Author Archives: Ben Gannon

The Neighbors have Two Dogs and Rainier

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Vicious and Kind: If a neighbor has two dogs and a wife, you know who the dogs take after.  One may be vicious like the wife, and one may be kind like the husband.  It’s simple psychology.

I was attacked viciously by one of their dogs tonight (Eben), and before seeking legal counsel, I instead went to get ice cream. It was my wife’s only wish, even if my cargo pants, just washed and dried mind you, were ripped so closely to the flesh that I, for once, saw my life flash before my balls.  Simply terrifying.

Upon inspection, my wife said it was merely slobber.  What does she know about anything?  Now, I additionally wanted to sue her for not supporting her husband.

After purchasing the vanilla bean ice cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream, I informed her I had some business to attend to before dealing with her insubordination as as a loyal wife.  She laughed.  There’s nothing worse than a wife laughing at you while she is eating ice cream, laced with chocolate and that damned cream.  I lost it.  Marching down to the neighbor’s house and pressing their door bell will all of the energy I had left, they answered politely not knowing I was going to release my hounds and furious anger upon them.  That’s when then they offered me a Rainier Beer, and that’s when the counsel rested.

(The dogs, Eben and Bo, and the neighbors have always been wonderful…………if they have Rainier………Thanks, John, Megan, Eben, and Bo.  Special thanks to a peanut named Emma who is the secondary reason I’m not suing my neighbors.

 

 

 

 

Pepper Spray Gets In Your Eyes

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When a waiter asks me if I wish to have pepper on my salad, I always say, “yes”.  When a wife asks me not to pepper spray myself, I say, “no”.  I don’t give much advice to anyone, and if I do, nine times out of nine you shouldn’t take it.  But, every now and then, I provide terrific advice which should be documented as Gospel.   Just because you purchase pepper spray for your wife from a convenient store doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.

My wife takes walks with our dogs sometimes without me.  She also works at a job requiring her to leave in a downtown area when darkness falls upon everyone.  I once told her, “I can’t always be watching over you.” Therefore, I wanted to purchase her some pepper spray because I do actually like her and worry about her safety.  There are bears, cougars, raccoons, and squirrels in Seattle.  She explained to me that you can’t find pepper spray in many stores because many outlets believe it should be illegal.  That’s when I went on a scavenger hunt for pepper spray.  I was determined to find it, even if it was on the blackpepper market.

Discovering a seedy joint located three blocks away referred to as a 76 Station, I found some pepper spray.  I felt as if I was both Lewis and Clark not only finding the Pacific, but also finding a Northwest Passage.  Much like Mariwether Lewis, this story has a sad ending.

I wish to test items I don’t purely believe can work for three dollars, especially when it comes to my wife’s safety.  So, as an incredibly intelligent man, I requested she test it on me.  She refused.  I then retorted, “I’m going to nail myself with it then.”  Fortunately, I went outside, and she said , “Gannon, if you do that, I am going to be so pissed!”(I always know I’m in trouble when she calls me Gannon.) I really didn’t think it was going to work. The first shot didn’t.  I missed myself and managed to stain some siding on our house bright orange.  The second shot……..right in the face.  I figure if you’re batting five hundred with pepper spray, it should suffice.

Completely blind in my left eye and with my face turning bright orange, my lovely wife carted my dumb ass up to the shower to get this pepper off of me.  Since one of my eyes remained stable, (my whole head was burning) I could still manage to find soap.  Another bad idea.  Some of the pepper spray residue trickled into my right eye.  Now, I was literally blind.  I screamed from the shower, “Britt!!!! I’m blind……..please help me!”

She did, and after a few hours of blindness and blistering pain, I recovered.  I can’t count the number of times of my wife shaking her head because I couldn’t see her.  I know I’ll never do that again because that stuff works.

If she can aim in the right direction, I know she’ll be safe.

I think she provided forgiveness more for the pink jacket case with which the spray was encased.  She just loves pink.  I can’t believe she also loves an idiot.

 

 

Offense or Defense? ( Dr.Jeckle and Mr. Craig)

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The noun, “Gentleman” is used far too haphazardly in this crazy world.  These days, gentlemen seem to be a diamond in the buff… much like sasquatch;  When you witness one, it’s usually a fuzzy story and your camera phone doesn’t work properly at that moment.  They are extremely difficult to discover.

Each day, I witness men not opening doors for old bags, and when you do find the elusive gentleman, he is often times not rewarded with a simple “Thank you”.  This is why chivalry is dying, but not dead.

I am a part time gentleman and half time asshole.  When I open a door for a woman going to the theater, or even a man delivering ice to a grocery store, I hold the door open for them.  If they don’t give me a “thanks” or merely a smile, I bellow to everyone who can hear me within the continent, “YOU’RE WELCOME!”  That’s when the gentleman becomes an asshole.

For years, I’ve searched the world for this elusive full time gentleman, and at one point, I had given up hope.  Today, I found him.  Just like a Sasquatch can be referred to as a Yeti, this man is also known as the original Mr. Nice Guy.  His name is  Mr. Craig.

He coaches and teaches at a shitty school in Spokane, Washington.  He is amongst a handful of wonderful teachers and coaches at that school.  And by handful, I mean about four.  The rest of the teachers don’t have opposable thumbs, so a handful of crap is what I should have written.

Craig was coaching a Junior Varsity basketball game with very little significance to the players and the rest of the world.  Craig, as a former athlete and current competitor, enjoys winning.  However, that soft touch gentleman always gets the worst of him.

Nudging him on the bench in an extremely close game, a usually reserved boy named Marc would not leave his coach alone.  Marc’s elbowing routine amidst a very tight game was not allowing Mr. Craig to coach.  “When am I going to get in, Coach…….When am I going to get in the game?”

In his usual easy manner, Craig replied, “Alright Marc, you are entering a tight game, so you need to remember what I’ve taught you at practice, ok?”

“You betcha, coach.”

Craig patted him on the back upon entering the game, but knew his team was going to lose.  Craig didn’t really mind the losing part, but he did mind that when Marc entered the game, Marc did not know if he was on offense or defense.  These are times when gentlemen develop rage after countless hours of coaching and teaching.  I call it the Jeckle and Craig Syndrome.  When this young man was supposed to be playing defense, he  thought he was playing offense.  When he was supposed to be playing offense, he assumed he was on defense.  Jeckle left the gymnasium and Craig showed up, screaming, “YOU ARE ON OFFENSE!”.

They lost the game, but it wasn’t Marc’s fault.  Craig left the gym and the gentleman returned to tell this young man he did his best.  The gentleman silently left in his car transforming into his alter ego.  Craig drank several beverages that night but has a spot in both Heaven and Hell reserved by Econo Lodge.

I still haven’t found Sasquatch, but I have found the elusive gentleman.  You can look him up on the website “GFRO”.  It’s similar to the “BFRO”, also known as The Bigfoot Research Organization. The acronym “GFRO”represents a group of people who believe gentlemen indeed exist. It’s the “Gentleman Friendly Research Organization.” I swear to you, THEY exist.  They’re just hard to find.

 

 

Mariner Jet Lag (it’s raining in seattle?)

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Once again, I am on the same jet lag wave length as my wife because of my love for baseball and pure hatred for (I’m not going to provide them the decency of using proper nouns or capital letters) the seattle mariners.  This organization has made me feel as though I was on a twenty two hour flight back to India.  I’m exhausted watching the AM games in Japan, and my wife is currently filing divorce papers regarding the alarm clock issues.  Nothing makes any sense.  My wife and I were just fine before the mariners chose to play in a country (a country who once upon a time, bombed us in the island of Hawaii).  Now, we are at athletic odds because she can’t understand my desire for the great game of baseball, and our new time zone, even in the US of A.

Don’t call me unless it’s at two AM.  If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m either napping, or talking to my Japanese Lawyer.  He’s awake at two PM, where it is apparently the land of the rising sun.  Perhaps that’s why seattle decided to fly twelve hours and play twenty four hours of baseball……..to find that rising sun.  I haven’t seen it for a week.

 

Opening Dismay

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Other than Pearl Harbor and poor driving skills, I have nothing against the Japanese.  I have everything against a team in Seattle, Washington, located in America for having baseball’s opening day in anywhere but America. The Seattle Mariners are playing the first game of the season in Japan.  This is America’s official pastime, but it seems to me, for the team I root for, since I reside in the city, it is America’s official posthumous time.  The first game of the season is usually the first and last for our fairly ridiculous sport crazed city.

I don’t give a crap what people say about the NFL, NBA, soccer and any other sport, baseball is America’s favorite pastime. (Disclaimer: I love each one with the exception of the NBA and soccer.) Opening day is special, and it belongs to baseball.   It doesn’t belong in Japan where I have to set my alarm clock for three AM, instead of the usual three PM schedule.  This is truly unholy on one of the most holiest of days.  My wife will have to hit the seventh inning snooze button when the Mariners, with severe jet lag, are losing in that inning, just around seven AM.

The official owner of the Mariners lives in and is from Japan.  Qualified sources have informed me he won’t be attending the game.  I think he is an elderly owner, but I don’t give a shit if someone has to bring him into his luxury box seat by way of a forklift while he’s collecting money on a pallet selling Ichiro jerseys.  He should be in attendance.

This may sound a bit moronic and immature, but I celebrate this day much like people celebrate Christmas and Easter.  I celebrate the Lord’s birth and His resurrection, but I really don’t look forward to the presents or the eggs……unless they are deviled.  Baseball’s opening day?  That’s what I look forward to, but not in Japan at three in the morning.

I hope you all have a great opening day.  I won’t.  Hot dogs and beer don’t fare well with my stomach that early.

 

84 and Still Kind of Hearing (Who Shot KFC?)

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Bless her soul, my mother is the Irish version of the bizarro Godmother of 13 goofs.  She’s the kindest, sweetest and deafest 84 year old on the planet. Obviously, I’m a bit biased regarding this subject of our mom, commonly and affectionally referred to as Helen Keller.

We always consider our mothers and fathers as the best on their birthdays.  This will be short and cute.  Today is my Mother’s 84th birthday.  I’m celebrating it 25o miles away by merely calling her to tell her how much I love her.  She is  still capable of smacking me on the behind, but my hearing is just a touch better than hers.

My mother, Margaret, doesn’t always turn up her hearing aids, or perhaps, she’s just messing with us when we call her, thus keeping the conversations short.  We shared a nice conversation this morning, and as her kind soul will dismiss her birthday, she wished to know how my wife and life was doing.  I responded, “Britt’s having a rough time with one of our animals getting old and perhaps passing on.”  My mother responded, “Britt’s moving out?”

“No, mom, don’t worry about anything.  We’re very happy and this is the first girl who doesn’t want to leave me…..let’s talk about something else you can’t hear.  I’ll sing Happy Birthday to you.”  (That’s a great way to disguise a terrible singing voice.. Brilliant.)  She didn’t hear it, but she loved it anyway, just like she unconditionally loves all of her children, grandchildren and Great grandchildren.  This last quick paragraph is just too fabulous to be left behind.

Patrice, one of my thousands of fabulous nieces, purchased Kentucky Fried Chicken, also known as KFC, for my mother today.  According to Patrice, it was just as greasy as it used to be……even with the new name.  Mom, bless her creative soul, said, “Don’t worry, I’ve never liked that JFK Chicken anyway.”  Gosh, I love her.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

 

Madness (one step beyond my room)

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This is an exciting day.  It’s not just because College Basketball March Madness is one hour from starting.  It’s because I’ve convinced my wife that this day is so important.  I don’t have to work today.  Merely strolling out of our bedroom at 5 o’clock a.m. , feeding the cats and dogs, making her pancakes, replacing lightbulbs, AND doing dog and cat poop patrol is the only way to justify sitting on my butt watching the great games of college basketball.  When I pick up poop, it is madness.  Therefore, I deserve a reward.  Reward:  Lazy guy watching basketball.

Sadly, I have no money on any of these teams, but I am rooting for friends who do.  It really isn’t about the four dollars we toss in at the office for a twenty dollar payout, is it?  It should be about loving a sport and forgetting about the office and money for a few days.

March Madness is a great opportunity to bond with people.  At my former place of employment, we were forced to endure “team building retreats”, though we would have been better off just having a staff basketball pool.  Having to deal with office morale getaways from heaven made me want to descend directly to Hell.  You know, the ones where people want to gather, hold hands, and discover the essence of teamwork.  Just thinking about that made me excuse myself to the bathroom to vomit.  I don’t want to trust someone at some camp who catches me when I’m falling.  I want to be watching and betting on a game.  If every boss in this country would encourage gambling during this short stretch of days, morale would be uplifted to heavenly measures.  Employees would be happy…..therefore, those employees would work more diligently at the office for their employer after the madness ends.

I’m not encouraging gambling.  Most of the time, gambling is miserable.  Having something to root for is fun.  I lost a bet last night rooting for my friend, Tim.  It didn’t work out.  I missed out on his office March Madness pool because I waited two years to call him until I needed him.  Tim is a great man, and a good friend, but, ultimately, we have to bet on ourselves.  Ourselves are the ones we can truly count on.

Embrace the madness.

A Very Hindu Valentine (Business and Sickness)

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While my wife’s guts and mine recover from our trip to India, I must leave those who follow this silly blog with quite a cute story regarding a completely different part of India’s business culture with which neither of us were aware.  My wife, Britt, and I went to India for two specific reasons.  She went for business, and I went to get sick.  I’ve already documented my sickness, so let’s go for some funny business.  Traditionally, in the United States, although many people ignore this, relationships within the place of employment are frowned upon by the Human Resource Department (usually ran by a robot) and cherished by those who love good gossip.  Generally, it’s just not a great idea.  This is what made India so interesting this time around.

Britt’s first day of working in Bangalore, India brought a few surprises.  With much disbelief, just prior to entering the 9th floor office, she was notified this office required a dress code since it was the most Holy of Commercialized Days:  Valentines Day!

I’m not joking AT ALL.  Following is the dress code for this work day.  These are only color dress codes representing ones love status:

Pink:  you are looking for love

Red:  you are in love

Yellow: you are looking for opposite sex friendship in the work place

Orange: It’s complicated

She had a quick response to the man chaperoning her to this new office:  “Seriously?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

Now, of course, my wife, not knowing about any of this, was wearing the loudest and prettiest pink blouse in the room, meaning she was definitely looking for love in all the wrong places.  They took this wildly seriously.  Showered with flowers, she was THEN (this is after flying 22 hours for a “serious” business trip) called upon to be the master, or mistress of ceremonies ending the day.  This required her to name all of the couples who had matched up on this day.  Additionally, some were dedicating love songs to their co-working matches made in India.  Ultimately, Britt informed me they didn’t do a lick of work.  Suspended in disbelief, she could only relate by thinking of those second grade Valentine’s days when your desk was littered with cards from secret idiots.  It was just too cute for her to be mad.  When we were youngsters at school on this day, parents would bring cookies, teachers and janitors would be pissed about the party atmosphere, and absolutely no work would get accomplished.  This was quite similar to what my wife witnessed on that day.

Returning to the hotel room two hours late, and after she had previously informed me, via e-mail, of this sacred dress code, I could only assume she had found someone new to love.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  She was merely forced to be the judge and jury of the office decoration campaign.  Someone was to be honored for how well they decorated their cubicle.  (I’m not shitting any of you)  I believe there were eighty cubicles to be judged.

It made my day in the hotel room feel much more simple and boring.  All I was required to do was crap and puke.  I’m no stranger to either.

By the way, she noticed I was accidentally wearing a red t-shirt on that day.  It was actually a crimson shirt representing Washington State University, meaning:

Just wait until next year.

 

 

What Day is This?

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Roaming the streets of India can sometimes be a bit unnerving.  It can also be funny.  White guys become confused with the time and days in India.  We don’t know if it’s Hare Christmas, Easter, or Dinner Time….(that’s my favorite holiday).  I asked a wonderfully nice Hindu, “What day is this?”  Her response.  “Yesterday”.  I actually have this on film.  Who’s the idiot in this country?

Looking for my wife one day, I asked what street I was on.  The response was “yes”.  I felt compelled to ask another question.  “Where am I”?  Response:  “yes”.  They speak the English language, but they don’t hear the English language.  Neither do I.

I don’t blame them.

Stop Looking at Me (a trip to the zoo)

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Walking through the streets of India, I believe the white man is recognized as someone going to the zoo.  It’s sad.  Everywhere we go, we wish to fit in.  I do enjoy experiencing anything new, but sometimes, you get that strange feeling you are not wanted.  You laugh too much.  Your hat and jeans make you look pretentious and borderline offensive, your hair is dirty blonde, you walk on the wrong side of the dirt, and you ask too many questions.  This is when you should know it’s time to leave the party.  At the zoo, I believe the animals appreciate your presence and affection for about five minutes, then wish you to leave.  Quite understandable.

In India, when anyone of our color shows up, we are initially a novelty item.  One of those trinkets you purchase for three dollars and seventy three cents, only to enjoy it for about ten minutes.  Then you get tired of it and send it to someone in another part of the planet so they can get tired of it too.  Nevertheless, it’s out of your sight and quietly out of your mind.

Colors, pictures, smells, sounds and sights resonate through our television and texting senses.  We forget touch.  That’s when it becomes scary.  If you see an animal on television, you think it’s cute.  When you touch one at the zoo,  sometimes, they get a bit agitated.  And, they should.  We are trespassing on their property.  We are invading their space.  It seems fun for about two hours, but you sense when it’s time to leave or retreat to the hotel.

Visiting a developing country is not always fun and games.  I look at people and smile.  Sometimes, they smile back, but other times they look at me with distain, wishing for me to leave.   That’s why I’m not the one going to the zoo.  Rather, I’m the one in the zoo.  The stares consume you.

Initially, I thought I was the one going to the zoo in India.  I was peering, taking pictures, using a camera in disbelief, ………..and then I noticed I wasn’t at the zoo, I was in the zoo.  I was the one maintaining the funny voice making them laugh at me.  I was the one wearing funny clothes making them chuckle.  I was the one they wanted to take a flight, back to where I belong.

It’s time to go home.