Author Archives: Ben Gannon

Cock Tales and Dreamers

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Priding myself on writing moderately decent introductions, I don’t quite know how to begin this flog.  Please forgive me, but allow me to try……..because it’s kind of funny, yet crosses some boundaries within my writing.

As most intelligent earthlings throughout the Milky Way know, the movie “Cocktail” is one, if thee not worst and most talked about movies of all time.  I feel embarrassed just writing this.  I feel further embarrassment because I watched this hilarious film, in its’ entirety with a girl who actually thought it was good.  This girl did not become my wife. Once again, humor is far more attractive than Tom Cruise.  That’s one of the many reasons I married Britt, who can bust my gut better than Joe Frazier could hit Ali.  She thought the movie was simply ridiculous . I then decided who may make a terrific mate for me, much like a primate chooses a  wonderful spouse.  It wasn’t the beauty, the brain, the love she provides,( she possesses all), it was more important matters such as if she liked or disliked movies such as “I must be on cracktail to like this movie”.  In my mind, if she loves the movie, “Cocktail” other than making fun of it, she’s out.  If she likes”Jaws”, “The Sting”, and “Meatballs”…..she’s in.

I am trying to be delicate this morning writing this blog because I worry about offending people regarding the ultimate conclusion.  Oh, screw it.  When Britt does not wish to have relations and I do,  she says something funny, or does a goofy dance rendering me, or it, useless.  It works every time and I love it…..sort of.

Other than writing about cocks, I wish to write of my dreams. I dream of being a writer.  When I dream of reading the reviews on the back cover of my book, I don’t imagine reading things like, “captivating from beginning to end”, “endlessly thrilling”, “fabulously provocative”, “diabolically riveting”, “tragically fascinating”, “courageously unique”, “magnificently brutal….I give it five stars for brutality points”, and “Why did I read the Bible when I could have read this shit?”.  No.  I wish it to read, ” You made me laugh so hard I couldn’t get a boner”.

Seattle/New Yank Times

Disclaimer:  If I offended anyone following my blog, (especially Britt’s wonderful parents and random family members)  please understand that semi clean humor can ease some of our pain.

Anonymous

Shakespeare is a pain in the asspeare

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Although recognizing the writing brilliance of Shakespeare, I become offended by him lacking the knowledge to write for dimwits like me.  The toilet is a place to read for 5 or, like my friend, Jon, perhaps 10 minutes.  It’s not a venue for thinking.  It’s for laughing.

“Brevity is the essence of wit”.

The end.

Ben

Wow!  someone just informed me that Shakespeare is dead.  I guess that tells you a little bit about my English degree from Washington State University.  Darn it.

Crisco

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After the age of about 10, I  finally acknowledged bathing, asking mom for some clothes which weren’t my brothers’ and cutting my hair was a good idea.  It was not just my coming of age, but a roaring boomtown year for the Gannon family.  Our father, Rodney Edward Gannon, was witnessing not only the evolution of Ben, but additionally, the evolution of his wallet.  Finally recognizing he possessed money in it which could be used for more items than just 20 gallons of milk per week and two dollar steaks cooked on Hillbilly High while being burnt to a crisp by my wonderful mother, Margaret, dad bought something enhancing our memories forever.  He and mom, along with my brother in law, Denny, and his wife, my sister Mary, purchased a motorhome, or more appropriately referred to as, with a family of 13 children, “a traveling circus”.

I’ll be honest, not once did all 13 of us gather into this bucket.  Many of my older siblings were married with children and living all over the planet.  However, we did manage to pack in a fair portion of in-laws, nephews, nieces, bitches, A Holes, and ne’er-do-wells.  The last word in the previous sentence was commonly used to describe our family.  At the age of ten, I thought it may be a term of affection, not knowing what the actual definition was.  I could, however, use it in a sentence after hearing it several times, “Oh those Gannons, besides the father and mother, are a bunch of ne’er-do-wells”.  After opening a dictionary for the first time, I discovered the word wasn’t quite so affectionate.  The true definition is as follows: “an idle, worthless person; a person who is ineffectual, unsuccessful, or completely lacking in merit; good for nothing”.  Fortunately, that is not what this story is about, and within this story, I shall prove to you why we really weren’t, and I’d like to confidently say, aren’t ne’er-do-wells.

Traveling to the great rural city of Canada…..oops…Britt just informed me it’s a nation…. we camped for several glorious days one summer.  By we, I should clarify the people, depending on my skewed memory, present on this journey.  I feel as though I should immortalize these people as though we were on the Space Shuttle.  Considering our large family, it was a small gathering of loving siblings: Dad, Mom, Denny, Mary, Maggie, Greg, Tom, Monica, and the most important of us all, my nephew, Thee legendary Chris Hilsabeck.

While setting up camp at a place which may or may not have been called “Sheep Crick”, we realized that although most of us, provided there was a snow storm or hurricane, could possibly survive sleeping in the motorhome.  However, equally recognizing each persons’ personality, we thought it may be prudent to set up some tents for the few willing to sleep on canvas or dirt. Much like the Donner Party, I believe my father understood that if we collectively slept in the motorhome, even with ample supplies, we would still probably eat each other purely out of spite.

The process of setting up camp, tents or a sleeping bag on dirt requires a few important details and strategies:  impatience, the innate ability to argue, and complete disregard for infants and toddlers who may or may not be in the motorhome.

I can’t really confirm or deny which family member discovered this, but someone found my two year old nephew, Chris, stuck in the steering wheel of the motorhome.  While outside debating who would be forced to sleep with dad in a tent (the man snored louder than beagles bark and farted louder than a whale can sing) Chris, even at the age of two, brilliantly, thought the idea of crawling through a steering wheel might possibly be fun, and perhaps draw the attention of these people; aunts, uncles, moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas who were clearly far less mature than him.

When we found him hovering like superman over the dashboard, it was like an Irish Potato Famine Fire Drill in that vehicle.  We simply could not rescue him.  I didn’t really give a crap about his steering wheel incarceration, in fact, I was getting a pretty good kick out of  this situation along with his other aunts and uncles on board.  My thoughts of his father, Denny, driving his two year old son stuck in a steering wheel five hours to Spokane, Washington was just way too funny.  For about a half hour, I was rooting for him to remain in that wheel, just entertaining the notion (in my feeble mind) of this actually occurring.  Now, that would have made a good story.

Sadly, someone found a bucket of the ancient Chinese secret for releasing a child from a steering wheel: Crisco.  Upon applying the lubricant, he was indeed freed from this circular prison, and although mentally scarred for life, he lives happily in Spokane with his beautiful wife, Missy, and their two children who requested to remain anonymous and are not allowed in motorhomes.

Crisco should have created a new and improved advertising campaign for their product reading:  Great for providing excess calories in your fried chicken, AND, your children will never be stuck in a steering wheel again.

I have very few morals, but if there is one to this ridiculously true (I think) story, I’d say Gannons are actually good for something, even if it’s just getting a person out of a steering wheel.

Honestly,

Benjamin J. Gannon

Trick or Treats (Big Gulp and the Bumble)

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While maintaining the summertime theme, this title means absolutely zero regarding Halloween.  I’ll save that for my November blog.  Treats are reserved for those desiring Ding Dongs, Zingers, Wang Doodlers, Twinkies, Pong Paks, and Slappy Sams…..hold on……I may be confusing treats with fireworks. On the flip flop side, there are tricks.  Only one should be reserved for ballplayers!  AND IT’S NOT TREATS!

Let me calm down and explain.  My brother, Tom, and I coached a little league ball team one, and only one summer, for the tricks, not the treats. Coerced (manipulated) by Tom, I accepted the job (his son, Quinn, was a member of the team).  It was difficult denying his offer of no pay, jalapeno heat and pissed off parents knowing zippydadooda NOTHING about baseball.

Showing up at the ballpark two hours before the game, Tom, Russ (my pitching coach comrade), and I would prepare the field.  Russ was our non paid residential good person  preparing the mound for pitchers.  Preparing a mound requires far more time than raking and pounding dirt while sweating profusely.  That’s the easy part.  The hard part is keeping kids with dirt bikes trying to do bunny hops off the prepared pitcher’s mound.  We volunteered our time quite gracefully and enjoyed a few moments over those few hot months.  By a few, I think I mean two, or perhaps, what felt like, five. God Bless our souls.

That summer of coaching could best be characterized by the trinity of fans.  We had the Bumble, Big Gulp, and one other genuinely good man, named Earl, sponsoring  one of our players within the “Big Brother Organization”.  As a spectator and father, Big Gulp’s secondary concern was to bitch and moan about our coaching and where his son should be in the batting order or pitching rotation.  His primary concern was to drink an endless supply of Big Gulps during the game, thus increasing 7-11’s stock drastically in the 1990’s.  Luckily for us coaches, it was nice that he could stick something like a straw, 64 ounces of cola or his foot in his mouth, sparing us from additional whining.

Tom, Russ and I were growing weary of this fellow, but when recognizing someone actually has something, mentally, wrong with them, you make a conscience decision not to beat the hell out of them.  One fine day, ruined by having to coach little league baseball, Tom received a phone call from Big Gulp.  Big Gulp (he reads like a comic book hero) gave notice to Tom that he would not be attending the day’s game, but wanted his son to be the starting pitcher.  Diplomatically, Tom said there was a chance his son may start but wished to speak with me, the assistant coach,before making the decision.  None too pleased with Tom’s non guarantee,  Big Gulp provided meaningless statistics in an attempt to solidify his argument.  Without succumbing to persuasion, and out of curiosity, Tom side swiped the conversation by asking Big Gulp why he wouldn’t be in the stands, or grass that day.  Turns out, Big Gulp had an Elvis Presley impersonation gig that day out of town.  We stopped hating him and felt sorry for him and his child from that day forth.  It did explain some things……such as the side burns.  That was one of the enjoyable moments.

Photo courtesy of Washington State Dept of Motor Vehicles and Licensing

Bumbles don’t really bounce.  The gentleman, or sidekick, perhaps band member of Big Gulp was a man we affectionately labeled “The Bumble”.  His son, equally as crappy as Big Gulp’s, also played on the team.  By play, I mean he wore a uniform and carried a bat.  The Bumble, however, was exceptionally nice, but maintained a gift of gabble, or babble.  Though maintaining his kindness and good sportsmanship, he simply never shut up.

Referencing “The Bumble”, only those thirsting for Rudolph, Charlie Brown, Frosty, and countless other 1970’s classics may remember.  The Bumble was introduced as a Yeti slash Sasquatch like creature haunting, in fact terrifying, bedrooms, closets and tinsel town themed animated Christmas neighborhoods.  That poor giant biped turned out to be a cute, cuddly, furry creature who no one really understood…..other than Tom and me…..until we met the real Bumble.

Humor is so medicinal.  Sometimes it comes without words.  It does arrive with hand or feet gestures, or even a smug grin acknowledging the ridiculousness of a situation.  Suffering through these baseball games, Tom, Russ, I and anyone within 100 miles of this ballpark yearned for something more than mere humor.   We sought relief.  Not from the heat or children who hadn’t tossed a ball before 10 years of age, let alone conception, we just wished to find some solace with summer.  The Bumble provided that solace one day when Tom looked at me and said, “Do you know who he looks like?”.  I replied, “Yeah, The Bumble”.  Tom and I both laughed and the summer felt like winter, without the storms, the ice, red noses and frozen fingers.  Once again, I loved baseball.

Coaching anything requires patience, knowledge, persistence, acceptance, sternness, and two or three straight jackets.  Representing the civilized world, Earl was one of the few members of the baseball and athletic community certifying why sports, humanity, and humility can coexist.

As an intimidating figure, one of which upon approaching Tom and me after a game, we collectively said, “Oh boy, here we go again.  How is this guy going to educate us about the sport of baseball?”  This man approached us, presented his hand, and said, in the most kind and genuine of ways, “Thank you… you have done a wonderful job”.  Acknowledging we hadn’t done a wonderful job, we exhaled relief knowing someone cared not just about baseball, but two or three cats taking time out of their schedule to coach the art of baseball.  This man who approached us was working full time and mentoring a young man who has turned out to be a wonderful adult.  I think that’s when we stopped bitching about summer.

Tom and I were speechless.  Simply, we replied, “You’re welcome”.

Formerly, I was going to bitch about the treats required by parents after a game.  Tom and I received a request to provide treats after the last game.  Our reply was, in a Gannonuttshell……”Negative”.

On a sideshow note,  regarding the appreciative and nice intimidating guy approaching Tom and me following the game……well, twelve years later, I married his daughter.  Isn’t baseball miraculous?  What a treat!

Summer here and there

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The end of summer is near.  How demoralizing.  Speaking from a teacher’s perspective, this is fabulously crucial to a mind fixated on three special months. Immortalizing summer is quite appropriate for the following posts.   In fact, for those of you who follow this post, I implore you to provide feedback on why summertime is so special.  Sadly, living in Seattle, we haven’t experienced a summer….not like the ones I remember.

Summer School was the primary reason I kept up my grades.  Summer School wasn’t summer cool.  Not being a terrific fan of studies, I continued turning in my papers on time while crossing my eyes and dotting my tees.  That’s the only way I could avoid the despicable thought of spending June, July, and August in a classroom.  It made perfect sense to me.  As dad stated, “If you don’t get the grades, you don’t get the baseball”. That was my motivation for finally learning how to cross my t’s and dot my i’s.

Not being solid enough to make the baseball gig work, I focused on less respectful occupations.  Ultimately, I became a teacher……..Why?:June, July and August.  (those who know me recognize the fact or fiction within this statement)

Camping, fishing, cross country trips, finally being forced to work through some agonizing summer heat….well, my summer memories are embedded in my mind, good, bad, or great, like the Royal Flush you can’t forget.

The following blogs will represent the summers my friends, enemies, neighbors, co-workers, may or may not have forgotten.

Transitions

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Realistically, after moving to a larger house (meaning more bathrooms) I must admit, I required some anxiety medication.

Expecting immediate results, my wife and I visited a voodoo psychiatrist.  Britt thought their potential could shatter science and save marriages.  Initially, I wasn’t too keen on the procedure.  Ultimately, I said, “F this noise!”.  Pain used to be a code of honor amongst my family and friends.  Now, it’s just an excuse for not to getting out of bed.

These pills required for assistance with anxiety maintained warnings.  After wearing contacts and glasses for over 25 years, I tend to misunderstand warnings, especially when not wearing glasses or contacts.  When blind and dizzy, the label read, “may cause drowsiness”.   With glasses, it stated, “may cause laziness”.

more to come…..to be continued…..see you tomorrow….  not that you care….

Travel Fatigue

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Staying in London, Britt and I have discovered one aspect conquering our journey to India.  London has terrific two ply toilet paper.  Other than this observation, sadly, without being a grinch or an Ebeneser Scrooge, our travel limit has reached its peak.

Yesterday, we spent the day in London, where I found the richness of the Lindsey Buckingham Palace far less rich than anything we observed in India.  Perhaps the sleep deprivation has skewed my attitude on everything.

Previously, I was going to name this blog, “Signs of Travel Fatigue: Divorce”.  Britt and I are now getting along quite nicely after I was a bit of an ass yesterday.  She is currently looking over my shoulder and asked me to kindly rephrase that last statement.  She thought, more appropriately, the statement should read, “I was a gigantic asshole”.

My dear sister, Mary, is notorious for meltdowns.  We all make fun of her for this.  It’s never a violent gun wielding rage, just a verbal tirade of her displeasure with society, and or family.  Unfortunately, I inherited some of Mary’s genes.   While not directing any of my anger toward Britt, I was merely unfulfilled with the transit system, the people and the food in the “Land of Royalty”.

Britt and I are still laughing and happily married, rejoicing the fact that we will be   returning home on Easter Sunday.  When arriving to our humble home, housing two dogs, two cats, a wonderful wife and one louse, it will be then, when I will be resurrected……just a little less than Christ.

India Reality

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Britt and I have both witnessed and observed such a wide variety of culture in India that, sometimes, the heart gets dizzy and outweighs the brain.  This is our last day in Chennai, and we are headed for London.  Maggie, one of my sick, I mean six sisters, would be loving to see the Royal Wedding. I won’t. She will also appreciate, I think, and as a practicing and well respected nurse, the difference between witnessing and observing.

Witnessing and observing are wildly different concepts.  We witness children playing in dirt and feel sorry for them.  We observe the look beyond their eyes and know they are, for some unfathomable reason, happy.

Sadly,here, the adult males don’t take too handsomely to white intruders.   During this stay, I guess I always had children to protect me.  This morning, I was saying my last goodbyes, or high fives to my cricket friends, when they started yelling, “go go go!”  I had my wallet in my pocket and was taking one last picture of my friends when several men approached me with disdain in their eyes.  Fortunately, I am much better at running than cricket.

You witness people participating in sports, their work, everyday life, but you observe their behavior while looking into their eyes.  It’s the first time I’ve been scared in India.  Unfortunately, the adult males, even with smiles and howdy doo’s on their faces don’t care for the white man.  I observed it from the very beginning, and tried to sway their attitude, but it’s hard to do that to a billion people.

Many of the adult males didn’t appreciate my laughter and smiles.  I could understand that and even reserved it when walking the streets.  However, I couldn’t contain it when playing with those children.

All they could do was witness me.  If they looked beyond my eyes, they would stop and say, “okay, this is a mere idiot just having fun in a country he knows nothing about.  Let’s not steal from him or kill him.”

I’m not dead, just still learning,

Ben

India: Cricket Alley

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While semi communicating in India via e-mail with my brother, Tom, he asked me if I had experienced anything here resembling the movie “Slumdog Millionaire”.  He was referring to the culture, not the television show representing nothing about this culture.  I couldn’t quite respond to Tom with a “yes” even after spending 7 days here.  Ironically, the very next day, Britt and I experienced something similar, yet this experience seemed far more powerful…..since it was reality.

Sarcasm and cynicism is in my blood.  For Gannons, it is sometimes our nourishment.   Without it, we tend to be far too emotional….sort of the “if I weren’t laughing, I’d be crying” scenario.  This is a ridiculous statement because we are all wildly fortunate.  Positively reinforcing this notion is witnessing the living standards here in India.

Within my writing and former blogs, I have commonly amused myself and others as well as offended some by making fun of India’s culture.   My simple writing is meant to entertain.  This particular blog is not meant to degrade any form of human existence, and it has no comedic significance.  Rather, it is an eye opening and closing, heartfelt, perhaps life changing recognition of how wonderful life is, whether you have everything or whether you have nothing.

After 7 days in Bangalore, Britt and I took a flight to Chennai, India, located on the Bay of Bengal.  In Bangalore, recognized as the garden spot of India, when mentioning our next destination of Chennai, people of Bangalore would cringe and say “very hot and stay in hotel”.  Considered one of the hottest and more poverty stricken cities in India, we knew, quite certainly, it may be a tremendously long 5 days.   Needless to say, our adventurous excitement level went from 1 to none.  However, with regard to the first day in Chennai, our expectations, most definitely for me, elevated from a level of none to love.

Flying from Bangalore to Chennai was a meager 40 minutes.  Passing through customs, security and rude humans required an additional three hours of anger, balanced with 4 hours of patience.  Britt and I handled it all beautifully (this will be another blog) and we arrived safely in Chennai.   My wife, Britt, seems to fear nothing when traveling abroad.  Therefore, I fear only some things: her life and mine.

Traveling an hour in a cab, suffering from pinching hot conditions, Britt located our hotel before the cab driver.  Always making me chuckle, my wife is capable of locating geological areas in a foreign country after being there for an hour before taxi drivers, living here for a thousand years, are able to do it in a thousand years.  I refer to it as her BPS. ( Brittney Positioning System )

As everyone knows, after traveling for 5 minutes or 5 days, it’s always a relief to check into the destination’s hotel.  Ours’ was no exception. It is fabulous, save for a few minor details:  North of the hotel is a slum.  West of the hotel is a slum.  South of the hotel is a slum.  And, East of the hotel, also a slum.  This became my paradise one sweltering evening.

Soon after checking into our hotel, I went to the window and, peering out of our third story room, I witnessed two scenes which most of us could only describe from a movie.  Changing my idiotic and offensive perspective on life as we think we know yet don’t know it, I removed the joking and the seemingly witty quips replacing them with silence.  For almost an hour, my observations occurring on this dirt ridden path enveloped me with interest and desired inclusion.

A boy, maybe 8 or 9, along with his sister, probably 6 or 7 were attempting to ride a bicycle for the first time without a father figure or brother to assist.  Britt looked at me and told me with her eyes I was not to interfere with what happens in this area, as told by security.

Six or Seven boys were participating in a Cricket game on the same dirt alley.  Rather than speaking to my wife with pleading eyes, I told her of the backyard wiffleball games Tom, Greg, Aaron, I and whomever wished to play in the neighborhood would participate in countless days when there wasn’t snow on the ground. This cricket scene reminded me of those fabulous days.  Britt still suggested, upon orders of  hotel monarchy, I should remain in the room.  Just then, I saw the young boy trying to ride a bike for the first time take a spill.  He was wearing pink pajamas, and his sister was laughing at him.  It was then when I told Britt, I was going to teach a boy how to ride a bike and show these cricket clowns how to throw a ball and swing a broken fence post.  (They don’t have the money to buy a bat or a real ball)

Getting past security was easy.  They simply said, “You’re on your own”.  Gaining the trust of the children was a little more difficult.  I requested they let me play, and they accepted, trying to hide their smiles.  The children gave me the wooden fence post and chuckled, knowing a cracker like me would embarrass myself.  I did not disappoint.  The India version of “chuck a ball at me” even a juiced up Barry Bonds couldn’t have hit.  I missed it by about five feet.  They laughed hysterically at my insufficiency with the fence post.  Keep in mind, I have only hit a ball zero times when it is supposed to skip off the ground before you take a hack at it.  This is cricket.  Requesting one more chance at making contact with the ball, the children relished the chance of, yet again, demoralizing this paleface from Spokane, Washington.  I hit the next pitch into outer space, or in their terms, beyond where we could retrieve it.  They cheered more for my success than they did for my failure.  That’s when I fell in love with them.

I decided not to try my luck any further with the lumber, but I played catch with them, pitched to them, and we communicated not with words but, rather, high fives, fist pumps, smiles and laughter.   After close to 15 years of teaching, that one hour of sweat, smiles and laughter ranks amongst the top.

Britt could see me playing with them, but she was a bit concerned with my safety.   I returned to the room to receive a lecture from Britt (she never gives me lectures) Instead, the first words out of her mouth were, “I love you”.  That’s when I knew I could convince her to meet these children and take this picture.   The only deal was that she wants to adopt the smiling cute child with the blue and white striped shirt in the front of the picture.  He was hilarious.

Some of the elderly ladies witnessed the fun we were having and wanted to show us their grandchildren.  They were all extremely sweet and adored Brittney’s blond hair.  It’s funny, we learn universal languages and some of the words are tainted with hatred.   All of us in this “slum” didn’t speak one word the other would know.  Yet, there was no poor sportsmanship of any kind.  They were simply pleased to play a game and return to their homes for a humble dinner.

Initially, amongst the laughter, concrete, dirt and fun, watching the children crawl through windows, 8 or 9 at a time, my heart sank.  The only time I have to crawl through a window is if I lock myself out of my own house.  Following this experience, my heart rejoiced hearing the boys and girls laugh while hopping through the windows of those dilapidated shelters waving Britt and me goodbye.

There’s nothing better than seeing a smile on a child’s face or hearing laughter from their belly.  Perhaps, they do have more than us.

I never taught the boy and his sister how to ride a bicycle.  However, they remained cheerleaders on the side dirt.  Speaking of teaching, I learned far more from all of them than they could possibly learn from me.

Disconnected in India

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Gannon’s Blog, 2 thousand and something:

Decided to take a walk and get water and a sandwich.

Elevator was out of commission.

Chose to take the fire exit.

Alarm went off….not kidding.

Ran away from security who didn’t recognize me.

Happy ending:  Found water

This just gets better each day.

How are you?

(The power goes off 8 or 9 times a day here in India, therefore I am commonly disconnected from any network system . For those of you who are following this site, I am doing my best to keep it updated, but this hotel restricts me from certain days of usage)

Still alive,

Ben and Britt