Harried Potter

That's my Mom to your left; she isn't really annoyed. In fact she is quite happy, but everyone is making such a fuss about Harry Potter , I just couldn't resist.

Wrong Way Right Turn

For years we've been traveling north along I-91 from Connecticut to Vermont through Massachusetts and passing by a sign for the Flowering Bridge. We never stopped. It isn't exactly a roadside attraction as the bridge itself is in Shelburne Falls, about 12 miles west of I-91 off the Mohawk Trail (Route 2). Yesterday we found it by mistake.

Sunday we made a quick trip up to Somerset Reservoir in Vermont for an afternoon swim; Truffle loves the mountain waters. Years back, a friend of mine taught me a shortcut to get to Somerset by going up Route 2 and cutting through a valley filled with corn fields and apple orchards - beautiful drive.

We stayed as long as we could and meandered through every back road on the map to delay our return home. We wanted to cheat the system and extend the weekend to the last hour of the day. Just before we got back to Route 2, and the convoy of Sunday night tractor trailers, we found one last right turn on Route 112 heading south towards Shelburne Falls.

"Hey, isn't that the place with the flowering bridge?"

Definitely a place worth the visit. The town of Shelburne Falls is quite artsy. The walking bridge overlooking the Deerfield River is both lovely and spectacular. Someone has done a ton of work. I wonder if they know how much enjoyment they have brought to all the green thumbs in the community? We said a prayer of thanks...and put $2 bucks in the donation jar. It pays to get lost now and again.

Hot, Hazy & Happy

Summertime,

And the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin'

And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich

And your mamma's good lookin'

So hush little baby

Don't you cry

One of these mornings

You're going to rise up singing

Then you'll spread your wings

And you'll take to the sky

But till that morning

There's a'nothing can harm you

With daddy and mamma standing by

- George Gershwin

Familiar Waves

Grandpa Bill sat on the beach as a teen. When Julie was ten, he taught her to water ski just off the shoreline. John, Jessica and James learned to skip ancient sedimentary rocks across the quiet waters of the late day when they were little. We've all watched the same setting sun bathe the Adirondack sky in brilliant streaks of pink and orange.

Today, nieces and nephews and our own grandchildren play in the cool clear waters. Unknowingly passing through tradition, they share in the collective memory of all who came before them. Time stands still when sitting under the cedar bluff at the Ridge. Life is good!

D'Oh!

Big doings tomorrow with the premiere of The Simpsons Movie. I'm betting Homer and Family will successfully divert our attention away from the mayhem and madness of the world, and bring a little laughter into our lives. You gotta love The Simpsons.

Homer for Best Actor! Homer for President!

Salesman of the Year

I was in Baltimore a couple of weeks back for a sales team meeting. We were getting together to take a closer look at what we had done right and wrong over the course of the fiscal year. In preparation for the meeting I gathered stats, reflected on recent sales opportunities and dug out a few research papers on the science of selling. Others on the team did the same and we had a couple of good sessions to help us re-set our focus for the coming year.

In the evening we walked over to Camden Yards to take in the Orioles game. We thought we were going to watch a baseball game, but in reality we had front row seats to a phenomenal sales seminar put on courtesy of Party Time, the Orioles beer man.

If you want a lesson in the art of selling, ask for a ticket in Sections 60-66, grab a seat and start taking notes. The Beer Man will take you to school! Party Time peddles cold ones for 8 innings and he can't keep the cooler stocked. I have no doubt his colorful personality is the primary reason fans over 21 fork over $6 to buy a bottle of Bud from PT v. lining up to pay $4 for a 16 oz. draught. Still, Party Time leaves nothing to chance.

Here are 3 keys to his success:

1. Packing the Pipeline - PT never stops prospecting . While he opens a Bud for you he is doing discovery on the two brothers 3 seats to your left. "Looks like the bros are going to need a frosty in the bottom half of the 3rd. Don't forget me, I am your man!" Starting from row A and working his way up to ZZ, he has the next case of beer sold before the one on his shoulder is empty.


2. Asking for the Order - PT doesn't own sections 60-66. He competes with 2 other vendors selling Miller Light and Sam Adams. And believe me, a thirsty sports fan isn't shopping for the brand so he's got no advantage with Budweiser. But you won't find PT running up and down the aisle yelling out "beer here" to the empty sky. Nope, PT directs his calls to action to specific people in the row. "Hey Sport, I know you're lookin' at this cold beer wondering how you can make it yours? You just say the word!"


3. Loving the Customer - PT is all about the people. He listens carefully to the customer and always delivers on his promise ("I'll be back for pictures in the 7th"). Buying from PT is personal, and somehow it would be sinful to buy your suds elsewhere - his fans don't. And whether you're on beer number 1 or beer number 6, Party Time has a thank you ritual worth a $2 dollar tip. PT has no problems with referrals.

I don't know if the guy can sell anything other than beer, but I bought a local recruiter 2 tickets to Saturday's game. He's authorized to offer a signing bonus and moving cost!

I Can't See

Okay, I said I had a good time this weekend at the Green River Festival - I lied. I mean, I did get a kick out of the hot air balloons, and the music was very good, but a couple of things really stuck in my craw. So, here goes:

The $45 collected at the gate was for admission and not a real estate deposit! Saturday was a beautiful bright sunny day, almost perfect. Had it been perfect, I would have been sitting under a shady Sycamore tree listening to Erin McKeown instead of sweltering in the mid-day sun. But I am not complaining about the sun for if the concert were in the woods, no one would see the stage. After all this was a community event.

A small contingent of festivillains left their communal spirit at home, or back in the 60's. They figured the $45 ticket price entitled them to homesteader's rights and proceeded to stake their claim with a giant beach umbrella. Most of the squatters were sitting somewhere between my lawn chair and the stage, so it was hard for me to tell if Neko Case was a "he" or a "she".

I can understand wearing a wide brim hat, and it wouldn't have bothered me to have to move my chair a couple of inches to the left. But while plugging the pole into the ground and tilting the umbrella towards the sun, you didn't notice the other 3,000 people sitting behind you?

Speaking of individualism, doesn't anyone in America own the same shirt? There must have been more than 5,000 people at the festival (2,000 in front of me plus the 3,000 behind the nylon curtain), and nobody had on the same outfit! In the land of the Bosoxs you might expect to find a couple of guys sporting "Ramirez" across the back, but no two uniforms were alike - different numbers, home and away, specialty jerseys, retro jerseys - you name it. The t-shirts were even more diverse as everyone had a point of view to convey.

God bless freedom of speech, but maybe the culture of "id" in America, expressed on a t-shirt that no one else should own, is what prompts people to plunk down a 6 foot umbrella in front of my frickin' chair at an outdoor concert!

Sons of bitches! Down in front!

Staring into Space

Saturday was a perfect summer day; we didn't do a damn thing!

Actually, we did do something, but it required no effort on my part except to look around and enjoy the day. There was something for everyone at the Green River Festival in Greenfield, MA including hot air balloons, high flying kites, and an eclectic array of well known and slightly hidden recording artist.

Headlining the festival was rock'n'roll hall of famer, Buddy Guy. A blues singer (he hates labels) in the mold of B.B. King and John Lee Hooker, Buddy literally brought down the house with his first couple of tunes - the guy is really blue! But somebody gave the 70 year old guitarist a pick-me-up for the 2nd half of his set and he blew the joint out!

None of it mattered to me. I was along for the ride all day long.

Old Homestead Week

Sunday in Burlington, VT and Thursday in Jessup, PA. I think my car is haunted and the ghost is nicknamed Joseph. I had an excuse to go to Burlington (wedding anniversary), but Jessup is never on the road to anywhere. You can find it easily enough on Google Maps, but look at an old Rand McNally atlas and it's a straight line between Carbondale and Scranton - no Jessup.

I found my way to Jessup after a business meeting in Harleysville; same state but hardly next door. Jessup is where my Dad (aka Joseph) grew up. He'd be happy I stopped in to visit Uncle Bob's family living there now. Uncle Bob would be happy I stopped in as well. Both he and my Dad died some years ago.

As if on queue, Aunt Eleanor was sitting on the side porch when I pulled into the driveway. Some things never change. My grandmother, Nana was always sitting on the side porch waiting when we drove in 8 to the car in the 1960s. The house, other than the grey siding, was as I remembered it from my childhood.

Plenty has changed, as you'd expect, in a community built around coal mining from the 1850s to the 1930s. The evidence of coal has been paved over and swept away. Rexall Drug and the penny candy stand are gone. Two of the four Catholic churches have been consolidated into one - that's still three! Valley View Regional HS now plays football where the legendary Blakely Bears ran roughshod over the competition. And the town no longer sounds the 9 PM curfew siren to pull all the children off the streets.

Eleanor says all the old neighbors are gone - no Kushmericks, no Lawlors, no Freschetti. Tony the skinny Italian kid is nowhere to be seen. But Church Street is still home to the Mullen Family. Some things never change.

The Sports Page Was Missing

I read the following obituary in a local paper while eating dinner on the road. I hate to eat alone.

From the Hunterdon County Democrat, weekly NJ paper: Rita Faltings died on Thursday, July 12, 2007 in Hunterdon Medical Center. She was 68. Born in California, she had resided in HighBridge more than 30 years. She was a homemaker. Surviving is a son, Robert Faltings of Milford. Funeral arrangements and interment will be private.

That's it? Where in California? No parents, no husband, no siblings? So she just cooked and cleaned for 68 years? At least she had a loving son...I think. Okay, thanks for living!

Remind me to interview my Mom this weekend.

Truffle No Longer Falcons Fan

In a solidarity movement with canines all across the country, Truffle crapped on a Michael Vick football card to protest cruelty to animals. Raised as a Franciscan, the gentle Labrador Retriever was appalled at the allegations levied against Vick by the Federal government today.

According to the indictment, Vick and associates ran a dog fight club and executed dogs who did not perform well by means of electrocution, drowning, beating or a gun. As a teen I use to whack our Toy Poodle, Missy with a rolled up newspaper for peeing on the kitchen floor; 35 years of guilt has been lifted.

Vick could face up to 6 years in prison if convicted plus significant fines. Our justice system presumes innocence until proven guilty, so Michael will have his day in court. I did hear on the radio that the Feds have a 95% conviction success rate. That's a heck of a lot better than Vick's 52% pass completion rate. I'm guessing the Feds will open at a minimum of 3/2 favorite, but count on Vick bringing the legal A-team.

Stayed tuned. I know Truffle will.

More Than a Hodgepodge

Every now and again, while traveling, a stranger will come up to me in the airport and ask me if I am the author of Letters from the Moon. I'm always flattered by the recognition, but it can be quite annoying in a large crowd, the autographs and all.

But despite so many adoring fans, the intelligentsia often challenge me to define the central theme of my blog. What's it all about, Alfie?

Legally, as noted in the Disclaimer to the right, Letters from the Moon is a hodgepodge of ideas and images from the mind of Moon Mullen. Unless otherwise noted, the words and pictures are his own. There are elements of truth in all that is written. The degree of truth is dependant on what you decide to believe. Enjoy!

Really? That's it? Well, no. In a word or two, Letters from the Moon is a patchwork, some odds & ends, a collection, verbal goulash, a mixture or medley, mishmash of thought, an assortment, concoction of ideas, potpourri, labyrinth of emotion, amassment of stories, hash, a trove, scattering of humor, convolution of philosophy, mosaic of imagery, a grab bag, pastiche of styles, literary mess and even a melange. But most of all it is gallimaufry.

Yeah, that's the ticket, it's a gallimaufry! I hope that clears things up.

Through the Eyes of an Artist

Most people view the world in simple ways - black and white, circles and squares, Red Sox and Yankees. Keep everything lined up in a row, along a straight line, by the book and we'll wake up at 6:00 and go to bed at 10:00 thinking it was a good day. But let it snow in June, or find a fork where the spoon belongs and the world turns chaotic. We are a happier lot if we can just stick to the script.

But there is a small element on the planet that makes us look at life through a different prism - the artist. They are always pushing the boundaries of perception challenging us to peer into the mind's eye. I live with a family of artist. I can't always tell what it is they want me to see, but I am constantly falling into their rabbit holes to enjoy a spot of tea.

My mother-in-law, Mum, is an artist. She creates art in traditional formats (oils mostly), landscape displays (beautiful gardens) and interior design. The vibrancy of the paintings and flowers are hard to miss. The design work is often more subtle, yet no less dramatic.

Sunday, while urinating at Mum's, I fell into her rabbit hole. Gosh that sounds terrible, but it's true. You see on top of the toilet tank she had fashioned an artistic arrangement consisting of a native fern and three small bottles. The sun streaming through the window and reflecting off the carefully positioned golden glass was lovely.

Mesmerized for the moment, I forgot about how difficult it is to keep a steady stream flowing in the general direction of the toilet bowl once you cross into your 50's. I had the same problem when I was 5, but for different reasons. Back then I didn't notice, nor did I care. Today, the floor is cleaner when I leave the bathroom then when I arrive.

But this isn't a story about urine. It's about art. Better yet, it's about the appreciation of art wherever you find it and the thanks we owe to the artists for their creativity. Thanks, Mum, for the momentary trip to Wonderland. Next time I am going to drink the Big Gulp so I can stay a little longer.

Back to Our Beginnings

Yesterday was the 30th anniversary of our wedding day, July 15, 1977. Neither Julie or I had anything planned for the day, but on Saturday afternoon we made a spur of the moment decision to drive 4 hours north to Burlington, VT to visit with her parents and some lifelong friends. It was a good decision.

Sunday morning we partook in the 11 o'clock Mass at Christ the King Church. My father religiously (what else?) attended this same Mass for years back when it was at 10:30 - times do change. My brother was frequently the alter server in the 1960's. On Christmas Day, 1970, under the direction of Sister Barbara Jean, I sang a solo verse of "We Three Kings" from the choir loft - we 3 kings of Orient are, tried to smoke a rubber cigar, it was loaded and exploded, that's how we traveled so far...O-o-oh, oh, star of wonder... Did I tell you the pew had a familiar feel?

Yesterday, Julie and I received Holy Communion from the same altar where we made our commitment to God some 3 decades before. The moment for us, then and now, was just as glorious as Noah's rainbow. Our covenant just as strong.

God spoke to us yesterday. The Gospel was the parable of The Good Samaritan, a lesson in mercy. A retired priest gave the Homily and he said that mercy is rooted in forgiveness. Both Julie and I believe that to be true. We've never held onto each other's faults, hiding them in a pocket waiting for a moment of anger to bring them back out.

Never shut the cupboard doors? No problem. Always leave the seat down when taking a piss? That's okay. Occasionally remind me that I am stupid? Well, I forgive you this time, but...But what? But, you're right, I am an imbecile! Thank you, Sir, may I have another? I'm telling you it works.

I always figured we could brand our style of marriage rooted in forgiveness, and sell self-help cassettes (it's an old thought) to make our fortune. But I found out yesterday this forgive and forget stuff isn't my idea after all, but that of God as told through Jeremiah (31:34) - for I will forgive their evildoing and remember their sin no more.

So I have original sin, but not an original thought? How is that fair? That God thinks of everything!

That's okay, I like the way He thinks. Besides, it is rather comforting to know St Peter won't be standing at the Pearly Gates with a clipboard if my day ever comes. Alleluia, everybody say amen! Amen.

One if by Land, Two if by Sea

Last night's Major League Baseball All Star game turned out to be a good one with the A.L. winning 5-4; 10 straight wins for the Junior Circuit. MVP Ichiro had a couple of masterful hits including an inside-the-park home run - an all star game first.

But didn't I tell you there would be no home plate heroics? Ken Griffey Jr threw a pea to nail Alex Rodriguez trying to score on a single to right in the 4th inning. Not only did A-Rod shy away from contact with the catcher, he didn't even slide. Y'er out! You can't really blame the guy. He's protecting his health and the balance of a $242 million dollar contract.

Well, tonight the family drove south of our palace to the land of the indigenous chips (poker not potato) to watch this year's AA baseball all star game. Norwich, CT played host to the Eastern League Classic featuring young men destined to become tomorrow's MVPs.

The game only lasted 3 innings due to foggy weather. The lighting at Dodd Stadium isn't much better than your average municipal softball field, so even when the full moon is shining there are horrible shadows. The guys looked more like Little Leaguers playing "ghost in the graveyard" than professional baseball players, but not for lack of trying.

The fog got so thick that whenever a player hit the ball anywhere, the crowds down both the right and left field lines ducked for fear the ball would plant itself in the middle of someones forehead. The outfielders stood on the warning track and waited for the ball to hit the wall, even if it was rolling, just to find the damn thing!

Good hearing was more important than good eyesight tonight.

P.S. The Eastern League held its own version of home run derby before the game began. Not a contest just for show, the winner got a sit-down mower and 2 Southwest Airline tickets to anywhere in the U.S. (connecting through Baltimore). Guys were fighting over the lawn mower. At an average salary of $1,500 bucks a month, none of the sluggers has a landscaping crew...yet.

Say Hey!

Major League Baseball holds it's 78th All-Star game tonight in San Francisco. An event I cherished as a boy, it's just a distraction these days interrupting the daily routine of checking the box scores. Stars feign injury to skip the event, the players put in a half-hearted effort, and the press talks incessantly about contracts and steroids.

Everything about the past isn't always better. Athletes in every sport are bigger, stronger and faster than the heroes of my childhood; I'll grant you that.

But you aren't going to see Chase Utley of the Phillies streaking toward home plate in the 12th inning on a collision course with Jose Posada of the Yankees. Pete Rose all but ended Ray Fosse's career in the 1970 mid-summer classic on such a play. The money paid to the winner probably meant something to a guy besides pocket change before the age of free agents.

I will be watching the game tonight. I pulled for the American League in 2005 and the National League in 2006. I'm back in the American League dugout tonight. I am the modern mercenary fan whose allegiance changes with the signing of my favorite players. No pinstripes, no red socks, but just a guy with a glove keeping an eye on MLB transactions.

The game's in San Francisco tonight. See you there Willie!

Wednesday will be Thundery

It's hot as hell today! Weather Underground shows Vernon hitting the mid-90's through Wednesday with relief coming late in the day from pending thunderstorms. Bring 'em on!

I hate the heat. A perfect day for me is partly sunny, light wind of 10 mph out of the northeast, and a temperature hovering just below 65 degrees. No need for a jacket, no need for deodorant, furnace off, and the air conditioner unplugged - blissful.

Even with today's high of 93 we kept the AC off. Last year we made the mistake of cooling down the house for most of June and half of July before thinking about the impact on our electric bill - it quadrupled! Energy rates are out of site in Connecticut (going higher!) and it is common to open an electric bill in mid-summer equal to your highest heating bill in mid-January. If the trend continues, I might have to choose between feeding my family and juice for the computer. Hopefully, it won't come to that, but I think we could all stand to lose a little weight.

In the meantime, we are keeping the lights off, shades drawn, and watching the weather channel.

Missing the Moment

Yesterday was July 7, 2007; you knew that. It was billed by some as the luckiest day ever - 7/7/07, or 777. Apparently lovers lined up in record numbers to get married on the day of good fortune. Churches and Vegas chapels were hard to come by, so many couples took to less traditional venues such as a roller coaster platform (symbolic for the ups and downs of married life).

The lottery faithful, thinking no one else knew what day it was, played 7-7-7 in record numbers. The Lucky Seven slot machines at all the casinos were working overtime. It's all in the numbers.

I had a tougher time with lady luck yesterday. Hired to take photographs of an ordination to priesthood (a wedding of sorts), my camera malfunctioned during the ceremony. The shutter would click and it sounded like I was taking pictures, but as I looked down to check on the exposure, no photo!

This all took place during the laying of the hands, a real solemn moment. Fortunately, I had a 2nd camera with me, but there are at least 5, no wait 6....oh, my God...7!!! shots that I am missing from the ceremony.

Lucky 7 in reverse. Another Schleprock moment for me, or was it a sign to rush down to Foxwoods, await the stroke of 7 p.m. and plop 7 quarters into the 7th Lucky 7 slot machine 7 rows from the door?

Too late now, the moment is gone. Oh, well, next time I'll be more in tune with the numbers. By the way, does anyone know when Haley's Comet is coming back?

Time Out

Sit, drink your coffee here; your work can wait awhile.

You're twenty-six, and still have some life ahead.

No need for wit; just talk vacuities, and I'll

Reciprocate in kind, or laugh at you instead.

The world is too opaque, distressing and profound.

This twenty minutes' rendezvous will make my day:

To sit here in the sun, with grackles all around,

Staring with beady eyes, and you two feet away.

- Vikram Seth

Save the Date

The nationally renowned 4th of July Boom Box Parade has been held in Willimantic, CT for 21 consecutive years. Started in 1986 when no marching band was available for the annual patriotic parade, a local radio station aired John Philip Sousa marches and instructed participants to tune into WILI 1400 AM and blast the tunes through a boom box. The idea caught on and today upwards of 2,000 people participate.

We marched in the parade three times during the mid-90's - twice appearing on the front page of the local newspaper. The kids marched with precision and enthusiasm, and with a family full of artist, the face paintings were killer!

Today we brought Nathaniel (3) and Ayva (20 months) to witness the Boom Box Parade. They saw dogs in dresses, King Arthur's court, 50 karate kids, tumbling gymnasts, vegans, anti-war protesters, a marching tattoo parlor, construction workers, health care professionals, belly dancers, a Baptist minister, a Jewish rabbi, Governor Jodi Rell, a horse, race cars, motorcycles, firetrucks, tow trucks, school bus, riding mowers, antique cars, a rented truck with an advertisement for rental trucks, BUT...nary a boom box.

No band in 1986; close to no boomers in 2007. Has every boom box gone the way of the iPod? As the last listless group strolled by today waving and throwing out candy, I recalled we have a shelf in the basement stacked with old boom boxes. Look for a Mullen Family reunion next year about this time, and bring an 8 pack of "D" batteries - we're going to make some patriotic noise!

Penitence

an·ger

NOUN: A strong feeling of displeasure or hostility.

VERB: an·gered , an·ger·ing , an·gers

VERB: tr. To make angry; enrage or provoke.

VERB: intr. To become angry: He angers too quickly.

SYNONYMS: anger , rage , fury , ire , wrath , resentment , indignation

- American Heritage Dictionary

I get angry sometimes.

Most of the time, I don't even know why I get angry. A little switch goes off in my head, my eyes and ears open wide, and I just wait for the first f#cker to say or do the wrong thing and...BINGO - I'm pissed.

Last night, while at the baseball game, I had one of those moments. It started with a simple cup of french fries (too spicy) and carried on to a 2nd cup topped with melted cheese (too messy). Along the way, I offended my wife and friend, who kindly bought the french fries for me. What an ass! Me, not her.

If you are interested in finding out about God's sense of humor, try committing one of the seven deadly sins. The spicy fries kept me up last night with heartburn, and the cheesy ones have got me constipated today.

jus·tice

NOUN: The principle of moral rightness; equity.
- American Heritage Dictionary

P.S. The guy in the photo got thrown out of the game for arguing balls and strikes at about the same time I got the cheese fries. I'd be willing to bet he ate some of the spicy fries the inning before!

Pardon Me, Sorry, Excuse Me

We need to be a more forgiving society. Everybody ought to get a 2nd chance except for the dregs who have committed a capital offense.

Sometimes people in high places do get a 2nd chance while people from low places never get one. Today, President Bush commuted Scooter Libby's 30 month perjury and obstruction of justice jail term. It pays to know the boss.

Joe Biden, Patrick Leahy, Harry Reid, Joe Wilson and 72,000,000 registered Democrats immediately cried "foul" claiming this is just another example of a corrupt White House. Hmmm, lying under oath and the White House - how quickly we forget.

I'm not too hung up on The President using up one of his chips - it's in the rules. But wouldn't it have been nice to see the Oval Office announce a twofer?

"Today, President Bush, in fairness to the underside of our society, commuted the 30 month sentence of Anthony Willock, Democrat and D.C. drug dealer, to offset the 30 month pardon of Lewis Libby, Republican civil servant. Mr. Willock was arrested in 2005 for possession and intent to sell 100 pounds of marijuana (equivalent to 136,000 joints) and was due to begin serving a 33 month sentence on Saturday in accordance with Federal Sentencing Guidelines for a level 20 offense. Mr. Libby wishes to thank the President for his compassion. Mr. Willock wishes to thank Mr. Libby for his dishonesty."

Forgotten Verse

O beautiful

For heroes proved

In liberating strife.

Who more than self the country loved

And mercy more than life!

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

Till all success be nobleness

And every gain divine!

- Katherine Lee Bates, 1913