Make Mullens Great Again

Souvenir from Mullen's Dairy Bar, Watertown, Wisc., 

where Mullens are welcomed and truly appreciated.

Gina, Eda, Don:

We, the four children of Frank and Mimi Mullen, have always known we are special, worthy of singular appreciation. In the Tavern of Life, we sip Tanqueray, Glenfiddich, and Chardonnay among a coarse riffraff chugging down Heaven Hill, Kümmel, and Schlitz.

Our name itself, "The Original Four," illuminates our exclusivity. Lacking equals, Mullens do not belong; we lead. Others may follow, but only at a respectful distance. Majesty flows from us like sweet perfume in a gentle breeze. Yet, we realize our prestigious position imposes upon us not privilege, but duty. Our status requires that we live with a dignity that might compel the world to treat us with the respect that is our right.

And yet, we have been wronged. For over six decades, our glory has been tarnished by an unwarranted insult whose stain has never been cleansed: The Portrait.

Mom certainly wasn't trying to punish us when she hired a cut-rate Glen Cove photographer from the Yellow Pages to take that humiliating picture of us. Her intentions were good, maybe even inspired. It was the early 1960s, the Kennedys were ushering us into Camelot, and throughout the country, spirits soared. No doubt, she thought the photographer--Snappy the Shutterbug, I believe was his name--would provide something like this:

She envisioned the sort of portrait other families displayed on mantelpieces or pianos. What she got was something you'd see displayed on the back cover of Mad Magazine:

L. to R.: Woman From Another Generation, Doofus, Eda, Cueball.

It looked as though the photographer had sat us down, picked up his camera, and said, "Okay, everybody, pretend you're the main attraction in a carnival funhouse, think geeky thoughts, one, two three, and--whoops. Sorry, I don't have time to take another shot--I'm due in Bayville for a Newsday photoshoot for an article about the things that wash up on the beach at low tide."

We made our feelings known. Mom tried to defend the photo, but every thrust was deftly parried.

Mom: Don't be ridiculous. It looks just like you.

Us: Then burn it.

Mom: Okay, it doesn't look anything like you.

Us: Then burn it.

Mom: It captures your inner selves.

Us: Let our inner selves out of captivity. Burn it.

Only Eda survived the photographic assault with some small shred of dignity, but her point was well taken: from schoolyard to White House, we are known by the people with whom we associate. Surrounding a dandelion with dog-doo does not make it a rose.

Finally coming to her senses, Mom conceded her efforts had failed and allowed the vile object to be sequestered in some dark corner. For years, it only came out of hiding on those occasions when one of us would bring home a new boyfriend or girlfriend. You'd usher your nervous sweetheart through the door and find that some dastardly sibling had transformed the living room into an exhibition hall of your old prom pictures, half-naked baby photographs, and, of course, The Portrait. 

The inclination of Mullens to humiliate one another is indeed so strong that one of them will debase all of them in pursuit of the embarrassment of one single Mullen. But, to degrade a Mullen is a privilege reserved only for members of The Original Four. 

It is in this spirit of unity that I have taken it upon myself to right the wrong cruelly inflicted upon us so long ago. 

Let the trumpets sound, flourishes and kettledrums beat a martial cadence.

All the world now stands in awe as we, The Original Four, stately march into the future with a regained sense of pride. 

I present:

The Rightful Portrait.

I Forgot Mother's Day and Survived

Were it not for a couple of bags of leaves and grass clippings that needed to be hauled to the dump, my Mother's Day sin would have haunted me through eternity.

Half of my brain knew yesterday was Mother's Day. That segment of the cerebellum suggested to Jo that we rearrange our usual Sunday-morning schedule--breakfast, newspapers, crossword puzzles, Wordle--to allow for the probability of long-distance calls from the kids. 

Jo, like so many women, tells her family that Mother's Day is just an opportunity for florists and greeting card merchants to hawk their wares. Still, like mothers everywhere, she likes getting calls from her children.

They did call, so the aforementioned half of my brain was glad I'd rearranged our schedule. Unfortunately, the other half of my brain didn't remember that I, too, had a role to play. Just as distant children brighten Mom's day with phone calls, husbands join the parade of honor with cards, flowers, lunch at Mario's--anything to show he, too, appreciates the life-long challenges and sacrifices that come with motherhood.

So, for the first time in our decades of marriage, I dropped the maternal ball. I forgot to do my part. I committed a sin of omission so degrading that nothing Jo said could cheer me. All afternoon she'd try to console me with the observation that "it's just a Hallmark holiday." Her generous spirit was countered with my pitiful cries of "I suck. I am worthless. I am a worm and no man." Basically, I was turning this celebratory day into a cornucopia of self-pity. Hell of a gift, right?

However, we must remember the grace and mystery with which an all-merciful God operates. He solved the problem with a lesson given at the city dump.

I now pass on to you this lesson:

If you go to your local landfill late on Mother's day, or the following morning, you are in for a surprise. Adult children across the country have flown their widowed mothers home for the weekend. They've provided Mom with a nice time, a pleasant dinner, and then driven her to the airport. For the past few days, she's been showered with floral bouquets that can't accompany her on the flight home, so she leaves the flowers behind.

And the moment Mom's plane achieves liftoff, the children take the floral tributes to the dump. 

The lesson? By the time night falls on the local landfill, it's a festival of fresh flowers just waiting for you. 

Thank you, Jo, for your acceptance of gifts a day late, scavenged from the grass clippings and tree limbs at the  dump. Thank you, God, for your enduring mercy, just when it's needed.

And, thank you, people who invite their widowed mothers home for the Mother's Day weekend, fete them, toast them, then get rid of them and toss the evidence in the landfill. 

Some would say such behaviour disgraces the perpetrators and the mothers who bore them. 

Maybe so. But, one man's iniquity is another man's salvation.

Frank and Jo in "Scalpels and Lung Tissue."

starring

FRANK and JO

featuring

A CHEERY RECEPTIONIST

A NURSE

and

VARIOUS VOICES

- - - - - - - -

Scene 1: Interior of a car in a hospital parking lot. FRANK and JO sit in the car, JO at the wheel. She turns off the ignition. The engine coughs and dies.

JO: We're way early. Want to just sit here for a while? It's a nice day.

FRANK: Yeah, nice for people who aren't about to have razor-sharp knives jammed into their lungs.

JO: Sweetie, it's a biopsy, not a murder. They just stick a tube down your throat--

FRANK: Tube. Down throat.

JO: They just take some pictures and a tiny tissue sample. You'll be knocked out through the whole thing. 

FRANK: Actually, I'm starting to see a great benefit of being totally unconscious.

JO: No pain?

FRANK: No. The great thing is that if I die unconscious on the table, I won't know about it. Sure, it'll probably suck for you, but me? I'll never know.

JO: You can't be sure of that; we don't really know how it works.

(Short pause.)

FRANK: Are you suggesting that Satan may have visiting privileges in this hospital?

- - - - - - - -

Scene 2: Hospital reception area. FRANK and JO stand before a desk, behind which the CHEERY RECEPTIONIST is typing at a computer. She stops typing and looks up.

RECEPTIONIST: You're all set, Mr. Mullen. You two can take a seat by the window, and someone will come get you.

FRANK: Yeah, so they can stick knives into my lungs, knives that are so sharp you could throw a Kleenex in the air and slice it into twelve pieces before it even--

JO: Sweetie...

RECEPTIONIST: O-o-o-kay. Well, it looks like a pleasant day out there. Somebody told me it's, like, in the fifties out there!

FRANK: Yeah, when we drove in, I saw Elvis standing on the corner.

(Short pause.)

FRANK: (Cont'd) The fifties?...Elvis?

- - - - - - - -

Scene 3: Prep room. FRANK lies on a gurney in a hospital gown. Various needles embedded in his flesh are securely taped to his limbs. JO stands at his side, holding his hand. Various people are occasionally seen passing the open door. 

JO: Are you comfy?

FRANK: As comfy as you can be when you're half-naked and strangers walking by can look up your dress.

NURSE enters.

NURSE: The anesthesiologist is waiting for you, and the doctor is on his way. 

FRANK: Yeah, to stick razor-sharp--

JO: It's time to go, Sweetie.

(NURSE starts pushing the gurney towards the door.)

NURSE: If you two have anything to say to each other, now's the time. 

(JO leans down and kisses FRANK.)

JO: I love you.

FRANK: Tell Charlene that even at the end, I never forgave her.

(NURSE looks at JO. JO rolls her eyes.)

- - - - - - - -

Scene 4: Dark, formless void. Vague shapes move about. Faint, indistinct female voices gradually become clear.

VOICE 1: Is he awake yet?

VOICE 2: I'll check. Sir, can you hear me?

FRANK: The night is like a lovely tune.

VOICE 2: Excuse me?

FRANK: Beware, My Foolish Heart.

VOICE 1: What's he saying?

VOICE 2: Not sure. Sir?

FRANK: How white, the ever-constant moon, take care, My Foolish Heart.

VOICE 2: Should we call the anesthesiologist?

FRANK: Her lips are much too close to mine.

VOICE 1: No, it's nothing serious.

(The curtain slowly falls.)

VOICE 2: You're sure?

FRANK: For this time it isn't fascination or a dream that will fade and fall apart.

VOICE 1: Don't worry, they get like this sometimes.

FRANK: It's love this time, it's love, My Fo-o-o-lish Hea-a-a-rt.

--- END ---

I, Olympian

I only got on base once; thereafter,
my team nickname was "H.P."
("Hit by Pitch.")

 As the world's greatest athletes gather in Tokyo for a few weeks of spirited competition, I address all those who, throughout my life, have mocked my athletic inabilities and limited physical prowess. 

To the Sea Cliff Elementary School kids, who always picked me last when forming kickball teams ("You take him; we took Nanette"); 

To Mr. Keller, the Little League coach, who kept me on the roster as "pinch-hitter," telling me to be ready to bat at at a moment's notice--and I'm still waiting for that moment;

To Boot Camp Company Commander Thomas Mikus, who punished me for my inability to do pushups by ordering me to do more pushups;

To my superiors and peers in the Navy, who, for 13 years, assigned me minimal scores at physical fitness tests, deriding me as a lazy SOB, who launched whispering campaigns accusing me of doing "girl" sit-ups;

Now Hear This:

Be it known that I, Frank Mullen III, am the product of a great athletic lineage. My grandfather, Frank Aloysius Mullen, competed on swimming and diving teams of the City College of New York and the New York Athletic Club. Early 20th-century sports editors of metropolitan newspapers tried to outdo each other in vividly glorifying the accomplishments of the Pride of New York Waters. 

The man who started it all, in whose
footsteps I humbly follow.

But New York could not contain him.

Frank Aloysius Mullen's physical prowess and competitive nature followed him into the Navy, wherein he dominated fleet athletic competitions to the point where--get ready now, because we're coming to the point of all this noise--they issued him orders to compete in the Olympics.

And, in 1920, it came to pass that Frank Aloysius Mullen represented the United States in the Summer Olympics in Antwerp, Belgium.

His heritage is my heritage, his blood, mine, pulsing through my veins with the same vigor as it did his. It is Olympic blood, the blood of a champion whose accomplishments were born in New York harbors and burnished in Belgian pools.

Hear me now, and heed me well: I am an Olympian. You insult me, you insult the spirit of the Olympics.

Have I made myself clear?

 

Frank and Jo in "Dick's."

Dick's

starring

Frank and Jo 

Scene: FRANK is sitting in the living room. JO enters, talking on the phone. 

JO: I love you too, Nicholas. Good luck on your new job. (She disconnects.) 

FRANK: What's up? 

JO: Our oldest grandchild has a summer job. 

FRANK: Where? 

JO: Dick's. 

FRANK: What's "Dick's?" 

JO: A sporting goods store. You've been there. 

FRANK: I've never been to Dick's. 

JO: Yes, you have. We went together. 

FRANK: Where is this Dick's you claim I have been to? 

JO: It's a chain; they're everywhere. 

FRANK: And which link in this chain of Dick's did we allegedly visit? 

JO: I'm not sure. The one in the Quad Cities, or maybe when we were in Denver. 

FRANK: I have absolutely no knowledge of any of these Dick's, and, further, I categorically deny having been inside either of these Dick's. 

JO: I was looking for a Cardinals baseball cap. You were stomping around the store, complaining. It's a big place, with camping stuff, and hunting stuff. How can you possibly not remember this? 

FRANK: I will now speak as plainly as I possibly can: I. Don't. Know. Jack. About. Dick's. 

(FRANK slides of his chair and collapses on the floor in a fit of laughter. Finally, he manages to drag himself to his knees.) 

JO: So, is this going to wind up on the internet? 

Curtain  

I Become Seriously Anthologized

Serious, serious, serious.

MWC press announced today that it has chosen my essay, Cancel Culture: A Pandiary, for inclusion in the anthology, These Interesting Times, scheduled for publication later this year.

This sounds pretty serious, and, in a way, it is. MWC Press, the publishing arm of the Midwest Writing Center, Rock Island, Ill., is a serious publisher. The call for submissions was a serious request for essays and poems about dealing with life during 2020. Serious, serious, serious. 

So, I took it seriously. The experience challenged me to write in a longer form than my typical fast-attack humor, and to refrain from treating text as, basically, connective tissue between punch lines 

So, my work will appear in an "anthology," a serious word if ever there was one. I can't wait to work it into my brag sheet. ("Frank's work has been anthologized in...)

Geez, that does sound serious.

COVID-19 Theater Presents Frank and Jo in "Stop Doing That"

COVID-19 Theater 

Presents

Stop Doing That

A Play in One Short Scene

by 

Frank Mullen III

Starring the Author and His Wife as Themselves

Setting: Dining room.

Time: Evening, Day 16 of quarantine.

Frank and Jo are sitting quietly at the table after having finished their meal.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jo: Stop doing that.

Frank: Doing what?

Jo: That thing.

Frank: What thing?

Jo: That thing you're doing.

Frank: I'm not doing anything.

Jo: I hear you doing something.

Frank: So, it's a sound?

Jo: Over and over.

Frank: All I'm doing over and over is talking. Because you keep telling me to stop doing something and I have to explain that I'm not doing anything. Except talking.

Jo: No, it's not your talking

Frank: Breathing? You want me to stop breathing?

Jo: No, it's like scratching.

Frank: Is it this?

Jo: That's it. What are you doing?

Frank: Kinda scratching the leg of my jeans with my fingernail.

Jo: So, that's what you've been doing?

Frank: I guess.

Jo: Stop doing that.

Frank: Scratching the leg of my jeans with my fingernail isn't doing anything.

Jo: Obviously, it is.

Frank: No. Scratching the leg of my jeans with my fingernail is what I do when I'm not doing anything. Like right now.

Jo: Well, please stop doing that thing you do when you're not doing anything.

Frank: Jesus. Crap.

Jo: Stop doing that.

- - - - - - - - Curtain - - - - - - - -

April Fail

I suck.

The plan to fool my wife into thinking it was snowing on the morning of April 1 failed. And it's my own fault.

In the world of humor, we must be wary of the sin of Going to the Well Too Often. There are one-liners. (I just flew in from Vegas and, boy, are my arms tired.) A lot of jokes rely on "triples." (A priest, a minister, and a rabbi walk into a bar. Et cetera.)

But the comedy world does not recognize the "sixteen-tuplet." You can't tell your wife it's snowing on the morning of every April Fool's Day for 16 years in a row without expecting that, eventually, she's gonna catch on.

I woke up waaay before Jo, about 6:00 a.m. My plan was to get up when she did, hurry to the dining room, make a  big to-do out of raising the shades and call out "Wowee, it's snowing!"

So I waited an hour (and a delightful hour it was, envisioning the hijinks that loomed ahead) until Jo woke. When she started to get up, I jumped out of bed so as to spring my trap

That's where I went wrong. Like I said, I "jumped out of bed," but "jumping out of bed" is not a behavior for which I am noted. The last time I jumped out of bed, people were screaming "Reveille! Reveille! Drop your cocks and put on your socks!"

So, as I was racing past Jo in the hallway (There's another red flag: "I was racing." Anyone who has known me for longer than, oh, five minutes, knows that speed is not a Frank Mullen Core Value), Jo said, with a disturbing tone of self-satisfaction,

"Gee, do you think it's snowing this morning?" 

April Fool's, Honey!

Okay, so she finally figured it out. That doesn't mean I'm quitting; I just need to be more clever. So far, I've never had to resort to devices or gimmicks, but I think that Jo may have a bit of fake dog poop in her future.

Another April Fool's Day

March 31, 2019

Tomorrow, April Fool's Day, I will, once again, force my marriage a little closer to the point of irreparable damage.

How I see myself on April Fool's Day.

When Jo was a kid, her mother would wake her and her brother every April 1 by hollering, "It's snowing! It's snowing!" Jo and David would jump out of beds, run to their windows and see a typical spring morning.

I've never been sure exactly why this was funny. But, to honor the memory of her mother, I do it to Jo every April.

And she hates it. She reeeally hates it.

But it's a tradition. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up before Jo does, open the dining room curtains and wait for her to wake up. Because the dark curtains in the bedroom will be closed, she won't notice the sunny morning outside.

After Jo comes out of the bedroom, she may stop to visit the bathroom or she may walk straight down the hall to the dining room. My timing here is critical. I need to deliver my line (updated for a new century: "Holy shit, it's snowing!") just as she's about to enter the dining room, not so late that she can see out the window, but not so soon that she has the opportunity to think things over.

How my wife sees me on
April Fool's Day.

It is difficult to explain how much Jo hates this joke. I've pulled it on her every year since we moved into this house in 2002 and every year, she reacts a little more poorly. Originally, she wouldn't speak to me for a few hours after the event; more recently the cold silence has echoed through the house for the entire day. I have no idea what to expect this year, but if the ever-deteriorating trajectory continues, it'll be pretty bad..

The exercise of humor is not always gentle or risk-free. The humorist is a gambler. The response to his efforts can be merry and gay or lethal and unforgiving. Casualties are not uncommon.

But we do what we have to do.

"The Fall of Greenberg"

My short story "The Fall of Greenberg" has been published by Flash Fiction Magazine.

You can read it here.

Coming Soon: "The Fall of Greenberg."

Now this is a short story.

Don't you hate it when an editor requests a few changes to make your work tighter, clearer and stronger, you make the changes and discover that the result is tighter, clearer and stronger?

Well, this is why we have editors. The editor of Flash Fiction Magazine did her job, I did mine and, as a result, The Fall of Greenberg is scheduled for publication soon.

Back in the Game: Washington Post Style Invitational, Week 1286

Click image to enlarge.

I started contributing to the Washington Post's weekly Style Invitational in 1999, when I lived in Virginia and got the Post every weekend.

Every week brought a different competition, usually some sort of wordplay.

I was a weekly contributor, had a lot of entries published and even won a first place trophy. I moved to Illinois in 2002, couldn't get the Post and fell out of the Style Invitational habit. 

Of course, it's online now, and once in a while I jump back in. This week I hit the perfecta, two winners in one competition:

Substitute the letter "P" for any letter in a word or phrase and define the result.

Whatever "it" is, I guess I've still got it.

What's so difficult about writing poetry?

Gore Vidal on the 2017 Baseball Season

If you're a fan of the Cubs, Cardinals or Brewers, you're paying attention to the standings of all three teams. Things are close in the National League Central Division, time is running out, every game counts and you're team's win can be canceled by another team's win.

Or, as Gore Vidal put it long ago:

It is not enough to succeed; others must fail.

Get a reindeer.

So, I'm looking at a poster of health tips on my doctor's wall. It lists the usual suspects: watch your cholesterol, drink plenty of water.

Then, I see an unusual one:

Get a reindeer to exercise every two hours.

Whoa, I never thought of that one. Then I realize I read it wrong. It actually says:

Set a reminder to exercise every two hours.

I liked my version. What are reindeer for, if not to make our lives easier? Why should I do all the sweating when I can get a reindeer to do it?

Yo! Blitzen! Go run a few laps around the house. And do twenty sit-ups--I need to trim a few inches off my waist.

For two seconds, it made sense.

Earth to Experts: It's hard to shut Iowans up

My Feb. 11, 2016 column in the Quad Cities' Rock Island Argus and Moline Dispatch

"Iowans are happy to discourse at 
length and in detail, on any topic."

--- Frank to readers in Davenport and 
Bettendorf: I don't write the headlines. 
Just so you understand. ---

Some winter webcams we could really use.

What would a Midwestern winter be like without the Iowa CornCam?

My Jan. 14, 2016 column in the Rock Island Argus and Moline Dispatch.

"Midwestern winter looks a lot 
better on the flat screen 
than it does in real life."

Mighta been in Iowa. Mighta been in Illinois. I'm not telling.

No one likes to see their hometown trashed. So, when, a trip to the Quad Cities drives me berserk, I cloak the municipal details so all readers everywhere can believe I'm talking about someplace else..

My Nov. 12, 2015 column in the Rock Island Argus and Moline Dispatch.

"Ha ha! Ho ho! Gong! I'd forgotten I was in
 MoRockBettenPort, 'City of Circles.'"

All Hail Jake Arrieta, Bringer of Victory to the Chicago Cubs.

True Conversion: Confessions of a Cubs Fan