Forgive me if this is just spreading rumor, but at a party last night, it was suggested that a cougar had been sighted nearby - just a few miles from where we were standing - in New Jersey.

When asked to describe New Jersey, most people outside the state think of oil refineries, urban sprawl and the infamous New Jersey Turnpike. But we live in the Skylands region, known for its rugged, mostly rural beauty. So when talk turned to the possibility of local cougars, no one was outwardly surprised. We've all seen red fox and coyotes, and black bears have been well documented.

The huge deer population here makes it even more plausible that mountain lions have followed their prey into our area.

If it's true we have big Jersey cats among us, we first need to get this name thing straight. Cougars, mountain lions, panthers, pumas, and catamounts are all names for the same thing. In the Florida swamps they're called Florida Panthers (creative huh?) and as a whole they're referred to as American Lions.

Frankly, there's only one name we could possibly give to mountain lions in Jersey - Big Pussy - out of respect for the ill-fated Sal "Big Pussy" Bonpensiero of Sopranos fame. And should our Big Pussy misbehave by taking down a six year old waiting for a school bus or by walking off with mom's favorite tabby, it might suffer the same fate as the fictional character - sleeping with the fishes. We don't mess around here in Jersey.

In a sort of light-hearted nervousness, the party conversation turned to preparation for our own close encounters. Trying to get an accurate description of what to look for, someone suggested "it is about the size and color of a shaved golden retriever." Frankly all that conjures up for me is an image of a very cold dog - a not-so-dignified description of our noble Big Pussy.

Here's the official description from The Mountain Lion Foundation:
"The mountain lion has a tan-colored coat, much like the African lion. The most recognizable feature of the cougar is it's long and heavy tail, which measures almost two-thirds the length of the head and body. Male lions typically weigh 110 to 180 pounds, while the females are slightly smaller, weighing 80 to 130 pounds. The mountain lion should not be confused with its cousin, the bobcat (a smaller cat of about 22 pounds), recognizable by its spotted coat, pointed ears, and short tail."

So what makes Big Pussy so different from other predators we know to be in our area? First of all, unlike foxes and coyotes, mountain lions have been known to shed their fear of humans and in some cases, view us as a two-legged main course. Here's one man's account of his own close encounter with a mountain lion.

Frankly, I'm more inclined to believe Jersey mountain lions have been spreading dark rumors in an elaborate protection scheme. "Yo, it would be a very unfortunate thing if yer little house cat was to suddenly disappear."

So until I see one for myself, or read some official documented evidence, I'm going to assume that mountain lion sighting on Petticoat Lane was just a golden retriever having a bad hair day.

Mountain lions in Jersey? Fagetabotit!

Then again, there is this to ponder.

One of the advantages of growing older is that I forget what I read six months ago, so humor columns are funny all over again. Like the one I had stumbled upon last winter. In case you missed it...

OK--we've done it now. Because of our failure to elect a competent president, England is revoking our independence. Now we'll have to do that tea party thing all over again.

William Thomas is a baby boomer and boy, is he pissed off. But mostly at his generation...us. Thomas is a Canadian humorist (no, that's not an oxymoron) and he's pretty sure our generation has wrecked the world for everyone else, as laid out in this column.

by
Frank Mullen III

I went to college in the 60s. The professors were either decrepit, brain-dead codgers who'd had their last coherent thoughts shortly after the First World War, or young assistant professors with flared sideburns and mod jackets who spent the mornings carrying protest signs back and forth across the quad, and the evenings carrying coeds back to their apartments.

So when I started teaching at an East Coast college, I had no good role models to fall back on. I had to devise my own techniques for dealing with student difficulties. And believe me, today's students have problems. Can you imagine delivering an oral report in front of your classmates and realizing that your navel-ring doesn't match your tongue-studs?

I think you'll see that I succeeded in dealing effectively with student problems. While I have edited some of my responses for clarity, the student questions and complaints below are authentic and presented verbatim, to the best of my recollection.

With all the "Ohmigod--we're turning 60" press lately, this columnist, Ed Cullen,in the Advocate in Baton Rouge, give us his funny take. I'll turn 60 with him any day.

While reading, Grandma Boomers, just the kind of well-written, edgy boomer blog I delight in, I came across a link to this from a thirty-something. She likes us, she really likes us. As used to boomer bashing as I am, it was delightful to find a Gen-Xette who actually admires us. OK--her web site uses funny colors and is really hard to read without enlarging the text--and she makes a few spelling errors--but I'll take being idealized over trashed any day.

(We're always happy to have a contribution from Frank Mullen, our gently satirical and hardly ever curmudgenly guest humorist.)

Stay the Course, Boo Boo
by Frank Mullen III

Take a tip from me, Mr. President: convincing the electorate to be patient requires firm resolve.

Glenwood Junior High School Auditorium, January 5, 1962.

Mr. Rosen: Quiet down, please. It's time for opening statements from the two candidates for Chairman of the Dance Committee for the Spring Term. First, the incumbent, Frank Mullen.

Frank Mullen: Fellow students, I know that some of you are concerned that attendance at the 'Dress Like Your Favorite Cartoon Character' sock hops hasn't been growing as fast as we hoped. Well, things are turning around. We have to be patient.

Mr. Rosen: Now, the opposing candidate, committee member Jack Talbot.

Jack Talbot: The Cartoon Dances are a ridiculous idea that is not working. I told Frank we could get The Silvertone Cats to play for free, but he wouldn't listen. He insisted that kids would rather spend Friday afternoons dressed up like Olive Oyl and Wimpy, doing the Watusi to Maria D'Amato's record collection. Frank doesn't realize we're not in Miss Eisenmann's first-grade play group anymore. I think we deserve dances that don't require you to dress up like Yosemite Sam.

This has nothing to do with being a Baby Boomer, but I'd still like to know, "Why Can't I Own a Canadian?"

The Attic of Illusions
by
Frank Mullen III

Whew. This attic sure is stuffy.

It reminds me of the hours I spent in the attic of our house on Village
Drive when I was a kid.

Looking through dusty old photograph albums.

Trying on Dad's moth-eaten World War II uniform.

Crouching by the window with Billy Jacobson, whispering, "heavy" and "deep"
as we choked on the lung-searing smoke of dried banana peels.

Well, I came up here for my golf clubs, not a waltz down memory lane, so
I'll--

Is that my canvas knapsack? I thought I threw it out years ago. I wonder if
there's anything in it.

Wow. My stash bag. I'd better not touch it; just disturbing whatever might
be in there would attract drug-sniffing dogs from three surrounding
counties.

Lately I've been thinking about Tom Lehrer. I figured no one under 40 had ever heard of him, but guess what? His rendition of the periodic table, The Elements, is all over Kazaa and Limewire. Are kids using it to study or have they discovered for themselves the subversive charm of melodic satire or both? I still have old vinyl of That Was the Year That Was and, as soon as I find an amp to hook the turntable up to, I'll give it a re-listen.

So, where's he been?

Point Your Browser My Way, Mr. Gonzales
by Frank Mullen III

I've come to the conclusion that the Bush administration's plans to keep records on American citizens is worth the slight effect it will have on our so-called "right to privacy." I am particularly impressed by new technologies that can monitor the internet use of private citizens.

[Frank Mullen votes Republican]

"Data-mining," as it is called, is a powerful tool for enhancing homeland security. For instance, it allows the government to keep track of the URLs of websites visited by internet users.

[Frank Mullen supports prayer in schools]

It also keeps records of website content and identifies authors.

[Frank Mullen is a Christian Fundamentalist]

The mechanism not only reads sites with up-to-date content, such as this one, but has archive-exploring subroutines that can dig up older postings. Government is particularly interested in communications that were created before Americans began toning down their opinions for the sake of national security.

[Frank Mullen did not do drugs to excess at Franconia College]
[Franconia College is an Assemblies of God seminary]
[Frank Mullen was kidding when he said that appointing Alberto Gonzales to head the Justice department is like putting Jesse Helms in charge of the NAACP]

The data-mining software operates much like internet search engines that look at documents and identify keywords according to their proximity to each other.

[Frank Mullen big Bush donor]
[Frank Mullen glad sacrifice freedom speech]
[Frank Mullen Bush daughters intelligent mature]

The Bush people are so sure of the efficiency and constitutionality of this procedure that they promise not to bother us by informing us when they have accessed information by us or about us; fortunately, these are people that we can trust to be discreet.

[Frank Mullen women barefoot pregnant]
[Frank Mullen no abortion not even rape incest]
[Frank Mullen support school prayer AND execute children AND low taxes rich
people]
After all, just imagine what an untrustworthy government could do with information about its citizens.
[Frank Mullen accept Jesus Christ personal Savior]

Remember Nixon siccing the IRS on his enemies?

[Frank Mullen donate large sums Pat Robertson]

How about J. Edgar Hoover forwarding names of suspected radicals to the Selective Service?
[Frank Mullen Young Republican]

And they didn't even have digital databases back then!

[Frank Mullen Campus Christian Crusade]
It's a good thing those days are over, [Frank Mullen small potatoes] and power is now in the hands of Godly leaders of probity,
[Frank Mullen minor-league nobody] character
[Frank Mullen third-rate non-entity] and integrity.

Not that I personally have anything to worry about.
[Frank Mullen oppose affirmative action AND oppose mollycoddling criminals
AND oppose homosexual marriage]

Copyright 2004, Frank Mullen IIII.
Originally published by Suite101.com.
Frank Mullen III is Suite101's
Baby Boomer Humor Contributing Editor.

A dear friend of ours has her own unique solution to the world's ills. It's simple, it's inexpensive, and I believe it may catch on. And, as Edith Wharton said, "If only we'd stop trying to be happy we'd have a pretty good time."

LET A SMILE BE YOUR UMBRELLA

As things are there is little to smile about these days. So, I have started my own campaign to make people smile. I distribute those wee, paper umbrellas.
I bought a gross of them & started at home by putting one in my husband's evening wine. He arched an eyebrow & flicked it out, but I could tell he was secretly thrilled. Encouraged by this I put one in my daughter's water, & she was delighted.

Later I stabbed several into her dinner.
"Are we expecting rain in the kitchen?" she quipped.
"I'm just spreading a little joy, baby," I said.
"Well do it someplace else, please," she responded.
"GOOD IDEA!!!" I enthused. My crusade had begun.

My first public unbrellaings were an immense success. My husband & I were waiting for a table at the bar of a restaurant. Next to us sat two women. By the look of things they were sisters out on a bonding evening. My eyes lit up as I reached into my purse. My husband eyebrowed me so I knew it was a great idea. I dropped an umbrella into each of their drinks.
"Oh, I feel as if I'm on a tropical island! What fun!" they gushed. I was on my way to the merrification of the world.

by
Frank Mullen III

You've given your teenager the facts about drug abuse. You've discussed it openly and respectfully, and she knows she can talk to you at any time, without fear of condemnation.

Congratulations. Your child has just awarded you a level of trust that will endure for, oh, maybe four minutes. That's how long it will be before Kirsten gets it through her peabrain that she missed something big and comes bouncing back into the living room with The Question:

"Sooo, did you use drugs when you were young?"

Welcome to the Voyage Of The Damned. On behalf of all parents who have already made this trek with their teenaged children, let me warn you of an ill-informed school of drug education that recommends you admit your youthful mistakes to your inquiring progeny. 'Be honest with your child,' the thinking goes, 'and you'll have a friend for life.'

The drug czar who thought this up needs to spend a few years in a re-education camp. We don't want our kids to grow up to be our friends. We want them to grow up to be people who visit us in the nursing home and empty the colostomy bag when the orderlies are off taking a cigarette break. If you want friends, join the Elks; I want someone whoâll say, 'Roll over, Dad, I can't reach
the catheter.'

Baby Boomer Humor by
Frank Mullen III

I saw color television for the first time one evening in the early 1960s, after Sunday dinner at the Young's house. Mr. Young ushered my family into the den for a demonstration, and turned on the imposing RCA console. A harp glissando swept from the speaker, and Tinkerbell swished across the screen, spritzing pixie dust here and there. At the age of eleven, I was finally welcomed to "Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color."

The predominant color in this wonderful world was green. This worked well for Peter Pan's suit, but made his face look like he'd been slurping snot from a dog bowl. Mr. Young adjusted some dials, and red became the hue du jour. Every time Captain Hook moved across the screen, his waistcoat left an effervescent trail of shimmering red pixels behind him, an effect with which I would become extensively familiar in college, while minoring in recreational hallucinogens. The imperfections of the new technology did not bother me, but I knew this innovation would not reside in our house any time soon; my father was determined to wait "until they get the bugs out." Shortly before he died in 1986, he threw caution to the wind, and color television entered the Mullen home.

In December of that year, I was in the ballroom of a Tokyo hotel, waiting to perform at a holiday show. I was backstage when the warmup act arrived, a troupe of performers from Japan's Disneyland. They took their costumes out of a large trunk and began dressing for the show. Lederhosen and a plastic proboscis turned a slight Japanese man into Pinocchio, and a blond American woman was transformed into Cinderella's fairy godmother, with the help of a few yards of blue chiffon and a generous application of foam padding. Soon, I found myself rubbing elbows with Dumbo, Prince Charming and the Queen of Hearts.

When the opening notes to "It's A Small World" filled the ballroom, the lights came up, and the denizens of Disneyland swept on stage, filling the world with enchantment. Even before they were halfway through the opening number, I'd forgotten that they were actors lip-synching to a pre-recorded tape.

Entranced, I watched from the wings as the medley of Disney melodies unfolded. Jiminy Cricket wished upon a star, and Snow White wished that her prince would come. He did, of course, followed by Grumpy, Sneezy and Dopey, who whistled while they worked, to the delight of oversized mice and chipmunks. Even the White Rabbit showed up; late, of course.

The act ended with a reprise of "It's A Small World." After a moment of thunderous applause, the exit music came up, and the cast waved goodbye as they marched offstage.

In my reverie, I neglected to move out of the way of the approaching parade. Cinderella's fairy godmother ran into me, shoving and screaming, "Move, goddam it." She ripped off her costume and began hurling garments into the wardrobe trunk, then turned to Pinocchio and said, "Listen, dirtwad, the next time you step on my foot during "Someday My Prince Will Come," I'm gonna take this magic wand and shove it."

"Suck on this, American whore," Pinocchio said, waving his detached nose in her face. "Besides," he said as he pulled down his lederhosen, "is Goofy fault; he always bumping me in ass when we doing the crossover."

My mother ran a nursery school in the 1950s, and our house overflowed with Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and picture books. I recently came across one of my old favorites, "Mickey Mouse's Birthday Party," at a garage sale. I looked fondly at the cover, but didn't dare open it; I've seen the coarse, naked reality that lurks behind the Disney facade, and it's not pretty.

Minnie Mouse called out from the kitchen, "It's so damn hot in here, I've got a heat rash that feels like a forest fire in my butt-cheeks."
Mickey looked up from his copy of "Hustler" and yelled, "Shut up and bake the frigging cake."
"Bite me," Minnie answered. "And tell your idiot pal, the duck, to get his feet off the table."
Mickey took a swig of Schlitz and belched. "Chill. He's rolling joints for the dwarves."
"Did you invite those perverts?" Minnie asked.
"You got a problem with my buddies?" Mickey replied.
"A problem?" Minnie said. "Seven stoned midgets barfing in the sink, clogging the toilet and making eyes at Pluto isn't a problem?"

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

Copyright 2004, Frank Mullen IIII.
Originally published by Suite101.com.
Frank Mullen III is Suite101's Baby Boomer Humor Contributing Editor.

Sometimes we just roam around the internet looking for things baby boomer. Sometimes we travel to strange places. We found this on a site called www.welds.com, a site of humor ranging from the silly to the sick. I'm betting that webmaster Welds is not a baby boomer.

OK, I admit that in the last couple of days, this particular Baby Boomer has been taking a few too many surfing breaks. But this particular site really cracked me up.

If you've heard of the "4-1-9" scams, you know they generally start with a plea for help from someone in Nigeria. An individual or company receives a letter or fax from an alleged "official" representing a foreign government or agency.

Then, an offer is made to transfer millions of dollars in "over invoiced contract" funds into your personal bank account.

And so it starts.

This enterprising Internet athlete has made a sport out of baiting the scammers... and has a trophy room to prove it.

You owe it to yourself to take a look at 419 Eater

Is there no depth to which George Jr will not sink? Millions of fans tuned in to see the latest installment of American Idol tonight but instead got one sour note called George Bush. Oh those crazy Republicans!

Yes I'm a self-absorbed, social security hogging, out-of-touch fat old man who hasn't had a political thought in over a decade. But when Bush pre-empts American Idol, I get hoppin' mad! I hope he has an unfortunate wardrobe accident and the FCC punches his bullshit ticket and makes him cough up the millions it would take to actually buy this political advertising.

Better yet, why can't we have "American Political Idol"? In this suspense-filled competition, three judges would pick the candidates who sing and dance their way to the White House... oops, I guess that sounds a little too much like the current political process. Maybe instead of having the public vote, we can just turn the decision over to the judges... oops, sounds a little like the way it worked out last time.

Can we at least make the candidates eat handfuls of live mosquito larvae while dangling upside down from a helicopter? Sure would be better than what we have.

Frank Mullen dares to speak what we only think.

The Flip-side of Forever

by

Frank Mullen III

To: St. Peter

From: Director of Internal Investigation

Re: Problems in Rock 'n Roll Heaven

Dear Sir,

As I sit here in the front row of the auditorium, it is difficult to remember how peaceful Rock 'n Roll Heaven was when it was first created as an abode for Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and The Big Bopper following their fatal plane crash in 1959. After a brief period of shared billing, these three artists became involved in a battle for the spotlight. As a consequence, Buddy has been on stage, singing 'Peggy Sue' in those geeky horn-rimmed glasses for close to half a century now, while simultaneously, the Big Bopper is droning his way through 'Chantilly Lace.' Time has not mellowed the effect of 'Ooh, Baby, you knoooww what I like!' On the rare occasion that either of them takes a short break, the lights come up on Richie Valens, who dives headfirst into 'Ba-da,-ba-da, La Bamba.' You'd think that after all this time, he'd learn the words. Woodstock was more organized than this.

From its inception, it was never clear whether Rock 'n Roll Heaven was intended as a private club for the original residents, or whether membership was open to every three-chord guitar player who died in an airplane accident. Aircraft of the early '60s tended to get where they were going, so the issue never came up. But in 1967, Otis Redding died in an air crash, forcing the admissions committee to address entrance requirements.

Two camps emerged. The Emotionalists, who couldn't tell blues from bubble gum, cared less about the mode of a performer's death than the quantity of tears shed by inconsolable fans. In opposition, the Purists decried the corruption of rhythm and blues into the caterwauling of bouffant-headed girl-groups and adolescent beach bums, and they became entrenched in their insistence on tragic death by aerial misfortune.

Eventually, a touching moment occurred that is still remembered by those who were there. When debate reached the heights of acrimony and personal slander, someone put Otis Reddingís 'Try A Little Tenderness' on the turntable. By the time the rhythm section kicked in, tears were flowing, everybody was hugging each other, and an agreement was reached: artistry and grief would be the primary consideration for admission, but special preference would be given to those who suffered aeronautical demise. Otis was welcomed, and in 1973, after another fatal crash, Jim Croce was admitted, despite 'Time In A Bottle.'

But compromise endures no longer in Eternity than it does in less permanent climes. The Emotionalists became particularly unhappy with this system of special preference for airplane death that gave Ricky Nelson the keys to the kingdom, but left John Lennon waiting on standby. It was no comfort to them to hear the Purists insist, 'A plane crash is a plane crash.'

Which is exactly what Dino Martin said in 1987. He demanded entry, and the committee was once again at war. Both sides agreed that Dino, Desi and Billyís contributions to rock 'n roll could fit in a Pez dispenser, but Dino's death had overtones of nobility--he had become an Air National Guard pilot, and had gone down with his jet. The Purists were swept up in a patriotic fever, while the Emotionalists uncharacteristically responded by playing the No-talent Card.

After bitter infighting, the committee decided that Martinís would be the last case of aeronautical demise to make the cut. Death by airplane crash would henceforth become a cause of complete disqualification from entrance to Rock 'n Roll Heaven.

Immediately, Marvin Gaye appealed his earlier rejection. His 1984 death had been singularly tragic--on the day before his birthday, his father had shot him. Clearly, most families would have simply jumped out from behind the furniture and yelled 'Surprise!'

Gaye was admitted, and his success threw open the floodgates to scores of big names who had earlier been turned down. Every Jimi, Janis and Elvis got the star treatment, and it was Standing Room Only in the aisles of Rock 'n Roll Heaven. Then, the unforseen occurred: the British Invasion.

The virtual elimination of admissions standards allowed entrance to any lisping Brit with flyaway hair, dental problems and a hit record. In addition to Beatles, Rock 'n Roll Heaven is now crawling with Yardbirds, Who's and Rolling Stones. Speaking of which, is Mick Jagger dead yet? I saw him on Letterman last night, and I didn't think he'd make it through the last commercial.

The result of this immigration has not been celestial harmony, and there is not likely to be a reunion of deceased Beatles anytime soon. George Harrison is still not speaking to John Lennon, but then, Lennon is rarely seen anymore. With a cluelessness that eluded him in life, he roams the heavenly byways, smiling beatifically at Angels and Archangels alike, blessing them and suggesting that they 'give peace a chance.

The backstage area is now crawling with suicides, heart attacks and idiots who forgot to use the turn signal. The clumsiest of oafs merits a Passport to Immortality--everyone is aware that Sonny Bono is here not because he can sing, but because he can't ski.

The complete debasement of this once-placid Land Of Rest is experienced when one steps into the Ladies' Lunchroom, where the lowest, crudest aspects of Rock 'n Roll Heaven are on display. The visitor finds himself thrust into a raging food-fight among Shirelles, Supremes and Shangri-las; Mama Cass stomps from table to table, scarfing down everybodyís else's chow--the babe is big--while Janis tosses f-words like hand grenades into the melee. Poor Karen Carpenter is down to about eleven pounds now, crying because the Singing Nun won't stop with the French vibrato . She has a point--eventually, 'Domanica, nica, nica' is no better than 'Ba-da, ba-da, La Bamba.' /P>

Rock 'n Roll Heaven is bursting at the seams of its sequined jumpsuit, and standards for residency need to be established, and quickly. It is no secret that Neil Sedaka is turning sixty-five and could walk in at any time, sit down at the piano and start whining 'Come-a come-a down, dooby-doo, down, down' with that Gomer Pyle smirk on his face. Neither is Petula Clark getting any younger--the thought of the two of them alternating sets is not causing Peace in the Valley.

I could provide further details, but it is becoming impossible to concentrate. Jimi has begun the opening riff to 'Purple Haze,' David Seville is tinkering with an old reel-to-reel tape recorder, trying to recreate his famous Chipmunks sound, and Jim Morrison, Dennis Wilson and Elvis are arguing over whether it is more heart-wrenching to drown in a bathtub, a marina, or a pool of your own vomit.

Sir, something has to be done. I know it won't be easy, but if anyone is thinking of simply reviving the idea of special preferences for airplane crashes, I have two words of warning:

John Denver

Copyright 2003, Frank Mullen III. Originally published by Suite101.com.
Frank Mullen III is Suite101's Baby Boomer Humor Contributing Editor.

Well...um...I'm like sooooo tired of all the silly publicity about my breakup with Ken! I mean we've been going steady for like, 40-something years and this man gags when anyone mentions the 'M' word. I'm not getting any younger, you know! I mean like what more could he want? I've succeeded at every career in the book, have a wardrobe to die for, I'm still like totally hot and what?

Personally, (and I read about this in Cosmo) I think he's just a big stupid baby in a totally buff bod. Oh sure, he looks good, but does he ever want to talk about my feelings? Nooooooooo. Does he really want anything except some on-call booty? I don't thiiiink so.

So, all the stupid Mattel people can say we'll still be friends and that we've, ya know, grown apart. But I say...whaaaatever. Frankly, I was probably much too young when I met him to know any better. What kind of guy spends more energy on his wardrobe than he does on his girlfriend?! Cali thinks Ken is a metrosexual, whatever that is. I think he's just all about Ken.

So Ken--if you read this--thanks for the memories but how long can a girl's wardrobe include everything but a wedding gown? I've got a new policy now: no ring, no booty.