As a half ass writer, I find it interesting listening to a five minute story from someone I know or don’t know, love or hate, and it takes me five hours to write and convey their story to someone who may or may not care.
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Category Archives: Inspired by Real Events
Trees Louise
You know you’ve had a lousy day when the only thing you are happy about is a tree not falling on your house.
We are truly blessed, but this bloody wind is making us crazy.
The Finals Dinner
If you follow my blog or college basketball, you will understand that The Spokane Stromboli are facing off with the North Carolina Fried Green Tomatoes tonight. Whatever the outcome is, everyone will eat well.
Personally, I am looking forward to opening day baseball and the Seattle Oysters.
Awake
As with every morning, I awake to feed our dogs, cats, squirrels, and my wife. Today, I didn’t have time to feed myself because of gambling and the month of March. It’s that time of year when some may succumb to the evils I once left resting, snoring, or throwing up on a blackjack table.
I may lose twenty bucks during this March Madness, but I will forget the twenty dollars and relish in the fact I can feed the dogs, cats, squirrels, and, once in a while, my wife.
March
It’s time for March Madness, and more importantly, gambling.
My wife wants my advice regarding the NCAA tournament brackets. She believes I know more about gambling than the professionals in Las Vegas making a living off of people like me. I am currently paying off some of their mortgages.
It should be simple, but it is also fun and unpredictable. The weather in Seattle or the East Coast is far more predictable.
Secular Advantages
As a Catholic, the most difficult thing for me growing up with Mormons for neighbors wasn’t the religious separation, but was spelling, “Mormon” correctly when sending them a greeting card. It tended to depreciate the level of care we genuinely maintained for our neighbors. “Congratulations to you and yours. You’ve been such a friendly and loving group of Mormans.” If they could have only responded to our family as being a bunch of fun, loving “Catholicks”, it would have eased some of my Catholic guilt.
Mormons come in groups, and Catholics come in bunches. I won’t try to convince you which one is better, but it’s easy to recognize, without a doubt, which one has a slight edge when it comes to having fun. The only thing separating us was Sundays. Before the age of sixteen, when drinking becomes legal in the Catholic religion, you, instead, relied on anyone who could fill your outdoor team, whether it be baseball, football, basketball, or even snowmobiling. Our neighbors would be willing to play with us on any day but Sunday. Very similar to my belief that Catholic Priests should be allowed to marry, Mormons should be allowed to play Whiffle Ball on a Sunday without having to burn their pajamas after playing. They certainly deserve it. We’d toss in an hour of church on Sunday and be playing ball within moments of leaving, with the ball kept in my jacket during mass. Those poor Mormons suffered through four hours of church and weren’t allowed to hang out with their neighbors in the backyard. Other than Sundays, and some attitudes, our neighbors were just fine with me. If they were willing to swing a bat or throw a ball, whether we needed them or not, why would I give a crap what Bible they bounced off one another.
At that time, we had a basketball hoop in front of our garage. When anyone would dribble a ball, Old Man Mormon (our friend’s father, and a really nice guy) would race out of his house and join in on the game. It was terrific. Since basketball can be a contact sport, especially playing with us, his three sons would only be spectators, but he loved to play because he was twice the size of any of us. He was also pretty good. Old Man Mormon also knew we had a wrestling background and challenged one my brothers to a match in our front yard. Old Man Mormon was twice my brother’s size, but there wasn’t an ounce of grass Old Man Mormon’s back didn’t hit that day. My brother wasn’t challenged again, but Old Man Mormon went to watch every match my brother competed in that year.
During one winter month, overlapping other seasons in Spokane, one of my older brothers acquired a snowmobile, (presumably, as a result of winning a bet) and that season couldn’t have been more fun. Much like dribbling a basketball in our driveway, when we’d fire the snowmobile up, the Mormons would come over to share in the amusement. Having an exceptionally large backyard, we didn’t need a mountain or off road tracks to keep us entertained. We tied a rope to the back of the snowmobile and sometimes the rope would to be attached to a tire. The goal wasn’t to see how long you could hang on to the tire or rope, but it was to climb the rope, reach the driver and throw him off the snowmobile and then become the driver. Those Mormons thought we were a bunch of fruitloops. Although apprehensive to participate, they would laugh and say oddball things such as, “Look at them. Those boys are like the Duke Boys!” (From Hazard County…..Dukes of Hazard Days.) I remember turning to one of my brothers after they made this comment, and I stated, “They let them watch T.V. over there? That’s pretty cool.”
Ultimately, we weren’t just Catholics, Mormons or neighbors. There was never an attempt to convert on either end. Religion didn’t define us. We were friends, and although we grew up with very dissimilar religious backgrounds, we were collectively weird in our own ways, and we accepted it. We enjoyed it. We will always remember it…….fondly.
True Facts and CPR
This is a shockingly true story, so tighten up your Buster Browns.
A dear friend of mine works for Amazon.com. I can’t tell you exactly what the hell she does, but I know she makes a living. She also lives in a house and drives a car.
The other day, she called me describing one of her days at work. Evidently, people don’t work one day at Amazon. They work days. This story can’t get any worse, but trust me, it gets better.
While on a conference call, my friend was auditing financial data, when one of her co-workers needed to take a break to perform CPR on her dog. And one and two and three and four…The dog survived, and she was given a solid performance review.
Mayberry (Rated RFD)
My mother doesn’t use the F- word. She leaves that to her thirteen children. And, if one of her children doesn’t make the f bomb quota on a certain month, she can depend on the others to deliver it properly. That’s what family is all about. Trust, love, profanity, and sometimes, even reading lips.
Before my ripened age of 44, I could count the number of curses delivered from my mother on less than one hand. Post 44, even with frostbite, I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count anymore. It’s not blasphemy. I guess she’s just tired of conforming after 90 years of profane oppression
When reading lips, one may mistake the word, “slipped” or “hit” with, “shit”. It’s very common when watching televised football, baseball or basketball. Usually, “shit” is easy to spot, and those keeping track of on-field profanities are commonly correct. My wife enjoys reading Tom Brady’s lips while watching football, while my mother enjoys reading lips watching The Andy Griffith Show. My wife is usually spot on. My mother is not.
Visiting my one hundred and thirteen year old mother is always a gas. Her hearing is suspect and irrelevant. Yes, I use the word “old” because she prefers it that way. She doesn’t like it when people give her the “oh, you’re only one hundred years young” crap. She’s not selling it, and nobody wants to buy it.
While sitting next to my mother the other day, she wanted to watch some Andy Griffith. I was all in because I love the down home, naive courteous nature, infused with an idiotic deputy gossiping as much as the foolish town folk. It’s similar to the town I spent many years listening to such folk. According to my mother, they (The Andy Griffith Show) began crossing the lines of good, bad and fun taste.
My mother was convinced anytime an actor or actress uttered a word evenly mouth worthy of “shit”, she’d interpret it as though she had been deprived of her childhood right to swear properly.
“How about that, Barney. He hit that right on the head, didn’t he?”
Mom would look at me and say, with laughter, “Did Andy just say he shit right on Barney’s head??!”
My response was… “No, mother. I don’t think they allowed that language on television in the 1950’s, nor do they do now in 2017”.
Not more that five minutes later, my mother was convinced the Mayberry town drunk, Otis, said, “I’m going to shit on this stool right now.” As apposed to the true facts, (I just love our new presidential terms) Otis did say, “I am going to sit on this stool right now.”
Rather than correcting my mother, her giggling reflected a mood we all may require. Although her observations may have been incorrect, her genuine laughter wasn’t fake.
The Canned Goods
Showing up with a different stolen bike once a week, I remember one of my former students fondly. After stealing the bikes, I’d catch him and provide a required lecture. Following my half ass lecture, he always promised to return the bike to his or her proper owner, only to leave with a different bike. For some odd reason, I couldn’t help but laugh and love this poor soul. He would actually return the wrong bicycle to someone he had formerly stolen it from the day before. And, the returned bicycle was usually more expensive than the one he had stolen.
Rarely turning in any assignments, Joe did show up every day on time. He was also kind and respectful to all the other students in our class. Giving him credit for that, I was just glad he didn’t know how to hot wire a Harley.
When Joe graduated from middle school, he would commonly stop by my classroom which had a glass window separating the school from the playground. Joe was never allowed to enter the school. He wasn’t dangerous. Joe was just an affable thief. I actually trusted him, and he trusted me. If I left my wallet on the desk filled with a few hundred dollar bills in it, he would leave it alone. If I were to ride my bike to school, he would have taken it to a gas station, filled up the tires and returned it peacefully. That’s just the way he traveled, or pedaled.
As a kind and unusual gesture, Joe once tried to convince me that he and his mother baked me cookies. They were Oreos. I accepted them with grace, and made certain my other students wouldn’t say a word about his thoughtful offering.
Annually, when Joe was still trying to pass the seventh grade, our school would try to generate food for those in need. Nobody in my class needed food more than Joe. His stolen bikes weighed more than him. Our canned food drive became a competition amongst the teachers, and Joe made certain we were going to win. All of the canned food he received the year before our can drive, he delivered to our class in a wheel barrel, probably stolen. He became the charitable rock star of our class, and we couldn’t help but love him. We won because of Joe and his sincere generosity. Pizza was on me that afternoon, but the class all knew who actually provided it.
The Seven Year Old Itch
The love of money and Ding Dongs are the root of all evil.
Gambling had consumed my life by the time I was seven years old. The transition from horse racing to gambling on football was far too smooth. It should have raised red, white and blue flags for friends and family. Yet, at age seven, when you are betting candy bars, one dollar bills, one hundred pennies, twenty five nickels, excessive yard work, or even a trade for a better school lunch, it almost seemed both trivial and fun…….which is exactly what is best about gambling. Unless you are a professional, it better be about the fun.
In 1980, I won a Super Bowl bet with my first chump. Years before I turned seven, while recognizing I was losing bets against elders, I decided to pick on some of my peers. It was the first time I made a bet on a team I wasn’t rooting for, but Vegas knew more than me or this other clown only betting on numbers and colors.
The Philadelphia Eagles were playing the sinister Oakland Raiders, with the Raiders being favored by 6 and a half. I didn’t like the Raiders, but I knew they were better than the Eagles. My friend, Brian, loved the Eagles and didn’t know they’d probably lose to the Raiders. This is the seven year old’s conundrum. How do you bet someone with no money at the age of seven? Our only collateral was food.
Bless my mother’s loving heart, Brian’s mother was always on the cutting edge of sack lunches where as my mother was more interested in a proper lunch withholding dessert. His mother placed items in his lunch making his sack look like a brown bag Frito Lay/Hershey factory. My lunch was white bread, mayo, and processed Buddig chicken, turkey, beef, or whatever kind of Fisher Price meat one could only carve with an exacto knife. She tossed in some veggies as a chaser.
Never a bully, I wasn’t just going to steal Brian’s lunch, and he wasn’t willing to trade his Ring Dings or Cheetos for celery sticks. My mother had maintained this strange notion that my lunches should be healthy and the snacks we had at home be reserved for special occasions such as the Super Bowl and other phony holidays. Therefore, I thought, with a few embellishments, I could score some of his midday delights. It took gambling to make that work. Although we did have Ding Dongs at home, and depending on the weather or amount of people coming in and out of our house, it was never a sure bet you’d get one before mom had to make her weekly run to the store. So, when I told my friend I would give him two ding dongs for his package of Doritos, (something we never had) he needed proof. He needed to see the Ding Dongs before we solidified the bet.
The Wednesday morning before the Super Bowl, just before receiving a kiss on the cheek from my mother on the way to school, I created a diversion by spotting two chickadees in our backyard. My mother is a sucker for birds. On her way to get some seed, I snatched two Ding Dongs before she could wave goodbye.
At school, Brian asked me if I had the goods. Opening my denim jacket revealing two silvery encased snacks, he was more than satisfied. The bet was on. As a good Catholic boy, I didn’t succumb to temptation that day. The Ding Dongs were properly replaced upon returning home. Eating them before the bet would have pissed off the gambling Gods. Bad Karma.
My betting team, the Oakland Raiders, ended up cruising to a victory over the Philadelphia Eagles, 27-10. That next Monday morning, my friend was there with the Doritos. I knew he would be good for it. He saw me flashing my Ding Dongs around to other cats in our elementary school the week before, and he knew some pencils might be broken if he didn’t pay up. That’s really when it started.
By the time I was in the fourth grade, Frito Lay was making different brands of chips never available at home. Still winning, I began doubling down on empty Cool Ranch bags just to display my playground credibility. Those sandwich sized bags were easy to hide and could be found all over any grocery store littering complex. I probably could have made more money off of recycling. A guilty conscience has no room for a successful gambler. After a four year run of winning Super Bowl bets just to satisfy my savory tooth, I began feeling remorse as they were not in my league. It was like taking Doritos from babies. When you describe the point spread to someone knowing nothing about the point spread, it’s just not fair. I was getting 20 points when my team was favored by 3 and the hook. (The hook is the half point separating the winners from the losers.) I couldn’t lose.
Sometimes, when hobbies lose their luster, you get bored. Gambling lost its luster when I began playing games competitively. Win or lose, the scoreboard provided satisfaction after a ballgame. And, it was always fair, even when we’d come out on the losing side.
Post college, when I began earning my own money, I dabbled in gambling once again. Winning and losing….(mostly losing)….. I had some fun and ruined some remote controls along the way. It’s been years since I’ve been to Vegas or Reno, but I have fun betting with a brother or friend, or even playing fantasy foolsball. I don’t enjoy betting in groups. It dilutes the party. One on one gambling is fun, because it usually involves a good lunch.
I’ll be giving points this weekend while rooting for the Atlanta Falcons over The Tom Bradies. Win or lose, I’ll be eating well somewhere, and it won’t be just a bag of chips.