Author Archives: Ben Gannon

Remembering the Alley

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For those of you who know me, I wrote something almost a year ago about an alley. For me, it provided meaning, substance, and an unworthy completion to this world.  Luckily, and happily, I’ve lived another year to see it again.

I can still see the alley, but not from my room.  I wish for it to remain in my thoughts and dreams.  My wife, Brittney, and I are staying at the same place I found my fortune in peace one year ago, and she told me to visit Cricket Alley once again. I wish my sister, Maggie, and my brother, Tom, and so many friends could visit.   They can’t.  I can’t.  Sometimes, you don’t wish for good sequels, because they don’t come true.  Rather, you dream about them, only to believe the second one is that much better.

Rocky Two was ok.  Jaws Two stunk.  India Jones, although entertaining, compared to the first, was The Temple of Doomed. I took a peek at our Alley today, and I knew it was meant for One sacred day. I left our alley alone.  There are no sequels in India.

Ben

Immortality in India

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Three days of sickness in India makes one wish to be safe in a hospital anywhere but India.  We leap to conclusions while serving time in the bathroom.  “I’ll never eat again!!!  I’ll never drink again!!”  Typical eating and drinking hangover phrases. For those three days, I’d pretty much written my will, cashed in my chips and called those I love to say “goodbye”.  Today, I’ve never felt better and I’ve figured it out.  If you drink the India Cool Aid, you develop an understanding of the India Cool Aid.  Suffering for three days is much like penance.  “If you eat our food and survive for three days, you are allowed to stay for an additional thirteen days, and enjoy yourself because the worst is behind you.”

My brother, Steve, an immortal, taught me something about getting sick when fishing on the open sea.  It also applies to visiting India.  In India, you are always waiting to get sick.     If someone jumps on a boat, thinking they will be tossing their breakfast from here to there, well that’s what will happen.  With this mind set, you are, inevitably, going to get sick.  Steve, in the holiest of words once said, “Drink a bunch of beer, throw up while you’re catching a fish, and keep fishing, you pansy.  Your mind shouldn’t be worried about your stomach.  Your mind should be worried about other things like having a good time!  WOOOOOOO!”  I’m just quoting that from my brother, Steve’s, Bible.

After those three days of illness, I really have felt exceptionally better.  I’m having fun with my fellow Chennai brothers, eating anything I want, not wishing to die or provide a will and testament, and having a great time. Lessons sometimes follow pain.  Ultimately, with certain sacrifices, those lessons should remain fun.

In the name of the Father, Son, The Holy Sprit, and Steve…….Amen

A Guide for Traveling Simpletons (me)

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Do you remember those educational films we watched in elementary school regarding etiquette in the classroom, cafeteria, playground, or bathroom?  Perhaps you’re not old enough to recall these, especially if you don’t know what a projector is.  These films were highly acclaimed short movies, including scripts displaying Steven Spielberg type quality. They made you want to be a well behaved boy or girl at Pastywood Elementary in any white picket fenced neighborhood throughout the country. Those films were both brilliant and quite entertaining.  Six, seven and eight year olds were held captive, I mean captivated by these dingy, gray screened masterpieces during the course of about one half of a delightful hour.  However, I’m a bit upset today with these productions, although maintaining profound reverence for them, because they never provided one for traveling abroad.  Here’s a script I will present for students all over the USA, hopefully enhancing their global travels.

(Only requiring narration from a man or woman, there is no dialogue from the actors, other than mouthing words)  In order to properly get a kick out of this, you must be 30 years of age or older and use the corny voices of the narrators..while using your imagination as to how stupid these actors were made to look…….here we go…….10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  ….projection scramble…..and action.

Look, there’s Ben and his wife Brittney packing for a long trip to India.  See the smiles on their faces.  They look healthy and happily married.

Once fully packed, Ben and Brittney sadly say their goodbyes to their dogs, Jack and Etta.  Oops, don’t forget cats, Jazz, Lola, and Grandpa Dennis.  (insert narrator chuckle) Doesn’t this seem like one big happy family?  Off to the Airport.

Before entering the airport, they take one last look to see if they have their passports, plenty of reading material for a 22 hour flight, and Brittney’s plastic flask containing only three ounces of liquid.  Be careful, if you take more than that, those squirrels of authority figures may confiscate it.

Uh oh, here comes the strip search.  Look at how well behaved Ben and Brittney are while being subjected to such ridiculous measures.  They take it in stride and are prepared for flying.

Ben and Brittney ate a hearty meal prior to taking the flight because, “ouch”, airplane food can sometimes be scary, kids……..almost as much as the flight.  They seem to be taking all the steps necessary for a fun and safe flight, minus the scary food.

Twenty hours into the flight and, “wow”, they’ve almost made it.  Brittney looks like she can see the finish line, but, “hmm”, Ben has a strange look in his eyes.  Looks like twenty hours is far too long for flying without food for Ben.  Take a good long look at Brittney’s gesture towards her husband while he suggests such nonsense. (overacting with a scowl and shake of her head) Seems to me, the wife may be the one with the most common sense in THIS family.

After finishing his inflight meal, by the look on Ben’s face, I’d say he made a poor decision, wouldn’t you, kids?

Uh oh, look at that. Considering those hand gestures, well it seems as though Ben’s recognizing just what a fool he’s been.  No, those looks from side to side are not just to peer at his pretty wife or stare at the foreign fellow sitting next to him.  Rather, Ben’s clearly looking for a restroom sign before the fasten your seatbelt sign comes on.  Ding.  Remember, safety first.

Exiting the plane, even with that grimace on his face, it looks like Ben will make it to the proper place of doing what all of us sometimes have to do.  Now, he just has to make it to the hotel.

Upon checking into the hotel, the happy couple doesn’t look as happy as before, do they?  Brittney seems agitated, almost as though she wants to pick a fight with her silly husband.  That wouldn’t be a good start to this trip, would it?  They have to be in India for 16 days.

Why is Ben clutching his stomach while walking to find their room?  That’s right, he has to go good potty.  Well, Ben sure must be a lucky traveler, because he makes it to the room without an accident.  However, his raising a fist in triumph is only bad Karma for what is to come of the next three days.

Whoa! Brittney should be polite and turn up the volume on that television set, because Ben’s heading off to the bathroom again.  As you will learn, sound travels well in a small hotel room.

Oh no, Ben is now washing his hands with tap water!  That’s a no no in India.  Now he looks as though brushing his teeth is a good idea.  Don’t grab your toothbrush, Ben, unless you use bottled water to rinse out your mouth.  Poor, uneducated Ben looks like he’s made another vital error.

Ben’s mouth opening and closing in a fetal position like a fish out of water are not those of one talking or singing.  Those are referred to as groans.  We’ll speak more of those noises when we next approach, “The Guide to Deep Sea Fishing”, subtitled, “Just because You’re Fishing, Doesn’t Mean You have to be Puking”.

Spending the next three days in bed, amongst one other more familiar place close by, should we feel sorry for Ben?  No, because he didn’t follow the simple rules of traveling abroad.

(Most of this is relatively true.)

 

Characters and Character: Shayne (the Wing it Master)

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This is not an obituary.  At least I hope it’s not.  That would be really embarrassing.  The fine man I’m writing about is, to my infinite knowledge, alive and still kicking peoples’ asses with his boots.

Many fabulous names and characters float through the sky as though they should be fictional.  This is, indeed, non fiction, making it that more special knowing this fabulous character who has fabulous character.

I don’t know how old I was when I met him.  I don’t know how old he was when we crossed paths.  He is the father of two friends of mine, Mike and Tracy.  His name was and still is Shayne.  His last name is Wing.  I often thought, “What story book did this guy appear in and how is he an actual super hero of mine?”

Allow me to describe this character with character.  Shayne Wing is a Viet Nam Veteran.  He served our country with terrific courage, and went further while serving his wonderful wife, Shirley.  He’s been a terrific father, perhaps a good husband, (that’s nobody’s business) a man of valor and quite genuinely, a friend to my brother, Tom, and me.

Shayne Wing stood for many things. He believed in his country and fought in circumstances I can’t even fathom.  He encouraged his sons to be good men.  They are.  He dominated youngsters on the basketball court which he built in their backyard with his own two middle fingers and a pair of cowboy boots.  But, there is one thing Shayne Wing could do which is more amazing than any character I have known or faced.  He was the only man capable of discouraging a young man known as Me from playing basketball.  This guy would work ten hours in cowboy boots, come home, not take off his cowboy boots, and proceed to demoralize the neighborhood boys playing on his court by scoring more points than all of us on that court.

During the offseason of baseball and football, the neigborhoodlams would gather at Shayne and Shirley’s court to play some basketball.  Shayne would eventually arrive and teach us some lessons on the court.  Quite naive, and watching basketball in an era where you witnessed a Bird in Boston, some Magic in Los Angeles, and a Doctor in Philadelphia,   a young man trying to emulate their moves and shots didn’t rise up to the guy in the boots.  That’s why I focussed on some things I was decent at……baseball and football.

Football season is officially over.  Baseball is on the way, but I still love the game of basketball……when it matters.  Shayne Wing made me appreciate what really matters.  It’s when you know a guy will fight for your safety, work an honest day, and provide enough for a family while having the energy to come home and play basketball with the neighborhood gang of misfits.  I hope he still has those cowboy boots, because they were made for shooting.

Ben

 

Twas the SuperBowl

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Twas the night before the SuperBowl, and all through the house, all creatures were snoring because they were soused.  The bottles were scattered by the chimney with despair, in hopes that St. Gambler soon would be there.

The people all passed out were snug on the floor, while prophetic visions of money pranced upon them once more.  And one dog in a ‘kerchief’ and another dog in my lap, had just settled our betting brains down, knowing soon they would get a proper betting slap.

When out on the deck, there arose such a clatter, no one could stand up to acknowledge what was the matter.  Somehow, someone managed to stagger to the window quite unclear, only in hopes to cure the hangover with a beer.

This person could not see quite clear, but he could hear a voice coming from near.

“On Tom, On Greg, On Patrick and Craig.  On Mr. Russell, oh, why must I beg?”

The voice came from a mysterious soul.  Or, it could have came from just some random A-hole.

Those beckoned were gamblers waiting for the sun to rise, but inevitably, we all knew we’d hear their cries.  The cries would begin with Madonna’s half time beating, but the cries would continue with no proper living room seating.

Most of these friendly gamblers in the room were betting on a man named Brady.  There was another stranger in the room who looked a bit shady.  This man was taking their bets with a nod, and most were certain he was just a fraud.  There were others betting on someone named Manning.  This ensured the stranger that his wife could afford tanning.

There were chips, chops and dip, a chicken wing or fifty, but to describe what happens next, can delicately be described as not nifty.

Those friendly gamblers would eventually lose all their money.  This didn’t place them at great odds with their honey.  Remotes were tossed aimlessly with no care, several gamblers fell on the floor just pulling their hair.

The stranger left with a pile of cash, and he was the only one who didn’t need it stashed. He strolled back to his house with this satchel of dough, presented it to his wife, whose name happened to be Flo.  Of course, with that name, clearly she worked at a diner, and with that money, life would certainly get finer.  Yet, although realizing that money is not the root of evil, sometimes the “love” of money makes you act like a weasel.  This is precisely why this woman named Flo, could feel in her head her brain starting to grow.  She decided to proclaim with great clarity, “I think I’ll give this satchel of cash to a worthy charity.”

Her husband understood (sort of), and slowly exited the room, threw a few F bombs and picked up a broom.  He knew that was the only way he could honestly make money, and that was just perfectly fine with his honey.

Be wise, my gambling friends, on this day.

Have a fun day thinking about the SuperBowl at church this Sunday.  And although his wife, Gazelle, wishes for you to pray for him, I believe Tom Brady has enough of everything.   Rooting, I believe, should be kept separate from praying.

 

 

Quotes and Blowing Smoke

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Literature carries a dynamic following.  I love reading, but I just can’t handle people quoting established authors these days.  It doesn’t make me feel inferior; it’s just simply not inspiring to me and a tad annoying.  Shakespeare is too confusing, Chaucer once made me throw up, and Emily Dickenson died in an attic before being recognized by many as one of the world’s most prolific and uplifting poets.  She once wrote, “My life is a loaded gun.”  That really motivated me to show up to poetry class the next day when I didn’t have a car, there was a Washington State University, “Thank God there’s a Snowstorm” day, and I didn’t own a gun.  My professor, who required us students to write a ten page essay analyzing a three line poem may have had several caps popped in her behind if God didn’t create that storm.  God was a bit worried about her English teaching welfare.  She canceled class that day.

Quotes are actually great if they do inspire you to quit something.  Mark Twain was a pretty sharp guy when he said something like, “Golf is a terrific way to ruin a nice walk.”  That’s probably a misquote, but it saved me a ton of money, and being forced to purchase collared shirts I don’t feel should be required for walking on grass and utilizing incessant profanity.  I’m so glad my beloved mother never went golfing with me.  She would have been mortified to hear my F bombs explode and echo throughout the county.

Seriously, I do enjoy quotes from the Holy Bible.  They have honestly inspired me to try to live a better and more productive life.  It’s been awhile since I’ve attended Mass, but I know there were some great lines in that Book.  Other than the burning in Hell parts, Sunday Mass always made my Sunday waffles taste that much better.

I have a few quotes of my own, perhaps influenced by 15 years of teaching 11, 12 and 13 year youngs.  I hope they don’t offend you, or maybe I do, because it’s reality.

(These are in no order of importance and some of these are from pedestrians I have conversed with in bars)

“There is such a thing as a stupid question.”  I’ve asked a thousand of them and been on the receiving end of a thousand of them.

“In an interview, never bring your flask.”

“When teaching a class, play as many favorites as you deem necessary….that way, the unfavorites may eventually learn that the ones showing up on time, turning in their assignments and showing respect for peers and authority figures eventually pays off in life.”

“Never spray Formula 409 on your husband’s BLT.  He will divorce you.”

“Count all your chickens before they’re hatched.  It may save you a lot of money and a 13th child.”

“Don’t ever begin a paper with, Hello, my name is Russ, and I hope I get an A on this paper.”  This will result in your teacher not reading the remainder of your paper and giving you an F.

“Don’t ever conclude a paper with, I hoped you liked my paper, please give me a good grade”……because your teacher won’t make it to the end of your paper.  He’s at a bar talking to others about the frustrations of teaching.

“Do be creative.  If a teacher assigns an assignment pertaining to the solar system, and you have to write about a specific planet and how you could convince others to vacation on that planet, write something as follows……..What happens in Uranus, stays in Uranus.  That’s an automatic A+.”  This actually happened to one of my dear friends.

“Praying internally is a magnificent ritual, especially if it’s for others or a passing grade.  Praying out loud sometimes makes people think you are crazy and potentially results with you losing friends, family members and football fans.”

“A wise man once said, offend as many as you can.  That way you don’t have to call or text too many people.”  (I think I just offended  a few friends and members of my family with the praying quote.  That will save me a few birthday greetings)

“Your mother is usually right, and your father usually smokes………………crack.”

“A Christmas Tree is a beautiful thing to waste money on…….much like the Super Bowl.  A brain is overrated, much like Christmas Trees and Super Bowls.”

“Pray in the Masses and for the masses; we all need it.  Amen.”

I almost forgot: “When drinking, always call the one you love.  They really appreciate that at 2 in the morning.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gamblogging and Guilt

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(This may only make sense to people dumb enough to gamble)

Guilty of many items, I’ll start with a few.  I am guilty of stealing whisky from a brother.  I am guilty of stealing lines and being influenced by wonderful movies such as Paint Your Wagon, The Cowboys, and Jaws.  I’ve counted the ways to cheat at cards.  I’ve been guilty of surviving Saturday drunkenness and Sunday sloth.  Forgive me.

Those are my confessions for this morning, but as I read the Bible Dictionary of Sinning, I     see that gambling is indeed on the list of mistakes leading us into a place so fondly known as Hell.  Hell is sitting at a Blackjack table waiting for the devil to give you a twenty, only to witness Satan deliver himself five small cards adding up to twenty one.  Lucifer also has four younger brothers sitting at the table taking all the face cards, thus keeping your chances of winning at a minimum.  It’s a lose lose deal, much like betting on the Super Bowl.

The Patriots are favored over the New York Giants by a few points and a kicker this year. That’s precisely why I won’t bet on either team.  It’s that half point, known as “the hook”, or a half player, known as the “kicker” always screwing up your gamble.  This is one of many reasons I no longer gamble.  The “hook” is how Vegas always steals your dough.  If one million drunks bet on the Giants, and one million vagrants bet on the Patriots, Vegas collects ten percent either way.  A person named Vegas wins, and an earthling eventually loses.

Gambling is very similar to writing.  If only fifty percent of the reading population enjoys someone’s writing style, the writer still wins, because the writer collects the juice, even after being demoralized for ten seconds receiving horrible reviews.  Let’s look at this from a baseball stance.  If you are successful five out of ten times, you are not only in the Hall of Fame, you will be Hall of Famous for ever, even if you strike out those other five at bats.

The immoral to this ridiculous banter is as follows:  Be the Bookie, or the Writer…..not the Gambler or the Editor.

If you do gamble, bet on yourself, not a team or a dealer you have no control over.  Unless, of course, you are betting a friend or brother a steak dinner over a football game. In that case, you all win.

 

 

Snowpocolypse Now

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Living in Seattle, driving can become a little tricky, and one might say at times, maddening enough to send any calm and cool pacifist into a rage of gun wielding fury.  This is on any normal day, depending on when and where you are commuting and eventually committing a crime.  Toss in a snowflake or two, sprinkle in a few hundred thousand people never having driven in snow, perhaps from other countries, and it results in bedlam.  Or, if you will, as some weather analysts are describing it, (cue the music on any news station in Seattle)…..bum bum bum, “Snowmageddon”.

Refusing to play the old card of gently placing weathermen, or meteorologists under a bus, or a zamboni, I will do otherwise, because I find their job to be quite compelling and challenging, or most of the time, just stupid.  Mother Nature has a sense of humor for a reason.  She gets tired of people predicting the weather when, on an off night, maybe coming off a hangover, or perhaps involved in a marital dispute with Father Barstool, she just doesn’t have the time or patience to grant snow days for poor uneducated children and lazy teachers who look forward to those days more than Christmas.  (I was once one of those teachers)

I will, however, toss a few, “on site reporters” under my zamboni.  They are eerily similar to golf analysts using adjectives not necessarily fitting the occasion.  When someone makes an outstanding putt, it is not “courageous”.  When it is 32 degrees outside, the conditions aren’t “brutal”, especially when my wife, two dogs and I are wearing sweatshirts and ball caps tossing snowballs at our snow dogs in the back yard amidst this “brutal” day.  The word “cold” and the phrase, “My ears are a bit numb” seem more appropriate.  Additionally, when these reporters were using the word “brutal”, if they used that term around someone visiting from Great Falls, Montana where it is 20 below,  they might find themselves getting a shovel bounced off their exaggerating onions.  Twenty below!  Now, that’s brutal.  A hole in one!  Still not courageous, but quite amazing.  Those are my analogies for the day, but I must leave you with my last bit of weather rage.

On site reporters get tingly, (I don’t wish to use inappropriate language) when educating us simpletons regarding this bizarre white substance floating to the earth.

On Site Reporter:  “If I can just get you to pan the camera down here by my feet, this wet, but clearly visible flake of nature is referred to as snow.  It happens when Mother Nature has diarrhea, spends too much time in the bathroom, and doesn’t have time to turn up the cloud thermostat.  It also stays around longer than rain.  Rain is just Father Barstool pissing on everyone in Seattle who drives a BMW.  If it continues to snow, re-write your wills and pray that there is a Heaven.  Back to you, Mark.”

You learn about snow when you are about two years old, and most toddlers are not watching the news.  Rather, they are watching more important, and relevant shows like “Sponge Bob, I think I Crapped My Square Pants”.   Or, hopefully, they are out sledding with their parents, and the father is teaching him or her how to place a rock in a snowball, just in case they require some heavy artillery when facing the neighborhood enemies in a friendly snowball fight.

Oh yes, and by the way, you idiots, if you don’t know that it’s a little more safe to slow down in these conditions, you deserve to be in a ditch, as long as nobody gets hurt but you.

(This snow plow blog was inspired by my public relations manager, Vic Parcher, who is currently marketing a line of t-shirts well known in my office and certain bars as “Thrown Under the Bus Club………Are You a Member?”.  I, Ben Gannon, am the acting C.E.O.  If you’d like to purchase one, as of yet, you can’t.  We’re working on that, but if you’d like to observe one, for only five dollars and five minutes of viewing, you can witness one of these shirts encased in 3 inches of bulletproof glass at our home.  People in wheelchairs get in for 4 dollars and 50 cents, but can only stay for 4 minutes and 50 seconds.)

 

 

 

 

Brady Who?

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Who is this Tom Brady Character, and why was God hugging him after last night’s game against the Broncos?  The only two things I know about this Brady guy is that girls think he is super good looking, and he admits to being a non Virgin.

Tebow finally got laid last night.

THEE END………..Thank God

Theology of Sports

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Alright, I promised myself I wouldn’t write about this subject because it is becoming as boring and intriguing as Charlie Sheen.  Charlie Sheen isn’t winning.  Tim Tebow is.  Who is this God he’s praying to and where can I rotary dial his number?  Other than finding me a wonderful bride, He hasn’t answered a Hell of a lot of my phone calls.  I should learn how to text Him.

You know who is losing?  Me.  I’ve lost more money than I have ever made betting against that guy.  Crud.  Now, I find myself rooting for him, somehow believing in a different God or Jesus I still haven’t met yet.  I don’t even know what his denomination is, but it seems to be working.  Thinking it may be Seventh Day Adventist, I gave up pork one day.  That didn’t work.  I prayed for my wife and I to not have an argument on that day.  We did, and it was about chewing gum with your mouth open.  I gave up on that religion.  I then moved on to the Mormon belief seeking some form of salvation.  So, it seemed appropriate to give up drinking for that day.  Didn’t work.  My wife and I had another argument about UPS Vs. Fed Ex.  These were important discussions.

In my youth, I learned about this crazy religion  known as Catholicism.  This required you to attend church on Sundays.  It also allowed you to drink, fight, swear, and then feel sorry about what you did last week, thus making everything A OK.   It seemed the perfect match for me.

However, believing in this religion, I also questioned it.  I didn’t enjoy singing, so I would ask why I was forced to sing the Lord’s Prayer during the service, rather than reciting it with conviction.  Not receiving a valid answer, I just annoyed fellow parishioners with my God Awful voice.

As a boy loving football, I prayed for three items on Sunday.  And, I’m being serious.  I prayed for those less fortunate, I prayed for my family, and I prayed so desperately for the Priest to keep the sermon short so I could make it home to watch the Seahawks, or the Bears at 10 o’clock that morning, because I HAD to watch every second of those games while my dad was making waffles.  The Seahawks and the Bears made me question my faith.  The waffles were so good, it made me think, “Maybe there is a God”.

Continuing my faith in the Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit, I placed myself in an awkward situation during a baseball game.  I was facing a left handed pitcher in college who threw upwards of nine thousand miles per hour according to my plastic helmet and slow bat speed.  Fearing for my health, and not wishing to embarrass myself in front of girls who dig ballplayers, I stepped out of the batter’s box, and gave myself the sign of the cross.  The umpire said and did something very memorable that day.  He stopped the game and asked me to step out of the batter’s box.  This was unusual, but, since I knew this man, I sort of sensed what was going to come out of his mouth, other than “Strike Three!”  He said, “Did you just make the sign of the cross in the middle of a game”.  I said, “yeah”.  He replied, “God ain’t whatchin this game…..He’s got better things to do”.  I proceeded to strike out, but went on to have a terrific season praying for others, and my head instead of a base hit.

Whatever Tim Tebow is doing seems to be working, and I wish him the best, unless I am betting against him……..and evidently someone from above who is taking a break from disease and catastrophe to watch that remarkable man win games on Sunday, well, I wish him or her the best as well.  Hell, He or She can watch the game with me, as long as they like chicken wings.  I’ll even buy.  It will be my moment of tithing.

Roll Tithing,

Ben