The 2015 World Series Lap Dance

Posted on November 6, 2015 by Ben Gannon

At a very young age, like millions of others, I dreamed of playing in baseball’s World Series. Around age twenty, that dream was shot to Hell. Since then, watching the series each year, I thought it might be fun to actually attend a World Series Game before my demise. Living in Seattle with the hapless Mariners, I gave up on that idea as well, quite sure I’ll be dead before they make it to the Series. Upon breaking this news to my wife, she suggested I fly to Kansas City to watch Game Two of the 2015 World Series. One of her coworkers from Kansas City happened to have two extra tickets to the game. It took me awhile to think about this possibility, but since Game Two was the next day, two seconds later, I thought I’d take advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Unable to take off work at the Asbestos Plant, sadly, my wife wouldn’t be able to make the trip. Figuring I’d go alone, I did call a friend, another baseball enthusiast, bragging about my news. He looked at his calendar, told me he could take a couple of days off, and said he would meet me in K.C..

Both of us safely arriving in Kansas City, we checked into a hotel and headed to the game. In a sea of blue, “Let’s Go Royals!” was heard all over Royal Nation from the time we began our half mile walk and the chant continued when we entered the stadium. Blue towels waving everywhere you looked, there was an elation we’d never witnessed quite like this. The electricity of the home crowd was contagious and the excitement was better that I had imagined. All spectators at Kaufman Stadium stood with fanatic anticipation while awaiting the first pitch.

Initially, I was going to describe the highs and lows of the game in great detail. Then, I thought I’d condense it. The Kansas City Royals were victorious. Without the balls and strikes, hits and runs, I will tell you that, after a great play in the home team’s favor, giving a high five to one of your best friends, and then turning to complete strangers and doing the same at the World Series is absolutely glorious. That’s a feeling I will cherish forever. It was an amazing atmosphere, fantastic game, and an unforgettable experience. Almost as unforgettable as our cab ride the day after the game.

Having a few hours to kill before heading back to Seattle, my friend, Craig, and I wanted to head downtown and find some Kansas City BBQ. Available cabs were difficult to find that day, but the concierge hooked us up with, as she described, a very trustworthy and competent driver. (Is there any other kind?) “His name is Jimmy, and he’ll meet you out front in fifteen minutes.” Spot on, Jimmy was there in fifteen minutes and knew exactly where we needed to go for the best BBQ: World Famous, Arthur Bryant’s Barbecue. Perfect. On the way, Jimmy told us a little about himself. Jimmy told us he was a little person. Jimmy told us he was a former wrestler in his prime. He also told us he could drop us off, let us eat, but we had to call him when we were finished as he needed to made a quick trip while guaranteeing us he’d get us to the airport on time. He seemed affable enough and a tad odd, but I figured we could call another service if necessary.

After eating far too many ribs, praying they were devoid of e. coli, I called our “competent” cab driver. He promptly answered, but said he’d be running a little late. A little unnerved, I simply stated, “Jimmy, we can easily call another service. How late is a little late?” Responding with confidence and honesty, and clearly wanting our business, Jimmy said, “Seriously, Ben, this lap dance will be done in five minutes, so I will be about ten minutes late. I WILL get you guys to the airport on time.” I was NOT expecting that response. Another first for me. A little stunned, I just said, “Alright. See you in ten minutes.” Hanging up, with a goofy grin and chuckle, I turn to my friend, Craig. With a nervous enquiring look on his face, he asked, “Is everything alright?” Semi lying, I replied, “Uh huh. Jimmy’s going to be a little late, though.” My friend is a little more conservative than I am, so it was understandable why he looked at me as if I may have hired the wrong cabby. “What’s going on?” Now, with a deadpan look, I replied, “Jimmy’s getting a lap dance, but she’ll be done with him in five minutes, so he’ll be here in ten.” Busting out laughing, Craig merely said, “Ok.”

Once again, Jimmy’s punctuality was impeccable, and he was exactly ten minutes late, and we made to the airport in plenty of time.

I’ll always remember attending a World Series Game, and hopefully, it’s not my last. I’m pretty sure that’s the last time I’ll ever meet a Jimmy like that.

Back to the Torture

Posted on October 23, 2015 by Ben Gannon

My eighth grade nemesis, Michael J. Fox, is back in the news again with the rest of the cast of Back to the Future, celebrating their 30th anniversary of the 1980’s iconic movie. The blockbuster first deposit of the trilogy Back to the Future, starring Michael J. Fox, made him a mega celebrity. Back to the Future II included a scene with Michael J. Fox staring with disbelief at a futuristic reader board surprising him with the announcement that the Cubs had finally won a World Series on October 21st, 2015. Since this is the 30th anniversary of Back to the Future, it caused quite a stir amongst fans of the movies and especially those who know a little about baseball. Was Michael J. Fox going to be part of this possibly prophetic movie, thus ending Chicago’s dry spell of 107 years without a ring? Or, would it merely be another reason to get excited for the Cubs, just to be disappointed two innings into their last and most abysmal loss of the season, thus ending a very hopeful year? The latter of course. I couldn’t even finish sautéing an onion before I turned around to see they were down six to zero by the second inning.

I wasn’t a Michael J. Fox fan when he became a daily part of my life the year Back to the Future II was released. This would have been around 1986. I had to look into his dashing eyes everyday for the better part of a school year, because his face remained in the locker of my eighth grade girlfriend, and probably every other girl’s locker in our school. This didn’t bother me at first. Seeing him many times on his hit series, Family Ties, I felt no immediate threat. This may have been because my father, who watched the show with us, would always comment on his size. According our father, Michael J. Fox was only about four feet tall. About the fortieth time I met my girlfriend at her locker, and knowing girls tend to like tall gentlemen, I, measuring in at a towering five feet six the time, informed her, very smugly and with definitive confidence, of her crush’s height. “Ya know, he’s only about four feet tall.” She quickly gave me a “What are you getting at?” look, which also could have been interpreted as, “What are you some sort of an A-hole” look as well. I chose to leave the matter alone hoping that perhaps as our relationship matured, the picture might later be replaced by me. I hadn’t graced the cover of Teen or Tiger Beat magazine, but there was a whopper of a picture of me plastered to my student identification card, displaying my awkward smile and unkempt hair. Gladly, I would have given it to her upon request. That never happened. So each day, I merely hoped to find the back of her locker with Michael J. Fox’s dazzling smile missing. That never happened either.

Wildly silly, much like most thirteen year olds, I stopped enjoying Family Ties each Thursday night and when the subject of Back to the Future came up, I lied and told others I didn’t care for the movie. When asked with excitement if I’d seen the movie, I’d merely shrug, and say, “phh, you mean that ridiculous time travel movie with the twerp playing a guitar while acting as if he can ride a skateboard without a stunt double? Yeah, I blew five bucks on that poorly casted piece of crap.” I was a jealous critic at age thirteen. I’d walk away with shame.

Michael J. Fox was now Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties, and Marty McFly from Back to the Future. Therefore, even more pictures of him began growing in her garden of locker dreaminess. Although I had buried the subject beneath the two of us, I began having nightmares with Michael showing up either with a pretentious smile or sinister smirk. He’d then taunt me. “Do you know who I am? That’s right. I’m Michael J. Fox. I’m rich. I’m famous. I will be the cutest the guy on the planet for the next decade. And guess what? When your girlfriend turns 18, I’ll only be in my late twenties. Doesn’t sound like much of an age difference now, does it? Have you even began puberty? Your girlfriend loves me, and wake up with this. I can get in her locker anytime I wish.”

I’d wake up with my 13 year old frustrated fists flying, catching nothing but dust in our basement. Quickly, knowing it was time to get ready for school, my mind was made up regarding the next meeting amongst my girlfriend, her locker, me and Michael’s delicate face. Upon her opening the locker, I was going to, with great fury, punch the first picture of him I saw so hard, my envious clenched fist would not only crush his phony grin, but it would then blast through the concrete behind her locker, thus breaking every bone in my hand. With gnarled knuckles, I’d pull what remained of his head out of the bloody locker and throw his wadded up onion as far as a ball of paper could fly in a Junior High hallway…….about three lockers down. That was my plan.

During my mission, not able to run through the halls for fear of being busted by intimidating hall monitors, I walked with excessive speed, dodging friends, acquaintances, teachers and janitors while seeking the locker and its squatter. Before I could reach my destination, someone pulled the fire alarm, and there was a mad rush for the doors amidst prayer from all those attending the school, teachers included, that this was not just a drill or a prank. Waiting outside for five minutes, much to everyone’s dismay, it was merely a prank, so we all had to return to our lockers and proceed to class. This five minutes provided time for a moment of clarity. If I completed my task as imagined, what would my girlfriend think of me? What would that accomplish? If I knew her properly, she would have been embarrassed for me, and then perhaps never spoken to me again. For once, I actually thought of her. She had always been nice to me. We shared a very kind relationship mostly based on mutual respect for each other and inside jokes directed at friends and teachers making us the most conceited couple in the school. We had fun together. Ultimately, it was never her taunting me. She had never intentionally made me feel inferior to this small movie star. In fact, he was in her locker before we had even met that year, so actually, I was infringing a bit on their relationship. It was time to act like I was five feet six inches tall and rise above Michael J. Fox and those pictures.

Still making my route to her locker, we didn’t have much time to talk, so I merely stopped to greet her briefly. In the process of her opening the locker, I wondered if should bother taking a glance at my nemesis, thinking it may induce irrational behavior. Yet, figuring I’d inevitably be tested sooner or later, I decided to get it over with. Peering into her locker with a little anxiety, when I scanned its interior walls…………………….they were all still there. Crud. For some reason, I thought with my new found maturity, they would disappear not only in my dreams but in reality. No such luck. Still, I never even clenched a fist, and I never thought twice about that funny, talented and teenage girl’s crush again for the remainder of the year.

Every now and then, when my wife and I see an interview with Michael J. Fox, sadly suffering from Parkinson’s Disease, I jokingly make fun of her for maintaining that nauseating collage of pictures in her locker. She just laughs and rolls her eyes. I even texted her the other day when Mr. Fox and others were being interviewed regarding their epic movie and the Cub’s World Series Prophesy. Randomly, I wrote. “Hey, Britt. You know, I still tower over Michael J. Fox. Sincerely, your five feet nine inch husband.

The Raffle

Posted on October 13, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Every parent should know that a one dollar raffle ticket is all it takes to destroy a boy’s dream. They should teach this at the Juilliard or Dr. Suess School of Proper Parenting.

With the National Football season in full swing, and living in Seattle with the “12th Man”, it’s an exciting time for everyone in this city and throughout the State of Washington.

I’ll enter our neighborhood supermarket on Sunday mornings before the Seattle Seahawks game and be the only person present without a jersey. I’m not a member of the “12th Man” brother and sisterhood, consisting of rabidly loyal Seahawks’ fans, but I do watch and root for the team each week. For those loyal twelves, when they win, there is celebration. After a loss, I witness adults crying.

Returning to a stable home in Seattle, when the Seahawks win, I smile, and look forward to the next game. When they lose, I simply say, “Oh, what the hell”, happily listen to my wife spew some profanity laced professional athletic hatred for about five minutes, and then we look forward to next week’s game. You see, back in the late seventies, when I was six years old, I was thee “12th Man”. It was at that same age when my extreme, or extremely ridiculous, loyalty came to a tearful halt.

I was the emotionally unstable fan at that age who would, after a Seahawk’s loss, find a room, hide in it, and let those pathetic tears fly like the weak birds I witnessed being crushed by the opposing team. Try living with that when you have two older brothers, or rather, hyenas, licking their already cynical chops, waiting to verbally pounce upon me after exiting the room. My red eyes couldn’t hide the fact that I was, most certainly, the “baby” of the family. Every once in a while, remaining close to those brothers, I am reminded of those days, and we all laugh. However, crying was not the reason I eventually gave up on the Seahawks. It was the raffle.

At age six, I spent a great deal of time with only my mother at home. Being the youngest child, all my siblings had more pressing obligations at school than a boy in kindergarten. When inside, the doorbell would ring each day several times. It was usually the Milkman, Avon Lady, Girl Scouts, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The Milkman was the only one I appreciated because I could persuade mom into purchasing a half gallon of ice cream to go with the fifteen gallons of milk required to fill up a family of thirteen.

One day, someone mysterious showed up to our doorstep with a raffle ticket in his hand. Being the only man, or, boy, in the house, I kept a close eye and open ear when mother would open the door. Listening to their brief conversation, he seemed to be a nice fellow only asking for one dollar in exchange for two free tickets to a Seattle Seahawk game as well as an all expense paid stay at Seattle’s luxurious Westin Hotel, brunch included. I didn’t have to look in mom’s purse before I knew she had a dollar in it. Before the salesman could file his taxes, I talked my mother into buying one of these tickets. For an ignorant youth, that raffle ticket meant only one thing: Free tickets to a Seattle Seahawks game and staying at the Westin Hotel with all the players. Proudly, at the age of six, I knew what a ticket was, but sadly, I didn’t know what a “raffle ticket” was.

Other than figuring out travel plans, when my mother handed over that dollar to our neighborly shyster, I felt assured a ticket to a National Football game in the famously loud and notorious ugly Kingdome. After the first week, I began bugging my mother about how long it would take before I had the tickets in my giddy paws. With a kind smile and positive, yet truthful, words, she properly explained what the raffle was, softly describing how there was a pretty solid chance someone else, equally deserving, might end up winning the raffle. Not giving up hope, she also encouraged me to write a letter to the Seahawk’s organization explaining, with great respect, why I was their biggest fan. That was easy. In my mind, I was. After a few calls, my mother provided me the official address to the public relations department of the Seahawks. I knocked this letter out in great detail, describing their best players, future Hall of Famer and wide receiver, Steve Largent, quarterback, and future Hall of Mediocrity, Jim Zorn, their charismatic kicker, Efron Herraha, and other players the public relations department probably didn’t recognize on the roster.

A month passed and the Seahawks never responded. Later, I remember looking at the ticket and noticing the date of the game had passed. It was official. It wasn’t a winning ticket. I understood, and when I showed it to my mother, she knew I was hurt, but I wasn’t crying. She made me feel as though there were better or worse things to cry about. Then, she gave me some butterscotch pudding. It was the last time I cried over a losing team.

Mcconaug (Hey)

Posted on September 26, 2015 by Ben Gannon

That’s it. I’ve had it. I can’t take it any longer. Although I swore to ignore it, he has broken me. Matthew Mcconaughey is the most embarrassing man on television. Saturday Night Live has spoofed him. I knew that was coming the first time we watched one of his Lincoln commercials. After seeing one of his commercials for the first time, my wife looked at me and said, “You have to write about this.” I told her it wasn’t worth it, and the Onion would be all over it before me.

The world has laughed at him, and he continues to get stoned all the way to the bank; that is if he can convince a steer in the middle of a dirt road to give him directions. I no longer envy his sculpted body, because with beauty, must come the beast, which is his brain. Admittedly, when his commercials air, my wife and I stop, as if in a trance, and wonder if one of his commercials can be worse, or more laughable than the one before. He never disappoints.

If we ever have children, when they are old enough to watch and discern television, we will give them a test to decide whether they are worthy of us creating a fund for their college tuition. We will show them several Matthew Mcchonaughey commercials and then show him or her a bowl of cereal. We will then ask our child which one is more intriguing. If the child chooses the bowl of cereal, we know this child has a chance. If the child chooses the Matthew Mcc….(I’m tired of trying to spell his last name)……commercials, he or she will be cut off from any college tuition whatsoever.

Much Ado about Football (or nothing)

Posted on September 23, 2015 by Ben Gannon

I’m back in the fantasy football saddle again, and I am about to get bucked off only two weeks into the season, and it’s all my father’s fault.

The Fantasy Football League with which I’m currently participating does not require an entry fee. It’s just meant to be fun, friendly competition amongst some friends and family members on my wife’s side. Since both my wife and I have teams, we can share Sundays together watching modern day gladiators on television while I barbecue or cook a hearty Fall stew. No gambling, great entertainment, digestible food, and a loving family. Sounds like a stress free environment, right? Wrong. Although it’s a great league filled with terrific participants, there is only one thing keeping it from being perfect. Me. If this is where I strive for competitive excellence, I should seek therapy. When my fantasy team falters in some way, I find myself speaking to the television set with a volume causing our dogs to look at me and say, “You ok, Papa?” Who do I blame? My father.

Years ago, my father’s art of raising his voice at a television set, fruitlessly trying to manipulate football players’ brain patterns, created tension throughout a very large household. This trait being passed down to me is my only semi-legitmate excuse for acting like an immature ass in front of my wife and our confused animals while watching football. I only wish they understood. When I was growing up in a very large Irish/Catholic family (another excuse for just about anything stupid we’d do) we would watch the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football game every Saturday. Let me clarify. Dad would watch Notre Dame, and we would watch Dad. Watching him seemed to be more entertaining. Although our father didn’t really know, or claim to know, a great deal about gridiron strategy, he did know when a coach or player, especially the quarterback, would make a mental mistake. When they did, the cigarette he was smoking would fly out of his mouth just before the verbal tirade. They didn’t even wish to be on the ash end of his comments questioning the players’ and coaches’ levels of intelligence. Remarkably, he could get his point across without too much profanity, so it didn’t make anyone in the room too nervous. In fact, my brothers and I would try to keep from chuckling during his outbursts.

Without knowing the X’s and O’s of football, my father was all about clock management. “Why are you running out of bounds when you need to keep the clock running? That running back needs to have his ass kicked up between his shoulder blades.” Or, “Ahhhhhh………why pass the ball when you need to keep the clock running? This quarterback doesn’t need his head examined, he needs a lobotomy.” Or, “If they show the coach’s wife in the stands one more time looking nervous, I’ll fly to South Bend and give her a reason to look nervous.” That last one was probably made up, because my father wasn’t a violent man. And, although he liked going to Vegas or Reno once every few years, he wasn’t much of a gambler, so I know he didn’t have cash on the game. This is why I questioned why he took it so seriously, and I have to question myself at the same time, because it’s simply ridiculous.

My brothers, Tom, Greg and I would root for Notre Dame, but mostly just because it would keep dad in a good mood. Other than that, we didn’t really care. We were preoccupied with the sweet sizzling smell of mom’s Saturday night burgers and getting a kick out of counting how many cigarettes dad would polish off during a stressful ND loss. We must have second hand smoked two packs a Saturday back then. Ahh…. when smoking was funny. Those were the days. Thank goodness he wasn’t a big drinker.

On the contrary, one of the wonderful traits my father passed down to me is the art of forgetting very quickly the meaningless loss with which you weren’t even a participant. Even after a Notre Dame loss, when Dad’s cigarette was replaced with one of our mom’s burgers, all was well. And, similarly, after the bowl of piping hot stew and warm french bread is placed in front of me after a stressful day of watching this terrific sport, I develop fantasy football amnesia.

Luckily for me, when my wife catches me uttering something sounding like I belong in a straight jacket during these fantasy football Sundays, a few minutes later, I’ll catch her doing the same, and we can both laugh. She’ll never admit it, but I think she takes it more seriously than I do.

Striking Out

Posted on September 16, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Teachers are striking in Seattle, and because I was a public school teacher for fifteen years, I’ve been respectfully asked by family and friends how I feel about the situation. Being a former teacher should provide some validation regarding my opinion.

It’s a tricky question for many, but not for me. The simple answer is that I oppose the strike. Although I maintain an enormous amount of respect for most teachers, I also feel their duty remains in the classroom with their students even if they believe in further compensation. I use the term “further” because I know teachers’ salaries, and some of my best friends in the industry don’t complain. I understand one of their complaints. Class sizes are out of control in many school districts. It can be the difference between being a babysitter and a teacher. That was just one of the reasons I left the profession. Sadly, I lost my passion for teaching. That was the most logical reason for leaving.

Here are some of the perks of teaching: Two and a half months off in the summer. Every other holiday as well as the day before and after off. The option to coach, and yes, work a little harder, while putting in some extra hours and being compensated for the additional time. Those were the least important perks for me and many others entering this profession. Making a positive difference in a student’s life was, without question, the largest benefit.

Coaching was an additional opportunity for us to create solid relationships, not only with students, but many times, their parents. If a student didn’t finish a classroom assignment, we didn’t send them home before practice. We allowed them a half hour in a sweaty wresting room, or rainy football field, to finish assignments before working out for the next hour and a half. That was punishment enough, and it kept them out of the trouble away from school they could so easily find. The parents thanked us for keeping them in check for those extra two hours.

At age twenty-three, sadly, I showed up for a paycheck, wondering what my next profession might be. One month after turning twenty-three, I showed up every day because the students needed me. It only took me a month to figure it out. I never complained about a paycheck. I also had to slap myself for forgetting why one chooses this profession.

I’ll make this clear. I never considered myself to be a great teacher. I will also confess there were days I showed up to school, and a smile and laughter was all I had to offer. Those were the moments I didn’t earn a paycheck. The students and their care for me in some dark times picked me up, and that’s why I felt truly blessed for those fifteen years.

I never went on strike. I just retired. I will admit that after moving to a different school with a different demographic, those students broke me. Some people would argue that was the easy way out. It wasn’t. I miss the students, some of their parents, and the fellow teachers I had the pleasure to work with each day.

Garbage

Posted on September 8, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Every Tuesday, much like our dogs, I wake up with a purpose. I take the garbage out and expect someone with a driver’s license to pick it up on said day. It’s only once a week, and it’s not so much for my wife to ask of me. She’s a peach. They forgot to pick it up this week.

Two large dogs, two cats, coupled with a bunch of cooking, creates a bunch of garbage. That’s why we pay people to pick garbage up on a weekly basis. “People” meaning GARBAGE MEN OR WOMEN! Get used to that title. I used to deliver ice and I had to get used to the phrase in mid July during one hundred and something degree temperatures, “Pretty cool job, huh, Iceman?” “F you.” That’s when I decided to get a college degree. It’s also the beginning of a bad joke and an angry man.

Yard waste, recycling, and God forbid I write it, “Garbage”is the Holy Trinity of the men or women of the Union who decide when, where, and how they dispose of it. They control our waste. Their power is undeniable and unforgiving. I spend so much time placing consumables and their ugly cousins in different baskets, I forget to tell my wife how much I love her when she leaves to go shopping. The basket happy bastards, after dictating the day, minute, hour, or month they may drop by to pick things up, laugh when you are unhappy with their service. Hold on. I just received a very nice message from my wife proclaiming her husband is not an A hole.

She is the peach in my basket. Done.

Swinging like a wild man,

Ben Gannon

Jackdog

Posted on September 6, 2015 by Ben Gannon

My step dog, Jack, just turned 14 today, and his tail is still waging. So is his mouth. His mother, my wife, has treated this dog with respect, kindness, and the proper diet: Table scraps and gourmet cupcakes.

Jack is cute, friendly, thoughtful, has a terrific sense of humor, yet maintains discipline within the boundaries of our property with respect to the squirrels. He is also overweight. We don’t know why.

Our veterinarian lectures us about Jack’s weight. He also can’t believe how fat, old yet healthy he is. Our vet also tells us to never feed him table scraps. Before people judge us, and by the way, we don’t give a crap if you do, I would like to define our “table scraps”: These are Jack’s table scraps.

Grilled Pork Tenderloin Medallions drizzled with a balsamic glaze accompanied with Sauteed Mushrooms and Garlic Toast. It’s His go to meal.

Rainbow Trout lightly dusted with seasoned Snoqualmie Falls pancake mix, crispy fried in olive oil with Steamed Cauliflower and Broccoli.

“We can never smell it” Grilled Sockeye Salmon over hickory coals and garlic asparagus. Jackdog pisses outside.

Chicken Parmesan with Vine Ripened Tomatoes stolen from neighbor’s garden to create a bowl full of Basil Marinara.

The Ridiculous Rueben: St. Patrick’s Day is the only day Jack requests the most expensive corned beef, cabbage, and cheese. This comes with toasted Rye and a special sauce. Complimentary spilled beer on the side.

Cajun Catfish fry with Caramelized Onions. (Mardi Gras comes more than once a year for our Jackdog.)

Grilled Halibut with Lemon Basil Vinaigrette and Roasted Brussels Sprouts. (Jackdog likes this with a cheap white wine.)

Roasted Chicken with Rosemary and Buttery Brown Sugar Butternut Squash.

Backyard Marshall Burger: Look it up. It’s posted on my blog.

Grilled Brats with caramelized onions, sauteed mushrooms and peppers. (Jackdog loves this while watching baseball or football. He’s a great admirer of both sports, and I’ve never witnessed him spill a beer.)

Jackdog’s Favorite: Ribeye Steak. No sides.

One might think my cooking must be dreadful if such culinary delights become scraps. Quite the contrary. I make enough for five. We have another large dog as well. I also save the fifth helping for myself. Piss on the cats. They can eat rats.

Happy Birthday, Jackdog. Keep waging.

Gone Vishin?

Posted on September 4, 2015 by Ben Gannon

My mother has always maintained solid vision. While her hearing may be taking a stroll between Selective Street and Helen Keller Avenue, her vision remains keen. When I visit her, and we watch her beloved Seattle Mariners, she always knows when her favorite baseball player, Franklin Gutierrez or “Cutierez” is at the plate. It’s not when the announcers call his name, but rather, when she sees his striking good looks from her recliner, well over ten feet away from the television set. (She seems to be able to spot a good looking man from 6 blocks away.) So, when Gutierrez struts to home plate, she makes the announcement. “Guty’s up!”

Recently, my mother had to watch the Mariners from a hospital bed because of a recent scare. She was admitted for a couple of days, undergoing many uncomfortable tests but has since been discharged with an expensive bill of health.

Although hospitals are seldom a place where laughter is in abundance, our mother made us all laugh during her first day of being admitted. A nurse began asking mother several questions or to perform certain tasks, mostly checking on her senses and level of consciensness. What day is it? What month, year, squeeze my hand, push on this, pull on that, toss that tissue in the nearest basket, who was the Heavyweight Champion of the World in 1973…..etc, etc, etc. My sisters, Anne, Patricia, Maggie, as well as my wife and I watched with pain in our eyes because we knew how uncomfortable this beautiful, 87 year old mother of 13 was during the interrogation. That’s when mom converted our eyes filled with uncertainty to ones filled with the laughter we inherited from her. One of the last questions from the nurse was, “How is your vision?” With an incredulous look on her face, mom gasped, “What!”. “HOW IS YOUR VISION?” Almost sounding agitated by the endless questioning, my mother answered, “Oh, I don’t care about fishin!”

We all busted up heartily, providing us a moment of relief, and when we told her why we were laughing, she busted up as well. Sadly, the nurse didn’t think it was so funny, especially when I requested the next question for our mother should be about her hunting skills.

We knew she’d be home soon at Anne’s, comfortably watching “Guty” from her recliner with the sound turned up as loud as possible for no reason whatsoever.

Prayer

Posted on August 28, 2015 by Ben Gannon

Religion and decisions, much like politics, are tricky subjects. I voice my opinions with God, Jesus, the Catholic Rosary, my wife, some dear friends, and my mother. The latter seems to be the most impressive.

I have decided to rely on my mother’s faith, genuine goodness, a dose of prayer, drizzled with a wonderful wife, to live my life as properly as I could wish.

A very fortunate man.

By the wayside, don’t rely on Trump to run our nation. He is a perfect example of what our mothers warned us about.

Swing Like a Wild Man

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