone; it encourages me to do good to all...No doubt the great position entrusted to me exceeds all my capacities. But above all I commend to your kindness someone who simply wants to be your brother, kind, approachable, understanding."
Gosh, what a beautiful take on life. I'm going to remember it when I go back to writing my list next week.
I went to the Chrism Mass yesterday at the Cathedral. Chrism is the perfumed oil consecrated by the bishop that is used in the Sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation and Holy Orders. It signifies the gift of the Holy Spirit.
The Chrism Mass brings together all of the priest in the diocese for a reaffirmation of their vows before the bishop. Lay representatives from all the parishes also attend to receive the yearly allotment of consecrated oil for their church. The Holy Spirit is ever present.
These good men of God need the Holy Spirit these days. From sex scandals to the DaVinci Code to the Gospel of Judas there is always something present to move the faithless further from the church and to tug on those at the fringes. Add to that the diminished ranks of the priesthood and you have a recipe for a tried and tired group of spiritual leaders. These good men of God need our prayers.
We also need more young men to commit to the priesthood. Where are the new "fishers of men"? Does no one hear a whisper from the voice of Melchizedek, John the Baptist, or Peter? Has Jesus stopped casting His net?
The average age of a diocesan priest in the United States is 57 years old. Most of us are looking for a golden handshake at this age while a priest is planning for the 2nd half of his career.
Not only does a priest have to work longer in life, but they also have to work harder. 50 years ago there was a priest for every 650 Catholics. Today the number is 1 for every 1,200. This translates into longer days, more administrative task and fewer hours devoted to prayer and the spiritual healing of our souls.
Frankly, I worry about the ability of many priest to meet our spiritual needs. How can a man achieve any level of holiness without the time to reflect on the teachings of Jesus Christ? How can a man listen to God without significant moments of silence? We need to provide them relief.
At the start of this Holy Week, I offer up my heartfelt prayers for all those priest who faithfully serve those of us in need. I pray that the voice that called them to priesthood still echoes in their ear. I pray that a new generation of believers will hear the same voice and answer the call.
The devil shows up in many places in life. Sometimes he is hard to recognize, but don't be fooled. This is by design.
Sometimes he is also a she. Madonna is a good example of this. Brilliant strategy by Beelzebub. Take the name of the Virgin Mary, attach it to a former Catholic schoolgirl and give her an overdose of estrogen. Her conical breasts, on-stage wriggling and provocative lyrics turned every 12 year old girl into a street slut.
Her act was mild by today's standards, but hearing "like a virgin touched for the very first time" piped over the K-Mart PA system while Christmas shopping with my daughter left an impression (and a run on sentence). My guess is the next time you see a girl wearing a pleated skirt and a blouse it'll be Halloween.
I admit you need to squint a little bit to see some of the things in life that I see, but diablo is out there. You see him in the drug dealer and the pimp. You see him in the serial killer and the terrorist. And much to my chagrin, many of my family members see him in our beloved President.
I, for one, think just the opposite of the President and liken him to an apostle. Wait, if my siblings think he is the face of evil and he is not, does that mean they are the devil? Oh boy, that would really change the dynamics of our holiday dinners.
Okay, so you can see how complicated it gets trying to tag the Prince of Darkness. Which leads me to the topic of the day - baseball cards.
Baseball cards are definitely the devil, and I can prove it. The stories you are about to read are true. Several of them are alarming. I want all my younger readers to know that the sinner described herein is no longer of this earth. Back then I was known as Robert, but I shed that skin and am now a purer, cleaner Bob.
"Baseball Cards...Everything but Adultery" by Bob Mullen:
I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt not have strange gods before me.
I had a compulsive obsession with baseball cards as a kid and idolized Carl Yastrzemski of the Red Sox. The first picture in my wallet wasn't my Mom, Dad or Jesus. It was a baseball card of Yaz. Even on the hallowed school grounds of Christ the King, had you given me the choice between the Scapular of St. Francis and Yastrzemski's rookie card, I'd have committed my soul to Hades.
Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.
I needed a fix. I hadn't opened a new pack of baseball cards in over a week. I scraped up enough money to buy 3 packs by hitting my piggy bank. I was supposed to be saving for my education, but my need for a Rico Petrocelli and a stick of powdered bubble gum were too strong to overcome.
"That'll be 90 cents for the cards, young man," barked the store clerk.
"I thought they were a quarter a pack? I only got 75 cents."
"Well, then you only got 2 packs!" he sarcastically replied as he took back one of the 3 packs on the counter.
"Earl Battey - got 'im. Tommy Tresh - got 'im. Joe Pepitone - got 'im. Vada Pinson - got 'im! Wally Moon - got 'im!! JESUS CHRIST! These are all doubles."
Buying a pack of cards to get a specific player was pure chance. Topps published more than 400 cards in a season and released them in series so you'd have collect them all summer long. You had to buy and buy and buy to satisfy your cravings. Topps was the ultimate pusher, and you guessed it...the devil.
Remember thou keep the Sabbath Day.
"Keep the heating pad on your stomach and you'll feel better soon. Don't fret honey, we'll be back from church by noon," were my Mother's comforting words.
My stomach was churning from feigning illness and keeping me from the Eucharist. I had an all-star game planned with my baseball cards that I had scripted on Saturday night. There was no way Mass was going to cause a rain delay.
Honor thy Father and Mother.
Did your parents ever sell your baseball card collection in a garage sale? I'm over it now, but it took a lot of counseling. In retrospect they were helping free my soul, but during my years of addiction I skipped town on Mother's and Father's Day.
Thou shalt not steal.
I never had a problem coming up with sins to confess for our weekly reconciliation. In fact, I needed a checklist to go over the cards and quarters I pilfered.
"And this week, Father, I stole Roger Maris, Orlando Cepeda and Harmon Killebrew. I tried to steal Mickey Mantle, but none of my friends have this card. For this I am heartily sorry."
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
"Goddammit! How is it that we get a call from Sister Anecitus indicating a straight A student failed his multiplication test?"
"Dad, it wasn't my fault. I went to Bobby Giroux's house to study and I tried to study, but he is obsessed with baseball cards and wouldn't let me study. He kept trying to steal my Yastrzemski cards so I had to watch him the whole time. I'm not kidding!"
Thou shalt not covet they neighbor's goods.
Larry Press had tons of baseball cards. His dad used to bring them home by the box. Ironically, Larry didn't like baseball or baseball cards. To him Moe Drabowski's card was better than Hank Aaron's because Drabowski wore a hat.
Knowing a gold mine of baseball cards was but 4 doors down from our house turned me into a lecherous acquaintance. When I went to Larry's house I would salivate. Froth would pour from my mouth as Willie Mays and Sandy Koufax lay on the table irreverently mixed in with the likes of Pumpsie Green and Chris Cannizzaro. I made Mrs. Press nervous. Her instincts told her to protect her son from being fleeced. She kept us within eyesight at all times.
"Bob Gibson? Yeah, he is a pretty good pitcher, but the Cardinals stink. How about I give you Dick Nen and Mike Brumley from the Senators for Gibson? Didn't you go to Washington with your Dad last month?"
I was cracked out on baseball cards. Thank God that part of my life is over. Now I collect pewter saints, but that's a story for another day.
constant
adjective
noun
We have two landline phones in the house and in days past I could count on getting a dozen calls between 6:00P.M. and 7:00 P.M. You know the calls - low heating oil prices, new windows, gutter guards, life insurance, auto insurance, lawn care, investments, free vacations to Florida, Friends of the Police, Friends of the Library, Friends of the DNC and a few wrong numbers.
Fortunately, someone had the good sense to lobby for The Do Not Call Registry. Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, we're free at last!
Or so we thought. Enter, stage left, Verizon, Cingular, Nextel, AT&T and the advent of the Family Calling Plan. Only $49.99 per month plus $9.99 for each family member and FREE CALLING . When you ask? Why after 6:00 P.M. of course.
Father: Honey, can you pass the potatoes?
Ringtone: Bebeep. Bebeep.
Mother: Hi Lori! No, we're just sitting down to dinner. What are you doing?
Father: John, can you pass the potatoes? Your mother won't be off the phone for hours.
Ringtone 2: Brrring. Brring.
Son: Scoot Dog! How goes it Man? Nah, I'm just chowin' down with the pack.
Father: Keyla, could you reach over and hand me the potatoes?
Ringtone 3: Dingalingaling. Dingalingaling.
Father: Nathaniel could you push the potatoes over this way for me? Just put your hands on the dish and shove, boy!
Ringtone 4: Gagagoogoo. Gagagoogoo.
Baby: Da da papa ama mama. No. No. No. Papa. No.
Father: Holy shit! I give up.
Someone help me, please. I gotta have some licorice, but I can't figure out how to get it in my mouth! It's a good thing licorice is so rubbery cause I almost poked my eye out. I'm going to stay away from rock candy.
I think she is just trying to make me jealous. Doesn't her new den remind you a little of our manor on Ledgemere Street in Burlington?
I love it! Jeanne, if I see you up on a ladder painting the trim, I'm going to cry. Tell Annah to lobby for a room in the attic.
Old bloggers, you see, don't just fade away. They keep coming back for more. And that's the way it is, Saturday, April 1, 2006.
"Dear Pseudo Blogger, we regret to inform you that as of 11:59 p.m. EST on April 1, 2006 we will be shutting down your BlogSpot site. The popularity of blogging has exploded and our network load capacity has reached its maximum. In order to take advantage of incoming revenue from our advertisers we have instituted a minimum daily site visit requirement of 10 visits per day. Unfortunately, your site has failed to generate enough excitement in the reading community to meet our standards. By shutting down your site Blogger.com is not making any judgment as to the content value of your site, or inferring from the statistics that you are boring. Blogger.com promotes the free exchange of ideas and leaves it to the open market to determine the fate of each blog. Thank you for using BlogSpot and good luck at whatever you try next."
My activity spiked when I shamelessly promoted Letters from the Moon by spamming all my friends and family. But I overestimated the number of friends I have and most of my family has heard the stories before, hence the numbers.
I actually got a 30 day advance notice from Blogger.com, and spent the better part of March trying to teach Nathaniel and Ayva to read. Nathaniel was able to pick up the words "Papa", "eye" and "banana". Ayva just drooled. They are both idiots.
If anyone reads this let me know. I think I can appeal this decision with Blogger.com. Come to think of it, they probably don't work on Saturday so let's forget about it (you and I).
I would like to thank my brother for being an avid reader of Letters from the Moon. I could always count on him reading my post... once I called him.
Goodbye Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are!
April Fool's! Oh, I see, you wish it wasn't an April Fool's joke. Thanks a lot you bastard. Let's see if I try to wrack my feeble mind for your entertainment in the future. What? You don't find this entertaining? Okay, make me cry. See if I care.
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