Category Archives: Inspired by Real Events

Who is Pat Conroy? (Kiss my shrimp and Grits)

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My inspiration for writing is devoted to one person, and a whole lot of other ones.  That was written with confusion, but allow me to explain.

His name is “The Prince of Tides”.

Visiting the majestic city of Charleston, South Carolina, my wife and I drank the beer, ate the cool shrimp and grits and tasted a dish called “she crab soup”.  I will never find its’ equal.  My favorite author, Pat Conroy, is respectfully known in Beaufort, South Carolina as a man who wrote, “The Prince of Tides”.  He has also written many other books blessed with grace and a voice I’d like to hear and have one beer with.   I did not wish to receive an autograph, see his home or annoy him in any way.  It was pure maple syrup curiosity.

In South Carolina, Britt, (my wife) and I, would ask questions as to what we determined the nicest people in the world. Our questions seemed to be answered. They shook hands.  They said strange phrases such as “Please and Thank you”.  When I opened the door for anyone, they replied,  “Thank you Ma’am, or Thank you, Sir. These were white women and black men treating all of us as equals.  I am indeed a man, but if they were to refer to me as a ma’am, I would  reply with great dignity and say to them….with a genuine smile.”You are very welcome”.

Pat Conroy provided excitement for the mere notion of the scary attempt at doing what I wished for. Writing.  Middle School students provided the gasping relief to know I required a different profession.

My first job interview as an English novice, I was asked one very, and  dreadfully dishonest question.  ” Who is your favorite Author?”  Initially, I thought, in the most phony of ways, Shakespeare,  Chaucer, Hardy, and even the saddest and craziest of all, Emily Dickenson.   I needed to impress these idiots so I could make forty grand a year with summers off.

Beg to differ.  Rather than pulling out the confusing cards such as Shake, Chauce, Emily Dick and even Hardy…..who made me suffer for three long years without baseball, I busted out Pat Conroy.  None of these imbeciles knew who I was referring to.  I said, “you know, the guy who wrote the “Prince of Tides.”

Their response………oh……….yeah, yeah…..good good.  Anything else?

Nope.  It was at that moment,I recognized how ridiculously stupid administration could be.  There was no Waaaaayyy I was going to work for them.

I didn’t get the job, but I knew where my path was leading.  After fifteen of years teaching, I finally found my Shrimp and Grits.  And, I’m going to retire with her.

I did meet Pat Conroy, and he was just as expected.  He was the Prince of Tides, and South Carolina is definitely, the prince of tides.

Ben Gannon

 

 

 

Mount St. Hell (the tale of a seven year old brain)

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(This is only a seven year old’s perspective on his first day in Hell.  I mean no disrespect to heaven, God, my mother or volcanos……for all you jerks trying to edit my writing, yes, it can be spelled “VOLCANOES” as well……even if you are seven years old)

Where were you when Mount St. Helens blew?  I know where I was when it blew.  I was in our backyard playing football in Spokane, Washington with my brothers, and it was one of the worst days of my life……at that time of my serendipitous life.

At seven years old,  I didn’t understand or believe the magnitude of this event. I believed in several things, such as baseball, football, being forced to go to church on Sundays and my mom.  My mother, attempting to explain to a seven year old that pitch darkness would be arriving in ashes around noon made no sense at all to me while the sun still had many hours left allowing us to play before dinner.  It was the first time I didn’t believe what she said.

Believing in God, I couldn’t believe a volcano could turn off the sun like a lamp.  I thought, is a volcano more powerful than God?  I was frustrated and confused.  I wasn’t afraid, just angry because I cherished being able to play baseball and football on weekends with my brothers, and indeed, my mother was correct….as usual.

When the sun went off in Spokane, I finally believed in what those priests were saying about Heaven and Hell.  For me, heaven was in our backyard.  Then, on that dreadful day of May, 18th, 1980, I believed Hell blew many miles into our own yard from a volcano.  We had to be inside for a whole day which started out beautifully, and ended up in darkness.  My day was ruined, but then it even became worse the very next day.  We had to shovel that Godforsaken Ash that next day like it was the middle of winter.  Additionally, we were forced to wear these ridiculous masks so we wouldn’t develop some form of lung cancer.  Hell, thanks to my dad, I second hand smoked two packs a day from the day I was born.

Since then, I’ve forgiven the volcano, God, and those brand new ashes I only thought could show up on a day called Ash Wednesday, or in a tray one of my brothers would create in pottery class as a gift for our father.

I’m not quite as mature as I was in those days, but I am a bit older.  Nostalgia is always fun, even when it blows some people and trees out of their homes and habitat.

 

A Mother’s Day Hangover and 65 Cents

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When you hit the age of somewhere around twenty five to forty, you hear hangovers can last upwards of two full days.  This hangover I’m speaking of has nothing to do with alcohol.  It’s about all those mothers we have to please on Sunday.  It’s exhausting making the one, and the other ones you love so much, feel that love.

I only have one mother.  Her name is Margaret.  She is an exceptionally special person.  Yet, men and women alike choose to make phone calls to other mothers who have made a difference in their lives.  It doesn’t always have to be the one carrying you around in her belly for nine months, shooting you out of her hoo ha, and then still takes care of you and her other twelve children forty years later.  You may have outlaws…..sorry, in-laws visiting you on that weekend.  It may be your mother in-law and Grandmother in-law. (Two wonderful people) They only require two things:  Breakfast and Scrabble.  This is where a girl like me becomes a man.  I lay down the (in) LAWS.

Capable of convincing anyone on a Sunday Mother’s Day that all restaurants are closed on said day, I am equally capable of making them a hearty breakfast in our humble home for less than ten dollars and less than a thirteen hour wait in line at an “I HOPE I never eat here again”.  It’s a famous chain.  My pancakes, bacon and eggs take a mere twenty seven minutes.  This makes the mothers happy, and Ben a happy man.  Then, I beat the hell out of them in a friendly game of Scrabble.

Church:  Also closed on Mother’s Day.  Most elderly women don’t want to believe this.  In my world, Church is always closed on days such as Christmas, Easter, weddings, and most Sundays.  I’ll make an exception for a funeral.

Cards are really nice, but you have to leave that for your one and only mom.  Again, this is my world.  Phone calls are far easier than writing a sarcastic letter to your true mother who deserves so much more.  The letter I sent my mother only cost HER sixty five cents.  I placed the incorrect postage on the letter.  The mailman did deliver it ONE FULL DAY before Mother’s Day.  He just wouldn’t give it to her before she scrambled around looking for sixty five cents.  Now, I have great respect for men and women who deliver mail in rain, snow and are willing to charge my mother, (eighty five years of age, mind you) extra cash because a letter weighs over four ounces.  She paid for the extra postage, but made the postman, holding this heavy letter, wait about four minutes.  She has a great sense of humor.  Evidently, he was none too pleased with the weight and wait.  What the postman forgot to do, bless his heart, was open the mail to see if there was any money enclosed.  Indeed there was.  I also included with the letter thirteen dollars, representing mom’s thirteen children.  She called me on Saturday, and she couldn’t stop laughing.  It is the best medicine, and it made my day.

I recovered from the weekend hangover.

Standardized State Festering

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Ok, just raise your hands, everyone, when I ask you this question: Who doesn’t love standardized state tests?  Ok, everyone, put your hands down.  EVERYONE, PUT YOUR HANDS DOWN!  Let me tell all you mouth breathers in the audience, they can be fun……..for teachers.

Teachers get some days off.  Teachers get to act like they are grading papers during these hours of silence, when they are actually e-mailing their girlfriend in Seattle, or even a girlfriend working at the school.  This is a glorious time when teachers get to text, use I Phones, I Pads and Maxy Pads without any of the students being aware of anything.  It’s terrific because those students are completely oblivious as to what the teacher is doing.  They’re simply terrified because they actually believe this seventh or eighth grade test will determine their wealth and fame in life.  It’s a time when a student loses all hope and faith in themselves, our country and the Metric System.  (Are we still using that ridiculous system?)

Sadly, the fun has to end for some teachers on this day of reckoning.  Many students end the scheduled six hour test in five minutes.  This means two of two things.  After looking at the test, the students say to themselves, “F this noise”, or, ” I’m not even going to entertain the notion that I can pass this ridiculously biased test”, thus presenting a dilemma for the teacher, who after administering the test, must be burdened by the idea of keeping a student busy for the next silent five hours and fifty five minutes.  I developed a cure for the disease of boredom for twelve and thirteen year olds.  “Hocus Focus”.

A long time ago, in a land far to close, I was a full time employee and part time teacher at a very respected school district.  With some of my closest friends, we had to maintain our own sanity when witnessing students giving up on these tests before they even began.  I didn’t blame some of them.  I felt sorry for them.  Therefore, I broke out what I called “The Old Fashion”.  For some people, that means a doughnut.  For drunks, it’s a wake up drink, or “hair of the dog”.  For teachers, it was “Hocus Focus”.  These are two pictures you can provide on an overhead projector displaying similar scenes where you are forced to find the differences.  These students who finished the test in five minutes would work on these picture puzzles for another five minutes.  They would have to find ten differences in the pictures.  Examples:  bad hairline in one pic, full head of hair in the other, child in one yard giving the “I’m number one finger” and child in the other yard giving the “middle finger”,  a father barbecuing with a can of beer in one pic, and a father barbecuing with a bottle of vodka in the other.  These were great teaching tools.  Sadly, they hit so close to home plate for many of these students, I could not print enough of these pictures off because they were so good at finding the differences, and they loved it.  This is when a bad teacher becomes a clever teacher.  This is an ancient Irish secret: I printed off two identical pictures and told them they must find the ten differences.  They spent the next five hours and thirteen minutes working on that project.

I never gave them the answers, because there were none…..just like some of the questions on that dreadful test they were so subjectively forced to take.   I hope they get the important answers in life correct someday.

(This is written with much respect to all teachers, especially the ones I sort of worked with for fifteen years, and with no respect to the administration level and the people who didn’t have to be in those rooms for so many years…….)

 

The Neighbors have Two Dogs and Rainier

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Vicious and Kind: If a neighbor has two dogs and a wife, you know who the dogs take after.  One may be vicious like the wife, and one may be kind like the husband.  It’s simple psychology.

I was attacked viciously by one of their dogs tonight (Eben), and before seeking legal counsel, I instead went to get ice cream. It was my wife’s only wish, even if my cargo pants, just washed and dried mind you, were ripped so closely to the flesh that I, for once, saw my life flash before my balls.  Simply terrifying.

Upon inspection, my wife said it was merely slobber.  What does she know about anything?  Now, I additionally wanted to sue her for not supporting her husband.

After purchasing the vanilla bean ice cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream, I informed her I had some business to attend to before dealing with her insubordination as as a loyal wife.  She laughed.  There’s nothing worse than a wife laughing at you while she is eating ice cream, laced with chocolate and that damned cream.  I lost it.  Marching down to the neighbor’s house and pressing their door bell will all of the energy I had left, they answered politely not knowing I was going to release my hounds and furious anger upon them.  That’s when then they offered me a Rainier Beer, and that’s when the counsel rested.

(The dogs, Eben and Bo, and the neighbors have always been wonderful…………if they have Rainier………Thanks, John, Megan, Eben, and Bo.  Special thanks to a peanut named Emma who is the secondary reason I’m not suing my neighbors.

 

 

 

 

Pepper Spray Gets In Your Eyes

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When a waiter asks me if I wish to have pepper on my salad, I always say, “yes”.  When a wife asks me not to pepper spray myself, I say, “no”.  I don’t give much advice to anyone, and if I do, nine times out of nine you shouldn’t take it.  But, every now and then, I provide terrific advice which should be documented as Gospel.   Just because you purchase pepper spray for your wife from a convenient store doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.

My wife takes walks with our dogs sometimes without me.  She also works at a job requiring her to leave in a downtown area when darkness falls upon everyone.  I once told her, “I can’t always be watching over you.” Therefore, I wanted to purchase her some pepper spray because I do actually like her and worry about her safety.  There are bears, cougars, raccoons, and squirrels in Seattle.  She explained to me that you can’t find pepper spray in many stores because many outlets believe it should be illegal.  That’s when I went on a scavenger hunt for pepper spray.  I was determined to find it, even if it was on the blackpepper market.

Discovering a seedy joint located three blocks away referred to as a 76 Station, I found some pepper spray.  I felt as if I was both Lewis and Clark not only finding the Pacific, but also finding a Northwest Passage.  Much like Mariwether Lewis, this story has a sad ending.

I wish to test items I don’t purely believe can work for three dollars, especially when it comes to my wife’s safety.  So, as an incredibly intelligent man, I requested she test it on me.  She refused.  I then retorted, “I’m going to nail myself with it then.”  Fortunately, I went outside, and she said , “Gannon, if you do that, I am going to be so pissed!”(I always know I’m in trouble when she calls me Gannon.) I really didn’t think it was going to work. The first shot didn’t.  I missed myself and managed to stain some siding on our house bright orange.  The second shot……..right in the face.  I figure if you’re batting five hundred with pepper spray, it should suffice.

Completely blind in my left eye and with my face turning bright orange, my lovely wife carted my dumb ass up to the shower to get this pepper off of me.  Since one of my eyes remained stable, (my whole head was burning) I could still manage to find soap.  Another bad idea.  Some of the pepper spray residue trickled into my right eye.  Now, I was literally blind.  I screamed from the shower, “Britt!!!! I’m blind……..please help me!”

She did, and after a few hours of blindness and blistering pain, I recovered.  I can’t count the number of times of my wife shaking her head because I couldn’t see her.  I know I’ll never do that again because that stuff works.

If she can aim in the right direction, I know she’ll be safe.

I think she provided forgiveness more for the pink jacket case with which the spray was encased.  She just loves pink.  I can’t believe she also loves an idiot.

 

 

Offense or Defense? ( Dr.Jeckle and Mr. Craig)

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The noun, “Gentleman” is used far too haphazardly in this crazy world.  These days, gentlemen seem to be a diamond in the buff… much like sasquatch;  When you witness one, it’s usually a fuzzy story and your camera phone doesn’t work properly at that moment.  They are extremely difficult to discover.

Each day, I witness men not opening doors for old bags, and when you do find the elusive gentleman, he is often times not rewarded with a simple “Thank you”.  This is why chivalry is dying, but not dead.

I am a part time gentleman and half time asshole.  When I open a door for a woman going to the theater, or even a man delivering ice to a grocery store, I hold the door open for them.  If they don’t give me a “thanks” or merely a smile, I bellow to everyone who can hear me within the continent, “YOU’RE WELCOME!”  That’s when the gentleman becomes an asshole.

For years, I’ve searched the world for this elusive full time gentleman, and at one point, I had given up hope.  Today, I found him.  Just like a Sasquatch can be referred to as a Yeti, this man is also known as the original Mr. Nice Guy.  His name is  Mr. Craig.

He coaches and teaches at a shitty school in Spokane, Washington.  He is amongst a handful of wonderful teachers and coaches at that school.  And by handful, I mean about four.  The rest of the teachers don’t have opposable thumbs, so a handful of crap is what I should have written.

Craig was coaching a Junior Varsity basketball game with very little significance to the players and the rest of the world.  Craig, as a former athlete and current competitor, enjoys winning.  However, that soft touch gentleman always gets the worst of him.

Nudging him on the bench in an extremely close game, a usually reserved boy named Marc would not leave his coach alone.  Marc’s elbowing routine amidst a very tight game was not allowing Mr. Craig to coach.  “When am I going to get in, Coach…….When am I going to get in the game?”

In his usual easy manner, Craig replied, “Alright Marc, you are entering a tight game, so you need to remember what I’ve taught you at practice, ok?”

“You betcha, coach.”

Craig patted him on the back upon entering the game, but knew his team was going to lose.  Craig didn’t really mind the losing part, but he did mind that when Marc entered the game, Marc did not know if he was on offense or defense.  These are times when gentlemen develop rage after countless hours of coaching and teaching.  I call it the Jeckle and Craig Syndrome.  When this young man was supposed to be playing defense, he  thought he was playing offense.  When he was supposed to be playing offense, he assumed he was on defense.  Jeckle left the gymnasium and Craig showed up, screaming, “YOU ARE ON OFFENSE!”.

They lost the game, but it wasn’t Marc’s fault.  Craig left the gym and the gentleman returned to tell this young man he did his best.  The gentleman silently left in his car transforming into his alter ego.  Craig drank several beverages that night but has a spot in both Heaven and Hell reserved by Econo Lodge.

I still haven’t found Sasquatch, but I have found the elusive gentleman.  You can look him up on the website “GFRO”.  It’s similar to the “BFRO”, also known as The Bigfoot Research Organization. The acronym “GFRO”represents a group of people who believe gentlemen indeed exist. It’s the “Gentleman Friendly Research Organization.” I swear to you, THEY exist.  They’re just hard to find.

 

 

84 and Still Kind of Hearing (Who Shot KFC?)

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Bless her soul, my mother is the Irish version of the bizarro Godmother of 13 goofs.  She’s the kindest, sweetest and deafest 84 year old on the planet. Obviously, I’m a bit biased regarding this subject of our mom, commonly and affectionally referred to as Helen Keller.

We always consider our mothers and fathers as the best on their birthdays.  This will be short and cute.  Today is my Mother’s 84th birthday.  I’m celebrating it 25o miles away by merely calling her to tell her how much I love her.  She is  still capable of smacking me on the behind, but my hearing is just a touch better than hers.

My mother, Margaret, doesn’t always turn up her hearing aids, or perhaps, she’s just messing with us when we call her, thus keeping the conversations short.  We shared a nice conversation this morning, and as her kind soul will dismiss her birthday, she wished to know how my wife and life was doing.  I responded, “Britt’s having a rough time with one of our animals getting old and perhaps passing on.”  My mother responded, “Britt’s moving out?”

“No, mom, don’t worry about anything.  We’re very happy and this is the first girl who doesn’t want to leave me…..let’s talk about something else you can’t hear.  I’ll sing Happy Birthday to you.”  (That’s a great way to disguise a terrible singing voice.. Brilliant.)  She didn’t hear it, but she loved it anyway, just like she unconditionally loves all of her children, grandchildren and Great grandchildren.  This last quick paragraph is just too fabulous to be left behind.

Patrice, one of my thousands of fabulous nieces, purchased Kentucky Fried Chicken, also known as KFC, for my mother today.  According to Patrice, it was just as greasy as it used to be……even with the new name.  Mom, bless her creative soul, said, “Don’t worry, I’ve never liked that JFK Chicken anyway.”  Gosh, I love her.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

 

Characters and Character: Shayne (the Wing it Master)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben

 

Snowpocolypse Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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