Deck the Hallmark Channel

Fa la la la la, la la la, blah.

     I’m all about festive movie viewing for the holiday season. Classics like It’s A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol are a holiday staple in my home, as well as new classics like Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation and Bill Murray’s Scrooged. They should be watched in small doses, sprinkled sparingly throughout the holiday viewing season like treasured sweets. Instead, the Hallmark Channel's force fed film feast has me running for the Pepto Bismol. Every movie my wife watches on the Hallmark Channel's 30 Days of Christmas Marathon is driving me out of my mind (and out of my living room). There’s only so much Christmas magic I can take.

     These uplifting holiday made-for-TV movies are overflowing with 1980’s celebrities hoping to recapture some of their lost limelight (or at least pick up a paycheck). Over the past few weeks I’ve seen Crystal Bernard from the TV series Wings, Dean Cain from Lois & Clark and the omnipresent Candace Cameron of Full House fame. These long lost souls have been welcomed back into my living room for the holidays like homeless people with no place to go.The movie plots are another story. The titles say it all: The Christmas Secret, An Old-Fashioned Christmas, A Christmas Visitor, Merry Ex-Mas, A Royal Christmas, A Boyfriend For Christmas – and the list goes on.I’ve been inspired by these films to submit an original movie script of my own for next season entitled “Happy Holly Days”. Here’s a synopsis:

     Los Angeles advertising executive Holly Davis, who never experienced Christmas as a child, takes a job in Alaska to take her mind off the depressing holiday season. Thanks to a magical encounter with a Christmas angel while she’s picking out her Christmas Tree, she meets her second grade boyfriend, Brent, who is now the owner of a small company on the brink of collapse because an off-shore oil drilling contract is forcing his business to close. Holly rallies the quirky Alaskan townsfolk to band together to stop the pipeline and save her boyfriend’s business. During the victory celebration, Holly's boyfriend Brent is revealed to be the son of Saint Nicholas. He will become the next Santa Claus only if he marries his one true love, who just happens to be Holly. Fade to a white wedding winter wonderland in the North Pole where Holly and Brent live happily ever after, and Holly now has the kind of Christmas she’s always wanted. Fade into a long shot of Brent and Holly flying in a magical sleigh lifted up to the sky by magical reindeer. Zoom in as they kiss in silhouette against the bright full moon in the dark winter sky. Fade to black.

    Unfortunately, after reading my outline, my wife noted this movie has already been made. The plots of these cookie-cutter movies all blend into one another.  I can’t keep the stories straight.

     Me: “Why is Candice Cameron in an ice-fishing hut with a lumberjack? I thought she was engaged to the singing cowboy.”

     My Wife: “That's a different movie. This is Christmas Under Wraps.”

     Me: “Does Alan Thicke play her rich father?”

     My Wife: “No, that was Let It Snow. Stop asking questions.”

     Me: “I need more spiked egg nog.”

In the midst of all this artificial holiday cheer, one blatantly bad movie shines through the darkness like the North Star – “Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever.” It even has “Worst” in the title. Talk about truth in advertising. In the words of Ebenezer Scrooge, “Bah, Hallmark!”

Age before beauty

That Seventies Show

     The tell-tale signs of aging are making themselves known to me, but I choose to ignore them (or maybe I just can’t see them through my tri-focal glasses. Now, where did I put them?).

     For a long time, I was the guy who looked eternally young. A virtual Portrait of Dorian Gray. Maybe it was my red hair or my youthful exuberance. “You’re how old? No way. You can’t be. You look so young.” Yeah, I used to get that a lot. 

     In my younger days when I ordered something in a drinking establishment I was routinely asked for my ID by waiters and waitresses young enough to be my children. I remember celebrating my sixth wedding anniversary with friends at the Spinnaker Lounge in Cambridge. The waitress singled me out saying, “I only need to see your driver’s license. Everyone else is obviously of age.” I was equally embarrassed and flattered. Yeah, that hasn’t happened to me in a long time. A very long time.

Recently, I was in the passenger seat as my wife bought coffee for us at a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru window. My wife noticed the total on the cash register was different than the amount the cashier asked for when she handed us our coffee. 

     “Oh, that’s because of the senior citizen discount for the gentlemen,” the cashier said cheerfully. 

My wife gave me a sideways smile. I was equally embarrassed and perturbed. I didn’t dare ask what the age is for that particular discount. I wanted to toss a quarter inside the drive up window and say,      “Keep your discount, you young whippersnapper!” I kept my hurt feelings in check as the sudden realization of my escalating age sunk in.

     This year my wife and I celebrated our 34th wedding anniversary. We were out for dinner with the same couple we’ve celebrated with every year, who share the same anniversary date with us. I wasn’t carded at the table when we ordered drinks. I felt my age as the young waitress enunciated the nightly dinner specials to us as if everyone at our table was hard of hearing. The four of us craned our necks as we strained to hear what the waitress was saying. We tried to read her lips as we looked at her quizzically. We declined ordering any of the specials because A.) we couldn’t understand what she said, and B.) we couldn’t remember what she said. To be fair, the background noise in the restaurant was fairly loud. And there was a draft coming in from the front door And none of us brought our shawls. 

     I’m going to ignore the signs of aging as long as I can. You’re as young as you feel. I think of that every time my knee joint pops and I pop and an Advil to numb the pain. I still identify with being a redhead even though my hair is gray (white? silver? I don't recognize the color anymore. Chalk it up to failing vision).

     I got some advice on aging from my mother who turned 89 years old this year. She’s still going strong – cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and shopping. She keeps up on current events, reads lots of newspapers and is a superfan of The Big Bang Theory sit-com. She told me age is part of the evolution of life. It creeps up on you slowly when you're not looking. I’m starting to realize how true this is as I gulp down another handful of Ibuprofen, secretly wishing to return to the days when I had red hair and I was being asked to show my driver's license when ordering an alcoholic beverage. I’ll take that embarrassment over the senior citizen discount any day.

Gym Dandy

Exercising my rights. And my lefts.

     I’m not a “gym” person yet I work out five days a week. Maybe “work out” is too strong a word for what I do at the fitness center. My daily routine consists mostly of pedaling the exercise bike while I catch up on my reading. My physical therapist suggested to avoid painful Cortisone injections every six months, I should find activities to keep my knee joints flexible. So far so good, although my gym experience leaves a lot to be desired.

     I'm a member of the fitness center in the building where I work. For only $20 a month I get to enjoy a telephone-booth-size locker room, complete with no towels. I don’t mind the towel shortage as I don’t sweat enough to need a shower after my so-called workout. The small changing area feels crowded when there are two people in it. With three patrons present, it's an uncomfortable, elbow-bumping game of Twister trying to maneuver into a space to tie my sneakers. I get more exercise changing my clothes at super-speed than I do during my official workout in the gym. I'm already out of breath before I start. 
     I do abdominal crunches while sitting on a large inflated workout ball. I try to balance as I put my hands behind my head and do as many half sit-ups as I can. Abs are over rated anyway. I prefer my six-pack from the bottom shelf of my refrigerator. 
     I hop on an empty stationary bike, the perfect vehicle to keep my knee joints moving with little impact. While pedaling, I'm also exercising my mind by reading books. The hardest part is ignoring the wall of televisions in front of me. Although the volume is muted, the closed-captions blare. Most of the

screens are tuned to sports channels broadcasting the latest game highlights and player scandals. On any given day you can see a bright-eyed Tom Brady and a stone-faced Bill Belichick recapping their latest triumph on the field. The other televisions broadcast soccer games and soap operas. Something for everyone. It’s all I can do to keep my nose in my book as I concentrate on reading and pedaling (in that order). 

     After thirty minutes of cycling through a couple of chapters, I move to the intimidating free weight area. I lift some weights while looking at the television’s backward reflection in the mirrors in front of me. Anything’s preferable than making eye-contact with myself in the mirror. I prefer not to watch myself lift light weights that shouldn’t be a struggle, but they are. I think it’s genetic, not lack of effort. In the mirror, I focus on the backs of the joggers on the treadmills as they run nowhere fast, trying to get ahead of themselves or trying to burn calories or trying to stay healthy. In reality, they are literally on a treadmill speeding headfirst into a wall of muted television screens filled by giant Dr. Phil heads and General Hospital’s drama of the day.

     I move to a flat mat on the floor to begin my self-created leg stretching exercises. I use a broken heavy-duty rubber strap that has been tied together after some sort of gymnasium mishap where someone definitely lost an eye when the device snapped. I wrap the band around the bottom of my sneaker and stretch my leg as high as I can. I pray the makeshift knot holding the strap together remains tied until I finish. As I stretch my legs I tell myself it's good pain.

     I end my workout with a series of leg presses. I pull out the pin from the bottom of the large rack of flat weights and move it up to a more manageable (lower) number, lowering my self esteem in the process. I ignore the crunching sound my joints make. By now my knees are killing me, my legs ache, and I wonder if a painful Cortisone injection is preferable to what I’m putting myself through during my daily routine. Finally, I’m off to the locker room, hoping I’ve timed my workout around the other people’s workouts so I can change my clothes and get out of there before the crowd. 

     I’ve had conversations with people who make the gym part of their life. They tell me no one likes exercising, but they like the results. For whatever reason, I will keep plugging away with my daily routine. I may be reaping benefits without even knowing it. If nothing else, I’m getting lots of reading done. I may not have the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I bet my brain is in really good shape.

Life In The Fast Lane

   

Pull up to my bumper, baby...

 I've often wondered about the people who get into car accidents on the highway during rush hour commutes. They tie up traffic while standing helplessly beside their immobile vehicles. You see them stranded in the middle lane while other commuters try in vain to circumvent the situation. These lost souls are just like you and me. And last week, I became one of them.
     I don't usually travel in the travel lane when I drive. I’m a slow lane kind of guy, or middle lane at best if I feel daring. For some reason on the morning of my accident, I decided the third lane was a better option. I was traveling south on Interstate 93 in heavy traffic heading into Boston at 8:30 in the morning. My radio was not very entertaining, so I popped in my favorite Blondie CD to listen to some tunes to distract me from the relentless boredom of my morning commute.
     Somewhere before the Sullivan Square exit, something in my rearview mirror caught my eye. A driver in a BMW swerved out of the far left fast lane, apparently to avoid the carpool lane and the possibility of a steep traffic ticket. The car came up behind me so fast – one moment there was nothing in my rear view mirror, and the next moment a speeding car was dangerously close to my back bumper. In an instant, I heard a loud BAM as the car behind me was struck by the vehicle behind him. The impact pushed the BMW into the back of my car. The second loud BAM I heard was his car smashing into my rear bumper.
     I had my seatbelt on but I was still jostled forward. I stopped my car and prayed there would be no more BAMS as I sat stunned by the impact. The drivers of the two vehicles behind me and I exited our vehicles to assess the damage. Luckily no one was injured, although the two vehicles behind mine were significantly damaged.
     Being somewhat intelligent, I said to the driver who hit my car, “I think we’re supposed to pull over to the side of the road.” The driver said he wasn’t comfortable moving his car across three lanes of rush hour traffic. He called the state police at 911 to help our three vehicles maneuver to the breakdown lane. I told him I often wondered who the people were that get in these kinds of accidents as I drive past them on the highway. He replied, “I'm going to wait inside my car until the police arrived.” I guess he wasn't in the mood for small talk since his car acquired the most damage in the middle of the monkey pile. Perturbed at being snubbed, I returned to my car to gather my license and registration. I guess this wasn't the place or time to get to know your neighbor.
     The police arrived promptly and guided the three vehicles to the breakdown lane. The officer collected our licenses and registrations. He returned to my car window several minutes later with copies of the police report and the information of the other drivers involved. I was rattled and shaken, but happy my Dodge Nitro saved my life. My SUV sustained no damage, a testament to good old fashioned American automobile design. The BMW that rear ended my auto wasn't so lucky. The car had over $1,000 worth of damage which meant even though I wasn't filing a claim for damages, I still had to fill out an accident report in triplicate and mail it to the police, the DMV and my insurance company. This accident turned into a real pain in the neck (literally). I continued on my merry way to work, but I left the office early after the adrenaline wore off and the realization of what happened started to sink in.
     This accident made me wonder if outside forces exist that put us in the wrong place at the wrong time. Is it fate or grand design? That particular morning, I would have been on the road sooner, but I spent an extra ten minutes trying to find a certain necktie I wanted to wear. If I had chosen a different outfit and left the house ten minutes earlier, would I still have been involved in a three car pile-up, or was I destined for something far worse that was averted by my search for the perfect accessory. Does a higher power exist that sends us in and out of harms way? Are we always one step away from dangerous situations depending on the alignment of the stars?
     Ironically, on my way home, Debbie Harry's voice echoed through my car stereo speakers as she sang, “...accidents never happen in a perfect world...”. I guess this world ain’t so perfect after all.

Going Viral

   

Toot Toot Tootsie, Goodbye!

 If humanity is wiped out from a deadly outbreak of an incurable virus, I’m going to be pretty ticked off. How can a planet full of intelligent life let their civilization be destroyed by something preventable? Only on Earth, ladies and gentlemen.
     It’s not like we didn’t see it coming. For decades, prescient film makers have been preparing us for this science-fiction scenario now unfolding in real time. Just look at the films The Andromeda Strain (1971), Outbreak (1995), Contagion (2011). We know what to expect. And we should know how to prevent it. But nobody is paying attention.
     First we’re told there is no danger of anyone contracting Ebola in the United States. When a patient enters a Texas hospital with symptoms of the deadly virus, we’re told it's an isolated case. Then we’re told about all the people the patient had contact with, including several children. The passengers onboard the airplane traveling with the patient were told not to worry. They told the people trapped in the World Trade Center not to worry either. Exactly when are we going to be told to worry. I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to worry.
     Another U.S. citizen contracted Ebola while working as a freelance cameraman in Africa. He has no idea how he caught the virus since he followed all the safety precautions. And now we’re bringing him home for treatment.
     A number of soldiers are being sent to West Africa to help in humanitarian efforts in the middle of the Ebola hot spot. And they’ll be returning home to U.S. soil as well. I’m all for helping humanity, but I’m not sure this is the best course of action at this time.
     My gut reaction is to seal our country’s borders with the biggest hermetically sealed seal we can find. No one’s getting in until this situation is resolved. Most people can’t even fight the common cold. And fighting this deadly virus is no easy task.
     It may already be too late. Enter the Enterovirus-D68. It’s a new arrival for Fall. And it brought back some old friends with it. Tuberculosis. Whooping Cough. And a real blast from the past, Polio. Hey, long time no see! I’m ready to pack it in and buy a giant plastic bubble. It worked for John Travolta in that movie from the seventies. He looked happy (and his hair looked terrific).
     What happened to the good old days when all we had to worry about was Anthrax, Ricin and the flesh eating virus? Ah, the good old days. I don't know about you, but on my street, I prefer hearing the shouts of children playing in the street as opposed to hearing shouts of “Bring out your dead.”
     The impending Zombie Apocalypse is starting to look better and better everyday. Unlike a contagious virus, at least zombies can be “killed”. I don’t want people in the future to read a new New Testament that begins with the words, “and an uncontrollable deadly mutating virus inherited the earth.” I hope things turn around for the better real soon. I still haven’t gotten my flu shot yet.

Carpool Tunnel Syndrome

Max Mullowney, Jazz Passenger

     Driving into Boston this summer took a pleasurable turn when I added a carpool passenger to my morning commute. My nineteen-year-old son was fortunate enough to acquire a job in the administration office at his college in Boston. Since we were both now sharing the Monday through Friday 9 to 5 experience, it made sense to commute together so we could benefit from the time-saving (sanity-saving) carpool lane. Nothing bonds a father and son together like being trapped in a hot car during rush hour traffic on Route 93 heading into Boston on weekday mornings.
     For the past two months, I got to share some great conversations with my son. I learned quite a bit about the younger generation. At age 19, Max has developed some strong opinions about the world we live in. During our commutes, we discussed subjects from world politics to world music and everything in between. I tried to gauge his political views by tuning my car radio to a radical right-wing republican talk show. I was curious to see my son's reaction to the thought provoking solutions to political problems proposed by the histrionic host. Max was infuriated by some of the things he heard on the broadcast. I egged him on by suggesting he call in to the show to voice his anger, but he wouldn’t take the bait. What I didn’t expect to get from my son was a passionate dialog on world politics. I learned where he stands on the hard hitting issues of today. I even learned a few history lessons in the process. My son educated me on the crisis in the Ukraine, the crisis in the Middle East and the illegal alien influx at our borders. He had a surprising amount of knowledge on subjects I didn’t even think would be on his personal radar.
     When I asked where he obtained all this information, my son explained his generation doesn’t get news from standard sources like radio, newspapers or television. They don’t trust mass media outlets who tell listeners what they want to hear. They go outside the box and tune in overseas news stations or grassroots social media web sites that offer news from the street level.
     I wasn’t the only one pushing buttons during our captive commutes. I didn’t appreciate my son's snarky tone when he asked, “Dad, what’s it like to be part of the dying newspaper industry?” I told him some people actually preferred reading newspapers instead of reading things illuminated by the harsh artificial light of a cold computer screen. (He didn’t buy it.) I told him not all newspaper readers were “old people”. (He begged to differ.) He pointed out the fact that newspapers can't stay current with breaking news stories. (I begged to differ.) I defended the benefits of reading a physical copy of a newspaper, something tactile you can have and hold in your hand, something you can take anywhere. My heartfelt defense was a tough sell to a tough audience, but it made interesting morning conversation.
     Since my son is a professional guitarist and I am a professional music lover, music was a frequent topic of conversation. We analyzed the changes in the almost non-existent music industry. Thanks to my satellite radio, we compared music from the sixties to music of today. When we took a break from the radio, I was exposed to some interesting jazz music. My son played a CD by musicians Charlie Hunter and Scott Amendola. The jazz duo performs cover versions of rock-and-roll songs from The Cars. I still can’t grasp the concept of jazz. It’s way too cerebral for a pop-culture guy like me, but I'm beginning to see the light.
    We talked about my son’s future plans after graduation further down the road. He has some lofty goals – and all the resources to achieve them. He realizes his future is in his hands.
     Last week I helped Max move back to school. Morning gridlock won’t be the same without him. Sure, I can argue with the radio by myself, much to the entertainment of shocked onlookers in passing cars. I can pass time by singing along with songs on the radio or jotting down cartoon ideas in my handy notebook that sits on the now vacant passenger seat beside me. I can get lost in thought reminiscing about the old days. Mostly I find myself thinking back on the fading summer that came and went so fast. Someday soon, when I look back on the good old days, being stuck in traffic while commuting and conversing with my son will be one of the highlights. These are the things memories are made of.

Food For Thought

Butternut Squash French Fries

     My wife and I have embarked on a dangerous journey together – we're radically changing our diets to include exclusively healthy foods. The transition hasn't been easy, but it has been worth it. As people age, it is easy to add extra pounds as physical activity decreases. The longer a person waits to alter bad eating habits, the harder it becomes to change anything.
     Luckily my wife and I are both starting this new plan at the same time. Healthy eating is harder when only one half of a couple is committed to change and the other person has hesitations. Both of us are making a concentrated effort at the same time. We have each other for support which makes the process more manageable. After the first two weeks of altering our diets, we had a weight loss total of fourteen pounds between us.

      “We’ve lost the equivalent of two newborn babies!” my wife said proudly.

      “That’s just gross,” was my reaction. But walking around without that added weight makes a huge difference in the way a person looks and feels.     We started becoming extremely conscious about ingredients we use when preparing meals. We’re calculating fat content and substituting healthy ingredients wherever possible. Sure, it takes a bit longer to make dinner, but some of the changes we've made had a real impact on our weekly weigh-ins. Ground beef hamburgers have been replaced with Portobello mushroom burgers (or turkey burgers if we want to splurge). Hot fudge sundaes have been replaced by SmartOnes® dessert treats. Fruits and vegetables are now plentiful in our diet. We’ve said goodbye to french fries, and hello to french fries made from green bananas baked in the oven with Pam Cooking spray and a little salt and pepper. It sounded questionable to me too, but after eating them – with ketchup even – I never want to eat a fried french fry again. Surprisingly, I don't miss them (much).

     Things I never thought I’d try are now staples on our grocery list. I’m not a Soy Milk fan. I could never get past the grayish hue and icky aftertaste, but Almond Milk is fantastic. Who knew you could even produce milk from almonds? I gave it a try and I was impressed. At 40 calories a serving, I love it even more – and it has calcium to help strengthen my aging bones.

     Our grocery shopping routine has changed significantly. I've heard rumors that you can do all your weekly shopping from the outside edges of the supermarket without having to peruse every aisle (well almost). It takes longer to shop with a healthy lifestyle as your focus. It was faster and easier to mindlessly toss food into our cart without thinking of the consequences. However, once you start making health conscious decisions, you won’t want to go back to old routines.We pass by the bakery aisle without stopping and not feel like we're missing something. The produce aisle is now our favorite place to linger. There are always new things to try. Some recipes call for hard to find vegetables that have never been on our shopping list before. I’m hoping this new way to eat is not just a phase or an in-the-moment fad. It doesn’t feel temporary, it feels like this is the way it should have been all our lives. At home, I hardly recognize my refrigerator shelves. When I open the door it’s overflowing with leafy greens and low-fat alternatives.
     The results our bodies have shown in a few short weeks have proven we can achieve the goals we want if we’re willing to make some changes and endure some sacrifices. But is it really a sacrifice if you reap the benefits in the long run?

School's Out

"This is not what I meant by Jamming."

     With the first year of college behind him, my son has returned home for the summer. My wife and I just got used to having the house to ourselves, and now we are transitioning back to living with a teenager again – and all the joy that comes with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear the pitter-patter of little feet around the house again, even if the pitter-patter is from size eleven Nikes on nineteen-year-old feet.

      When both our children moved out last year, there was an adjustment period as I faced the spectre of a big old empty house. Of course, I knew I would miss my boys. Their comings and goings at random hours and impossible-to-figure-out schedules became the norm. I found the best way to deal with young people sharing my house was to try to adhere to my own schedule as closely as possible. When our lives intersected at the dinner table, it was a rare treat, something to be cherished.

      When the boys left, I adjusted life in my tranquil home rather quickly. The amount of daily laundry shrunk from a mountain to a tidy pile, neatly placed inside a clothes hamper instead of thrown in the invisible hamper on the laundry room floor. House cleaning chores took minutes rather than hours. Imagine what it’s like to return home from a hard day's work to find your house in the same condition as you left it that morning. It was shocking at first. No dirty dishes overflowing in the kitchen sink. No frozen food wrappers strewn about the countertops. No face cloths left in the bathroom sink. And, miracle of miracles, there were bath towels in the towel cabinet (good towels too, not the threadbare ones with the frayed edges I usually get stuck with).

      But life is ever changing, and this summer has brought change once again. A few weeks ago I drove to the college campus to load my Jeep with my son's belongings and moved him back home until September. Now he is trying to adjust to the world outside the protective dome of college life. My son has gotten used to three meals a day prepared for him in the kitchen at the dorms. “The menu at the dorm kitchen is awemsome,” he says. “It’s like having a private chef.” Don’t get used to it, kid. There are no private chefs on Gorham Avenue. Maybe this summer my son can use his spare time learning how to cook something besides Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

     Laundry Mountain is reaching towards the ceiling again. I can understand having lots of clothes and bedding to wash when you first return home, but after a few weeks the pile seems to be replenishing itself exponentially. I have a house rule: do not leave clean laundry in the laundry room. It tends to get mixed up with the dirty laundry and “someone” ends up washing it again. Perhaps it’s time for a refresher course in House Rules.

      I also get to share my car with my son on the weekends. I don't mind since I don’t do a lot of driving between 10:00 pm and 2:00 am which seems to be prime time for nocturnal college students. I can't remember what the gas gauge looks like when it's above a quarter of a tank. I haven't seen that sight for awhile.

     I'll be making more lifestyle changes to accommodate my summer visitor. I’ll have to play my music at a lower volume on weekend mornings. Saturdays and Sundays are when college students make up sleep time they lost from staying up all hours Monday through Friday. My grocery bill almost doubled from adding items I don't usually buy – Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Taquitos (huh?) and Annie's All Natural Homegrown Shells and White Cheddar (a must have for all college student diets). On a positive note, the weekly phone calls to transfer money into my son's bank account have stopped. Now he asks in person.

     Welcome home, son. We missed you dearly while you were gone. Your triumphant return home has brought a blinding ray of sunshine into the comfortable routine your mother and I have settled into. At least I’ll have help with the yard work this summer. Hey, I can dream, can’t I?

Bird Flue

     

     A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. A bird in your fireplace is worth $125, at least according to the pest control service I called to help me with my wild animal home invasion.

     Last week my wife and I had a rare day off together. We sat in our living room sipping coffee when a strange noise caught our attention.

     “What’s that noise?” my wife asked.

     “I think the trash barrels blew over,” I said.

     The noise sounded again. 

     “It’s coming from the fireplace,” my wife said.

     “No, it’s just the wind,” I said.

     “It’s coming from the flue,” my wife said.

     I muted the television volume and we both listened for the origin of the perplexing sound. Our two cats joined our silent listening party. They sat with their attention focused on the fireplace like children awaiting Santa’s arrival. 

     There was a definite rustling in the chimney flue, echoing into the fireplace. I turned the lever to open the flue to investigate further. The flapping sound started and stopped. It sounded to me like an injured bird trapped in the chimney. The question was how to get it out of there.

     I turned to the all-knowing internet for guidance. My wife Googled “how to get a bird out of a chimney” and sure enough the answer magically appeared.

     The solution was simple. Turn on  a flashlight and leave it inside the fireplace with the flue open. The bird will eventually head towards the light. I closed the fireplace screen and waited to see it this easy internet tip worked. I envisioned the scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s film The Birds, where a massive storm of winged creatures explode into a home by way of the chimney. 

     Within minutes, we heard a flapping of wings. A bird came down the chimney and landed in my fireplace. Unfortunately, that was the end of the internet tips. I had to figure out what to do next.

I was expecting a broken-winged sparrow to flop into the corner, waiting for me to scoop it up in a shoebox and bring it outside so it could recuperate in the wild. Instead, I got a raving mad medium-sized North American Starling with an attitude problem. 

     The angry bird crashed around the inside of my fireplace looking for a way out. It latched onto the fireplace screen and shook it with its sharp talons. It pecked violently with its razor-like beak. Its piercing black eyes sent a message to me – and it was not a friendly hello. 

     “Just throw a towel on it and carry it outside,” my wife said.

Easier said than done. I cautiously opened the fireplace screen and quickly tossed an old bath towel into the fireplace, completely missing the bird. 

     “What are you doing? Are you afraid of a bird?” my wife asked.

     “No. I’m afraid you’re going to freak out if it gets loose inside the house. Remember the mouse incident of 1998?” I said, trying to deflect the question back to her.

     I tried throwing another towel in the fireplace, but the bird was moving too fast.

     I had a business card on the refrigerator from a local pest control service. This wild bird definitely qualified as a pest. I called the number and the service said they could send someone right over. I thought the price was steep – $125 per bird for removal – but it was worth it to end this siege.

     The exterminator showed up promptly and assessed the situation. He was oddly bird-like in his own way – he had a nest of straw colored hair, a large pointed beak of a nose, and nervous, darting eyes. He wore protective glasses and gloves. He asked if he could use the towel I had thrown in the fireplace to grab the bird. For $125 he could have at least brought a net of his own. He asked me to open the front door and stand clear while he trapped the starling in the towel and ran to the front porch to release the angry bird into the wild. 

     He checked the flue (with my flashlight) and said, “You’ve got another one up there.”

     Upon my recommendation, he used the internet flashlight trick to coax a second bird out of the flue. 

     “I hope there aren't any others up there,” he said.

     “I hope not either. At $125 a bird, I can’t afford any more,” I said. I was going to ask for a discount since he used my towel and my flashlight, but I didn’t want to press the issue.

     My wife was happy with the results. She wanted the birds treated humanely so they weren’t injured in their relocation back to the outside world (although I still think my Duraflame log solution would have been a heck of a lot cheaper).

Memorial Day

     I have a great memory. When I was in elementary school, my fourth grade class performed on stage in the Memorial Day assembly. We recited a poem that began “On Memorial Day in peaceful May, we honor the soldiers the Blue and the Gray…”. Yes, that's a Civil War reference (and no, I didn’t go to elementary school in the 1800’s), but the line stuck with me all these years. There have been many wars since then, and America has lost a multitude of soldiers who fought in the name of freedom.

     My father, William Mullowney, was a veteran of World War Two. He survived the war, but he was also a casualty of it. He was underage at seventeen years old when he enlisted in the army, but in 1942, the country was desperate for bodies to help stop the horrors waged by the German and Japanese war machines. 

     He was sent to the South Pacific with his battalion to stem the tide of Japanese insurgence hellbent on controlling every country within their reach. My father told me stories of the war, the one’s he could talk about. On a Philippine island, in a dense jungle, he spent twenty-four hours alone in a tree, locked in gun battle with a solitary Japanese sniper. So close they could look into each other’s eyes and realize they were both there for the same reason and they really didn’t want to shoot one another. Or the time he fell asleep on guard duty and his rifle accidentally discharged, causing a scar on his nose and loss of hearing in one ear. Luckily those were the extent of his war injuries. The physical ones, anyway. 

     He returned home from the war at age twenty-one, and the war came home with him. Some things could not be forgotten despite the victory celebrations and the happy-days-are-here-again mentality that ushered in a new golden age for the USA. I found out later in his life just how much he was affected by the war when I accompanied him to a doctor's appointment at the Veterans Hospital in Boston. He had some health issues and during his examination the doctor asked him about his sleep patterns at night. He replied, “Every night when my head hits the pillow, I relive the entire war, from the day I enlisted to the day I came home.”

     “Would you like to talk to someone about that?” asked the doctor.

     “No. I’m fine with it,” my father said.

     But obviously he wasn’t. That explained the random flashbacks and the heavy drinking. But nothing he did for the rest of his life could erase the memories. War does that to a person, it changes you fundamentally. And the scores of friends who didn’t make it back remind you how “lucky” you are. Lucky to be alive even though you spend the rest of your life trying to forget.

     Sadly, my father passed away in 2011. He’s buried in the Woodlawn Cemetery in Everett in a section that doesn’t allow headstones. He has a flat bronze marker with his name, date and an inscription that reads “World War Two Veteran”. The plaque doesn’t do justice to the hero my father was. There wouldn’t be a memorial large enough to contain his legacy. The way the calendar dates fell that year, his funeral was on Memorial Day. The twenty-one gun salute and the presentation of the flag at the ceremony completed the fitting tribute to this soldier who is now part of history. I think he would be proud to know he was laid to rest on Memorial Day in peaceful May on a day when we honor war heroes who made the the ultimate sacrifice to keep our country free. Rest assured, Papa, you will never be forgotten.

Turkey Trot

   

     The chilly gray weather last week felt more like November than April. After finishing some errands in Melrose, I headed back to Stoneham by way of Ravine Road toward Spot Pond. Mid way up the winding forest road, I passed a large object near the edge of the woods that made me step on my brakes and pull over. I carefully backed up my car to get a better look. 

     There was a huge wild turkey, in full Thanksgiving regalia, standing by the roadside, with tail feathers in full bloom. His chest was puffed out and he stood prouder than a peacock. I got out of my car to snap a photo with my cell phone. The big bird turned and walked into the woods, although “walking” isn't quite the right word. He floated regally over the forest floor like the Goodyear blimp. He moved like a slow-motion tumbleweed. This giant round ball of turkey looked like a grounded Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon that escaped its rope ties and was now drifting through the forest on the breeze. 

I stood at the edge of the woods, mesmerized by the turkey's extraordinary colors – browns, reds, even some blue hues. The bright red hanging gobbler, the orange eyes, and colorful array of tail feathers standing at attention were exactly like the holiday decorations that used to be allowed to adorn the walls in elementary school when I was young.

     I fumbled with my camera, accidentally shooting videos when I thought I was taking still photos. I kept pushing wrong buttons, getting some horrifying shots of my own face when I hit the reverse camera button on my phone by mistake. (Is that what I look like when I take a photo? That screen gem certainly won't be posted on my Facebook page.)

     Determined to get a great photo, I followed the giant, slow moving bird up a trail, deeper into the woods. There were two or three less ornate female turkeys standing in the sticks, blending perfectly with the brown and gray tones of the early spring woods (still no flowering buds in sight, by the way).

The big bird stopped his journey and turned towards me. He was truly majestic. We made eye contact for a second. I thought he would turn away and walk deeper into the woods. Instead he began a slow march in my direction. He eyed me like I was his Thanksgiving dinner.

     I slowly backed down the trail, recklessly clicking photos of branches and dead leaves as I made my way back to my car. I jumped inside my vehicle just in time. The turkey patrolled around my car, looking quizzically at my metal box on wheels. The top of his head was just under my driver’s side window. I swear he was the size of a large beach-ball, about 3 feet in diameter. 

     Other cars pulled over behind me to watch this amazing creature strut around in his finery. The bird had no fear of the line of SUVs encroaching on his habitat. I rolled my window down to speak with the driver who stopped across the road. 

     “That turkey is HUGE!” I said, sounding like Captain Obvious.

     “And bold!” replied the woman behind the wheel of her SUV. “Look at him!”

     I turned around to see the turkey using its sharp beak to puncture the tires of the car parked behind me. I witnessed a full scale raging turkey attack. The giant bird pecked and scratched tires of the SUV behind me. After accidentally snapping a few quick photos of the interior of my car (hey I tried), I decided it was time for me to go. Cars were passing each other and zigzagging on the wrong side of the road to get away from this killer turkey was out to get revenge for 400 years of Thanksgiving dinners past.
     I locked my car doors, stepped on the gas and zoomed up the hill toward Woodland Road . I watched the chaos behind me unfold in my rear view mirror. I wondered if the carnage of this turkey terrorist would make headlines in this week’s newspaper, or at least a viral video on YouTube.

A Little Bird Told Me...

     For the past few years, the computer application “Twitter” seemed like a unique idea searching for a purpose. Even describing it is a challenge. Twitter is an online social networking tool in which users post 140 character updates of what is going on in their lives, along with links to things they think are interesting, funny, or useful to their “followers”. Unlike Facebook, you don't have to be friends to see items posted by people or companies you are interested in. You simply click “Follow” and anything written by that person appears on your timeline. People use Twitter in many ways, some as a newsfeed by following prominent people or networks, some as a chatroom for close friends and family, and some as a miniblog for updating the world about work they are doing or events in their personal lives.

     Created in 2006 by a group of young techies, including Christopher “Biz” Stone, a local computer whiz who graduated from Wellesley High School, Twitter has become much more than a frivolous blogging application. The service rapidly gained worldwide popularity with 500 million registered users in 2012, who post an estimated 340 million tweets per day. The company’s estimated worth is upwards of a billion dollars thanks to its untapped potential.

     After you create a Twitter name and account, you simply type in a “Hashtag” followed by the subject you wish to read information about. A Hashtag is a word or phrase preceded by a pound sign (#) and used to identify messages on a specific topic. For instance, during the live broadcast of the Academy Awards, I typed in “#AcademyAwards” and anything posted by anyone on Twitter that included the words “Academy Award” would appear on my timeline. It’s a great way to connect with viewing audiences while watching live events, and you get to make snarky comments about your favorite celebrities. It was interesting to see backstage photos posted live at the event by the host, even if Ellen's star-studded “selfie” from the Oscars was determined to be a subliminal advertising promotion for Samsung. Thanks to the power of Twitter, it worked. People are still talking about it. Even Big Papi and President Obama have gotten into the act creating a recent controversial photo-inspired buzz.

     Twitter has some important uses as well. Users can receive up to the minute breaking news stories.  First hand information is instantly available immediately following air disasters, earthquakes and fires. You can even follow the Stoneham Police Twitter posts at @StonehamMAPD for local updates regarding situations happening in this town.

     I like the fact that Twitter limits the amount of words you can write in your post. You only get 140 characters to state your case – including punctuation. Brevity is key. It’s a challenge to type succinctly. It’s like fitting the right characters in a word puzzle or writing a haiku. Twitter posts force you to edit and clarify, two great writing skills that don’t come easily to some.

     I’m thinking of publishing a novel on Twitter – one sentence each day, posted with the hashtag #scottnovel. They say a journey of 1000 pages starts with 140 characters. Can I keep up the pace of writing one sentence per day? It will be difficult. When I'm finished, I could collect all my tweets in one volume but that would defeat the whole purpose of the quick bits and bytes of information that Twitter is famous for.

     Try it if you haven't already. Join Twitter for the fun of it. Follow me at www.twitter.com/scottmu and be prepared for 140 characters of insight, entertainment and fun on an almost daily basis. You might find a myriad of other uses for this important new form of instant communication as well. #ShamelessSelfPromotion

Brake Dancing on the Zakim Bridge

     My daily commute from Stoneham to downtown Boston is perfectly timed with the peak of morning rush hour. My home is in a great location, one traffic light away from Route 93. Unfortunately, that traffic light is in south Stoneham at the intersection between Friendly’s and Spot Pond Mobil. If you travel Route 28 in the morning you already know that short stretch of highway is a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. It’s a job just getting to work in the morning. By the time I reach my office I feel like I’ve already put in a full day’s work.    
     I’ve discovered many shortcuts to avoid Route 93 on my commute into Boston. After making my way through the intersection at Friendly’s, I can see if the highway is moving (it usually isn’t). I have the option of driving past Sheepfold toward Roosevelt Circle. Traffic at that rotary is always heavy getting up to the circle, but once you are there you have a slew of options:     
     You can enter Route-93. Even if traffic is slow, it feels like you’ve passed all cars who were sitting in traffic back at the Stoneham entrance. If the volume of traffic on the road is extremely heavy, you can get on the highway and immediately exit at Route 60 in Medford, then circle around the rotary and head up the ramp to Route 93. This method works as a last resort but you do save a few minutes if your desperate. There’s a lot of maneuvering for little gain because you end up back in traffic when you re-enter the highway but you still come out ahead of that Peter Pan bus you used as a place marker. If that sounds like a hassle, you can veer off Roosevelt Circle towards the Fellsway toward Wellington Circle (if you don't mind a million traffic lights). Once you make it past the Assembly Square Mall, take the ramp to the highway just before the Sullivan Square exit. Here's a Massachusetts driving tip: don’t wait in the line of traffic on the ramp. Simply drive past everyone to the top of the entrance and cut in at the last minute. The trick is to not make eye contact and wave thank you a lot. This was my shortcut of choice for a long time, but I knew there had to be a better way. I discovered Fulton Street, off Roosevelt Circle, which leads to Medford Square. The lights are annoying, but once you're on Route 38, traffic moves all the way to the I-93 on ramp just before Sullivan Square. It’s not ideal but it’s a great route for people who want to keep moving, and you pass a couple of donut shops.     
     Recently, I was given information regarding a secret short cut that involves Woodland Road and Flynn Rink. I can’t divulge the route because I had to sign a confidentiality contract. A secret shortcut is no good if everyone starts taking it. This hidden route is not for everyone. It’s fraught with danger, hidden drives and hairpin turns. But if it ends up saving me ten minutes in the morning, I’m there.Unfortunately, all of these shortcuts lead to the Zakim Bridge. This relatively short, beautiful span bridge is not unlike the bumper car ride at Canobie Lake Park. Every driver is changing lanes simultaneously so you have to be on your toes. It looks beautiful at night though.If you survive that treacherous stretch of trellis, you approach the O’Neill Tunnel of Horror. Before you enter, you are blinded by the glare of the morning sun and then immediately plunged into total darkness in the tunnel. You are forced to drive blind for the first few moments as speeding tractor trailers and weaving taxi cabs compete for each other's lanes. Hang on to your steering wheel and be prepared for anything at any moment, from any direction (including the ceiling). I can't forget hearing report regarding the metal safety rails along the tunnel wall. They were partially removed because of a “decapitation hazard” if a car accidentally drives into them. That news makes me keep my speed down much to the dismay of the oblivious drivers whizzing past me on all sides.     
     I’ve tried taking the scenic route from North Station to Atlantic Avenue. I’ve taken the McGrath Highway to Storrow Drive. (Spellcheck wants to change “Storrow to “Sorrow” which might be more appropriate.)
     Some people criticize my zigzagging shortcuts for taking longer than just sitting in traffic on the expressway. They can criticize all they want. I’ve got 185 channels on my Sirius Satellite Radio to listen to in my car so I really don’t care how long my commute takes. And if I’m late, I'll use the same excuse as everyone else in my office – “You wouldn’t believe the traffic.” Only in my case, it’s true.

Joyful Noise

My love for Top 40 music goes all the way back to the mid sixties when a new console stereo was brought into our house. It was a big piece of furniture – a polished walnut wooden cabinet with a hinged door on top. When you lifted the lid and looked inside, there was a turntable on the left, and a row of radio dials on the right. To me, it was a gateway to a whole new world waiting to be discovered.

The first album my parents bought was by Roger Miller, a crossover country artist who had a radio hit with the smash single “King of the Road.” Since the album was the only one we owned at the time, I got to know the songs very well. By placing the diamond needle stylus on the vinyl disc you could feel the rich warm tones of the tunes, along with all the snaps and pops that could be heard crackling from the speakers from repeated playing.

Every morning I would wake up extra early, creep into the parlor before the sun came up, and begin my 5:00 a.m. ritual of tuning in songs on the AM.radio. I would set the volume low and curl up on our royal blue polyester danish modern sofa, tuck an orange pillow beneath my head and listen to The Supremes, Barbara Streisand and Tom Jones sing about life and love until it was time for me to eat breakfast and get ready for school.

The nineteen sixties were a golden age for pop music, and Casey Kasem’s weekly American Top 40 countdown became a staple of my Sunday morning radio listening habit (as soon as I got home from church). I wanted to learn to play an instrument to make my own music but my training only went as far as the fourth string of my guitar. By the time I quit taking lessons I was semi-proficient at Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I could read the musical notes on paper. I knew my F-A-C-E from my E-G-B-D-F. However, I recently discovered there is more to understanding music than just knowing where the notes are.

 Music may be the universal language, but currently in my home there is a cultural divide between my jazz-loving son and his pop music father. “That’s not real music,” my son recently told me regarding my musical preference. “Jazz snob!” was my snarky retort. I'll take my father/son bonding any way I can get it.

My son is attending college majoring in jazz composition. On a recent ride home from the dorms, I thought I'd pick his brain for some technical musical knowledge. I asked him what “intonation” meant. I heard the word used on several occasions by Harry Connick Jr. as he critiqued would-be pop stars on this season's American Idol. I got my answer in the form of a vocal lesson from my son. He sang the scales in various keys to show me the difference. It takes training to hit the right notes and sing in perfect pitch. This explains why my attempt at becoming a vocalist in Vinnie and Larry’s teen-age garage band in the mid seventies didn’t quite work out . My vocal style falls somewhere between The Clash and Patti Smith.

Music comes from the soul, no matter if your a jazz purist or a Top 40 rapper. There is no right or wrong in my book. It's all about personal preference.

My son and I have agreed to put our musical differences aside. He’s listening to John Coltrane while I'm enjoying “Happy” by Pharrell Williams from the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack. In the world of music, it’s all good.

 Although I realize a career in pop music is a long-shot for me, I still dabble in the Garage Band program on my computer. I've produced a few original songs of my own, enough to burn a CD or post on the web to amuse my friends.

Thanks to my son, my musical horizons have been expanded. I've discovered jazz is an acquired taste but it's not my cup of tea. To understand what the perfect pop song should sound like, I suggest listening to anything by the seventies group ABBA. I hear the band has a reunion tour in the planning stages. I hope it happens soon, before I’m the old guy clapping along from the handicap section.