Category Archives: Inspired by Real Events

Cardinals at the Combine

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News Flash!

Pope the whatever resigned yesterday.  This was news to me today.  Currently, at the Vatican, similarly to the NFL, they are holding a Pope combine. One of the Cardinals recited the fastest forty Hail Maries recorded even in Biblical history.  An additional Cardinal could not properly recite “The Our Father”, and additionally, he has an online fictional girlfriend which is not illegal in the confines of the Catholic Church……just weird.  He is still considered to be a future Pope for even weirder reasons.

More on this later……….

 

 

 

Vets, Pets, and Debts

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In this modern world, I am considered an outcast.  I use words such as please, and thank you, and although many people where I currently reside don’t respond with a proper “you’re welcome”, I provide it for them.  It may occur on the street, opening a door for someone wearing a fur coat walking into a Walgreens who ignores me like a common criminal, or most recently, my lack of sophistication resting at a Veterinarian Clinic.

Yesterday, I was dealing with Comcast….pardon me, Veterinarians.  My window of opportunity to pick up an animal was hidden between nine A.M., FIVE P.M. and a place considered, according to me, bales of haystacks, “the vet clinic”.   Not minding the quoted bill at a couple hundred bucks, I made the infantile and critical mistake of thinking about the nomenclature of such a statement.  A couple makes two.  Today, I guess it means four.  Let this be a lesson to all those who are betting on anything these days.

But, that’s really not the good and bad part of the story.  When being contacted at Five or so P.M., I was there to greet our lovely cat suffering from something referred to as “old cat syndrome”.  Twenty minutes later, I requested the bill and asked if our cat could be released from his incarceration.  They complied with just a slight flaw.  Ten minutes later, they brought out leashes and belongings not belonging to our beloved family of animals, including husband and wife.  I must say that each and every day, I still have something to learn about animals, therefore, sheepishly, I asked a question to someone delivering these items.  “Aren’t these items for a dog?”  (I was fairly certain we didn’t bring our cat in on a leash.  Seems like a terrific idea, but it hasn’t worked for me in the last five years).

“Yes, she’ll be right out.”

“Ok, but there is one slight problem…….

“Oh, I’m sorry, what’s the problem?”

“Our pet is a cat and it’s a HE and we delivered him to you in a CAT SECURITY BOX.  GET THE DAMN CAT, BECAUSE I WISH TO NOT SPEND FRIDAY NIGHT AT THE VET….please.”

Our Tomcat, unfortunately named “LOLA” was a victim of his name.  I won’t blame anyone for this mistake, not even the one naming him.  The female dog’s name was Lola as well.

After all of this transpired, I felt as if I was the crazy one asking what I thought to be logical questions.  Then, I understood, they were looking at me as though I belonged, not at the clinic, but, rather, behind bars in a zoo.  I guess in this bizarre world of modern society, I don’t wish to fit in.  Please, thank you, as well as humans understanding the difference between dogs, cats and quotes seem easy to me.

You’re welcome.

 

 

 

It may be as Weird as it Gets (KEEP PORTLAND QUIET!!!)

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Traveling abroad, meaning three pavement hours from our house, my wife and I felt as though we required a passport.  Not because of the three car pile up en route to Oregon from Seattle which added an additional three hours, but because we were entering a semi mythical land called Portland.  Not quite fitting in, we should have taken our passports.

I am a throwback from 1973.  That means I was born in 1973.  I remember the Seattle Super Sonics winning an NBA Championship in 1978, but I don’t remember the Portland Trailblazers winning the title the year before.  Portland, to me, only existed for two reasons: A couple of brothers.  One lived in a suburban house located close by in Gresham, Oregon……home of the Gophers, and the other traveled there from time to time on business tours.  Interesting, but not intriguing enough visit Portland Proper.

Watching and being entertained by a show called “Portlandia”, my wife and I felt intrigued enough to visit.  We wanted to know if it is a Real Landia.  I guess we may have felt it was like Atlantis.  So, let’s just call it Atlandia, for now.

Research allowed me to recognize this city to be a bit liberal.  Living in Seattle, I completely understand what that term means.  However, I didn’t know they had signs displaying how liberal they are before even arriving in this very fair city.   Just short of Portland, Exit 22 read, Dike Access Road.  That was our introduction.  The pictures then followed with the pudding……which was terrific.

Portland is worth a thousand pictures.  I’ll leave the last for best.  That’s Portland.

Before displaying these pictures, I must choose wisely regarding their order of importance.  This has been a dilemma for me because I am completely distracted by how goofy this city is and hopefully remains.  Let’s begin with the words and phrases, and synonyms.  “eccentric”.  “unbalanced”,  “unearthly colorful”, “odd and unusual”, “weird but has money”, “strange”.  All valid definitions.  I, personally, decided to define Portland as the way we experienced Portland.  “Charmingly Ridiculous”.  We fell in love with the ridiculous, yet charming atmosphere surrounding a city you may not believe in before leprechauns and unicorns.

Most of this blog is not about pictures.  It’s about the process.

1) Loser:  This graffiti is located on the top of a dilapidated building.  Why would one go to great lengths just to invalidate someone’s brilliant masonry?  When spray painting the white word, “LOSER”, atop a building, are they referring to themselves?  Personally, I  don’t know how this person paid for or developed the scaffolding to accomplish such a deed.  You lose.

2) If anything is really weird, stupid, or can’t sell in Portland, you just put a bird on it.  Although permanently borrowing this idea from the television show, the birds do exist on anything that won’t sell………because they’re so cute when not on your windshield.

3)  Face masks: Hockey, Mt Saint Helens and Ash.  That’s all face masks are good for.  Don’t scare the crap out of me when I merely want an innocent bacon wrapped maple doughnut from a place called “voodoo doughnuts” while waiting in a one hour line to have brunch with the devil.

 

 

4)Euro Trash:  That is indeed the name of this culinary cart.  I qualified for only reading the menu.  Accepting it as a compliment, I still was not allowed to order any trash.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5) Bone Marrow and Cedar Plank Receipts:  Literally, both were served at the SouthPark restaurant.  We were in charge of  recycling the wood.  There are no wood chippers allowed in Portland.

6) Pillows:  At the hotel, you are required to request your pillow.  They come with all shapes colors and dimensions.  Fluffy is not on the list.  Hard candy and peanut brittle is on the list.  Crispy Cream?  No means no!  You can also eat it in the morning if you aren’t willing to brush your teeth.  White is just simply not on the list.  When we asked for a special order, “the cedar plank pillow”, they became angry and told us to order room service.   This is Portland, not Sarcasmland.

7) Earplugs:  Providing earplugs at in our hotel room was not a necessary item, especially because they only provide one for unnecessary recycling purposes.  The earplug was more of a gift, much like a hotel pillow mint, merely requesting you, as said below the earplug, “Let’s keep Portland Quiet”.  This one was internally and externally funny to me.  Accidentally, I ate the earplug.  You don’t want to imagine the internal and external damage which ensued.  I couldn’t keep Portland Quiet.

The following morning, I awakened to dump trucks recycling my ear plug.  So, the only proper means of measurement when called upon in a situation such as this, I pulled out my Barney Fife badge and one phony angry bullet and screamed, ”  “KEEP PORTLAND QUIET!”  All became quiet on the Portland front…..except for my wife who was peacefully sleeping.

Whatever…..I’m skipping eight.  I’m all about throwing everything away, even if it flies haphazardly into the neighbor’s yard, but c’mon? My brother and I happily did that with the neighbors dog feces.  But, fluorescent lightbulbs in the middle of a park?  This is where it gets weird and dangerous.  Happily, I would sleep in garbage on an overnight stay at the Hilton Trash Can, but I prefer concrete, to light bulb shrapnel.

Ending our journey at a feminist bookstore, my wife was upset because I didn’t take a piss in front of it.  She’s crazy that way.  I just didn’t find it to be proper, especially since the bookstore was closed on the Sunday.  We did read this sign which can only be allowed to be read for the faithful followers of this tidy blog.

 

Genuinely enjoying the food and the personalities on this friendly tour of a bit of another dimension, we can’t wait to return.  Keep it weird, Portland, but I won’t keep it quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It Is What It Is (or is it?)

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“To be or not to be…..that is the question.” (Shakespeare’s Hamlet) “It is what it is” …..that is the statement. (Everyone in America)

Once upon a time, I was forced to read or hear lines such as these which may live in infamy.

It is what it is.  This phrase is commonly used these days representing nothing, so I wish to present an evangelical blog or sermon regarding this phrase.  You may only leave your pews if your child is crying….most likely from abject boredom.

I guess the phrase, “it is what it is”, truly isn’t what “it” is.  But, what does “it” mean?  I think I know what it means, but let me check my dictionary filled with obscure phrases meaning nothing.

These four words are similar to phrases, such as “I care, but….”,  “I don’t care, but….”, “It’s no big deal”, or the lowest phrase known to man and dog, “At the end of the day, it is what it is.”  What the does this mean?  Can you explain what IT is so that previous statement holds any water placement relevance whatsoever?  This is my interpretation.

Man at the zoo:  An elephant just crushed my left foot, but, ya know, it is what it is.

Friend receiving this information: No, I need to know how you are going to replace that foot.  Are you going to be o.k.? Will it require pins? Is the zoo, the elephant, or you responsible for this action?  This isn’t just what it is.

Man getting cheated on by wife or vice versa:  My spouse is cheating on me, but, ya know, it is what it is.

Friend: O.k, but are you going to do anything about it?  Get a divorce? Seek counseling?  Jump off a bridge?  What?  You can’t just say something like that concluding with “it is what it is”.   Not if you’re my friend, you can’t.

Man eating his last supper:  The meat was a little overcooked, but, ya know, it is what it is.

Friend: No. This is your last supper, dude, (and I am referring to Jesus, not some slime on death row) so you are worthy of asking the chef why your ribeye: one, didn’t begin with any marbleization, and two, did the cook really need a smoke break during the eight minutes Jesus requested for the steak to be left on the grill?  Unfair.

Guy Gambling:  I just lost a grand at the table.

Friend:  What!?

Guy Gambling: Ahhh, it is what it is.

Friend: Again, I say no.  I need an explanation, especially since I gave you five hundred of those dollars.  Were you playing next to three morons at the BlackJack table, or did you just blow your wad playing Craps?

Guy losing his job:  I lost my job today, but it is what it is.

Friend:  ( forgive my redundancy, but this isn’t fair to the friend receiving this information)  Well, seeing that you have confided in me regarding a very serious matter, I only believe I should know not necessarily, how you lost your job, but how you will pick yourself up and find a new profession.

Police Officer:  Place your hands above your head and step away from the tricycle. (Do they still say that?  It’s been awhile since I’ve done some really good jail time.)

Accused:  Why?

Police Officer:  Well, you are being accused of…..uhmmm…..oh hell, it is what it is, now just do what I say, damn it!

Hypothetical: The Mariners, Seahawks, Huskies and Cougars just lost every game of their season, and the Mariners were even out of season. (this doesn’t sound hypothetical) Now, I’m only supposed to care about a tie game in soccer.  Sorry.  That really is what it is.  This is where the phrase becomes medicinal and saves marriages and remote controls.  Much like finding serenity rather than violence, this phrase is allowed requiring no explanation because there isn’t one.  Trust me, I have been seeking this antidote for thirty nine years, and I must tell myself, “it is what it is.”

I am only writing this because I hear this phrase over and over while speaking with people I love, respect and admire.  They may be friends, family, athletes, journalists or police officers. But, if you are going to disclose delicate information, regardless of who you may be, give it to me straight on the chin, because otherwise, it’s just a dangling participle which ninety nine percent of the population doesn’t quite understand either.  I would rather you just say you have a dangling dingleberry and be on your way.  That’s what my dogs tell me.  And, I get that!

I’ll disclose something.  I’ve not provided information in the past to people I love, respect and admire.  I haven’t always told it straight.  Yet, I’ve never said, “it is what it is”.  I’ve just ran away from the truth, exhausted fumes trailing me and my car, without saying a thing.  That’s an even easier way out.  However, it isn’t fair to those who care.  Much like saying, “it is what it is”.

Why don’t you just say, “I give up”.  Now, that makes a little more sense.  Or, you can kick yourself in the ass and try to find solutions to your ailments.  And, when that doesn’t work, don’t say “it is what it is”, just give up.

Let us Pray.

You Can Google That! (and the election)

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It’s election time, and I just awakened to a pile of crap……literally.  One of our 77 animals decided to use our carpet as a latrine.  Waking before my wife, I was undecided as to whether I should ignore it, wake her up to help me clean it, or just vomit and clean it myself.  I did the latter, and being knee deep in crap made me ponder our current God Bless America Election.

Election time this year has not given me an election.  Evidently, I may not get an election for at least a week.  I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or just succumb to political boredom.  We have Obama, Romney and their two goons to vote for or against.  I overheard one potential confused voter uttering the line, “I’m not voting for Obama, but I will cast a vote against Romney.”  That’s when you toss in a cool fictional write-in name just for fun such as….oh let’s say, “Shayne Wing”.  This doesn’t sound like a right or left wing, just someone who knows not to send canned goods to the Red Cross during a time of turmoil when they specifically asked for cash donations only.  Romney didn’t get that memo.  He was busy smiling in Ohio, commenting on the “little” storm brewing in the east.  I don’t think he knows much about brewing, much like Obama doesn’t know much about tweeting.  As a Mormon, you shouldn’t brew, and as The President of the United States of America, you shouldn’t tweet……..unless it’s about baseball.

During this election, some people don’t even know who they are voting for, or more importantly, Googling for.  You see, to be “Googled” makes you famous like a potential President.  Evidently, “Google Me” is a common phrase and command for someone desiring YouTube stardom, or as I like to call it, MeTube. (You can google that!)  According to reliable sources, “Google Me” is also on the cutting edge of barroom pick up lines, even if you are the incumbent.   Let’s Google that incumbent and a potential President.  That should be fun, because nothing short of fun is what this election is about.  Much like pickling anything, we can now Google anything.

A friend of mine runs a bar in D.C.  That’s a Discombobulated Community just north of Columbia.  Barack Obama saunters in with his entourage and sits down next to my friend and asks, “Do you know who I am?”

Friend:  Yes. You’re Barack Obama.

B.O.:   But, do you know who I am?

Friend: Of course, (and while shaking hands and ordering him a beer) you are Barack Obama.

B.O.: Google me.

Friend:  What?

B.O.: Google me.

Friend:  Ok………..It says you’re The President of the United States.

B.O.:  I’m the President of the United States!  BAM!  Google that, ya’ll!

Now enters an equally intelligent man named Romney.  The same banter follows, only his entourage is full of women, many whom may or may not be his wife.

M.R.:  I’ll have a  non caffeinated cola, and do you know who I am?

Friend:  Let me guess, if I Google you, I’ll bet you are running against the incumbent, correct?

M.R.:  Google me.

Friend: I already know who you are.

M.R.: Google me.

Friend:  Alright……..it says something about you being a rich mormon whose beliefs include…..(interrupted by M.R.)

M.R.:  Just get to the good part about me running against this liberal over here.

Friend: Ok, let me scroll down a few pages…….yes, you are running against our current President.

M.R.:  Darn right!

Friend: And, that makes you important?

M.R.:  No!  It makes me famous!  You can Google me!

Now, in walks a fellow named Guy Loans.  Great name.  I want all my friends to have that name.  This Guy must be loaded, or sell some sort of insurance.

Guy Loans:  (A well groomed chap entering with wife in hand, both dressed like they had just been skiing in the Alps.) Do you know who I am?

Friend:  (exhausted)  No, I don’t.

G.L.:  I’m Guy Loans.

Friend:  Nice to meet you, Guy Loans.

G.L.:  But, do you know who I am?

Friend:  (wearily) Yeah, you’re Guy Loans, and don’t tell me to….

G.L.:  Google me.

Friend:  Oh, for Christ sakes, if I Google you, will you please take you, your ski bunny wife, those two clowns running for President, and get the hell out of here?

G.L.:  Google me.

Friend:  There’s about a million Guy Loans on here, but one is about an idiot skiing off a fifty foot cliff at the age of fifty.  Is that you?

G.L.:  That’s right!  And you can tell your friends to Google that!  I’m not only drunk, I’m FAMOUS!

Friend:  Ok, terrific.  As long as your wife can ski you home, can you all get the hell out of here?

As the incumbent and possible president exit, the future vice and incumbent vice enter. (I love the word Vice:  one of the definitions being a trivial fault or failing.  That’s perfect.)

Both are dressed in muppet costumes they’ve forgotten to take off since October 31’st.  Ryan as Fozzy the Bear, and Biden as The Swedish Chef.  (If you don’t know those muppets, you can google them and I can guarantee you they are much more impressive than their impostors.)

Fozzy is in very good shape and looks to be very young.  Those are the first items on his Google resume.  That, and he speaks English.

The Swedish Chef doesn’t speak a word of English, unless it’s “chicken”, “pork” or “da fishy”.  Otherwise, he’s singing in tongues we can’t understand.

Perfect.  Vote decided.  I’ll take the guy running with the other guy I can’t understand.  I think that’s  Obama and his chef.   Fozzy just wants his fame as a Stand Up Vice President.

God Bless America.

Personally, I don’t wish to be Googled.  Beyond high school glory days, public records provide way too much information.  Hi, I’m Ben Gannon, and please, don’t google me.

Click here for Muppet Campaign Video

 

Jitterbug Rules

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My mother has had many nicknames over the past eighty some years.  Most have pertained to her eyesight and hearing issues, but others have regarded her technical skills, or hatred there of.  There’s Helen, or HK.  Most people would find this to be a magnificent nickname because of Helen Keller’s remarkable quest and breakthrough to communicate.  Mom only rolled her eyes when we’d refer to her as Helen.  This just after  a waitress asking her if she wanted eggs with her toast, her reply might be, “No, I don’t want legs with my host…..that’s ridiculous.”

Ma Barker, another nickname she despised, was only derived from a history book her seven sons didn’t read.  We were too busy playing baseball and football in the backyard.  When we were instructed to do homework, our idea of reading a chapter was reading the bold letters introducing the chapter.  “Did you do your home work?”

“Yeah, we read about Ma Barker.”

Little did we know upon non further review, Ma Barker was a murderer and common thief.  Our mother, quite the antithesis.  Ma Barker  had four sons who committed most of the crimes she convinced them to commit.   Since we weren’t into details, when we’d refer to her as Ma Barker, she would become uncommonly angry and say, “Do you even know anything about her?”  I think my mom’s seven sons could only assume Ma Barker was the mother of the great Bob Barker from “The Price is Right”.  Wrong.  We should have guessed that was the wrong answer when the next chapter wasn’t titled, “Son of Ma Barker”.  It was titled, “Death and Imprisonment”.

Mom received other lesser known titles such as Amelia Bedilia, Mither, Mommy Fearest or Dearest, but she is entitled to two further nicknames providing her essential identity and capturing the love which has never emptied her tank……especially when her children were running on empty.  The first being Jitterbug, and the last being Mom.

Even your mother can use the Jitterbug cell phone.

Communicating with our mother via anything was a disaster.  Many of my sisters have sought counseling over not being capable of saying the words, “I love you”, because she, literally, or perhaps deliberately, can’t hear them over a cell phone.  My mom is pretty sharp so literal and deliberate take on different connotations regarding her prowess.  Many of my siblings gave up.  When “I love you so much”, comes out like, “I’ll shove you so much,” it becomes verbally taxing.  Then along came Jitterbug.  The answer to all our communication prayers.  Lord knows we wouldn’t take the time to write this glorious woman a letter.  That’s Blasphemy in today’s tech world!

Like an 8″ by 12″ picture frame, my mom can hang this Jitterbug cell phone on the wall and clearly see each number while pressing the keys with the palm of her hand.  It’s cutting edge technology.  And, much like my mother, it’s cool.

When I call my mother on the Jitterbug, I use her most mysterious nickname……Mom.  She’s earned that one.

 

 

A Pony’s Tale (I’ll have another t-one for the road)

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Most of my writing consists of stories regarding my life or others’ lives.  They are observations and sometimes manifestations of everyday occurrences.  My life is a bit mundane, but when you are truly fascinated with a man you believe shouldn’t exist, you are compelled to write about him.  I’m a writer.  Therefore, I love writing about a man I know quite well.

Writing about him a year ago, you may remember him as T-One.  Not pronouncing his S’s properly, when in school, upon asked about his name, he was not “Stephen”  He was T-One.   T-One is his alias just prior to entering his phone booth, which also maintains an alias……His Tavern.  This is where T-one becomes Steve…….or Tooperman.

My life has been blessed by this man who, when entering a room, can light up the atmosphere like a nineteen seventy joint.  His smile is genuine, his laughter is sincerely infectious, and his love for those surrounding him is real.  So is HE.  He’ll make an effort to stop at any crosswalk for any form of life.  However, when someone chooses to disrespect him, he runs into a tavern, changes his clothes, turns a shade of green, and places those who have cross walked him into another shade of green.

This is folklore for the boring life I lead.  Steve is a man amongst gentlemen.  He’s one of the finest gentlemen I’ve crossed.  But, I wish those who read this take heed, for the most kindest, forthright, and generous of human beings can change his kindness channel to the rage channel with the flick of his wrist.

Here’s the lack of punchline.  A man wearing a pony tail (that’s funny right there)  walks into a bar and proceeds to drink a beer and talk at the same time.  He gurgles and gobbles while the owner of the bar, who maintains his true identity known as “Steve” watches and waits for him to shut up.  It never happens.  Therefore, Steve tells him to shut up and drink his beer.  The patron then proceeds to approach another Tooper Hero known as Turner.  Pony Tail patron tells Turner he is going to beat Steve up.  Turner turns to him and says, “you may want to rethink that, buddy.”  Pony Tail then decides, with no infinite wisdom to approach, accost, and alleviate my brother, Steve, from his simple world.  That’s when Steve enters the barroom bathroom, takes off his hat and becomes Tooperman.  Tooperman then, over the course of maybe five seconds, escorts this patron out by the use of his Pony Tail.  Tooperman always finds a weakness in anyone, just so he can enjoy the weekend.  The Pony’s tail was this guy’s Achilles heal.

As a man who doesn’t approve of violence (not quite a pacifist), Tooperman decided to use this pony tail as his weapon of mass confusion.  He whipped him around the bar like a carnival pinwheel while, without hurting him, stated, “You don’t come into someone’s bar and try to get in a fight with a pony tail!”  The man was escorted by Tooperman out with not a person or Tooper Hero getting hurt.

The A moral to the story is………and lack of punchline, don’t enter a bar with a pony tail anticipating a fight when it’s not the owner’s first rodeo.  You will lose.

Enough about anger and good management, let’s watch some baseball.  Now that’s FUN!

 

 

 

 

E (Extra) True Hollywood Story

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Now years ago, I worked for the county, which I believed was the only job in the world where you did indeed receive pay for napping on the job.  For years, I’ve searched the world and elsewhere to find its equal.  Elusive as it was, much like finding socks to match my dirty white t-shirt, I found it.  It is in Hollywood.  And, this is your Extra True Hollywood Story.

I know two professional actors.  Both are my dear friends.  One, an accomplished actor, working in over a dozen movies, appearing in countless T.V. episodes and having a lead role in a Soap Opera for six years as well as directing, writing and starring in an award winning independent film.  He shall remain anonymous.  His father shall not.  Marshall, some eighty years of age, give or take a few decades depending on his attitude, is also an accomplished thespian and former broadcaster, having worked the commercial junction, as well as many plays and a pivotal role in his son’s independent film.  Both have credentials, but you decide which one has mastered the art of making money the easy way.

Marshall’s son belongs to S.A.G..  (Screen Actor’s Guild).  This is a common union for actors who must pay their dues while scraping for money in between jobs and when that acting job arrives, they must memorize lines I can’t even read.  It is definitely work mixed with some formidable humility.  Marshall belongs to another cult referred to as E.S.A.G. (Extra Sophisticated Actors’ Gag)…..No fees, paid naps and no contracts.  Brilliant.  I’d apply but no one in their right mind would accept a person less than eighty years of ageless beauty……or were diagnosed with narcolepsy.  I may be an actor at home, but I can’t play one on T.V..  My friend, Marshall, now referred to as “Method Man Mark”, has the ability to nap whenever he chooses.  This is legitimate acting.

Auditioning as a comatose patient on “Grey’s Anatomy”, Mark nailed it.  Falling asleep during the audition landed him an undisclosed amount of money fooling those in Hollywood.  Bravo.

But, could he bring his craft to the set on this gurney, while one hundred or so people were expecting him to be in a coma?  Yes.  In fact, this is THEE God’s honest true story.  He literally, for thirty minutes, fell asleep in the gurney as the best extra ever to nap on a prime time show.  Being in such a deep sleep, the directors were wondering if he was flat lining, but the only prop available was an old Atari monitor.  Shaking him, they urged him to get out of character, and as usual, he awakened with an eighty year old cantankerous attitude solidifying an additional spot on the show.

And then, that’s when his creative art of napping on cue came to a definitive halt.  He began negotiating with Hollywood executives as to when and where he should fall asleep. They threw out times such as “noon”, but Marshall refused because that was cottage cheese and jello time.  They mentioned five o’clock P.M. and he tore up the studio, and also  threatened them to whip them with the belt he left behind at the airport during a routine security check earlier at L.A.Xtra.  It was all falling to pieces of nap rage.

His last moment of sanity was to make a legitimate deal keeping all extras and executives happy.  Under no circumstances, should he be held under contract by MGM to be forced hostage in a gurney while there was an Early Bird Special at Denny’s featuring “Moons Over My Hammy.”

OK, I added some salt and pepper to the story.  I couldn’t help it.  Proudly, I can say with complete honesty and with Marshall’s consent, he did fall asleep during the filming.  The best cash he ever made.  There’s nothing like method napping.

Blazing Saddles – Napping on the Job

 

Unfair Weather Fan (Waiting to Inhale a World Serious)

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Waiting is not a virtue.  Punctuality is.  I’ve been waiting 35 years for the Seattle Mariners to deliver a World Series.  The lack of punctuality existing is clear, and even the lack of a World Series they haven’t bestowed has become irrelevant.  I’ve waved the white and blue flag, surrendering my allegiance to this group of players.

Returning from a four day vacation to Los Angeles, the city of Angels and baseball, leaves me with a dull impression on my mind.  There were indeed Angels in Los Angeles, and they were sitting right next to me at Dodger Stadium, also known as “The Chavez Ravine”.   The Angels may be a team in LA, but the Angels on this night were my wife sitting with me and my two friends, Trevor and Marshall.

Trevor, and his father, Marshall, were hosting this baseball party lasting from the first inning rib Trevor grilled at his home, until the ninth inning at that glorious ravine.   It was a fabulous night amplified with cheering at the proper moments, sighing at improper moments, and happily devouring peanuts without even recognizing your belly was already full of the magnificent ribs provided prior to the game.  We ate those peanuts like we were mad at them.  Watching the Dodgers and rooting for them from the tender age of I don’t remember, this was significant and winning nostalgia.  (Their triple A club….”The Spokane Indians” was located five minutes away from our home in the mid seventies.  This is why I followed and worshiped a team that would eventually deliver a boy a World Series.)

Fast forward to the year 2012 where I recently sat with my friends at The Chavez Ravine.  The Dodgers won, and now, I, once again, love the Dodgers and the city.

So, thanks to those friends and true men who love and respect the sport (Trevor and Marshall) for reminding us of how much fun the game can be.  Some people, owners, and Generally Stupid Managers forget.  I never do forget.

P.S. Go back and read this as though it was the voice is Steven A. Smith from ESPN.  He’s terrifical, magical, and glorious.  See . . . Frank Caliendo Impersonates Stephen A. Smith

 

Day Three and He Still Smells Good (Nathan’s Blog…2012)

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“After two days, they smell like dead fish.”  That was one of my dad’s lines.  House guests sometimes are like permanent markers.  Shall I proceed further with this matter?  I think that sums it up.

They call him Nathan Nypen, brother of Natalie Nypen.  Misspelling their names intentionally, I only wish to save them from scrutiny when our picture hits the nightly news.  If he stays more than three days at our humble home, I may be forced to permanently injure him, just as he did to me two long days ago.

Engaged in the most fiercest of games known to somebody as “Scrabble”, Nathan and I had a dispute over his lackluster play and his refusal to allow me to utilize a hand written apostrophe.  Nathan spelled the word “somebody” playing off of my wife’s “Y”.  So, since I keep a garden of tiles in my pocket referred to as “S” and “Blank”, I believed the apostrophe S would fit in properly to spell “Somebody’s”.  Sir Nathan Nypen then referred to me as Somebody’s Fool.  Foolishly, I could only assume he was referring to my wife, or even perhaps me.  Therefore, as any common cave dweller must do, I started a fight in your own living room.  I still forget sometimes I’m close to forty years of life.  My neck still hurts on day three because I merely wished to provide a friendly ass wiping (yes Dave W., I indeed  spelled ass wiping correctly) but I think Nathan wanted to kill me.  Being friends since the fifth grade, I didn’t think he would fight dirty, especially in front of my wife and in OUR living and dying room!

It was an amicable finale and my wife has since used the Scrabble tiles as Briquettes.  This irritates me because I prefer a friendly game of Scrabble to a fight.  Losing in Scrabble only hurts for three minutes.  My neck has hurt for three days, and we have to put up with this ass wipe for a month.  This isn’t fair.  Wait until I break out my stash of a board game known as “Monopoly”.  He won’t know what hit him.

Most of this is fictional, and Nathan (don’t call me “Nate”)  has been a dear friend of ours for many years. (That’s non fiction.) We have welcomed him to our home and I must say, having very few friends, he has made me feel young again this morning.  He has reminded me of the days when he was the fabulous high school quarterback and I was his scapegoat running back. Nathan dished the ball to me thirty times on Friday nights just because he knew my neck and entire body was going to be punished by eleven men all night under the lights.  I think he got a kick out of it.  It was payback for me stealing his mother, Patty’s, absolutely delicious chocolate chip cookies at lunch time.  They were so good, this clown was trying to sell them.  That’s when I chose to steal them.  It’s the peasant way of glaring at life with principle.

So, if you don’t hear from me tomorrow, it’s only because Nathan will still be here for another day, and I will be staying, rent free, in the local penitentiary after beating the holy crap out of him…………….in Monopoly.

Just wait until he gets a load of Cribbage.