M - The nutrition nazis are at it again. Saw a report a few days ago telling us that the number one food responsible for weight gain in our lifetimes is potato chips. Well, I have news for all my healthy-eating friends. Do not try to grab the bag of Cape Cod jalapeno chips from my cold icy grip after I die. Please respect the dead and bury those bad boys with me. And if potato chips are so bad for us, why hasn’t anyone sued Frito Lay for contributing to the death of a minor? Can’t you see it already…on the side of a bag of Miss Vicky’s sea salt chips? “The Surgeon General has determined that eating potato chips is hazardous to your health.”  I’d rather eat potato chips and die at 80 (if I’m lucky) than eat tofu treats and live to be 100.  In the grand scheme of the time/life continuum,  our lives are but a blip on the screen. We’ll be dead way longer than we’re alive, so I say, bring me a wheelbarrow of Cape Cod chips and a margarita. Today is the first day of the rest of my life, which will be filled with family, good friends and eat-til-you-drop potato chips.

M - Somebody finally made Whitey Bulger an offer he couldn’t refuse. The Feds slapped on the cuffs and the mobster and his golden girlfriend were on a one-way flight back to Boston. All this Bulger buzz has put me in the mood to watch the first Godfather movie. Even though Whitey James J. Bulger got his movie treatment in The Departed, no one will ever eclipse cinema’s original Godfather, Don Corleone. Marlon Brando played the role as charmer and scoundrel beautifully. He was loving and he was ruthless. Sicily’s Corleone never desserted his family, which is more more than we can say about Southie’s Bulger, who took the last 16 years off for bad behavior. With a trial at least 2 years away for 81-year old Whitey, he will most certainly spend his last days in prison. Corleone spent his last moments chasing his grandon around his tomato patch. Brace yourselves for more Whitey movies, including The Departed - Prequel…but nothing will ever approach the amazing storytelling of The Godfather. Like I said. “Whitey, you’re no Don Corleone.”

M - Sadly, our 10 day babysitting adventure with Lady Baba’s 9-month old granddaughter Kyra comes to a close tonight. Mom and dad will claim their toddler as they move from Chicago to New Hampshire after 4 years in the Windy City. We’ve had her at our house since the 12th. It has been a delightful experience for me to travel back 30 years to when my daughter Liz was her age. I’m convinced more than ever that parenting isn’t brain surgery. Love them, be with them and let them find their voice. Do not take babies for granted. They need your attention. You’ll never regret the investment you make in your child. I may be sad she’s leaving but I have a sneaking suspicion there will be many more grand babies in our future. We will not be throwing out our new Fisher Price toys any time soon!

Since writing that Angelina Jolie is my 10^th cousin, I’ve become even more interested in learning things about Mike Morin.  Mike Morin the mixed martial arts warrior. Mike Morin the car dealer and Mike Morin the bed bug hunter. Like you, I have Googled myself and through the nearly 10 million results from typing “Mike Morin,” I have found that many of my namesakes have interesting lives. I’d like you to meet a few of my Google twins. 

Mike Morin the Mixed Martial Arts guy – OK, this MM is the toughest guy in our little party. On May 6^th, the Maine native defeated his opponent 35-seconds into the 2^nd round. The fight was stopped by the referee. I never realized the name Mike Morin had such machismo attached to it. I’m having a testosterone moment.

Mike Morin the used car sales guy – Mike Morin’s Auto Center in Auburn, Maine is not known for beating people up like a few Mike Morins that shall go nameless. In fact, an online review says, “By far the most friendly, honest and dependable auto shop in town! Also like their new waiting area with the leather couches and Keurig coffee machine.” You can never go wrong combining friendliness and leather.

Mike Morin the drummer – I found this MM on the web site for a New Jersry band called Bad Whiskey. Mike says, “After experiments with Gamma rays I developed super strength and size. With this also comes the terrible side effects, a green color and uncontrollable rage.”

 Pride does not begin to describe what it means to be named Mike Morin until you meet the last on my list of Google twins.

Mike Morin, bed bug hunter – This Connecticut resident is with Bedbug Finders. In fact, I located his certification of training. “To whom it may concern: This letter is to certify that Mr. Michael Morin and bedbug detection canine “Willie,” attended the Florida Canine Academy/Bedbug Dog in September of 2009 and received their certification as a team trained in bedbug detection.”

Feel free to send any complaint emails to Mike Morin the Mixed Martial Arts guy.

M - Breaking news: Angelina Jolie is my 10^th cousin. That explains a lot. She got all the looks the family. The rest of us caught a few crumbs from the genetic cup cake while Angelina got the cherry.

Imagine my surprise when I received this information on the subscription genealogy web site, Geni.com: “Angelina Jolie is Michael Morin’s 10^th cousin.” I read those words again as the color left my face. I finally regained my composure to become quite philosophical about the possibilities.

Grasping for any straw that would validate us as blood relatives, I pulled up cousin Ang’s Geni.com profile to find her heritage is German, Slovak, Iroquois and French-Canadian. Ding ding ding. We have a winner. I am part French-Canadian. Close enough for me.

 I’m not sure how many other people got the you’re-related-to-Angelina-Jolie notification, but I hope my cousin is getting a piece of the action. Now that I think of it, my late, Great-Grandfather Feyes used to tell me that, as a child in France, he and other children would get to sit on the lap of writer Victor Hugo who penned Les Miserables. I’m guessing that story, true or not, was passed around the family a lot when I was a kid.

Even Ellen got in on the celebrity spoofing action recently when she told guest Reese Witherspoon that she was related to Kate Middleton. Witherspoon wasn’t buying it. I’m not sure Ang is my 10^th cousin but I can tell my great grandkids about it some day. “You know kids, back in 2002, Angelina Jolie sat on Grampy Mike’s lap…”

I’d better get my birth certificate out of mothballs just in case Donald Trump asks me for proof.

M - So Monday morning comes, it’s 25 degrees and no one is talking about our beoved Red Sox, whose season begins Friday. As in THIS Friday! I took it upon myself to stoke the hot stove fires by posting a Facebook question for Sox fans, asking “if they thought closer Jonathan Papelbon had anything left in the tank or is he toast?” Before you could say “Bambino,” Carolyn, a New York Yankees fan posted: “Who cares? Go Yankees!” Within minutes, trash-talking baseball fans took Carolyn’s bait and the gloves came off. I must admit sadly, that the Yankees posters sported a bit more pi** and vinegar that Sox fans. I guess if you had to live in a city with over 9 million other souls, you’d be a Cranky Yankee, too. That said, we’re just days from the Red Sox first game, and I ain’t feelin’ much juice in the air. Let’s hope “Pap” has enough juice in his right arm to retire a few more 9th inning batters than he did last year.

M - I was actually happy to see snow this morning. The winter has been quite cruel to my lawn and a nice skin of white made the scars inflicted by mutha nature go away for a while. While the 3-foot blanket of snow rested gently on my Kentucky bluegrass duvet, a family of moles decided to go on a mission to restructure my front lawn in a quest for tasty grubs. Until the snow fell yesterday, parts of my lawn looked like Carrot Top’s hair! There were trails, divots and scraps of turf everywhere. With temperatures in the 40-degree range most of this week, my disaster of a spring lawn will remain out of sight and out of mind for a few more days. In the meantime, I’m gearing up for a game of whack-a-mole if those guys return!

M - No, the headline is not a veiled reference to my body rhythms. It’s all about the gas. Gas PRICES. Even though my car whispers for mid-grade 89 octane, I have just switched to 87 regular grade. I doubt it will affect my ride’s performance. At 10 to 12 cents per gallon less, I’m going cheap. Not that $3.45/gallon is cheap. I don’t want to line the pockets of the oil weasels more than I have to…Get ready. New record-breaking profits occur for oil companies every time there is a price spike. Believe me, the big boys are praying for more mideast turmoil. Then they have their excuse for holding us up at the pump. To my car, I apologize. We’ll go back to the tastier petro when things calm down a bit.