A Visit with Saint Nick: Christmas 2007

Santa is a lovable elf.

Very few figures hold such universally high appeal. Despite religious or cultural boundaries, Santa Claus is truly a jolly symbol of joy.

At any Holiday parade, children anxiously await the climatic appearance by Saint Nick. The Big Man is always the grand finale to any seasonal review. Kids everywhere strain to be seen by this charitable North Pole resident for good reason; this is the man who holds the list of who has been naughty, and who has been nice. This is the man with the plan to deliver toys and treats to the children of the world, by sleigh, propelled by reindeer, all in one night.

Kids don't send letters to their Grandparents. They don't write cards to their Mom and Dad. Yet, each year kids around the world manage to understand the vagaries of the postal system to petition Mr. Claus with detailed lists. Lists full of promises and pleadings. Lists containing itemized gift requests that even helpfully note the stores that Santa could check in the event that his sub-artic workshop is a little backed up.

In this Santa Claus is like… he is like… no one else.

There is no comparison to anyone ever.

Santa Claus IS Santa Claus.

This year marked my son William's second pilgrimage to see Santa Claus. While waiting on the line that wound through Santa's Village, Will happily repeated "Saa-taa" over and over again.

Then young Will came face to face with the Czar of Toyland… and he had a stunning realization; Santa was nothing more than a stranger, a bearded fat man clad in a red velvet suit….

Will's 2007 Picture With Santa Claus

So, sometimes you just have to make the best of a bad situation:

Mullin Holiday Card 2007

Happiest of Holidays to you all!

Have a Holly and a Jolly!

(note: no babies were harmed in the making of this post... after the picture Will happily drank some juice and ate a cookie.)

A Tale of Two Santas: Christmas 2006

If you grew up in a suburb, you know that every town has two mall's.

There is the good mall... and there is the 'not so good' mall.


The good mall has Macy's and Bloomingdales as anchor stores.
The 'not so good' mall has Pathmark and Mandee's.


Young William had his picture taken with Santa last year in two of the mall's of Central Suffolk County.
This is the area in which his Pop was raised.


Try and guess which Santa picture is from the bad mall.

Happy Holidays!

Song of the Summer: Summer 2007

Every summer has a song.
A song so inescapable, that it defines the summer.
All memories from that summer feature the refrain of this song, as if it played on a loop every minute of those days.

The Thong Song.
Lady Marmalade.
Crazy in Love.

The chorus of these songs echoing back to the days and nights of those sun soaked days.
It doesn't matter if you like the song or not.
The song is ingrained into that Summer.
It is the song of the summer.

So, here it is... Summer 2007.
My nomination for the true song of the Summer of 2007?

http://www.noggin.com/shows/travel.php

"Are We There Yet?"
Moose A. Moose and Zee

My life has changed a bit...

The Bad Idea at Paty's in Toluca Lake: Off Island West Coast Adventure Part I

You ever see a good idea, a real stellar idea, just have horrific results?
This past week we were in Southern California.
For a few days on our trip we stayed around our old stomping grounds, our old haunts.



One of my favorite places was Paty's. Paty's is a coffee shop/diner in Toluca Lake. Nothing phenomenal, just serves a standard old fashioned no nonsense breakfast. Decent coffee. Fresh squeezed orange juice. It has sidewalk seating, the youngest waitress fondly recalls the Truman administration, and it is dependable.

In that, it is fantastic.

Just as importantly we could walk there from our apartment and never experience a wait for a table on a weekend morning.
Every crucial metric to be the reliable breakfast option was in place, and it never failed us.


This, I celebrate. Because we should openly celebrate that which fills it role perfectly. Not just the restaurants with dramatic vistas and michelin award winning chefs. They get plaudits and praise and renown. But the solid breakfast destination that hit a solid double each time up at the plate? That is an achievement of admirable consistency. That should be exalted.

So on our trip back to the greater Los Angeles area we had to stop there, and we met up with some old friends for breakfast.


Nothing much changed.. except:
a) They mounted a flat screen tv on one of the walls. I'm not sure why. This is not a sports diner. The tv was playing regis and kelly. It was not offensive, but not really necessary.



b) They instituted one page of "healthy" menu options into the stalwart menu.
This is where they went of the tracks.



You see, nothing is wrong with a "healthy" menu.
That in itself is commendable. Giving the people that option is very sound.

They had the clever idea if naming these new dishes with terms usually associated with a health club.
Nothing is inherently wrong with using health club terms as the theme to name the items on the new healthy menu.
It could be cute. A "gardenburger and brown rice" dish called the "treadmill meal".
Sure, why not?

Here is why not. There IS something wrong with this.... see attached picture.

No one should ever have the option to order a breakfast meal called "The Power Squat".

Not ever.

Even if it does come served with a bran muffin.
Especially if it does come served with a bran muffin.

Requiem for a Station Car

A few months ago, I was running late to the train station. This is not unusual. What was unusual was the sheer volume of cars passing on Jerusalem Avenue. This isn't a major thoroughfare, just a moderate two lane road cutting though my suburban town. Yet the cars kept coming.

My car is a 1996 Jetta. It was not built for speed. Judging by the oddly colored seat cover prints, featuring stick figures engaged in athletic pursuits over splashes of color, it looks like it was built for a questionably gendered female gym teacher.

It was not built for speed.
However I was not built to miss the 8:57 train.

There I sat, peeking out onto Jerusalem Avenue. I have to cross over one lane of traffic, and make left in the flow of traffic when there is an opening. There is no median. This is the most time consuming part of my morning drive. This unavoidable turn. The clock is ticking.
There is no opening. The clock is ticking. There is no opening.
Then? A slight window.. and i gunned it. The ol' Pedal to the Medal. Floored it. Pinned it. Cranked it. Whatever "it" is, I did it. Whatever it is, the car didn't. It didn't move. It made a sound, a "HoOOooVE!". It made the sound of an old man getting up from a low sofa. It hesitated, then sent us sputtering into fast approaching two way traffic.

It was not a good start to the morning.



Many cars approaching quickly in both directions... white knuckled, wide eyed I coaxed that car to please please please move.. and it did. Finished my left and got up to speed. Sure, other cars slowed down, but not egregiously so, and we steadily made it up to speed and over to the traffic light without further incidence.



And then it happened.

The engine light went on.

Now, this car had been through a lot. Back and forth across the country. Up and down both coasts numerous times. It daily battled the feared 405 in Los Angeles, it faced the dreaded BQE in Brooklyn. It lost it's roof racks on a cold dark night on the I-40 hours outside of Santa Fe. It drove down Lombard Street and dodged Trolleys in San Francisco. It ran fireworks north from South of the Border. It never lost heart as it approached overheating in the deserts of Arizona. It bombed through the canyons of Manhattan. Lived in the alleys of Hoboken. It churned up snow and slush but didn't quit while driving up frozen inclines in Vermont.


And the engine light never went on.


This was something different. A trip to out trusty local mechanic confirmed a sad fact; that engine light would never be going off. When it does? That is the end.

The Jetta sits at over 120,000 miles. Some easy, some hard. Some picked up in great chunks. Some hard fought on the traffic clogged arteries in the two largest cities in this country. We were a team, the Jetta and I.
Station car duty?
This was the retirement. After years of hard work, the Jetta was put on Station Car duty.
A cushy gig. Up in the morning, but not before 8. Less than ten miles of travel a week. Only two rides a day.
The Jetta was the prototypical "veteran cop", talking about the boat it is going to enjoy in retirement.

It never had a chance.
It was never getting on that boat.


The mechanic gave his verdict... the Jetta would be lucky to make it through the Winter.
This was in January.

Still, beyond reason the Jetta started every morning these past few months. Slowly we'd make our way down the avenue, and patiently, very patiently we'd waits for an opening on Jerusalem. Gently we strain at the opening and we head to the railroad station. Winter turned to Spring, and for four months the car started. Always with slight hesitation the engine light popped on to greet us in the morning. An undeniable reminder of the scythe above, but the car still started, and we still got the station.


This Thursday was no different. It was raining out hard. The car started. We slowly transverse the way down the avenue to our turn, the Jetta and I. Driving slowly it was always best to drive without the wipers. Using the wipers on minimal amounts of rain would only cause streaking across the windshield, clouding and marring the field of vision. Driving slowly, the rain was like an amorphous translucent liquid glass. Not crystal clarity, but just slightly obstructed.
Taking caution we waited at the stop sign at the junction with Jerusalem Avenue.
The rain came down, we waited.
The rain came down harder. The cars moved slower, leaving less openings. The slowed pace confounded the opposing lights that worked as sentinels up and down this stretch of Jerusalem Avenue. Openings were scarce as the slackened flow of traffic slogged together.
The rain came down harder still. An opening came, I pressed on the gas, I hit the wipers.

The car moved.
The wipers didn't.

Quickly I could not see a thing. The windshield was overrun with waves of rain as I accelerated into the turn. It was at this time I also realized that I didn't pull away from my parking spot without turning the wipers on. That would be incredibly stupid.
It was raining, what idiot wouldn't turn the wipers on in the rain?
I was not that idiot.

What idiot would turn the wipers on but not realize they haven't moved?
The one that just blindly squealed out into oncoming traffic.

If it is raining out I automatically turn the lights on and then bump the wipers control up on the steering column. That is a given. I turned it on.
The wipers just didn't move. I switched them on as reflex, and it escaped my notice that the wipers didn't move. When I noticed the wipers sitting the early part of the drive out, I somehow convinced myself that I didn't turn them wipers on at all.

And now? I was speeding into the heavy morning rain, dark skies, without seeing anything.
What I did see was the engine light. Still glowing.
Nowhere to pull over. No real options. Train coming, clock ticking. Stop light ahead. Red. I could turn on red, but I'll pass thank you.
Note “I'll pass”. Not "we'll pass".
There was no longer a 'we' with this car and I. No longer a team.
After all those miles, a vicious betrayal.

As I waited at the red light, I had a few moments to gather myself.
Quick assessment:
Car? Not my friend.
Wipers? Not working.
Rain? Not stopping.
Windshield? Not clear.
Train? Still scheduled for 8:57.

I was convinced that turning around and going home would be equally difficult. Equal in peril, and I would miss my train. I am not made to miss the 8:57 train. However, not having the ability to see out the windshield presented some certain challenges to my morning drive. Namely, I couldn’t see anything in front of me as I motored along.
How would I clear this windshield?
Diving into my bag, I rifled around.
Huzzah!
A beaten, worn umbrella! All torn vinyl, and spikey metal spokes.
The window is rolled down. Left arm out the window. Umbrella in left hand. Furiously stretching out the window and clearing a small corner of the windshield. I forge ahead. The next turn puts me on the Seaford Oyster Bay Expressway. A major road, but it only would be for one exit. Arm out the window, umbrella wiping the windshield, accelerating into an unseen abyss.

One exit, eyes strained. Hoping, hoping, hoping.
The makeshift umbrella wiper was not a good option. The net result of my wiping was a very wet arm, and no increase in visibility. The car was going 50 miles per hour. There was very little wiping I could do. Feint hints of lights ahead of me, but not really sure what is ahead. This was an expressway in a rainstorm during rush hour with no windshield wipers.

This was a bad idea.

A car passed, and switched lanes in front of me. I saw the tail lights through the gloom. Follow them to the exit. Follow those tail lights wherever they go. While I couldn't see the exit, I would be able to see where the exit ramp is located. Unless the car ahead of me careened off the road.
Then I would just follow that car into the bramble.
"Oh, this wasn't the exit? My bad. Let me just back my car out of your yard."
That would not be an ideal situation.

My one hope at this point is that the car in front me had working wipers. If not, that would be quite unfortunate. At this time I could picture my son, years from now holding a yellowed newspaper as a keepsake of his father.
The headline? "Local Idiot Dies Like An Idiot".

At last, the exit. Slowly I crawled the Jetta on the shoulder of the road to the parking lot.
Parked in the first spot I saw.
Kissed my umbrella.
Walked towards the train.
The umbrella whipped back in the wind, striking me in the face.
Cursed the umbrella.

That night, I returned from work, walked off the train and went to my car.
The rain stopped. The car started. I made it home.
The next morning, the Jetta started. It didn't rain. I made it to the station.


In 1999 I bought this car from Donaldson's in Sayville, from a man with big teeth, a bearish stature, and a quick handshake. Overpaying and instantly disliking the salesmen in the transaction, the Jetta was at 46,000 miles.

Now the Jetta is at 120,000 miles, and it still has a few miles left.
Provided it doesn't rain.
If it does rain?

This is a Requiem for a Station Car.



The point of all this is, well, is anyone looking to sell an old car?
I only need it to drive to the train station.

The Parade of Last Names: March in East Islip

An Island people, we proudly celebrate our heritage.
Well, we celebrate the heritage of our last names.
My heritage is that of a second generation Long Islander.
My folks were both raised in the former potato fields of Long Island, hard on the southern Hempstead plains. Levittown and Wantagh.
I was raised out in South Central Suffolk County, further east, a land of non-planned suburban sprawl with no town center.

My wife?
Her folks were Bronx bred, but she was born and raised in the bucolic, but very askew rustic hills of the Northern Shore of Eastern Long Island.
Nary a brogue between us, nor our older relatives.
Go back a few generations you still might not touch an accent that didn't say "dawgs" and "dauwthas" instead of "dogs" and "daughters".
So, not much pining for the mossy expanses of Tara.
Very few righteous shouts of "erin go bragh" from the Mullin's or Clark's of Long Island.

My surname however?
It demands corned beef every March.
As it gets rainy, it finds U2 on the cd player with alarming frequency.
"The Quiet Man" is watched with religious fervor.
Bagpipers are praised for the mournful baling cry of a homeland never known.

If and when I have a daughter, this alone is the time of year I'd be most susceptible for signing her up for a step dancing class.

My surname has a proud heritage every March, and it is celebrated.
My actual heritage?
Not so much.

A good friend of mine has numerous Celtic inspired tattoos.
Shamrocks and harps, leprechauns and tribal bands.
All of this despite:
a) He can't name one prominent historical Irish figure.
b) He doesn't know the capital of Ireland.
c) He is mostly German.

A great deal of my friends and acquaintance have collared their offspring with unwieldy vowel laden, constant clogged Gaelic names. Dooming these children to many a disappointing trip to the "vanity bike license plate" rack at Six Flags Great Adventure.

Not "Shannon", but "Sionainn"
But pronounced "Shannon".

Not "Patrick", but "Padraig".
But pronounced "Patrick".

These are people that do not speak Gaelic. They may have watched "Lord of the Dance" during a PBS pledge drive a few years back.


This is the way of the Irish surnamed Long Islander.
The Long Irisher?

Many Irish surnames abound on Long Island. This stands to reason.
Long Island and Ireland have many similarities.
Both, of course, are Islands.
Both are Islands that have a neighboring Island that lords over it at times like a bitchy older brother;
eye rolling in their heightened fashion sense and haughty sense of general superiority.
Both Islands feature an aggressive, at times inscrutable accent.
Both Islands are inhabited by big headed people that drink a tad too much on occasions.


No surprise that Long Island has a multitude of St. Patrick's Parades.

This year, we attended the St. Patrick's Day in East Islip. It was an impressive parade for the town of East Islip. East Islip is a hamlet on the South Shore of Suffolk County, with streets such as Irish Lane.
So, a tremendous turn out.
The parade wasn't on St. Patrick's Day, but that didn't matter for the revelers lining the street, tailgating along the route with large plastic cups of amber delight.


Many firefighters, and many bagpipers marching down Main.
Even Senator Chuck Schumer made an appearance.
Well sort of.
At the tail end of the parade he was walking by himself, with a few aides, and a lonely sash that read "Senator Charles Schumer".

It wasn't that he was the last person in the parade. It was that there was the last person in the parade, then a gap of half of a block, and THEN Chuck Schumer.
Enough of a gap that people would think "Hmm, parades over." and walk away.

Senator Schumer might be looking for a new aide this week.

But before the Senator? At least nine distinct troops of bagpipers.
Asking one of them, they mentioned that this is a tune up for the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Manhattan.
To be fair, I'm pretty sure that this time of year the bagpipers don't turn down an invitation.
Let's face it, this is the time of year to be a bagpiper.
No one wants a bagpiper at a Fourth of July Barbeque, or at your block party in August.
This is it.
March.
Right now you are looked at with admiration and a certain respect.
Post parade, you are lauded as a hero when you enter a bar.


Come April?
You are a clown in a skirt blowing into a pillow case.
No one wants you around.
No one is going to compliment that "strangling of cats" melody you got going on.
Put on a pair of slacks.

Still, the air was crisp. The crowd was pale and freckled. The bars were open, and soon to be overflowing. My son's stroller was festooned with two flags of Ireland. My wife sported the green knit "erin go bragh" tam o' shanter.

As the parade ended we sat in a bar, drinking Guinness and Harp at 3pm on a Sunday afternoon.
U2 came over the speakers, a buzz started over the appearance of a few bagpipers’ that entered the bar to perform.


Will sat smiling in his mom's arms, a big gummy smile as he bopped about in his green shirt, taking in the sights and sounds.

"This is your heritage little man, this is your heritage. Enjoy."

Carolina Blue at the Garden

Not many six month old's can say that they were cheered as if they were a minor member of a #17 ranked men's college basketball team.

William "Hoops" Mullin can make that claim.

This past Sunday my little family and I took a trip to watch the St. John's University hoops team take on the Blue Devils of Duke. The tickets were purchased a few months back. Deeply discounted by my corporate benefactors. At the time of purchase, Duke was riding high with a #4 ranking. St. John's was showing some signs of life, playing reasonable, almost NIT worthy basketball. While not the Redmen of the past, they were at least a drizzling Red Storm.
As games go, it could either be an upset by the hometown underdogs, or a chance to see a national title contender. Either way, a fitting game for Diane and I to bring young man Will.

Well.
Leading up to the game the following occurred:
Duke lost four in a row.
St. John's started sucking.
I still had two tickets to a Garden party.

At the very least, I'd get to take my son to see his first game in the Garden, the self proclaimed mecca of college basketball.
I'm not sure how that title stands.
MSG is now home to an uninspiring St. John's team that would be an also ran in the MAAC. At team that has been made Hofstra's cabana boy.
The big post season tournament at MSG is the NIT, where they annually gather to crown the 66th best college team in the nation.

Never the less, it is a mecca of mediocre college basketball, and Haji Will would make his pilgrimage.

So, Sunday morning.
Diane is taking care of some work over the weekend in the home office, so I go to get Will from his crib..
Will's eyes are glassy. Will's nose is runny.
Will obviously went clubbing the night before.

I'm not sure how he got out, or what ID he used.
Maybe he went to a rave... do they still have raves?
Is that a glowstick in his crib?

Nope.
Diane points out that our little man is sick. Germs. Germs I would punch, if they were not quick and elusive and flashing gang signs.

So, we have a sick little baby. We have two tickets to, at best, a lame basketball game.
What to do?
What to do?

We decided to bundle Will up and catch one half of the game. Just one half.
The second half.. because, that is an important half as basketball halves goes.

Driving in, one of us is going on about how St. John's always plays Duke tough. It could be an upset.
Will is sleeping. Diane is getting some tylenol ready for the little trooper.
And one of us is going on about how St. John's always plays Duke tough.

So, we get to midtown. There are two local garages that I, as a corporate behemoth employee, enjoy a substantial discount. The first one?
We can't find. Nope.
Drive around in some traffic for fifteen minutes.
The second one we do find.. and by this time we are about and hour past tip-off. No telling what point this game is at right now.

Bundled up, Will gets tucked into my coat, and zipped up.
Now the issue is the parking validation. To obtain my corporate rate, I need to get my parking sticker punched in the lobby of 8 Penn Plaza. This is one of the building entrances on the other side of the Garden.
The clock is ticking.
The price of parking with the discount is $10. Price without? $30.
The clock keeps ticking.
The decision is made to get the ticket punched after the game.
This decision is made by the person who was going on about how St. John's always plays Duke tough.

Into the Garden and up.
Some people are leaving... never a good sign.
Up and up, we find our section, and walk into the arena.
The scoreboard reveals good and bad news.
Good news, the second half has yet to start.
Bad news, St. John's did start.
The score was Duke 34. St. John's 10.

10 first half points.
Yikes.

Worse news?
We three are starving.

Horrific news?
I took my somewhat under the weather infant son to a crowded arena?
No. Not that.
The lines for food are long.
Very long.

Full of gloating Dukies and "ah fack, let's get pissed" Johnnies.
So baby gets a bottle. Mommy request a dog and a lager. The sound starts for the second half, and I?
I wait.
I wait.
I wait.

Some time later I come back.
12 minutes left in the half. At one point with 4 minutes left we note that St. John's is down by twelve, and the could make a game of this. We quickly realize that this St. John's squad just scored 10 points in an entire half.
Ten points in a half.
The least they have ever scored in a half since the introduction of the shot clock.
They can not make a game of this.

Will rallies however... and with a preternatural ability he starts doing something that it takes most men years to learn; he starts flirting with drunk chicks.
Oh, he was flirting, and they were drunk.
That's my boy.

With two minutes left, St. John's down by 16, a Johnnie fouls to stop the clock.
The crowd responds with a collective ."Really?"

Game ends. St. John's loses with an uninspired effort in a forgettable game. We wait out the departing crowd.
The parking ticket needs to be validated.
We walk around the corner and we see coach buses lined up.
We wallk forward to 8 Penn Plaza.
We see a throng of people wearing dark blue, holding up camera's and holding out shirts and hats.
We see an entrance to a building cordoned off by barricades and New York's finest.

Yes. It is the entrance to 8 Penn Plaza.
Yes. It is where the Duke basketball team is going to make it's way out of MSG and on to their awaiting bus.
Yes. It is where the Duke faithful have congregated to cheer on the victorious Blue Devils as they depart.
Yes. It is where I have to go to get my parking ticket validated.


So, with Will bundled into my coat, Diane at my side, I steel myself and approach the NYPD.
Flashing my corporate ID, "I work for cable, I need to go in and validate my parking"
The door opens, two college ballers run out, flashbulbs pop, and explosion of cheers.
"You work here?"
"Yeah, I need to get my parking sticker validated."
"Hey, he works here?"
"Come on in"

As I walk in, two unidentified Dookies charge out in to the adulation on 33rd Street. Another explosion of exaltation.

The three of us walk in, I punched the parking ticket, exchange pleasantries with the guards... and it hits me.
We have to walk out now.
We have to run the gauntlet.

Diane and I, with Will bundled in my coat, his head poking out the top of my coat.

We walk out through the doors
Cheers come from all sides.
Camera's snap.
"Um, yeah, hi." says I as we hustle down the line.
Confusion takes the tone.
People don't know me, but they do see a 6 month old babies head sticking out of my coat.
Cheers are refreshed.

We break a left through the crowd, right before the bus
A grizzled man, noting William's light blue winter hat ponders "Why is he wearing Carolina blue?"... vexed over which side he is taken in the Tobacco Road rivalry, but not so much wondering why he just cheered a six month old from Wantagh.


Yes, in the confusion they just cheered a six month old from Wantagh.
A six month old not schooled in the rivalry of the Carolina's, but cheered on none the less.
For a moment cheered as if he was a member of the #17 ranked basketball team in the nation.


Will is going to wait a bit before he signs his letter of intent.


So, in review:
Two discounted tickets to a St. John vs. Duke game: $40
Two hot dogs and two lagers: $25
Tolls: $13.50
Discounted parking: $10

Your infant son getting mistakenly cheered as a conquering hero by the Duke faithful?
Priceless.

Wrapping the story up with the ol' Mastercard gag?
Very lame.
Very lame indeed.

Will's First Game: Dude Love and Basketball 2/11/07

This Sunday I packed my family up, and we headed out east to catch my son's first college basketball game.
Will is only six months old. You never know how a six month old will react to anything... especially anything that consists of sitting still for an hour and a half.
We picked a game that would be eminently desertable in the event that a temper squall turned into a tempest. We picked a game of my alma mater, the University at Stony Brook Seawolves.

Stony Brook is a Division I program, in that they give people scholarships.
I'm not sure that the scholarships are predicated on actual athletic ability, but they give people scholarships.
We drove out to Stony Brook. The campus mostly deserted. The parking lots nearest to the Sports Complex was cordoned off. A sign hanging listed "VIP/ MEDIA PARKING".
Sure. Sure Stony Brook, sure.


We parked in the next lot. Not far from the radio station WALK van. Somehow they were denied entry to the "VIP/ MEDIA PARKING" lot.
WALK 97.5 did not make the cut.


Well, eight minutes into the game and we were watching a 5-0 barnburner against the University of Hartford Hawks.
Will was enjoying watching the tall men run back and forth for no discernible reason.
That isn't a reflection on the cognitive ability of six month old's and how it relates to them being able to pick up the concepts of the game of basketball.
No.
Everyone in attendance was watching the tall men run back and forth for no discernible reason.
The score was 5-0 after eight minutes of play.
That is a lot of not scoring and running back and forth for no discernible reason.


It was at this time I looked down at the VIP courtside tables set up twelve rows in front of us.
In lumbered a man with matted hair and a scraggly matted beard.
Wearing a red flannel jacket, and old black sweat pants.
The only thing missing, Mr. Socko on his meat paw.

It was none other than wrestling legend Mick Foley. a.k.a. Dude Love, a.k.a. Cactus Jack, a.k.a. Mankind.
There he was, as large as life.
What was he doing there?
Was he there for Wolfies, the Seawolves mascot birthday?
A motley crew of mascots were there for Wolfie's 13th birthday party.
Sparky the Islanders mascot was in the house for this birthday gala.
As was a purple gorilla that was handing out leaflets for his "Gorilla-gram" company.
Paddington Bear was also there, I'm not sure what he is the mascot for, but he was in attendance.
A couple of guys in rabbit suits, I can only guess they thought they were at a furry convention, also were in the mix.

Wolfie must have been bummed.
Half the mascots weren't even mascots... just dudes in fur suits.
I mean, really, Quackerjack of Long Island Duck's minor league baseball fame couldn't show up?
They had cake.
It's not baseball season.

F' you Quackerjack.


Anyway, Mick Foley wasn't there to take part in the mascot birthday festivities. Yet there he was. A native of East Setauket, I guess he just took his kids out for an afternoon of bad basketball surrounded by people in fur suits.
Mick Foley and I think the same.

Now, I could have taken this opportunity to get a picture of my son with the legendary grappler Mankind. However, there was the outside chance that this bedraggled man with the matted hair and missing teeth was not Mick Foley... and was in fact just a homeless man.

I decided against taking the chance.
Now, I don't have many fathering creeds, but one of the few I hold is "don't hand off your infant son to someone who may possibly be homeless".

Will is better for my sage wisdom.