Cake, Ice Cream & a Fire Extinguisher

The NFPA, FDA and AARP came to terms today to finalize a government regulation banning the use of birthday candles for anyone over the age of 55. Under the agreement, AARP has volunteered to distribute the notice to every new member through a flyer titled, "Save Your Breath".

Under laboratory conditions the NFPA was able to melt a cake, ignite a kitchen fire and simulate 3rd degree burns on a mannequin with only 55 candle power. The intensity of the flame and immenent danger was multiplied exponentially with every candle added above the retirement age.

A New England field officer of the National Fire Protection Association reported an instance in Hancock, NH where a 93 year old man was nearly engulfed in flames while attempting to blow out the candles on a cake. Fortunately the man hyperventilated on his 3rd attempt, passed out and fell away from the blaze. The reports indicated the birthday boy only suffered minor bumps and bruises from the fall.

Happy Birthday, Grampy!

Don't Drink the Milk

I grew up in Vermont. I usually find a way to mention that in a conversation with a stranger. I find it disarms a lot of people. They think of Vermont as being a cozy little state with lots of maple syrup, farms and a ski slope and suddenly I'm an ambassador.

The fact is I have now lived in Connecticut for more years of my life than Vermont. But just as Carlton Fisk will always be a Boston Red Sox despite playing more games for the Chicago White Sox, so too will I always be a Green Mountain Boy. It's hard to sever the roots from the tree.

Vermont has always had its fair share of interesting characters but most people don't associate anyone other than Ben and Jerry as famous residents. They are actually 2 New Yorkers who bought their citizenship with pints of Chunky Monkey.

Ethan & Ira Allen are my favorite Vermonters. They were transplanted Connecticut citizens who took Fort Ticonderoga from the British in the Revolutionary War. We once ate dinner in Newfane at the same table the Green Mountain Boys supposedly used to plot their plan to defeat the Redcoats. The mushroom soup was delicious.

George Dewey (Admiral of the Navy) was a Vermonter as was John Dewey (philosopher) although they were not related. Joseph Smith and Brigham Young of Mormon fame were Vermonters for awhile. So was John Deere (tractors), Alexander Solzhenitsyn (Russian exile & Nobel Prize winner), and Robert Frost (poet laureate).

The aforementioned Carlton Fisk was born in Vermont (Bellows Fall) although he went to school in the upside down state across the Connecticut River. Folks are much more serious in New Hampshire. The state license plate reads, "Live Free or Die". Not surprisingly the 94th Military Police Company of the NH Army Reserve was one of the first units called up for the War in Iraq. As they boarded a C-130 cargo plane headed for Baghdad, one of the younger soldiers was heard saying, "You're shittin' me! Who the fuck thought that one up?"

Bill Lee moved to Vermont after retiring from Major League Baseball. Known as the Spaceman, Lee use to sprinkle pot on his Corn Flakes for breakfast in the morning. This didn't go over too well in the provincial city of Boston, but in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom they did the same thing at the volunteer fire department pancake breakfast. The Spaceman landed in the right place.

Abraham Lincoln's son also lived in Vermont. A chip off the old block, Robert Todd Lincoln was a hit at all the local parties in the late 1800's. The townies would get liquored up on stout and yell at Robert, "Do the Gettysburg Address!"

With real famous Vermont politicians such as George Aiken, Calvin Coolidge and Chester Arthur (he was a U.S. president), I always thought laying claim to a son of an icon was lame. But hey, we are just a bunch of country bumpkin who are easily impressed.

"You'll never guess who I had a beer with at the Turnbridge Worlds Fair."
"Elvis Presley's daughter's babysitter?"
"How you'd guess?"
"Heard 'bout it at the country store."
"Did they tell you about the rig her husband entered in the tractor pull? It's called 'Shit or Get Off the Pot' in honor of The King."

In addition to colorful characters and politicians of the past, Vermont has the most unique collection of Congressmen in the country. Up until James Jeffords flipped party allegiance in 2001, Vermont had 1 Republican Senator (Jeffords), 1 Democratic Senator (Patrick Leahy) and 1 Socialist Representative (Bernie Sanders). How is that for declaring your independence? No one party is going to dictate to Vermonters what is right for us by Jesus! They talk about the genius of Carl Rove? He hasn't won Vermont yet.

You can see how eccentric some of the famous Vermonters are so let me introduce you to the more rank and file. Last Thursday I read a USA Today headline about a group of Vermont farmers who refused to register their birds as required by a newly enacted law. The idea behind the registration program is to allow the government to quickly respond should an outbreak of SARS occur.

Most of the farmers at the town meeting unequivocally stated they ain't goin'ta give them flatlander Feds the name of one chicken! Some likened the animal ID program to a fascist plan - "the Nazi's did a lot of that" was an actual quote. Others stated this was "the 1st step in the government controlling everything". I thought the milk control and subsidy program was the 1st step in the government controlling everything; it has the word control in it.

Knowing that the threat of a pandemic flu is possible, you wonder why anyone would resist registering the feathered friends. Is it the spelling? I'll volunteer to help with that.

Maybe some of these stockman name their birds after the bad guys and would be tipping their hat as members of a militia.

"Well son-of-a-bitch will you look at this? He's got a rooster named 'Little Timmy McVeigh'. Mullen grab a flak jacket and a shotgun and go check out the farm on Oak Hill Lane."

If that's the case let's give them a 30 day reprieve so they can rename all the birds. We'll even send them a list of acceptable names - Foghorn Leghorn, Chicken Little, The San Diego Chicken, Donald Duck, Mother Goose, et al.

Hopefully with a few more open hearings and a grant from the Feds everyone will come to their senses and cough up the list. But I can tell you this, if an avian flu does break out and they trace it back to a farm in Newport City, Vermont, I am going to disavow my Green Mountain ancestry and become a Nutmegger. That is so long as I survive the pandemic.

Read All About It

Funnel clouds, some lightning and a ton of rain brought chaos to Midway and O'Hare Airports in Chicago on Thursday night. Many people got stranded for the evening; I was fortunate enough to catch a delayed flight to Hartford. I got home late (1:00 a.m.), but I got home.

There is a lot of fallout from flight delays and cancellations. When it affects the whole airport you hear a collective sigh that is reminiscent of the home crowd's reaction to Larry Bird missing a free throw.

"Attention all travelers! Attention all travelers! There will be a 2 hour ground delay.."

"Aaaahh!"

"There will be a 2 hour ground delay caused by.."

"Aaaahh!"

"Dammit! Let's try this again people! There will be a 2 hour ground delay caused by high winds and heavy rain."

Some people get very angry, revert to childhood and throw a tirade.

"Rain and wind? You can't fly an 80,000 lb airplane through this shit? I have to get to New York for a very important meeting. Give me the keys I'll fly the damn thing myself."

"Sir, if you don't stop flopping around on the ground I will be forced to call Security."

Back to the analogy of the basketball game, most people finish the sigh and take a seat. Nothing like a bad shot to kill the rally.

But last night I found a silver lining. The 2 hour grounding at Midway proved to me we are a highly literate society and the Reading is Fundamental program successfully brained washed the majority of us.

I strolled down to Hudson News to grab a magazine. So did hundreds of others. When was the last time you stood in a line 20 deep to buy a copy of Sports Illustrated? Okay, so you did when the swimsuit issue came out, but how about People Magazine? No wait, I said reading is fundamental - let's make that Newsweek

At first I thought they were selling Powerball tickets in the airport. But it turned out to be the savvy travelers wiping the shelves of the basics - blueberry Nutri-Grain bar, bottle of water and a magazine. These folks are survivors.

As with everything in life, I followed the crowd.

Inmates Riot

We received a 911 call of distress today from the Mullen Correctional Center in W. Springfield. Convict 002 aka "Natie Joe" broke out of his cell, and with the help of Juvenile Offender 000.6 aka "Ayva", turned the prison yard upside down.

The Warden couldn't understand Convict 002 when he spilled the beans, but the words "air conditioner" where found scrawled on the floor.

Order was restored quickly and both prisoners were sent to the corner for punishment. The Teddy Bear was let off with only a warning.

Photos by Keyla Mullen

Fox Signs Madden

Photo AP

BEIRUT, Lebanon (AP), July 23, 2006 - FOX News announced today that they have hired NFL colorman, John Madden, to cover the developing war in the Middle East. Known for his keen ability to stip down a strategic plan and relay that to the common man in simple terms, Madden is expected to increase the viewership in the all important "male 25-39" demographic layer.

"The idea actually came from one of our beer advertisers," said Middle Eastern FOX News spokesman Ajmal Barakaa. "Everyone will be able to show katusha rockets exploding over Haifa, but only FOX will have John Madden adding his signature WHAP! BANG! BOOM! to the commentary."

When asked what he thought of the deal, Madden commented, "I'm looking forward to covering the war. It is shaping up as a classic battle and I like what I see from both sides at the moment. Hezbollah's 'shoot & scoot' tactics are striking fear in the hearts of the Israelis but Israel has the hogs to open up the ground game. Hezbollah has a great farm system, but they are lacking the long bomb threat of the Israelis. Hezbollah could also use some help from a fashion designer - they have lousy uniforms. My advice to both sides is, 'Don't worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon!' See you in the Bekka Valley."

Terms of the deal were not disclosed although it is known that FOX News has agreed to camouflage Madden's travel bus and fly Pat Summerall to Beirut for weekend poker games.

Satire by Moon Mullen

You're Hired

Everyone's been asked at one time or another what they really want to do in life. Most of us struggle with the answer as we are neither passionate about a career nor do we have any idea how to apply the talents God has given us.

I once heard comedian Paula Poundstone quip that adults ask children what they want to be when they grow up because they are looking for ideas. I can't improve on that comment.

There are some people who know what they want to be early in life or have a talent that makes it very apparent. Barry Bonds was probably hitting a lot of home runs in Little League. A teenage Bill Gates was in a garage somewhere hacking into a Commodore 64. Jack Walsh was mapping out more efficient ways to play Monopoly and separating his boyhood pals by winners and losers.

The rest of us though don't have a clue. You go to school for the first 20 years of your life and then graduation day comes. That afternoon at the party while celebrating your past accomplishments, 10,000 aunts and uncles line up to ask you, "So, what are you going to do now?"

The most common bit of advice given is to think about what you like in life and look for work in that industry. You quickly realize not everyone can be a beer distributor or wine taster and so the theory gets stretched.

You sit down to make a list of your likes, a possible job and the drawbacks:

• Baseball cards - open a store - cash for inventory & competition (2 stores in town).
• Hiking - manager at EMS - $8/hour & no benefits.
• Sex - porn star - a sin, a small penis & my parents would disown me.
• Faith - priest - need to stop making fun of people & no sex.
• Arguing - lawyer - 4 more years of school & final exams.
• Golf - pro - no one has ever made the tour with a 16 handicap.

Okay, so that didn't work. You grab the paper and you start to sift through the job listings - financial advisor, insurance sales, RN/LPN, hotel night shift manager, shipping clerk, COBALT developers. Well, I think I could do at least half of those jobs. What do they pay?

And so it starts. You get a job, you make some money and you pay the bills. 20 years later you ask yourself what you really want to do in life. The question still can't be answered.

Some say if you listen to God He will tell you what to do. Does anyone know if He actually speaks to you, or is it in Morse code? God, if you are listening please whisper in my right ear because the left one You gave me is defective.

All kidding aside, I think He has been telling me what to do for the past 5 years - record children's audiobooks. He hasn't said anything directly to me about this, but rather He has sent messengers to sit in on the many business meetings I host. At first I thought it was a joke, but inevitably at every presentation given in a corporate conference room there is one angel in the audience who is lulled to sleep by my melodic product pitch.

I use to be offended, but now it gives me the shivers. I never say anything out loud, but for a brief moment my spirit soars above the room suspended in time and I look at the sleeping angel and say to myself, "God, is that you?"

I put my new found theory to the test the other night and read Ayva, "The Lion and the Mouse" from Aesop's Fables. Her eyes rolled back with "Once upon a time..." and she was fast asleep before the mouse ever sprang the lion from the trap. I sobbed and dropped to my knees. Almost 50 years into my life the path is no longer muddied - my littlest angel spoke to me to tell me I really should be reading children's books.

Before I quit my job with Bottomline, I think I probably should get a second opinion. So tonight I am going to sit and listen quietly for God to confirm the message, but first, I gotta run a Q-tip through my left ear.

It's a Small World After All

I remember the first time I went to New York City. It was 1986 and I was in my late 20's. I took a trip down to the Financial District to meet with an insurance underwriter. I was a broker for a Connecticut municipality who had less than 10 days left on a liability policy with no option to renew.

We were in the midst of a liability insurance crisis and you had to hunt down any coverage available regardless of the terms. I had heard of group forming a captive company offshore, so I ventured down to historic John Street to find out how to get in on the deal. I had never heard of a captive up until that point and definitely had no idea what I was doing.

I recall leaving my home at 4:30 a.m. to be sure I got to a mid-morning meeting on time. Manchester, CT to NYC was only about 100 miles heading southwest on the Merritt Parkway, but I had heard horror stories about the traffic. On subsequent trips I would find out how paralyzing the legendary gridlocks can be, but on this day I came into town with the street sweepers.

My first impression of the city was one of awe. Every vision was iconic from the bull outside the NY Stock Exchange to the sign on the corner marking Wall Street to the sight of the World Trade Center. I was stymied at what lay before me.

As the morning hours arose the people started to fill the streets. I walked shoulder to shoulder with legions of people through the shadowy canyons formed by the rows of towering buildings. I had an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy fill my heart. I felt incredibly small and insignificant. Not really the type of emotion you want to experience before you go to negotiate a deal, but I was swallowed whole by New York City on that day.

In the years since I have gone to New York a hundred times. I've visited Fortune 500 companies in every borough and district. I've met with managers, vice presidents, executive vice presidents and officers of a company. I've made a presentation in a board room overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge on the east side of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty on west.

I've ridden Metro North, the Staten Island Ferry and the subway. I know where to shop for a camera in New York (B&H) and where to park if you bring the car. I've strolled through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Natural History Museum, The National Museum of the American Indian and the Cloisters. I've dragged the kids to the Bronx Zoo.

I've sat behind the 3rd base dugout at Yankee Stadium and in the upper deck at Shea. I've seen a NFL Championship Game at Giant Stadium, a Stanley Cup playoff game at the Meadowlands and the Big East Finals at Madison Square Garden.

I've watched the volunteers blow up the Snoopy balloon for The Macy's Day Parade on a Wednesday evening and guide it through Herald Square on Thanksgiving Thursday. I've exchanged hellos with Katie Kuric during a commercial break at Rockefeller Center. I've seen Cabaret, Beauty and the Beast and Rent on Broadway, the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall and Nancy Griffith at the City Hall Auditorium. I've received communion on The Feast of St. Patrick at St. Patrick's Cathedral a few blocks up from Grand Central.

I've been stranded in the city. During the famous blackout of 2003, I marched to nowhere with a million other souls on a hot August day looking for refuge in a city that finally slept.

This week I returned to New York, NY for a bit of business and a load of fun. I took my lovely bride of 29 years to see The Lion King on 42nd Street. The show was spectacular - especially the costumes and stage effects. It was a special evening.

But what struck me on this trip was a feeling I had as we descended to the streets of Times Square after the show. Instead of being intimidated by the big city life, I actually felt warm and cozy among the thousands of people as we all circled the square gawking at the bright lights and our collective energy. Julie held my hand so as not to get separated, but I stood still for a moment with streams of revilers passing me on both sides recalling my very first visit to Manhattan.

I couldn't conjure up the same feelings - the years and emotions have long since passed.

I love New York!

Cooling Down

Ayva figured out how to beat the heat - hold a Klondike Festival! Now if we can only get her to eat her peas and carrots.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Saturday I had the pleasure of photographing the wedding of my niece, Heather. The ceremony was beautiful and it had an extra measure of meaning for me because July 15th is my own wedding anniversary. 29 years with the same chick - 34 if you count the dating. I've already signed a contract extension that'll keep me on the same team through the rest of my career.

Anyhow, while the wedding was glorious the temperature outside was pushing 90 degrees with 100% humidity. This was approximately 5 degrees cooler than the temperature inside the church!

20 minutes into the ceremony I was drenched. My hands were wet, my brow was dripping, and my back was soaked. My waterlogged condition didn't escape many of the wedding guests.

Ironically, only my armpits were dry. If Mennen ever runs an advertising campaign featuring the common man, I'm a prime candidate for the job.

I bought a fresh stick of Cool Fusion 24/7 Antiperspirant Deodorant with Micro-absorber Technology the night before the wedding. The choices were mind boggling. There had to be more than 50 different brands or models of underarm protection. We must really stink.

I sat in the deodorant aisle staring at my options for more than 15 minutes. I was looking for the perfect antiperspirant, but in the end it was the micro-absorbers that got me. I couldn't really figure out how they embed technology in a cake of deodorant, but being a software salesman I bought the tagline.

It worked. The next time I shoot a wedding on a sultry summer day I am going to apply Speed Stick all over my body.

Covenant with God

Faith, Family, Friends...

...and FUN

Steven & Heather (Mullen) Groccia
July 15, 2006

Extended Warranty

A few years back I had a freak medical condition called atrial fibrilation. Basically your heart can't catch its rhythm (more persistent in white guys) and begins to beat rapidly and irregularly.

In the normal course of life, chambers of the heart open once to allow blood to flow in and a second time to push it all out. This lub-dub 2-step keeps you on the dance floor. When in fibrilation, the lub-dub turns into the ranting of a beatnik on the bongos. The danger isn't in the downbeat, but in the fact that not all the blood clears the chamber. The stuff that hangs around will eventually dislodge and has the potential to block an artery causing a stroke. When that happens you either die or wake up months later talking like Moms Mabley.

Ironically it doesn't have much to do with the condition of your heart. Atrial fibrillation shows up as a blip on the human electric grid - a short in the circuitry no less. Once you are in fibrillation there are a number of ways to reset the rhythmic heartbeat and for me it was 30 days of blood thinner and a cardioversion. A cardioversion is when they mainline a few volts of pure Connecticut Light & Power electricity into your body - it resets all channels.

It turns out there is a correlation between atrial fibrillation and another medical condition, sleep apnea. My physician suggested I get tested for sleep apnea and sure enough I tested positive.

"What is it, Doc? Is it bad!? You gotta tell me, Doc.....am I going to live?"

"Yes, you'll live. But you're never going to sleep."

I don't know how you get sleep apnea, but the symptoms are easily detected. You constantly toss and turn, snore like an elephant seal and then stop breathing altogether. You wake up in the morning feeling as though you just climbed Mt. Washington. By 2:00 in the afternoon you are ready for bed again. The long term effect is it messes with your power grid and eventually blows a fuse. If you keep turning a light switch on and off sooner or later the bulb shorts out.

One of the cures for sleep apnea is a contraption called a CPAP machine. It blows a regulated stream of air (very dry air) through your nasal passage to prevent a small piece of flesh from closing and causing momentary suffocation.

"So Doc, what is the presciption?"

"Up your nose with a rubber hose - literally."

A piece of tubing is attached to the CPAP machine on one end and a fighter pilot mask on the other. It really looks silly.

"I'm not lying, Honey. It doesn't look silly. Seriously."

"Right. I probably remind you of Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Do you want to make love? I'll radio ahead to air traffic control and get clearance for a landing."

When I put on my mask and look in the mirror I don't see Maverick, The Great Santini or Chuck Yeager. Instead I see Snuffleupagus. Sesame Street might be a fun and sunny place, but it's never been known for romance. I'm too young to be a eunuch.

Vanity has kept me from using my CPAP machine with regularity. Dumb on my part. Everyone I know who uses a machine (the list is growing) swears by the results. They all feel well rested, happy, productive and some have even lost weight. A successful c-papper can evangelize on the merits of the machine as well as Billy Graham can Jesus Christ. They'll make you a believer.

At my last office visit my doctor was curious as to why I was still lacking energy and was the color of a bucket of ash. Knowing I would be less than forthright in divulging my symptoms, he asked me a psychological question.

"Robert, if you could be anyone from history at this moment, who would it be?"

"That's easy, Rip Van Winkle," I said with a yawn.

"You really do need to start using your breathing apparatus."

"Okay, Doc. I will."

I am making a concerted effort to cooperate and so far so good. I even took my machine with me on business travel to California.

I'm still not sleeping for 8 continuous hours, but that's because of a urinary problem; I am breathing great. Hey, maybe they have a hose they can attach to another part of my body. I gotta call my doctor!

"Goodnight, Mary-Ellen. Goodnight, Jim-Bob. Goodnight, Elizabeth. Goodnight, Ben. Goodnight, Jason. Goodnight, Erin. Goodnight, Grandma. Goodnight, Grandpa. Goodnight John-boy."

"Goodnight, everyone!"

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Outlook Calendar for Today

1. Make travel & hotel reservations for Chicago trip (7/24-27).
2. Follow up call with business analyst on new product features.
3. Run webex demo for western region sales rep and prospect.
4. Pay mortgage.
5. Play Hot Wheels with Natie Joe & Ayva.
6. Thank God for my family & friends.

Get 'em While They're Hot!

I hate taking the first sip from a freshly poured cup of coffee, particularly when I am in the car. The unknown of the temperature keeps me from raising the styrofoam to my lips. I always anticipate scorching my uvula.

Styrofoam is good at disguising the temperature of the contents inside the cup. The outside is barely warm, but inside the cup molten lava is bubbling. Before McDonald's got sued (and lost) for serving piping hot coffee, you could be guaranteed to get a mug of coffee served at a temperatures between 190-210 degrees Fahrenheit. Post verdict it's common to have the same cup of coffee served at just over 150 degrees.

The problem I have is I don't have anyway of knowing if my Starbucks, Dunkin Donut, or Tim Horton java is ready for my lips or needs to sit in the corner and cool off. I err on the side of caution (inherited) and am almost always disappointed to find out I waited too long. 2 ounces into a cold hazelnut decaf I'm wondering why I even drink coffee it taste so bad. Not to mention the wasted $2.50. Given I buy one cup a day I'm putting close to $900 at risk on an annual basis.

On Sunday, while tolerating a luke warm cup of Dunkin Donuts coconut flavored decaf, I came up with a possible solution - an embedded thermometer in the styrofoam cup. I don't really know what temperature is optimal, but you could have the thermometer display rankings instead of the actual degrees. Maybe Homeland Security would allow us to borrow the same color coding scheme used for our terrorist alerts . It might look like this:

Red - Pending Lawsuit - Scorching Hot
Orange - Go Ahead, it's a Free Country - Pretty Damn Hot
Yellow - Bingo! Drink Up - Hot
Blue - Seek Out the Nearest Microwave - Warm
Green - You Should've Bought the Lotto Ticket - Luke Warm (who's Luke?)

I thought this was an ingenious idea, but Jessica quickly commented that I just tripled the cost of a cup of coffee (projected $2700 yearly budget) with my add on feature. After a few minutes of thought, Jessica threw in her own idea of offering a designer brand of coffee that incorporated the heat sensor - "People would probably buy it for the status!"

We're filing a patent on Monday.

I Wanna be a Cowboy Baby

Natie Joe turned two and he got his first horse, Duke. Can't wait until he turns three so we can get him some guns! Pearl handled six-shooters with a leather holster would be just fine.

I wanna be a cowboy, Baby!

Mullen Boys Sign Endorsement

Photo by Moon Mullen

Design by Mark "Mullen" Dubay

Beer by Sam Adams

Powder

The leg on the left is mine. It's been roughly 5 years since my legs have visited the beach or seen direct sunlight. As soon as I pulled off my flannel lined jeans to uncover my swimsuit the family laughed. So did the Giulianos. Even a tanned couple walking the beach giggled.

Well, I am happy to report I survived the day thanks to a tube of SPF 25. They still look pretty white next to a color wheel, but the sunshine felt awfully good. Next week I'm thinking about unveiling my torso. I might need to ratchet up the sunblock another notch or two.

Automobile Study - "People Are Shrinking"

I bought a new car earlier in the year - a Honda Accord. It's a good car. It rides nicely and has enough pep for a 4-cylinder to accelerate into the passing lane when you're overcome with road rage.

It also averages 35 mpg on the highway. This is important for me because at the end of every trip my Father ask me what I got for mileage. The mpg question is the bell weather indicator of Dad's affection for you. Like most guys of his era (the pissing generation - more on this later) he can't just come out and say "I love you". Tell him you got more than 16 mpg and it's Valentines Day all over again. His reference point for mileage is an 8 cylinder 1970 Dodge Polaris.

I should point out that my Father is dead, but this doesn't stop him from asking me the same questions he asked me for 38 years of my life. Every morning while eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table I hear him say, "I think the dog shit in the cellar last night; did you pick it up?"

I enjoy the questions from the grave. They are evidence of eternal life.

Anyhow, back to the car. The one thing I noticed lately that I don't like about the car is the positioning of the steering wheel relative to the dashboard. You can't see the speedometer.

The same is true of a Chevy Monte Carlo. I was speeding down I-75 in a rented car on my way from Detroit to Toledo when I passed a highway patrolman toting a radar gun. He caught me by surprise. This was not a good thing because in addition to packing an overnight bag for my trip I brought with me my I-95 driving skills - passing on the right, tailgating, crossing over two lanes in one move and an average speed of 80 mph. I immediately applied the brakes and looked down to see how fast I was going.

"License and registration!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Mr. Muller, do you have any idea how fast you where going?"

"Yes, Sir. Somewhere between 20 and 120 mph. Is there a problem with that here in Ohio?"

"Step away from the car, Mr. Muller, and keep your hands where I can see them!"

"No wait, I can explain officer. This is all the fault of an auto engineer."

At first I thought the auto manufacturers just cheated in trying to create more interior room by moving the steering wheel. But wouldn't they have noticed the flaw? If you are over 6 feet tall you can't see the needle on the speedometer unless you are parked or doing laps around Talledega!

Then I thought, they couldn't be that stupid. There has to be some logical answer to the redesign. The two I came up with are either car designers are smaller than the average person, or they have discovered that human beings are getting shorter. If in fact the latter is true, the angle of the head to the tilt of the wheel would be adequately lower to allow the driver to see "65 MPH" on the speedometer.

My own study of 2 late model cars from different manufacturers validates this theory. Sadly, people are in fact shrinking. Oh, well!

Now, as for the reference to the "pissing generation", let me explain. Everyone knows the World War II crowd as the Greatest Generation. Their accomplishments on the battle field are legendary and they built the U.S. into the industrial power in the world. But one thing I noticed about the men of that generation that isn't documented is they can piss anywhere and around anyone.

When you see a guy from the Greatest Generation in a public restroom he just walks up to the urinal and starts pissing like a barnyard animal. No bashful kidneys, no privacy stall, no concern for the people around him. He can even have a conversation with the guy standing next to him while he pisses.

"Nice hat. Did you serve on the Saratoga?"

"I did. I had 2 brothers killed on the USS Lexington."

"Sorry to hear that. I lost my brother in Northern Africa."

Guys of my generation on the other hand concentrate on wall tiles or stare down at the catch basin in the urinal - no talking allowed. We invented the privacy partition so perverts can't study our pee-pee when nature calls. Many of us stand in line and wait for one of the shitters to open up instead of using a urinal at all.

Not the Pissing Generation. They can drain it by the side of the road, in the bushes on the tee box, behind the car in a parking garage - anywhere.

These guys never worried about who was peeking at their wanker while taking a leak. They were in breadlines during the Great Depression pissing on the street corners. During World War II they were busy taking their last piss at Anzio, Omaho Beach and Iwo Jima. And once the post-war industrial boom came they were so busy pasting the country together you could see them pissing from the top of skyscrapers and the bridges across our great rivers.

There was no time for bashfulness with this crowd. They were the factory generation and they pissed like they were in a production line. Stand one behind the other, wait your turn, get up there, pull it out, talk some manly stuff and piss right into the porcelain bowl - done!

Tom Brokaw's book on the Greatest Generation did really well. What would you think my chances of success would be with a book on the Pissing Generation? Let me know, but don't tell anyone about the idea!

Chillin with the Chillen

I'm a simple man, maybe even a moron. I am easily amused. Show me a monkey in a space suit or a midget wrestling and I'll belly laugh like Homer Simpson. High minded humor is clever, but pure stupidity is hilarious.

I'm so lucky to have Nathaniel in my life as his humor is on the same level as mine. At two years old he can deadpan with the best of them. Yesterday he kept us in stitches by taking gulps of water from his turtle pool and then watering Julie's plants by spitting out streams of the H2O. He started out popping his cheeks and spurting out all the water in one good blow, but later in the hour he did intermittent spits triggered by the laughter of the audience. I just need him to add a couple of quirky movements (tug of the ear, push of the nose) to get his spigot flowing and we'll be ready for the stage.

He's a savvy performer. The spitting routine was getting a bit long in the tooth, and he was about to lose the audience. Mimi, Jess, Julie and Keyla were beginning to strike up meaningful conversations and this momentarily left Natie Joe stifled. He quickly recovered however by taking the hose and spraying his Papa. The women roared.

You can't teach this kind of humor; it's either in the funny bone or it ain't. The kids got it!

Walking the Plank

I know a lot about navigating the internet. I also know a fair amount about photography. And I know a little bit about finance although I should probably know more having been a business major. We didn't spend enough time learning about debt.

I read everday. This gives me enough knowledge in current affairs to carry on a two comment conversation on just about anything. Make me go into the third inning on a hot topic though, and I'll be gazing into the dugout initiating the call to the bullpen.

What keeps me from being a true renaissance man is my lack of talent in the trades. There are no carpentry, masonry, painting or plumbing genes in this body.

I don't know the difference between a skill saw and a band saw. Is there one? I do know grout is not the same as the acid build up you get in your joints as an old man, but after that I need some help.

The artisan closer in our family is Julie. She is also the starter and middle reliever. When it comes to being handy I am the family batboy. It's pitiful, but I've been relegated to fetching the screwdriver on most jobs ("Honey, is the Philips the one with the flat bit?). Julie on the other hand owns a chainsaw, screw gun, router and 20 different screwdrivers.

This isn't really surprising though given her Dad is about the handiest guy you'd ever want to meet. As the old saying goes, the nut (or is it the apple) never falls too far from the tree.

Julie's Dad not only knows how to use every tool ever manufactured by Stanley, but he finds his own materials, too. Most of us just go to Home Depot and pick up a sheet of plywood, a few 2x4s and a plank of finished oak. Bill tracks down what he needs in the wild.

Whether we are talking about stones for the walkway or planks for the deck, Bill can find what he needs in the environs of Vermont. He built a stone wall with boulders from Green Mountain streams and a split rail fence from the deadwood on the forest floor. His work is as poetic and authentic as a stanza from Robert Frost's "Mending Wall".

Only rocks with a character make it into Bill's stone wall or patio. He gets an idea of a shape in his head and then fashions a cardboard cutout of the same that he takes with him when hunting for the next puzzle piece. I marvel at his ingenuity.

Not everything has to be of the earth in his book. In fact, he built a boardwalk of pressure treated wood to the entrance of the Colchester house. One of the properties of pressure treated wood (besides being toxic) is the stuff never rots making it perfect for outdoor use.

According to Bill you can't buy pressure treated wood anymore (I missed the initial sale), but he found a secret stash. It turns out the buoyancy of pressure treated wood is much higher than the Titanic and during periods of flooding you can go down to the mouth of the Winooski and Lamoille Rivers and find washed up boards. Bill collected enough wayward planks to build a 50 foot walkway without spending anything but time. It's a thing of beauty.

So is Billy Boy!

Rockets Red Glare

The 4th of July is my favorite day of the summer; I'm a sap for the patriotic fervor. No other holiday draws a community closer together than the birthday celebration of our country. Every town has a party and it usually culminates with the national anthem and thundering explosions of the rockets red glare overhead. Everybody is happy.

Some years ago the pyrotechnic companies figured out a way to simulcast music with the bursting shells. We saw our first choreographed display at the Riverfest in Hartford around 1986. The show started with a blast from Fanfare for the Common Man and transitioned to Neil Armstrong's infamous quote, "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." The streamers in the sky had you walking on the moon.

It was an incredibly emotional display. I remember crying when Robert Kennedy's words fell from the night sky - "Some men see things as they are and say why; I dream things that never were and say why not."

I wasn't melancholy in any way, but rather it was an emotional outburst of wonderment at the reality of the American dream. We had just spent the happiest day of the summer in the company of immigrants or sons and daughters of the immigrants from Ireland, England, Scotland, Poland, Germany, France, Italy, Greece, Austria, Sweden, Canada, Russia, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Angola, Congo, Mexico, Vietnam, Philippines, Korea, Japan and every other corner of the world. Everyone danced and everyone sang under the canopy painted by Francis Scott Key in 1814.

I never forgot that feeling. It returns to me every year when I look over the crowds of people gathered to celebrate the 4th of July. Added to the faces are beautiful and hopeful souls from China, Pakistan, India, Bosnia, Iran, Iraq, Haiti and the Dominican Republic. There are no shortage of dreamers in the world.

When I think of the mix it makes me wonder why it is so difficult for peoples in other countries of the world to get along with each other. Kurds, Sunnis and Shiites? How tough can it be? Maybe we should send over the folks from Grucci Fireworks and try hosting a birthday party. It worked for me.

God Bless America.

Youth Arrested for Urinating on Old Glory

We went to the New Britain Rock Cats baseball game Friday night. It was a monsterous battle between the Twins' affiliate and their in-state rival, the Connecticut Defenders (Giants). The Rock Cats won 6-0 with some very good pitching and a late game rally.

The pre-game tension between the last place Double A squads was very high until Blooper the Walrus (team mascot) was tackled near home plate by a giant tube of toothpaste. The crowd went wild!

You can't beat going to a minor league baseball game. For $7 (most expensive ticket) we watched some very good baseball, received a free whiffleball bat and saw a 4th of July fireworks display. We going back next Friday for "Cash Back Night".

Take me out to the ballgame,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,
I don't care if I never get back,
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game.