Tim Mollen

Buy your copy of "Lost Journal - the Book" at www.timmollen.com. Each Lost Journal column is a journal entry written in retrospect. In other words, Mollen chooses a different day from his past, and writes about it as though it were today. The date may be last week, Halloween 1980, or the day he was born (May 4, 1969). Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you he says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.” Mollen is a nationally syndicated columnist and actor, and he is available as a speaker on writing and humor.

The Donald on How He Trumped Hillary

By Tim Mollen, September 27, 2016August 21, 2019

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    [post_content] => Overheard in the spin room after the debate, as Donald Trump spoke to reporters...
I just debated all over her, about the economy, I was very strong in saying that it needs to be good. We have to do things that make money, and less things that lose money -- it's not even, does she even know? Hillary shot the sheriff. And he was white.

I still haven't thought much about NATO, because with all those letters, who would -- Rosie O'Donnell? It worked out great when Germany, Italy, and Japan weren't in a treaty with us, and spent THEIR OWN MONEY to build up their defenses.

Yes, I'm sniffling. But not because I ever get sick. I don't. I have the most pro-body antibodies anywhere, believe me. I sniff because you can't get good blow anymore, because of ISIS. Plus I never always, watch me now -- you will notice, China has one of the most -- seriously, the most even before you start counting how many babies they want -- who cares? THEY have a wall. I just read a study that said, 'World War II -- Nuh-uh!'

So, if we're ever going to stop being the worst country with the worst economy and the worst military and my Palm Beach boutique can't even get the stupid contractors to stop having lunch once a day, then go figure.

America has such a boner for me -- the hair, my nunchuck skills, my hot daughter and the other one, my new blue tie, Don King, the third season of 'The Apprentice,' and one hotel I own that hasn't been recently picketed for racial, gender, and age discrimination, which I'm so proud of it pains me to tell you, but not as much as the thing I COULD say about Hillary right now, but I'm too classy to say that she has murdered baby elephants with her own hands, and talk about small hands -- they're like micro-baby hands.

Three words. Law and Order. Plus three initials -- SVU. Wrong! Never said that. Never said that I never said that. Eurasia is our ally, and Eastasia is our enemy.

I have a big plane that goes really fast. Secretary Clinton -- 30 years in this town and she can't get a job outside the secretarial pool? Try some leg, toots. Satan is only half-Mexican, and half Obama's parents, and half calf. I am all-powerful -- do not look at me. Seriously. I will nuke the crap out of you.

When's dinner? I need KFC pronto. If I don't get some biscuits in like three seconds, I'm going to fire my campaign manager. Who was Nixon's guy?

I like the way Putin smells. He's doing great in Ukraine, just like he did in Chechnya. Fantastic leader. He should invade us, he's so good.

I can't stop moving my face and hands -- this podium is rigged! I have temperament coming out my ass, there's so much. It's like a mellow personality geyser down here! OK, maybe Law, but not Order -- I'm a nice guy.

Future Chairapprentice of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Omarosa might have a little something to say about diversity, and the living hell-hole that all black people live in in America. And it will not be fun, I will tell you what. She's pissed.

Look, there is no proof -- none -- anywhere -- that I ever said Eurasia is our ally, and Eastasia is our enemy. They aren't, but Rudy Giuliani told me I clearly have always said they probably might not be. I am so past my bedtime -- gotta get back to the crypt before the angry sun.

IMMIGRANTS!!!!!

#timtrump
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Overheard in the spin room after the debate, as Donald Trump spoke to reporters… I just debated all over her, about the economy, I was very strong in … Read more

Lost Journal: The Last Journal

By Tim Mollen, August 27, 2015March 9, 2021

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    [post_content] => Say it ain't so, Tim! We've enjoyed every single "Lost Journal" column, and we wish Tim Mollen the very best! -- ed.

Journal entry: August 30, 2015 (age 46) - The Last Lost Journal

Well, here it is: my “last journal” entry.

More than ten years ago, on January 1, 2004, my first humor column was published in my hometown newspaper, the Binghamton Press & Sun-Bulletin. A year-and-a-half later, on July 14, 2005, I began a regular, weekly column called “Lost Journal.”

Over the next few years, it was picked up by three more papers in New York State: The Ithaca Journal, The Elmira Star-Gazette, and The Cortland Standard. They were followed by a dozen newspapers in Illinois, one in California, and the online Humor Times. For a time, the column was distributed to several hundred papers via the Gatehouse News Service.

The nonsense piled up, until I had enough material to put together a book. Eventually, I had enough to publish two books. By the time I had enough columns to fill three books, I finally defeated the forces of procrastination. I spent the better part of a year editing, designing, and self-publishing these three volumes:

	Lost Journal Vol. 1: Confessions of a Failed Paperboy
	Lost Journal Vol. 2: Five Older Brothers, Twenty Bad Jobs, and Zero Dates
	Lost Journal Vol. 3: Some Lives Are Funnier than Others

There are a total of 270 columns in the books, and each is accompanied by a color photo. One of the most enjoyable parts of the process was digging out the goofiest pictures I could find in the family archives, and taking some equally goofy new ones.

The best/worst image of all is on the cover of the first book. It’s a formal portrait taken at Olan Mills in 1979. My scrawny, pale, red-haired, and bespectacled self is sitting in the foreground. Using double exposure, my brother Dan’s unhappy brace-face looms over and to the right of me, as though I were conjuring up the god of pre-teen awkwardness.

Because I’m a glutton for punishment, and recognize that my regular readers obviously are, as well, I also recorded audio versions of 12 of my best columns for a CD called Lost Journal Classics. This allowed me to add, among other things, my impression of a pig at the trough, a lousy Spanish accent, and a pretty decent “announcer quickly and quietly rattling off the contraindications for a prescription drug” impression.

I’m writing this week’s column to let my faithful readers know that the books are available through my website, timmollen.com. I also just completed the eBook versions, which are available for your Kindle, tablet, or smartphone through Amazon.com. The first eBook is only $1.99.

But this final column also gives me a chance to say some overdue thank yous. Thank you to the editors of this newspaper for sharing my work. Thanks to the folks who contributed to the Kickstarter campaign that led to the books. Thank you to Dina Good for the fantastic book cover designs. As always, thank you to my family for putting up with all the embarrassing stories and photos, and for providing me with so many great memories and stories.

Finally, thank you, dear readers. I read every e-mail and appreciate every bit of feedback – in grocery stores, restaurants, and parking lots (but not in public restrooms). I’m always grateful for the opportunity to share some laughs and smiles with you.
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Say it ain’t so, Tim! We’ve enjoyed every single “Lost Journal” column, and we wish Tim Mollen the very best! — ed. Journal entry: August 30, 2015 (age … Read more

Lost Journal: Babysitter Could Child-Care Less

By Tim Mollen, July 21, 2015

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: July 9, 1980 (age 11) - Babysitter

Up until this summer, my 12-year-old brother, Dan, and I have had pretty good luck with our parents’ choice of babysitters. When we were very young, a grandmotherly woman named Daisy Cochrane watched over several of my older brothers and me. She was the sweetest little old lady you can imagine, and I especially loved that she would make us grilled cheese sandwiches and cut them into funny shapes. A few years ago, my brother John was dating a girl named Kris Kenville, and she and her sister Karen took turns babysitting Dan and me. They were both really nice and really pretty. We liked them A LOT.

In January, my mother returned to the workforce after a 15-year absence. She had been an editor at IBM, and passed on a promotion to a managerial position in order to marry my father. For her, raising six sons made for an eventful 15 years of “not working.” Her new job is as a legal secretary. Once Dan and I finished school for the summer, our folks needed a full-time babysitter, despite assurances from Dan and me that “we don’t really need one.”

So a few weeks ago, we were introduced to another girl named Chris. Like the first Kris, she was cute. Unlike her, she wasn’t nice. She was overly nice until she was left alone with us. Then she mostly ignored us. This Chris was about 19 years old, and spent most of her time talking to her boyfriend on the phone. When she did speak to us, she was mean. Pretty quickly, Dan and I had it in for her, and we began to wage a campaign for her removal. One day last week, we hid from her. About an hour before Mom came home, we disappeared. I hid behind the laundry chute in the basement, and listened as she stomped around the house yelling our names. When Mom came home, we both reappeared and said, truthfully, that we had been here the whole time. Chris became meaner after that.

After an incident yesterday, our dismiss-Chris wish came true. Mom confronted her this afternoon. “The boys tell me that you went to Recreation Park yesterday.” With her for-the-parents smile still painted on, Chris replied, “Yes, my boyfriend had a tennis match.” Mom’s eyes narrowed. “But you were gone for hours when you were supposed to be watching the boys.” Still smiling obliviously, Chris said, “Well, I asked them if they wanted to go.”

Mom’s face flushed red, her eyes blazing for a moment. Then she put on her own sickly sweet smile. “Well, you can watch your boyfriend play tennis every day now, if you want, because you won’t be working here.”

Watching from the kitchen door, Dan and I silently high-fived each other as I whispered, “Ding, dong, the witch is dead!” Our joy at the demise of the devil we knew lasted exactly one hour. As Mom discussed alternate arrangements with Dad after dinner, I overheard her say, “I may ask for a few months off from work, but I also know a couple of nuns who might be willing to babysit.”
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Journal entry: July 9, 1980 (age 11) – Babysitter Up until this summer, my 12-year-old brother, Dan, and I have had pretty good luck with our parents’ choice … Read more

Lost Journal: Seeking Contenders for Nobel Prize in Annoyance Avoidance

By Tim Mollen, July 12, 2015March 19, 2019

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: May 22, 2011 (age 42) - Annoyance Avoidance

As technology races forward, there are some pesky societal annoyance problems that the scientific community could solve with a minimal investment of time and resources.

	Since the advent of indoor plumbing, bathtubs have been too short to stretch out in. Recumbent bathers are forced into an awkward position more suitable to birthing than bathing. Hey, tubmakers! How’s about some legroom? We don’t all need Jacuzzis – just an extra 3 feet of tub length. Oh, and a head-cradling apparatus.
	Office furniture sellers tell us that we can use rolling chairs on pile carpeting as long as we shell out the money for a plastic floor pad. They lie. The setup works great until an adult actually sits in the chair. Shortly thereafter, the wheels at the bottom of the chair legs sink into the plastic, creating a divot from which they cannot escape. I had a brainstorm on this one – make the plastic thicker!
	Every time I pull up to a drive-thru ATM, I am too far away to reach the keypad. At the very least, I have to unhook my seatbelt and hang halfway out the window of my car. Most of the time, I just park a few feet away and get out of my car altogether, which kinda defeats the point.
	Incessant beeps in hospitals drive me bananas. They’re especially annoying because the staff ignores most of them, having gotten used to their ubiquity. Even worse, fast food joints should come up with a better system for telling the person who stands in front of the fryers that, you know, the fries are done.
	I think I speak for the vast majority of Americans when I say that the Burger King king must be eliminated by any means necessary. His huge, creepy, fake head should be an easy target for a team of Navy SEALS sponsored by McDonalds.
	CDs and DVDs should be packaged with wrapping that unwraps and stickers that unstick.
	Are tiny, translucent plastic nubs really the best way to attach tags to new clothes? If we could somehow collect all the wayward plastic nubs now residing on floors and carpets worldwide, we could, um…use them to…no, wait. Well, the point is we’d have a whole bunch of them in case we ever need them.
	Glitter on greeting cards must have seemed like a good idea at first. Product testing would have revealed that insufficient adhesives allow said glitter to escape when the envelope is opened, getting all over everything, especially black clothes.   It’s like anthrax, but more fun!
	As soon as the vacuum cleaner was invented, carpet fringe should have been prohibited on all new carpets. The only fringe benefit seems to be causing vacuum cleaners to make unsettling noises. Carpet fringe also assigns each of us the daily task of straightening out the parts that have been smushed backwards or to the side by passing humans, pets, and entropy.

If a scientist is able to tackle, say, four of these, couldn’t we set aside one lousy Nobel Prize for Annoyance Avoidance? Do they have bathtubs and ATMs in Oslo?
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Journal entry: May 22, 2011 (age 42) – Annoyance Avoidance As technology races forward, there are some pesky societal annoyance problems that the scientific community could solve with … Read more

Lost Journal: Mother Fills Empty Nest with Larry Bird

By Tim Mollen, July 6, 2015

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: December 27, 1989 (age 20) - Empty Nest

Something is terribly wrong with my mother.

I’m home on Christmas break from SUNY Oswego, and I was out with some of my childhood chums tonight. When I returned to the house, I heard loud bellowing from the basement. I cracked the door at the top of the stairs, and heard strange, foreign utterances in a voice that did and didn’t sound like my mom: “Go for the three, Dennis! Oh, come on, Kevin, bang those boards!”

I crept down the stairs, and saw that Mom was alone in the room, yelling at the television. My father can sleep through anything, and tonight he was proving it. Without looking at me, Mom intoned, “I’ll talk to you during the next commercial – Boston is in overtime.” I made use of the time by checking the furnace room and garage for signs of the slimy alien pod that had invaded, snatched Mom’s body, and replaced her with a sports fanatic. “You stink, ref,” she barked.

My mother never used to pay attention to sports. I suppose raising six boys left little time for poring over box scores. Now that I think about it, she did like to watch my older brothers play CYO basketball. Years later, all her sons are out of the house, and the empty nest has been filled – by Larry Bird. Mom knows all about the NBA – the players, the rules, and the lingo. She’s a very sharp lady, so it doesn’t surprise me that she picked it up so quickly. But yelling at inanimate objects? As a non-sports guy, that’s always mystified me. And as much as I reject this in intellectual terms, there’s something emasculating about the fact that my mother knows more about sports than I do.

Tonight’s game against the Sacramento Kings went into overtime. I sat and watched the final minutes with Mom. She clapped, booed, shouted and got out of her seat a few times. I nodded blankly as she stated that the Celts needed to “shut down the fast break.” When a commercial came on, she immediately transformed back into the woman I thought I knew. She asked after each of my friends by name, and chastised me for going out “without a hat!”

When the game returned, so did the were-fan. Her shoulders hunched, her jaw jutted out, and I thought I saw her eyes change from brown to kelly green. I did notice that Mom wasn’t rooting against one particular Sacramento player, and I asked her why. “That’s Danny Ainge – he used to play for the Celtics,” she explained. “Plus, he’s cute.” I asked her when Ainge had been traded, but she shushed me sharply. The clock was winding down, and she needed to focus.

Mom shouted in triumph when Boston eked out a 115-112 win. She slumped back in her recliner with a big smile on her face. “That was exciting,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get to sleep now.” On her way up the stairs in her nightgown and slippers, she stopped and looked at me. “Did you get any dinner tonight, sweetie? I can make you some leftovers.”
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Journal entry: December 27, 1989 (age 20) – Empty Nest Something is terribly wrong with my mother. I’m home on Christmas break from SUNY Oswego, and I was … Read more

Lost Journal: Must Physical Therapy be Physical?

By Tim Mollen, June 29, 2015August 10, 2017

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: April 22, 2011 (age 41) - Physical Therapy

When an orthopedist recently suggested physical therapy to alleviate pain in my lower back and feet, he didn’t recommend anyone in particular. I chose Oakdale Physical Therapy & Fitness largely because I knew one of the owners, John Koniuto.

John and his twin brother, Jim, were a few years younger than me as we grew up on Binghamton’s west side. They also were fellow altar boys at St. Thomas Aquinas parish. Danny and Timmy Mollen and John and Jim Koniuto were easily identifiable on the altar as “the two cute little redheaded boys” and “the two cute little Asian boys,” respectively. When the four of us served at the same Mass, our combined presence was taken as a sure sign of God’s affinity for repeated patterns of cuteness. (See also: toes, mama ducks swimming in front of baby ducks, and the Williams sisters playing doubles.)

John oversaw my treatment, but deputized Mimi Dewing, who is finishing her doctorate in physical therapy next month, to coach me through the sessions. The name “Mimi” suits someone pretty and mild-mannered like her. But in every session, there came a point when she made me do an exercise difficult enough to make me call her “Sarge.” It was usually an extra set of squats, plank holds, or single leg stands.

For most able-bodied adults, I imagine standing on one leg for 30 seconds is easy. I look like Foster Brooks taking a sobriety test after a Dean Martin Celebrity Roast. When Sarge told me to drop and do an exercise called “Spider-Man,” I told her it was unkind to remind a theatre person such as myself of bad ideas, poorly executed. “U2?” she said. “Sir, yes, sir!” I replied.

Therapy wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was lured in by the early appointments, which consisted of two of my favorite things: talking about my problems and foot massage. In those magical early days (what happened to us, Sarge?), they also had me lounge on a padded table and attached adhesive pads to the bottoms of my feet to deliver neuromuscular electrical stimulation. Over the pads, they wrapped my feet in heated towels and checked back to ask me if the towels were too hot, or not hot enough. I almost asked for porridge. In subsequent appointments, the idea that I would actually be required to do something came as something of a non-electric shock.

Several months later, my back and feet are pain-free, my weight is down, and my “core,” which I didn’t even know I had, is stronger. Mimi put together a home exercise plan. At my request, it was limited to three weekly, 45-minute sessions. “I know myself,” I told her, “and if the workout is more daunting than that, my laziness will win out.”

Today was the last of my 12 appointments, and it felt like a graduation of sorts. I thanked Mimi and John, walked out to my car with a spring in my step, and, on my way home, drove past Denny’s, where they recently added something called a Maple Bacon Sundae to the menu. “There’s no way I’m ever gonna order that,” I thought to myself, smiling with pride. “Or, if I do, I’m going to eat it while standing on one leg.”
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Journal entry: April 22, 2011 (age 41) – Physical Therapy When an orthopedist recently suggested physical therapy to alleviate pain in my lower back and feet, he didn’t … Read more

Lost Journal: The Anticlimax of Spring Break ’89

By Tim Mollen, June 24, 2015

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: March 18, 1989 (age 19) - Spring Break '89

Where to spend spring break this year was not a tough call. The obvious choice, when you attend a college like SUNY Oswego, where ropes are tied between buildings so that you aren’t carried away by bone-chilling winds, was to head south. A two-hour hop down to my hometown of Binghamton was not going to cut it.

My roommate, Dan Walker, is from another upstate New York heat sink – Wappingers Falls (near Poughkeepsie). Two of his friends from home, Laura Sammons and Samantha Kunz, also attend Oswego and have become good friends of mine. Laura’s parents moved recently, and she invited Danny, Samantha, and me to spend our vacation at their house in Boca Raton, Florida. (I believe Boca Raton, in Spanish, means “like Baton Rouge, but nicer.”) At the last minute, another Wappingers native who I’d never met was added to the list. She had the innocent-sounding name of Mindy.

The big question was, “How do we get there?” Laura already had a plane ticket, but the rest of us did not have “the fundage.” Driving Dan’s 1979 Buick for 26 straight hours seemed like a reasonable alternative. Twenty-four hours into the drive, when the engine overheated to a temperature suitable for smelting, it didn’t. The required pit stop at a service station gave us a chance to stretch our legs.

It also gave me a needed break from the company of “Mindy the Interloper.” She doesn’t attend Oswego. She is highly annoying. She spent the entire trip speaking only to Samantha. And complaining. And calling my mix tapes “hillbilly music.” She preferred scanning the radio dial for a stronger signal so that we could hear Tone-Loc’s “Wild Thing” for the 14^th time.

We finally arrived in Boca last night. After settling in, what better thing to do than get back in the car? Tonight, we drove another hour south to Miami so we could go out clubbing. Once the others assured me that no golfing, harming of seals, or adding bacon to sandwiches was involved, I was on board with the idea. We’re all under 21, but we were prepared. Back at school, we had painstakingly used yellow chalk to change the birth years on our yellow New York State driver’s licenses from 1969 to 1967.

Laura led us to the swankiest club in Miami, and we excitedly waited in the line outside with red velvet ropes on either side. This was our moment! We were five college students on spring break in Florida – rested up and dressed up after a ridiculously long trip, and eager to hear “Wild Thing” on bigger speakers. Danny was the first to reach the door. The muscle-bound bouncer was dressed all in black, with gold chains around his tanned neck. He grabbed Danny’s license, glanced at it and asked, “How old are you?” Danny instantly blurted out “19.”

That was that. It was all over in 3.5 seconds. The bouncer pocketed the license, and our group shuffled out onto the sidewalk, stunned. The lesson did not need to be verbalized, but it was in all of our heads. A key element of lying is follow-through. If you’re going to lie, stick to it – at least until threatened with arrest or bodily harm. We spent the drive back to Boca threatening Danny with the latter.
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Journal entry: March 18, 1989 (age 19) – Spring Break ’89 Where to spend spring break this year was not a tough call. The obvious choice, when you … Read more

Lost Journal: Don’t Disturb the Doll Downstairs!

By Tim Mollen, June 14, 2015

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: August 11, 2008 (age 39) - The Doll Downstairs

When you buy your first house, your parents are happy. They’re happy because it means they can force you to get all of your crap out of their house. So it was two years ago, when my wife, Amanda, and I moved into our home in Johnson City. I begrudgingly transferred several piles of memorabilia from my parents’ attic, where they had sat in cardboard boxes, undisturbed, for several decades, to my basement, where they will sit, undisturbed, for several more. I did upgrade to plastic tubs, so that future anthropologists will have an easier time identifying the ruins of this domicile as the home of a megadorkus americanus. The evidence will be overwhelming: J.R.R. Tolkien wall calendars, newsletters for fans of the television program Real People, and daisy wheel printouts of computer programs written in the aptly named BASIC computer language.

One artifact from my childhood did not remain in a box – my Charlie McCarthy doll. He – I mean it – is a working replica of Edgar Bergen’s ventriloquist dummy. He now sits in our basement on a wicker hamper next to Amanda’s favorite stuffed animal, a shaggy, sheepdog puppet named Benjamin. As much as I adore him, Charlie is a little too creepy (and ironic) for display in our living room.

Last year, we hosted our second annual Halloween costume party. (As a side note, my friend Pat McCormack won Best Costume honors dressed as me in grade school, complete with spray-on red hair, thick plastic glasses, and a huge white collar stretched across the top of a brightly colored sweater vest. It was terrifying.) For the early part of the festivities, Dan and Cari Rose, our neighbors from across the street, brought their young daughter along. I’d say she’s about 9 years old, and her name is also Amanda. For clarity’s sake, I will refer to her as Lilmanda.

Our basement was decorated to serve as the center of the Halloween party. Soon after Lilmanda descended the stairs, she had what I believe child psychologists refer to as a “freakout.” She pointed at the dummy and shrieked, “It’s Billy!” Not knowing who Billy was, or why Billy might be small, waxen, and stored in a basement, I was concerned. Lilmanda breathlessly explained that Billy is the name of a murderous ventriloquist doll in a movie called Dead Silence. (Later, when I looked up the film online, I found it hard to believe that a young child would be frightened by a film “from the director of Saw.”)

That was last fall. Now it’s summer and the neighborhood is full of bored kids. I just answered my doorbell to find Lilmanda and two of her friends nervously looking up at me. In a hushed tone, Lilmanda asked, “Can I show them Billy?” Thinking fast, I said they could come back later if Lilmanda’s parents said it was OK. My Amanda will be home by then and can lead the tour. My instincts tell me I don’t want to be known as the guy in the neighborhood who takes kids down to his basement to look at scary dolls. Besides, Charlie/Billy is starting to creep me out, too. Gee, thanks, director of Saw!
    [post_title] => Lost Journal: Don't Disturb the Doll Downstairs!
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Journal entry: August 11, 2008 (age 39) – The Doll Downstairs When you buy your first house, your parents are happy. They’re happy because it means they can … Read more

Lost Journal: Senior Class Trip Hits Sour Note

By Tim Mollen, June 8, 2015August 11, 2015

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: June 8, 1987 (age 18) - Senior Class Trip

Today’s Monday, and we didn’t go to school. That was reason enough for the Seton Catholic Central High School Class of 1987 to celebrate. But more importantly, today was our senior class trip to the Darien Lake amusement park. We were lucky to be going at all. Last week, some of my more industrious classmates had gotten up in the middle of the night, stolen dozens of real estate For Sale signs from all over Binghamton, and stuck them in the front lawn of our school. It was an impressive, but punishable, sight.

But here we are on a rented bus, heading back from the second-biggest tourist attraction in the Niagara Falls area. Everyone is pretty beat after a long, fun, complex-carbohydrate-filled day in the sun. Many of my 157 classmates are listening to Walkmen and dozing. Murmurs of the Bangles, Bon Jovi, and the Breakfast Club can be heard amongst the snores. Those without earphones are being subjected to distinctly unmelodic tones made by my friend, Pat McCormack, and me. During our many ski club bus trips together, the two of us perfected our version of the worst, most repetitive party anthem of all time. In robotic monotone, we loudly sing the chorus of this classic by Kiss: “I want to rock and roll all night, and party every day!” We don’t really sing it, though. We just overpronounce the words in rhythm, stressing the wrong syllables. Then we repeat it 30 or 40 times.

This provided a fitting capper to a day filled with bad singing. Darien Lake recently added an attraction called “Karaoke Recording Booths,” and many of us had spent a bad portion of the day recording our own vocals over backing tracks, and then listening to them being played over loudspeakers. I’ve never heard of “karaoke,” but I think it’s Japanese for “mouth hurt ear.” Pat and our friend, Peco Hull, named their vocal duo “Dudes with Bats,” and were particularly proud of the cassette that immortalizes their version of Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” As epic as that session was, though, the song may end up being redone for Peco’s long-planned album Tokyo Sucka Punch, by his long-planned band, Devastation Wagon.

Jim Root, Jack Donovan and I chose to remove any redeeming value from an overplayed Euro-shlock hit by a trio of bonny British birds named Bananarama. “Venus” proved to be even more execrable material in the hands of three talentless teenaged boys. “Goddess on the mountain top, burnin’ like a silver flame.” Jim’s lead vocal had an inappropriate urgency to it – one that bordered on belligerence. To really sell the next line, he deepened his voice and traded the word “and” for a more dramatic ellipsis: “Summit of beauty…LOVE.”

Some of our other choices of songs, and what to do with them, didn’t exactly comport with the Christian education we are about to complete. We should be ashamed of ourselves, and probably will be someday. For now, we’re amused that a roller coaster called The Viper reversed the digestive direction of a number of our classmates, and we like to think our singing helped.
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Journal entry: June 8, 1987 (age 18) – Senior Class Trip Today’s Monday, and we didn’t go to school. That was reason enough for the Seton Catholic Central … Read more

Lost Journal: No Running by the Dating Pool

By Tim Mollen, June 2, 2015August 11, 2015

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    [post_content] => Journal entry: April 3, 2011 (age 41) - Dating Pool

Using a Magic Marker, I just finished writing a flier that I’m going to copy onto fluorescent paper and staple to telephone poles in my area:

Dear Potential Date,

My name is Tim. I am an idiosyncratic mezzomorph with exquisite elbows. People often mistake me for someone 15/17^ths my age. My height of 5-foot-11 allows me entry on all but the scariest of amusement park rides. I’m a Taurus, but in no way am I a Ford. On the Myers-Briggs personality test I took in college, I was halfway between an ENFJ and an INFJ, which means I am a shy extrovert. I’d like to meet a woman with her own luggage. I hope we will share interests in organizing CDs, exceeding the RDA of chocolate and chocolate byproducts, and living life to the half-fullest.

What do you smell like?

My marriage of 11 years ended a little more than a year ago, and, previously, I hadn’t been “on the market” since 1995. Back then, I had figured out that the term “Internet” had nothing to do with mixed doubles in tennis, but hadn’t identified it as a place to look for dates. (I looked for Cindy Margolis a few times, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t looking for me.) Texting was a term I used for picking up women at the library. (“Ah, I see you’re spending some time in the 014s. I’m into bibliographies of anonymous and pseudonymous works, too.”) In other words, I’m a little rusty. You kids still like the grunge music, right? Oh well, if you fit my definition of “kid” – under 30 – we’re probably not going to last anyway.

Can we just try dating for a while? Does anybody even do that anymore? When my parents were single, it was common for men and women to be dating several different people until things got “serious” with one. Judging by today’s reactions, you are officially considered a couple if you have been seen together in the same bar twice, or in the same Facebook photo once. It’s been years, but I still get asked why I went to Paris with Flat Stanley.

So tell me about you. I’m serious. If I wanted to know more about me, I would read my journal, and who wants to do that? I want to hear whatever you want to tell me. (Yipes – except that!) It’d make me feel good if you asked me something about me once in a while. That way I’ll know you’re not on conversational autopilot. How do you feel about that?

Do you like being asked if you like piña coladas? I don’t. I do want to know what love is, and who wrote the book of it, but not why fools fall in it. If you do not recognize any of the previous musical references, please refer to my definition of “kid.” I kid you not. Precocious 29-year-olds are welcome, pending verification.

If you are reading this flier because you were looking for a fabulous work-at-home, weight-loss, or rummage sale opportunity, I apologize and urge you to move on to the next telephone pole. Please don’t rip me down.

In closing, let me say that I’m not sure who I’m looking for, but it will be very nice to meet you.
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Journal entry: April 3, 2011 (age 41) – Dating Pool Using a Magic Marker, I just finished writing a flier that I’m going to copy onto fluorescent paper … Read more