Flat Dance

Posted on June 23, 2016 by Ben Gannon

His face is as flat as a pancake, and that’s all that is flat about our new, six week young kitten, Michael Flatley Gannon.

Performing a magnificent rendition of the “River Dance” on my face for three consecutive nights, his paws and claws are stamped all over my head. He is smaller than one of my forearms, yet commands respect while monopolizing any and all of our rooms… dancing, sleeping, drinking and eating in each one. He also manages to decide where his wet and dry food should remain, depending on his mood. It’s the first and official Southern Ireland Monarch of our time. Potatoes were so much easier.

Michael also finds comfort in my wife’s locks during what should be a peaceful slumber for both of us. Her head has become a comfortable nest between the hours of ten and three in the P.M. and the A.M. It’s the first time I’ve felt grateful for losing my hair.

“River Dance” being beneath him, he refers to himself, with extreme arrogance, as “The Lord of the Dance”. On a good day, you may refer to him as Mr. Flatley. When irritated at two o’clock in the morning, it must be Lord Flatley, or simply, Lord. Sir Flatley is also a name he enjoys after some properly aged bourbon.

Our veterinarian removes his white coat and bows to him before charging us with a significant fine for taking care of a cat who clearly CAN take care of himself. “Good morning, My Lord.” Good grief.

As I write this, and I’m frustratingly serious, he continues to pounce on all my keys, thus making this silly piece much more difficult to write. Fortunately, he hasn’t found the “publish” button.

It has now evolved to a 2016 Looney Tunes episode with actual humans and a futuristic animal attempting to withhold me from using my computer. All the claws and scars are non-fictional. As the former actor, Elmer Fudd, once said, “I hate that rabbit”, I don’t think he did. And, as for today, I don’t hate this cat.

On the Other Hand

Posted on June 15, 2016 by Ben Gannon

“Which arm should I use?” (My mother wasn’t sure if she was right or left handed.) This was the question she asked me when I convinced her to throw me batting practice in the backyard decades ago when all my brothers and sisters were off to school and our father was at work. My response? “It doesn’t matter. Just throw the ball in my general direction with either arm, and I’ll swing at it or catch it.” She did, and I did.

Baseball’s All-Star game is just a month around the corner, and nobody deserves to be on that roster more than my mother.

My mother did anything to keep me occupied before I entered kindergarten. At the age of four, I’d already captured the swings of every Los Angeles Dodger, so I wished to display my talents outside. Mom preferred playing board games with me inside, but after playing a solid game of “Memory” which I’d commonly win, I wanted to take my energy elsewhere. This was also prefaced by her extinguishing sibling fights, as well as preparing breakfast, lunch, and laundry all before seven o’clock in the morning.

I would persuade her to go outside and just throw a ball at me (yes, at me), even if I had to chase it down with a bat or a glove. She may as well have been blind folded. Our yard was half an acre and she hit every square foot of it. If I wasn’t running into our chicken coop, diving into a potato shed, I’d be bouncing off our cherry tree or tangled in nettles. Not knowing where she was going to throw the ball, it became quite a challenge as well as a proper workout. With all her might and love, she’d toss it with each arm, successfully making me happy, even though I was bleeding.

My father was a very good athlete, and whether she admits it or not, my mother is an exceptional artist. However, growing up without even sniffing the thought of being in athletics, my mother never really had the chance to develop an interest in sports before her sons and daughters arrived. She was a mother, and her duties were those of which I can’t possibly fathom. Going beyond her duties as a mother, she became a companion and the teammate I required as a young and energetic youth. I was her last dog in the litter.

Co-Laziness

Posted on May 27, 2016 by Ben Gannon

“When I wrote this book…..”

Don’t give me that crap. Usually trying to keep my writing positive, I am going to accentuate something negative, or shall I write, realistic, today. There are many things on this earth which annoy me: terrorists, Trump, Hillary, The Family Circus, but nothing more than a celebrity or ex sports star claiming to have written a book about themselves, unless it is written by themselves. “When I wrote this book”……wait a minute……….who wrote this book? You may as well begin by stating the truth. “When I was sitting on a bar stool telling stories, some man or woman jotted down notes, then converted these stories to well crafted sentences, paragraphs and chapters all ending with, ‘wait till you hear this next one’ so I could get most of the credit by paying him or her to do so. Only in miniature font, shall I give the man or woman credit putting in the majority of the work into said book.”

I despise the term “Co-written” unless you have two people collectively sitting down with a pen, notebook, laptop, sticky notes, journaling over a cup of coffee or a can of beer and composing sentences together. Screen writers do it all the time. That, I respect. What I don’t respect is the lack of integrity some possess by not properly acknowledging those actually writing the book, which is the most difficult part.

Sadly, my father convinced me at a young age to read the book “The Mick”. It is an autobiography about the “Great” Mickey Mantle. With “Great” bold letters, the book’s cover read, “The Mick” MICKEY MANTLE, H. Gluck. Who’s this H.Gluck guy? Who cares? Naively, I believed this was written by Mickey Mantle himself. How does this freak of baseball talent with good looks, Centerfield speed and astonishing power find the time to write a book about hitting home runs while hung over on a daily basis in Yankee Stadium? Of course, I want to be this guy! Drinking and dining at the finest restaurants for free in New York, hitting bombs in Yankee Stadium, making loads of money while taking your pick of any girl you want, yet still being educated enough to write an autobiography? Chicks love the long ball, but they also love the brains. He had it all. In the eighth grade, I thought, “oh, yeah, I want to be him.” Mickey Mantle didn’t write one word in that book and probably forgot or regretted every word he uttered while giving the writer complete artistic liberty.

Heartwarming as the stories may be, whether it be blaming your failures on drug, alcohol, or mental issues, please give those who write these tender stories verbal credit or a crap load of money.

This morning, I was motivated to write this piece because of something I read on the front page of the sport’s section. Since I am overseas, and you wouldn’t know which periodical I may be referring to, I still won’t disclose who inspired me this morning, but I will tell you, he made me question his complete lack of integrity, not just as a “writer”, but as a baseball player.

If I ever told someone my silly stories and wanted them to write them down while falling off a bar stool, thus completing a book, I would insist the title be, “Co-Laziness”.

A Hearty Stew (For Everyone)

Posted on May 8, 2016 by Ben Gannon

For Mother’s Day, I decided to make a stew. I didn’t do it for my mother. Rather, I did it for a dog. Seeking the proper ingredients necessary for a hearty stew, I visited the local farmer’s market bagging fresh carrots, garlic, peas, corn, pearl onions, yukon gold potatoes, brussels sprouts, and, of course, stew meat. I had to drop by a common store for the stock. We will share this stew with our dog, Jack, because that’s what my mom would want.

Even when our mother was cooking stew for eight to ten people at a time, including a few others who had moved out of the house, she still saved some for our dog, Bolivar. It was beautiful to witness her care so much for a dog, as though he was one of her own litter. It was beautiful right up to the point when one of her sons, working and living outside the house, yet remaining in the same zip code, could smell the stew from afar.

Left over stew simmering on the stove for Bolivar, my mother was probably doing laundry, dusting, windexing every window in the house, vacuuming, or praying for a break when an intruder slipped into our house and ate our dog’s lunch. She caught him with a mouthful and read him a prison riot act. (This was very uncommon for my mother to read riot acts.) It was our brother, Steve, who had a knack for smelling and eating everything edible, even if it was meant for a dog.

Our mother loved and cared for anyone walking on two legs or four, but she was also very fair. Steve had probably eaten twice that day before lunch, and mom knew it. Bolivar deserved that meal, and Steve, good soul that he is, was shamed into cooking another stew for a hungry dog.

Sweetness

Posted on May 7, 2016 by Ben Gannon

“You guys, my daughter is so smart.” “Hey, seriously, my son is really, really good at everything.” (Cue the trumpets.) “I hereby declare, our dog is the sweetest, kindest, most polite and dumbest canine God has bestowed upon us all, and I will fight any man or woman who says otherwise!” I’ve been guilty of one of these former proclamations.

Parents of children and animals whip these phrases around as if they are stone cold gospel only furthering themselves from parishioners questioning their beliefs. Sometimes, when it comes to family, pride can cloud our judgment, much like honesty can get you in a heap of trouble with your significant other.

I’m not knocking parents, because I think they actually convince themselves that these statements are true, and that, my friends, is unconditional love. It is also, sometimes, confirmation of their legal blindness. When their sons or daughters grow up, they may or may not end up being astronauts, professional athletes, rap stars, blackjack or coke dealers, but, one way or another, they will, without exception, live up to some form of standard.

When my wife and I had our first child, a bernese mountain dog we named Etta, after about two years of her life, I determined that she wasn’t terribly smart. Sweet, but not smart. (Sometimes, I prefer people with similar characteristics. It seems to clear up the pretentiousness.) None too happy about my remark, for months my wife denied our ebony and ivory fur ball was anything short of future canine valedictorian status.

Not being a member of the “make your animals do tricks” organization, my wife and I would just give simple orders. “Sit, please.” “Wait……wait.” “Where’s your ball?” In addition to finding her gigantic beach ball sitting just feet away from her, she was pretty good at the former two commands or suggestions as well. But, it was her genuinely goofy, rather dumb looking smile she would maintain at all times, making you think her mind was in another room or county.

Frequently traveling with Etta and our other dog, Jack, gave us time to evaluate her intelligence, or lack there of, outside of her comfort zone. Six years ago, my nephew was participating in a wrestling tournament in Wenatchee, Washington in mid December. Although there was a winter storm warning, we packed up the dogs and headed east, opting to stay the night at a dog friendly hotel. After the tournament, and before heading to bed, we took the dogs outside for a potty break and a romp in the six inches of snowfall. Being impervious to the cold, our large dogs had a blast as we threw gigantic snowballs directed at their bulbous heads, only to laugh at them attempting to catch the balls in their mouths. It was terrific family fun, and Etta’s goofy smile never wavered. Not being impervious to the cold, my wife and I finally decided it was time to head back to the room. Etta must have understood the outdoor fun was over, and before we could tell them to follow us back to the room, Etta decided to lead the way, and surprisingly, she was heading precisely to our room which had direct access outside from the first floor. My wife, Britt, looked at me with excitement and said, “She knows which room we’re in. I don’t think she’s as dumb as you think she is.” At that very moment, Etta busted through the screen door to our room and dove onto our bed, soaking it with her drenched locks. The grin she maintained as we followed her path into the room negated any lecture we may have provided as we looked from her to the now useless screen door on the rug, riddled with a less than inconspicuous hole. I then looked at my wife with a smile and didn’t say a word. We never spoke of her intellect again.

For eight years, this warm and wonderful dog warned us when people were in our driveway. If she liked you, she’d rest peacefully at your feet. When having fun, her laughter was a gregarious bark. Although not bred for swimming, she would happily retrieve tennis balls in the Puget Sound on a sunny day just to please us. After inadvertently passing wind in our living room, embarrassed, Etta would quietly excuse herself to her own doggie timeout, even though we didn’t mind. When Britt or I were sick, she’d sense it and huddle close to comfort us. When Jack, six years older than Etta, needed to go outside for a break, she’d come upstairs to let us know. Up until the day of her passing, I don’t remember her tail not waging. She may not have been the smartest dog on the block, but no one who met her, whether it be at home, the park, the vet clinic, or on vacation could present an argument that she wasn’t the sweetest dog in our world.

Dancing with the Pirates

Posted on March 31, 2016 by Ben Gannon

Convincing my wife to watch “Dancing with the Stars” with me the other evening caused her to look at me as though I’d finally started taking hallucinogenic drugs. Of course, I don’t use drugs. That still remains years and blocks down the path of my bumpy life. She was surprised, because I’d never made such a suggestion. Late at night, it’s usually Seinfeld or Jaws putting us to sleep.

For years, my mother and one of my brothers have watched this dazzling show and find it entertaining, so I thought we’d give it a shot. It was entertaining. You put a pair of dancing boots on Geraldo Riviera, and it guarantees entertainment, in the most sinister of ways. Not that I can dance, but if Geraldo’s partner just brought a carry on cardboard cutout through customs of him on stage, you wouldn’t have known the difference. I don’t mind making fun of Geraldo. I felt he owed me after making me suffer through three hours of mindless television regarding an Al Capone vault not providing any substance or resolution as to why we paid for television.

Years ago, when this delightful program began to air, my mother immediately took interest. So, living in another city and speaking to her only once a week, I always wished to take interest in her leisurely activities. Watching “Dancing with the Stars” and “Little House on the Prairie” was one of her activities.

Not giving a Yankee dime about the outcome of the dancers’ demise, I loved my mother’s commentary. Similar to rooting for a baseball, football or basketball team you don’t give a crap about, you wish to support the ones you love, even if it involves dancing or soccer. I wanted to root for her horse in this race.

“Who are you pulling for, mom?”

“I’m rooting for the girl with the wooden leg.”

With my sister laughing in the background, I replied with some distraction and incredulousness. “What? Is this dancing with the stars, or dancing with the pirates? Does she dance with an eye patch, and is the parrot on her shoulder taking lessons as well?”

Turns out, Paul McCartney’s ex wife was participating in the event, and I had no clue she had a wooden leg, or “prosthetic” now used in times following ancient Greece. Loving my mother, unconditionally, I had to root for the lady with the wooden leg.

Seuss, Capone, and The Babe

Posted on March 23, 2016 by Ben Gannon

The other evening, I was ridiculed by my wife for reading a takeout menu in bed just before the we turned the lights off. Laughing, she inquired, “Did your parents read menus to you at bedtime when you were a child?” Even though the options on this Asian menu were fascinating to me, admittedly, it probably looked a little silly. It did make me think about what they read to me at those impressionable ages. The stories certainly varied depending on the parent.

Most people believe reading to their children before bedtime is a key ingredient to their development. Even without having human children of our own, I tend to agree with that philosophy. Yet, it’s not just the reading, it’s that precious one on one attention you may receive before actually having sweet dreams or selective nightmares.

My mother would fall asleep reading me two pages of a Dr. Seuss book or two sentences of a Sesame Street novella. I watched her eyes droop while trying her best to complete a rhyme or reason. Who could blame her? She was awake at four o’clock in the morning doing laundry in the basement for eight to ten of her children, still remaining in the home, before they went to school.

When my mother drifted off while reading, I would creep into my father’s bedroom many nights hoping he would read to me. (At this point in their lives, my parents slept separately, because thirteen children were plenty.) After he worked his twelve hour shift, I knew he’d be in bed reading something to relieve his stress. It was never about a cat in a hat or Oscar being a grouch, and I didn’t care. With him working such long hours, it was the only time to be next to my father. My father’s bedtime reading was a little different from what my mom would choose to read to me. He would be reading about, amongst others, Al Capone or Babe Ruth, two of the most infamous and famous people in the world.

After my well received interruption, my father would proceed to read as I cuddled next to him. He would also delicately paraphrase… “And then, prohibition began and while men were massacred on Valentine’s Day, Capone never harmed any women or children.” Or, when speaking of The Babe, he might say, “Although he was known for his womanizing, immense drinking and voracious appetite for everything, he would sign autographs for any child wishing to receive one.” Stressing the positive rather than the negative, it made me feel at ease, wishing to take a trip to baseball’s Hall of Fame, followed by a journey through Alcatraz.

Depending on which book they held while reading to me, I would either fall asleep to dreams of calling my own home run shot, bipedal cats with gigantic hats, or nightmares of a Valentine’s Day massacre. These days, I simply wake up hungry.

Costa Robbery

Posted on March 19, 2016 by Ben Gannon

My wife’s current place of employment, Deet Bug Spray, is sending her to Costa Rica for research regarding the recent malaria outbreak. She’s worried about the journey because she only speaks fluent English, a dose of French, some Gaelic, but no Spanish. As an educated man, I provided some pointers. (Other than two years of taking Spanish in high school where the only words I recall are “caca” and “punta”, I had to reach deeper into my pocket of trilingual specialties for her survival phrases.)

My favorite movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, provided more practical Spanish than two years of me ignoring my high school teacher. “Manos Arriba.” Estu Es Un Robo.” Translation: Put your hands in up! This is a robbery. I haven’t explained what the phrases properly mean to my wife, but I know when she enters a restaurant, she will either get free tacos or sent to jail. Either way, it will be funny.

Adios.

Catch of the Day

Posted on March 9, 2016 by Ben Gannon

My wife and I recently won the sweepstakes and decided to take a trip to a place where it only rains once a day. Sometimes, it may rain every other day, but since I used to be a betting man, there is only one guarantee on an island other than the time: The fish is always fresh.

One of the most glorious and, to many others, seemingly meaningless pleasures in my wonderful world is ordering something off the menu without actually looking at the menu. (I take the menu home later for leisurely bedtime reading.)

“What will you have to order?”

“The catch of the day.”

“How will you like it prepared?”

“However the chef prepares it.”

This is why I carry Benadryl in my wallet at all times preparing for uncomfortable and life threatening allergies. If the fish is fresh, there is a slight chance, twenty minutes later after eating it, my throat may be shutting similar to the bars at Alcatraz, and my face may look similar to the puffer fish I may have consumed. Either way, well worth it.

I do feel safe when my wife is with me to witness this production and keep her ” well charged” cell phone with her at all times in case 911 may come in handy.

Sometimes, I wonder if the catch of the day is the fish or my wife. I’ll take the latter.

Seasonal Changes

Posted on February 7, 2016 by Ben Gannon

A gal I currently live with delivered an astute observation while in my presence the other day. She realized, after spending the last seven years of her life with me, that she doesn’t recognize the traditional seasons quite the same. Before I took her in as a boarder, it was simply Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer. These seasons only determined what she needed to wear on any given rainy day in Seattle. Influenced by her meatball roommate, she began not only thinking, but living outside the seasonal box. The seasons should not be merely associated with the weather and holidays, but something deeper, something fun, something that can be clean and dirty at the same time, yet, with the right attitude, quite intriguing: Sports.

Sports replaced the seasons for me the day my brothers informed me Santa and the Easter Bunny were a couple of phonies. Fall was replaced with football, Winter was replaced with basketball, and Spring and Summer with baseball. With the 2016 NFL season closing, my roommate had a question for me. “What do we do until March Madness?” Neither of us giving a crap about the National Basketball Association, since their regular season games are meaningless, it took me a moment to respond. “I don’t know. Maybe read a book?” Working long hours at the landfill leaves her only enough time each night to eat a hearty meal before her eyes begin to droop. On weekends, she devotes her time to our animals and others in our neighborhood. Years ago, she was a voracious reader, but lately, books have taken a backseat to pets and balls.

After college basketball’s March Madness, she will begin planning her next season around baseball’s Spring Training in Arizona. And, of course, following Spring Training, she will book tickets to Opening Day. The rest of the summer will be plastered with backyard bbq and Mariner baseball taking us clear through to the World Series and the beginning of college and professional football. I have found the perfect roommate.

Swing Like a Wild Man

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