Happy Anniversary?

The anniversary of Hurricane Katrina's devastation passed earlier this week. I'm guessing you probably already heard about this.

I find it interesting that we now mark the anniversary of every major news event. Not that I don't feel for the people affected by hurricanes, tsunamis and earthquakes but can't we just roll up our sorrow into one major holiday and get it over with? Tack it on to Memorial Day.

It's hard enough to start the day with a smile these days much less finish with one. I don't know about you, but digging up the dead on the nightly news doesn't make me giggle. The B- side of the hit record "Life is for the Living" is "Death is for the Dead". May they rest in peace and stop haunting me!

If we all are really that fascinated with death and destruction I might have a good idea for bringing back New Orleans - build a natural disaster theme park. All the props are already in place. They just need to rebuild the hotels.

A ticket to the grand opening of There Ain't No Ark in the Park would entitle you to sit on the rooftop of a suburban house as the flood waters rise. Just as the water is about to crest a rescue boat will putter by and the Captain will toss out Mardi Gras beads and yell out, "Show me your tits!"

The women will survive and all the men will drown. The news channels will saturate the airwaves for 40 days and 40 nights with photos, homemade videos, and interviews:

"Our sorrow is with you today Michelle, but can you tell us what happened to your husband?"

"They say he got swept away by the water but I didn't see it because I had my shirt over my head. I wish I never had any tits."

One year later we will commemorate another tragedy.

Master Photographer

I gave Natie Joe free reign to a point and shoot digital camera the other night. The jury is still out on whether or not he'll be the next Richard Avedon, but he already has a style all his own.

While conventional photography wisdom dictates the eyes as the critical element of a portrait, Nathaniel has chosen the smile. And why not? He's too young to be searching for the soul of his subject. He is too innnocent to understand anything other than a smile.

Life is about happiness to a 2 year old.

Nice shot, Nathaniel.

Summer's End

Someone reminded me yesterday that Labor Day is next weekend. Summer will be drawing to an end and I never even knew it began. I'm in a panic because with only one week left here are all the traditional summertime activities I still need to do:

• Lay on my back and look up at the summer clouds. When I was a kid I'd see all sorts of monsters and creatures in the clouds. Now everything looks like a phallic symbol.
• Camp out in the backyard in my sleeping bag. Tara (childhood dog) use to sleep out with me and crawl to the bottom of the bag. If Truffle wants to do the same I'll have to zip 2 bags together because we're both too plump for reminiscing.
• Sit under a shade tree and read Archie comic books. I just love, Ronnie. She's kind of reminds me of Julie until she speaks - Veronica that is.
• Decorate my bike for the 4th of July. Okay, so the 4th of July was last month; I'll put my Schwinn Tiger in storage and she'll be already for next year.
• Play home run derby - right after I cut the grass.
• Buy a pack of baseball cards. I think I've got $5 bucks laying around somewhere.
• Play kick-the-can. If I could only remember the names of my neighbors I could ask them to play. Olly olly oxen free!
• Play a game of marbles for keepsies. I'm talking high stakes marbles where we roll nothing but Bumble Bee or Puresie boulders - no Cat's-Eyes in this game!
• Oil my baseball glove. I love the smell of oiled leather in the morning...it smells like victory.
• Go to the drive-in movies. Do you think they'd arrest me for trespassing if I mentioned I was just being nostalgic?
• Jump off a swing in mid-air. I think my health insurance is paid up.
• Look up at the midnight sky for shooting stars. Reminder to self: "Don't forget your glasses."
• Go to Battery Park and order a pint of Beansie's French Fries. I can still do that, but who wants to mainline cholesterol?
• Fall down on the sidewalk and scrape my knee. I can still do that.

Gosh, where did the summer go? Where did the years go? Oh, well, no time for feeling blue. I've got a busy week ahead!

One Shot

Do you remember Robert Di Nero mumbling something about "one shot" over and over again in the movie The Deer Hunter? You just knew those two words were the key to the whole movie, but you weren't quite sure what the hell they meant.

30 years later, while photographing my niece's wedding, "one shot" rang in my ear. The meaning became crystal clear. It goes like this - sometimes in life you get 1 chance, 1 split second, 1 moment in time ...one friggin' shot... to make a decision and reach the pinnacle of your craft. When you nail it you are elated. When you miss it, a voice in your head reminds you that
you suck!

The photo above (now a watercolor painting thanks to PhotoElements) was an errant shot. When I took it I thought I had scaled the heights of wedding photography. As I pressed the shutter release I imagined speaking engagements and autograph signings (if you read this blog at all you know I have a vivid imagination).

Two days after the wedding I had a chance to download the photo to my computer for editing. It was perfectly composed, captured the energy of the moment and ... was blurry. I had done everything but focus the lens!

One shot.

The Island

If you want to lead a happy life, don't watch the evening news. CNN should acquire the rights to Fractured Fairy Tales (Bullwinkle Show) and rebrand Wolf Blitzer's Situation Room for what it is - The Chicken Little Story.

Is North Korea about to detonate a nuclear bomb? Will Israel launch a premptive strike on Iran to destroy Tehran's nuclear ambitions? India, China or Mexico - where will your children work? It's been 5 years since 9-11 without an incident; is our luck running out?


Turn the channel to CBS and you get Henny Penney. Goosey Loosey is on FOX and PBS has Turkey Lurkey. The sky is always falling.

Frankly, much of what is on TV these days isn't news at all. It's just re-runs of the same old stories. I am tired of it and I can't listen anymore.

Irish song writer Paul Brady had the same feelings in 1985 during a particularly tenuous time in Northern Ireland. He penned a song called, "The Island". Read the lyrics. They were stunning then and still ring true today. Turn off the TV and take your heart and soul to the island.

They say the skies of Lebanon are burning,
Those mighty Cedars bleading in the heat,
They're showing pictures on the television,
Women and children dying in the street,
And we're still at it in our own place,
Still trying to reach the future through the past,
Still trying to carve tomorrow from a tombstone...

But hey! Don't listen to me!
This wasn't meant to be no sad song,
We've heard too much of that before,
Right now I only want to be here with you,
Till the morning dew comes falling.
I want to take you to the Island,
And trace your footprints in the sand,
And in the evening when the sun goes down,
We'll make love to the sound of the ocean.

They're raising banners over by the markets,
Whitewashing slogans on the shipyard walls,
Witchdoctors praying for the mighty showdown,
No way our holy flag is gonna fall,
Up here we sacrifice our children,
To feed the worn out dreams of yesterday,
And teach them dying will lead us into glory...

But hey! Don't listen to me!
This wasn't meant to be no sad song,
We've heard too much of that before,
Right now I only want to be here with you,
Till the morning dew comes falling.
I want to take you to the Island,
And trace your footprints in the sand
And in the evening when the sun goes down,
We'll make love to the sound of the ocean.

Now I know us plain folks don't see all the story,
And I know this peace and love is just copping out,
And I guess these young boys dying in the ditches,
Is just what being free is all about,
And how the twisted wreckage down on main street,
Will bring us all together in the end,
And we'll go marching down the road to freedom...

Freedom.

I'm a Good Boy

I made the list. I'm not sure what list, but I'm on it.

I tried to print my boarding pass from home last night by going online as I always do. But this time nothing printed and the website advised me to "check in at the gate". When I got to the airport I put my credit card in the self-service kiosk to get my boarding pass only to have the screen flash, "please see an airline agent".

According to Gloria from SWA, "Someone with your name has been a bad boy. We need to verify who you are to get you cleared from the list."

Is it really possible for a guy named Robert to be dangerous? Say what you will, but I don't think people are thinking bad ass when they hear the name, Robert.

"Hey, about this 'Robert Mullen' fella, he wouldn't happen to be one of those blogosphere authors proffering oddball ideas would he?"

(Mullen paranoia moment - you don't think The Man read my post about the toothpaste last week, do you?)

If everyone starts out good, how does one go about becoming bad? There has to be a turning point - a conscious decision to go to the dark side. A Vadar moment. I don't have any research data to back it up, but my guess is most bad guys were 2nd place finishers in a good guy race.

I could have been a bad guy. In fact when I was 13 I wanted to be a bad boy. I was tired of being on the honor roll and always playing the part of an apostle in the school play. I wanted to smoke cigarettes and say swear words other than "judas priest".

I hooked up with a bad boy who ironically wanted to be a good boy. We rode our bikes to his house after school and holed up in a clubhouse he and his brother had built in the garage. They had a ping pong table, record player and lava lamp along with a couple of bug infested sofas.

Within an hour the clubhouse was cloaked in cigarette smoke and filled with the Artful Dodger's friends. There was Whitey, Butch, Chuck, Mike, Cliff and a lot of other guys with hard names with the look to match. There were no other Roberts present.

Guys were dragging on Marlboro, Camels and Kent. Guys were drawing streams of smoke into their lungs and pushing ribbons of smoke through their nostrils. Guys were blowing smoke rings into the air.

"Mooner, you smoke?"

"Heck, yeah.....but my damn old man took my Lucky's from me this morning!"

"Hey, I thought you told Butch you left them in the dugout at South Park?"

"Did I say that?"

"This guy ain't no smoker. He's a fricken altar boy! Grab him!"

Two slugs in the stomach and one wedgie later I was walking my bike back to the safety of Ledgemere Street. Wobbling home with my kicked in spokes I was branded a good boy forever...or at least until this afternoon.

Maybe Robert is a bad ass name after all. But trust me, I am a good boy!

Ghost of Gene Kelly...Gotta Dance

Ironically Jo Jo's dance recital was on the same day and at the same place as Heather's wedding! As Paul Simon would say, the man has got rhythm in the soul of his shoes.

Free Agent

Natie Joe went to the baby combines this morning (doctor visit) and he is moving up on the charts; 3'6" tall and a solid 30 lbs. Always in the lower half of his peer group in both height and weight, Jakers has now crossed the 50 percentile barrier. In one short month he has gone from a prospective free safety to an outside linebacker. Look out Raider Nation - the future of the Silver and Black is coming!

Pauley Wants a Cracker

Jakers is talking up a storm lately and the funny thing is I can understand most of it. Not that every word is exactly as it ought to be, but his diction has improved dramatically in the past 30 days.

"Nathaniel, stop crying! Just tell me what you want. Point to it!"

"Chumgobee alchonka esdow."

"Fuck. That didn't work."

"Fffuck."

"Oh-oh. Jakers, what did you say?"

"Ffuck."

"Fuck?"

"Fuck."

"Wait, let me grab the ABCs book. Look at this Jakers, 'A for Apple'. Can you say 'Apple'?"

"Fuck."

"No, no, no....apple. Okay, how about 'B for Bat'?"

"Fuck."

We've been able to move him off the 'F' word by nodding yes and saying 'fork' as we show him the eating utensil. He's coming around to our way of thinking.

All of this is extremely fascinating. For entertainment we now spit out words and see how Parrot Boy will interpret what we say; no more TV. According to Nathaniel here is the proper way to pronounce the following words, phrases or names:

milk - malk
open it - omic
arm - alm
all gone - all gong
cucumber - gumtumber
towel - torwel
tomato - maido
golf - jawlf
pepper - papu
spaghetti - esketti
cup - atup
John - Chon
Jessie - Jedgie
Jo Jo - Cho Cho
Truffle - Fuffle
Ayva - Eeawh
Jim - Jimp

and, unfortunately...

fuck - fuck

Time to get out the bar of soap!

Peering into the Soul

Ayva gives us a little glimpse into the heart of goodness and a pathway to God. Thank you, Lord, and keep her spirit beautiful for all the days to come.

Summer Love

I was in New Jersey this week on business travel. At the end of the day on Wednesday I hopped in the car to go and find a bite to eat. I took a wrong turn coming out of the hotel parking lot and instead of heading to the mall I ended up in a local Denville neighborhood.

I turned into a school parking lot to do a U-turn and as my headlights scanned the adjacent field I could see a group of teenagers hanging around the playground. The silhouettes were familiar -boys huddled around the girls, the glow of cigarettes in the dark, and Romeo and Juliet locked in an embrace.

I slowed for a moment to catch the embrace. It brought me back more than 30 years to a summer night in Vermont. You can never relive an exact moment in time, but my heart swelled at the thought of my first embrace with Julie.

Traveling makes me lonely. The business meetings are engaging but the hours in between are spent as a solo observer in a moving world. You eat at a table for one, you watch TV all by yourself and you sleep alone. One really is the loneliest number.

I skipped dinner and went back to my hotel room to watch a movie and fall asleep. HBO was playing "Must Love Dogs" starring Diane Lane and John Cusak. In a nutshell it was about two divorced middle age people trying to find real love - an elusive object. Not to spoil the ending, but they do eventually find each other and live happily ever after.... or at least until the next divorce.

Some combination of the couple in the park and the lovers on TV made its way into my dreams that evening. I dreamt I met Julie as an adult, but we didn't know each other. Upon seeing her, I felt the same crushing feeling in my heart that I did in 1972. She looked at me in the same loving way. It was awesome.

My dream revealed that certain elements of life are not locked in the past, but rather travel with you through time and space. Love is one of those elements; there probably aren't any others.

POSTLUDE:

I got back to the house on Thursday evening and just before I went to sleep I told Julie about my fantastic dream.

She nuzzled up to me and said, "What was it about?"

"Guess."

"We had sex on the beach under a full moon."

"No."

"Someone else was having sex with me on the beach under a full moon."

"No! Where is your mind at?"

"Okay, so tell me what the sex was about. I know you were dreaming about sex or naked people. You always do!"

"I had a dream we were who we are today, but had just met for the first time....and we fell in love."

"You're lying!"

"No I am not. We weren't even naked."

"That's awesome! I'm going to go to sleep and see if I can conjure up the same dream."

"What? Just a goodnight? No kisses, no sex?"

"No! Where is your mind at? Goodnight, Dear."

Photo circa 1974 - The Ridge in Colchester, VT.

Pack the Dental Floss

Wouldn't you know that 2 days after I buy a Swiss Army 21" Upright Carry-On, the TSA comes out with a new list of prohibited items making it nearly impossible to travel unless you check your baggage. Damn those terrorist!

I had been traveling with a no name suitcase that was too long to fit in most overhead bins. Rather than risking getting on the plane and having no place to store my bag, I would routinely check my luggage. This easily added 30 minutes of airport time to every trip and made late night arrivals to Hartford early morning returns.

For the last 8 months I debated replacing my dated piece of luggage with a newer slimmer version. I read a lot of ads in the airline travel magazines showcasing streamlined ballistic rolling uprights, but they all retail for $300 or more. In order for me to consider paying three bills for a carry-on it would need to have a horsepower rating.

Tuesday, while shopping at Marshall's for dress socks, I stumbled across a little grey Swiss carry-on for only $59.95. I bought it without hesitation and packed the bag immediately for another road trip. On Tuesday evening I was thinking this was one of my all-time favorite purchases. This bag was going to make me fashionable in the airports, and never again would I waste time standing around the baggage claim area.

On Thursday my dreams where crushed by radical Islamic fundamentalist who evidently figured out how to blow shit up with a tube of toothpaste and some hair gel. I don't know what brand they use, but I know Colgate doesn't even get all the plaque off your teeth.

So here we are today on terror alert Orange (high) and the TSA has stated that "All liquids and gels - including shampoo, toothpaste, perfume, hair gel, suntan lotion and all other items with similar consistency ARE PROHIBITED from carry-on baggage and the security checkpoint."

Well, I am not giving in to these damn radicals. I am going to pack my new carry-on bag without the gels and lotions and stick to clean underwear and fresh socks.

And I'm going to make my hotel reservation with the first chain to offer free toothpaste at check-in. Maybe the Double Tree will replace the freshly baked cookie with a tube of tartar control Crest. We'd all have fewer cavities.

Don't Drink the Milk Part II

I posted a blog last week about my native Vermont and some of the more interesting characters who have lived in the Green Mountain state. Not to anyone's surprise, I mixed fact with fiction although I am as sure as sugar everyone I described does in fact exist somewhere in Vermont.

The photo above is one I captured this past weekend while driving through Ludlow, Vermont. This isn't a Reuter's altered photo - it's the real deal. It got me to wondering, is there really something wrong with the citizenry of Vermont or do you think all of this is some ploy to keep the rest of us from buying up more of the state?

I've seen homemade signs for garage sales, book sales, lemonade, antiques, hubcaps, bait, cars, bicycles, houses, land and free kittens. But I have never seen a sign for Skin-So-Soft. Are there people who actually drive through the countryside looking for body oils? I was tempted to stop by the house just to ask the owner if anyone has ever bought a bottle.

More importantly, I wanted to know at what point do they abandon their private parlor in favor of a local social event.

"Leonard, do you think I should go to the Concert on the Green, or keep the doors open for my next sale?"

"I did see a guy with Connecticut plates slow down in front of the house, Gertie. It looked like he was takin' a picture but he might come back. He's probably got enough money to buy a case of this stuff!"

"I better stay."

Ring Them Bells

Geoff presented Jennifer with an engagement ring this weekend. I am assuming this means a wedding will follow although no date has been mentioned.

I am quite concerned as I believe there is some kind of influenza spreading through the family. It started with John a little more than 2 years ago and it coincidently infected Janice a year later. But then the interval at which people became overcome with the wedding bug shortened dramatically and Jason, Drew and Heather were all stricken within 8 months of each other.

I'm no medical expert, but I think this thing spreads from direct contact with one another at other weddings. The only time John, Janice, Jason, Drew, Heather and Jennifer have been together has been at other nuptial celebrations. There is definitely something to this!

Congratulations, Jennifer & Geoff!

Vermont Life

Buttermilk Falls

Plymouth, Vermont

August 2006

Lost in the Moment

When you're busy at play you never see the storm clouds rolling in. There's no doubt that the thunder roils and the lightning cracks, but if you keep moving it all just blows on by.

Jackpot!

A nameless friend of mine went to Las Vegas last weekend and took home 23 G'$. He started playing Black Jack on Friday evening and finished around 4:00 a.m. on Sunday morning. He was so hot that even when he tried to quit for dinner on Saturday night he couldn't come up with a losing hand; he cashed out $4,000 in chips after sitting at one table for less than 30 minutes.

He boarded Southwest Airlines on Sunday night not with a check, not with chips, but with cold hard cash! This was the one time in his life when "looking over your shoulder" wasn't a cliche - how exciting.

So just what does a high flying gambler (he started with $500) do with the motherload? Splurge on clothes? Buy a new set of golf clubs? Book an exotic vacation? Order a bottle of Glennfiddich Single Malt? Pay off the Mastercard? No, no, no, no, no and no!

The thrill of the kill was good enough for this Brett Maverick and so he did what every hard core speculator does with the proceeds - open a 529 College Fund. I kid you not.

Here is what transpired when his wife greeted him at the front door upon his return:

"Hi Honey, how was the fishing trip with the guys?"

"Dear, I probably should have told you up front but I didn't go fishing this weekend."

"You didn't? Well, what did you do then?"

"I took $500 and I went to Vegas."

(FRONT DOOR SLAMS)

"Dear, open the door. C'mon Dear, open the door. I have some really good news."

"What could be good about lying to your wife and spending $500 when we only have $300 in the checking account?"

"I admit it was a bad idea when it started, but I actually won a lot of money."

"How much is a lot?"

"Twenty three thousand."

"Twenty three thousand! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! I've got to call my Mother! Did you already tell my Mother? We've got to call my Mother! We can go on a trip to Honolulu, I can buy that dress from Filenes, we can get a big screen TV for the playroom and another one for our bedroom....we've got to call my Mother. Where is the cash? Let me see it!"

"I don't have it."

"Oh, good thinking. You put it in the bank. You're my little Safety Boy.... I love you so much!"

"Not quite."

"You didn't put in the bank? What did you do with it?"

"I invested it in a tax free 529 College Fund for the kids."

(FRONT DOOR SLAMS)

Learning to Fly

Sunday morning we took a short boat ride across Lake Nubanusit (NH) to sit and watch 2 young bald eagles practice their flying skills. Spoon fed by their parents all summer, on this day Momma decided to drop the morning catch on the embankment below the gigantic stick nest. Anyone with an appetite had to leave the comforts of home to partake in the meal.

It was quite comical to see the two large, but awkward eaglets leap from the giant white pine and hope the winds would carry them to safety. They handled the sky without much of a problem, but the landings were a bit rough. A little adjustment to the eyes and a few more days of practice and they'll be like teenagers with the car keys!