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Hiyah!!!

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My great nephew, Rocco, is truly great.  When he visits our house, he is well mannered, fun, and possesses a terrific personality.  Additionally, at the age of five, he has a fondness for technology and, like his mother and father, wants to always remain on the cutting edge of it.  However, his father, Pat, and mother, Lacy, wisely, always want to stay at least one step, or in this case, one karate chop ahead of him.

Rocco and his family enjoy using a selfie stick.  For those of you who don’t know, a selfie stick can be described as an elongated stick you can attach to your camera or mobile phone, allowing you to take better pictures or films of yourself or others in the background.  (I like to refer to it as a long distance facial stick.)  The stick also can be attached to a strap which is wrapped around your chest, leaving the camera hands free.   After filming yourself, you can then watch the unedited footage from a computer with your parents observing the action.   It’s basically the worst idea for a child to have attached to their chest.  Actually, unless taking a family photo, it’s just the worst idea since unsliced bread.

At one point, Rocco believed the selfie stick was a hell of an idea with thoughts of capturing every move he made in his backyard.  I can’t blame him.  Everyone wishes to see themselves on T.V., and, sometimes, just once is enough.

One afternoon, Rocco had one of his neighborhood cousins over to play in the yard.  Promising to be careful with the selfie stick and camera, Rocco was allowed to use it until dinner time.  With no surprise, after a while, there was a bit of a ruckus in the backyard between the two cousins, and Rocco was brought in for dinner while his cousin was taken home crying.  Selfie stick status:  Unharmed.  The ruckus was deemed by both sets of parents as nothing but the usual sibling disagreement, or they were just plain tired and hungry.

Post dinner, Rocco’s parents asked if they could watch the footage before his bedtime.  Reluctantly, Rocco agreed, and they all watched the magnificent cinematography with laughter for thirty glorious minutes.  At the 31st minute of his directorial debut, strangely, Rocco asked if he could excuse himself to bed early.  His parents found this odd because, clearly, there were fifteen minutes remaining of the backyard motion picture, and Rocco had never requested to head to the fart sack earlier than completely necessary.  Nevertheless, they excused him, but keenly, knew something was rotten in their neighborhood.  Although tired of the feature film, they decided to finish the remaining fifteen minutes on their own.  They weren’t disappointed with the entertainment value, just a little with Rocco.

While making sure Rocco was tucked into bed, they walked downstairs and pressed the play button again.  After several minutes had lapsed,  what sounded to be the start of a disagreement with Rocco’s cousin turned into one precise universal word echoed throughout the neighborhood by Rocco,  thus completely explaining why he was so eager to slumber.  “HIYAH!”  Pat and Lacy heard Rocco’s bellow on the computer loud and clear just before his tiny little hand landed a karate chop on his cousin’s outstretched paw which may or may not have been reaching for the selfie stick.  Crying soon ensued and the ruckus mystery was solved.  Making the biggest selfie stick mistake a five year old can make, Rocco had filmed himself committing this egregious act of toddler violence.

Since Rocco’s parents are rational people, I believe they had an honest chat with him about his misbehavior, but didn’t take the incident too seriously.  Evidently, Rocco was sincerely sorry and would apologize to his cousin the next time they met.  However, Rocco had a serious question for them the next morning.  He asked them, just in case he was allowed to use the selfie stick in the future, where the pause button was located on the phone camera.  I told you he was great.

 

 

 

Marching Out of Madness (Without Grace)

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WE’RE NOT ALL WINNERS!!!

Years ago, I loved to gamble, and I did quite a bit of it.  And, I can honestly say I was pretty crummy at it.  It never became an addiction, just a hobby.  You know, one of those hobbies where you take c-notes (one hundred dollar bills) wad them up into little balls and toss them into a dumpster, hoping one lucky bum will find them.  Since I wasn’t married, had no children, and it was my money, I figured it was okie dokie.

I don’t know why, but I lost interest after a while.  It’s been years since I’ve even had the urge to place a wager on a pony (unless it’s the Kentucky Derby) or a professional team.  However, if you call filling out a college basketball bracket and handing someone twenty dollars “gambling”, well, then I’m still a pretty lousy gambler.

This year, as millions of others did, my wife and I participated in a pool of drowning bettors wishing to win a small sum of money and a dash of pride during college basketball’s March Madness.  The name is appropriate.  Although this month of sporting excitement can be loads of fun, it can also be wildly maddening.

People all over the country brag about their tournament picks before tipoff, and shortly after tipoff, those same people are ripping the piece of paper displaying their senseless decisions into millions of embarrassing shreds and then burning them out of recycling spite.  This is the dark path gambling can take you.  (It’s a felony in the states of Oregon and Washington, amongst others, to burn paper.) No, I’m not referring to myself.  I’m far more environmentally conscience than that.  Not wanting to waste a piece of paper, I keep all my picks on my computer.

Wishing to explain the process in not too much detail, I will merely say that in our group of imbeciles, one must attempt to choose all of the winners in a sixty four team college basketball bracket, including the champion before the madness begins.  Points are gathered along the road, and you want to have the most wins, especially the champion.  This is not an easy task, but most semi-intelligent gamblers can have fun throughout most of the three week tournament, hoping to be victorious.

Whatever the grade below semi-intelligent gamblers is, I’m a member even below that one.  Even though my wife and I picked the teams collectively, she wanted me to pick the champion.  As the man who wears the cargo shorts in the family, I should have demanded she choose the winner.  But, I deferred to her suggestion and chose with every ounce of knowledge I didn’t possess.  As a result, I did not choose wisely.  The team I chose to win the national championship was out the first day of the tournament, thus leaving us a 2 and 1/3 million to one chance of winning the pot of greens at the end of the tournament.  Since my wife and I were in this together, we were watching our team go down like a barn in a cyclone.  Ironically, our team was the Iowa State Cyclones.

During the game, even though it was close, I could sense the Cyclones were destined for failure, and as much as I tried to summon the gambling Gods and ask for advice on how I could possibly place the blame on my wife for this devastating loss, the prayers were answered by the Gods telling me to shut my pig headed mouth, and keep the remote in her hands.  Because gamblers are remote controls’ worst nightmares for fear of being smashed or tossed into a far away land, I followed part of their advice.  I handed the remote control to her, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.  Before officially marching out of madness, I released an “F-Bomb”. It was a bomb men, women, children and animals could hear all across our zip code.  Usually, I reserve these for the golf course, or any place where my wife can’t hear them.  Following the obscenity, I then marched right outside the house, because I knew that’s where the woman wearing the cargo pants in our house would send me.  Just because you’re old enough to gamble, it doesn’t mean you aren’t a child.

March Madness is officially over for us, and so are the “F bombs” from me.  But, baseball is right around the corner, and believe me, if you hear an “F bomb” floating around the Pacific Northwest, just check the Seattle Mariner box score for a loss, and know these ones are not resonating from me, but from my lovely counterpart.  During baseball season, these are tossed around our house like salad, and it gives me a little ammunition for the next time I gamble on anything.

Appreciating Gifts: It’s a Gift

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Recently, I’ve been informed by social media that children are now registering for birthday gifts much like future married couples and later divorcees have done for decades.  Some people may think this is a reasonable and efficient idea, but other than vomiting, I don’t have much to say about this issue.  Personally, I don’t have a problem with gift giving and receiving, but I do have a bit of a problem with certain celebrations of birthdays at young ages.  When countless friends and relatives are invited, the birthday Prince or Princess doesn’t always seem too appreciative of the gifts showered upon his or her royal crowns, thus creating a sense of entitled greed.

Perhaps, I’m just too old fashioned.  When I was child, I remember annually receiving gifts from my parents at very modest parties. Once in a while, a neighbor might show up for a piece of cake, but I knew my parents frowned on inviting many friends over, because they didn’t want them to feel obligated to bring anything for me.   Or, perhaps I just didn’t have many friends.

I once received a gift from a friend at school on my birthday, and the outcome was bitter sweet.   I still feel awful about my lack of appreciation for the gesture of kindness to this very day.   It was my saddest and most memorable of gifts.

In the eighth grade, I befriended a girl, and we eventually, according to others, became the school’s most conceited couple.  She found out that my birthday was coming soon and wished to purchase me a gift.  I begged her not to buy me anything.  Since I didn’t receive an allowance, I knew when her birthday came knocking on my wallet, other than a student body identification card, the only items filling it might be a couple of baseball cards.  So, unless she liked baseball cards, she would have to settle for a dandelion I could pick in our backyard.

Continuing to pester me, shrewdly, I announced to her what I wanted for my birthday: A new car.  Most thirteen year olds can’t afford this, so I thought it ended the discussion.  Indeed, it did.  And, of course, on my birthday, she still presented to me a gift at the lunch table we had been sitting at together for the previous five months.  In front of all our other friends, I opened it, and it was a car.  It was a remote controlled car.  Actually, I had never had one, and all my guy friends were impressed and a little envious.  So, we all took it out to the pavement outside the lunchroom and I let them all play around with it.  I then told her how much I liked it and gave her a hug.  For me, this was a display of sincere gratitude.  Usually, she couldn’t even get me to hold her hand.

A few months later, she presented me with another surprise at lunch. She broke up with me.  When you’re that young, breakups shouldn’t mean that much to you, but this one did.  For years, all I really cared about was sports.  Now, I found myself really liking this girl, so you could say I was a bit heartbroken.  What was wrong with me? Additionally, since she couldn’t provide a proper reason for the breakup, you could say I was a bit PISSED.  Nevertheless, I took it in stride, said goodbye, and did what any mature thirteen year old would do in this situation.  After baseball practice, I went home, walked into my room and looked at the car and my baseball bat.   Grabbing them both, I strolled out the backdoor, and I remember mother asking me, “Where are you going with that bat and car?”  Calmly, I told her I was heading out to the field beyond our backyard.  She just looked at me strangely.  When I made it to the field, I beat the holy hell out of that car into a thousand little plastic and rubber pieces.  Moments after I did it, I think I felt shame, but at the same time, closure.  Years after I did it, I’d matured slightly and sometimes thought about her and the car and what a horribly rotten thing I’d done.  The car was long gone, and it could never be replaced, along with my lack of appreciation for it.

Although she and I went to the same high school, we never spoke once to one another.  However, twenty five years later after that incident, somehow, the girl and I met again.   Being very contrite about what I’d done all those years ago, with a chuckle, she provided proper forgiveness.  Six months later, we were married.  We share that story with many of the same friends we had long ago, because they remember the car but never properly knew the reason for its demise.  It always makes them laugh or get angry wondering why I just didn’t give it to one of them.

Now, I tell her each day how much I appreciate her, and she says thank you and reciprocates the notion.  Now that’s a gift I can appreciate and won’t beat the hell out of with a bat.

Here’s To New Years (My Toast to Some People)

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Hashtag:  I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.  Sadly, I have an excuse.

If the world was a safe place, we’d all be in better shape.

Let’s make this clear.  I don’t enjoy jogging.  If someone was chasing me years ago, I used to enjoy a good sprint now and then.  Unless I am  participating in a sport involving some sort of ball, with the exception of soccer, I get no kick out of running these days.  However, since we live next to a beautifully wooded park with trees filled with squirrels, owls, eagles, and sometimes, murderers, I make it a point to stroll through the park on a daily basis.  Walking becomes my movement of choice so I can more easily spot the beauty nesting, perching, crawling, or spying from the trees.

I like to take advantage of the park by either walking or jogging in it with one of our dogs.  If I have my choice of walking or running in a park whose trails lead to the majestic Puget Sound with an Olympic Mountain backdrop as opposed to a gymnasium where there are far too many mirrors. I choose the outdoors.  It’s a terrifically medicinal and physically healthful activity for Etta (the only dog who wakes up as early as I do) and me.

Mornings work best for me when working out.  If I don’t do it then, I probably won’t do it all.  Getting some exercise out of the way early also allows me to return home to share quality time with my wife who claims she has a job to get to by nine or ten in the morning.  Seems like a win win for all of us.  Not so damn fast.  The sun doesn’t rise until about 7:30, and I am ready to roll by 6:00 a.m..  In a perfect world, this shouldn’t be a problem or an excuse for me not to get my Irish Icehole down to the park on a daily morning basis.  Unfortunately, there is a significant glitch and legitimate excuse for me to stay home and, instead, use our eucalyptus (elliptical) machine which I despise.  Annually, there is a murder at this park when the sun is down.  People are advised to stay out of the park until daylight hours.  Normally, if I didn’t have a family to feed my family, (and by that, I mean cook for) I would probably take my chances.  (It’s probably the only reason my wife doesn’t encourage me to go.)  But, there is nothing worse than worrying about being ambushed at any moment passing a tree by a common ne’er-do-well lurking behind one of the pines sporting a knife, gun, machete or chainsaw.

So, here’s a toast to all those sons of bitches out there who scare the hell out of me, making it that much more difficult for me to maintain my girlish figure and for all those others struggling to fulfill their New Year’s Resolutions because of these Lincoln Park Pirates.  I guess most of the pirates won’t be capable of reading this, so I will do the next best thing any good Catholic boy would do.  I will simply pray for them each night and request they all burn in Hell.

Cheers

 

A Modern Holiday Proposal

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(After I read this ridiculous piece, I thought of how it should be properly heard. If you can remember Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith show, it may be more appreciated.  Imagine him delivering this proposal to a group of adults.)

There lies a unique unfairness and inequity amongst most holiday traditions whether you celebrate them or not.  Holiday mascots are accepted with grace, except at the Thanksgiving table, where it should be the most applicable.  I’d like to change that.  Let me begin with the most ridiculous before making my proposal.

St. Patrick’s Day and the Leprechaun, or Lepre “con” Artist:  The day itself, other than getting pinched by greasy fingered little boys and girls if you’re not wearing your best emerald green on that day, can be a hoot.  With terrifically high probability, you may also end up in the hoosegow (local jail)……not such a hoot.  This is especially true when, being released, the officers only hand you back your wallet filled with mandatory counseling sessions instead of the pot of gold promised at the end of that phony rainbow by an even phonier dwarf.

Easter and the Easter Bunny:  At least this has some religious redemption, but personally, as a youngster, I have sprained more ankles trying to find hard boiled eggs, only for those eggs to be consumed angrily by uncles and aunts concluding their pious vows of Lent, while fasting and then feasting off of deviled eggs and alcohol.

The Tooth Fairy on any day of the year:  Get the hell out of here!  I wish my parents would have just told me this one didn’t exist.  Any form of ghost, even if they wish to give me a quarter, is not welcomed into my bedroom.

Santa Claus, A.K.A. Old St. Nick and Christmas: This is a tough one for those of us old enough to recognize him before Jesus.  But, just ask anyone younger than the age of eighteen, and I’ll bet you they acknowledge the big guy with the presents before the baby sacrificing his life for us.  Dispatch the three kings delivering a bunch of presents to those who have been with or without sin for a year, and you are left with one fat bearded guy cramming himself down your chimney annually, and quite generously, for the rest of your life.  Look what the milk and cookies dragged in.

This brings us to Thanksgiving and my holiday proposal.  For centuries, not ONE of the former fictional holiday mascots I’ve written about brings us a pot of gold, quarters, eggs or gifts on Thanksgiving.  As adults, we don’t really give a damn.  Thanksgiving is the only natural holiday where we don’t forget the food, but we do forget the children.  We thirst upon mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, stuffing and turkey as though we are too old for candy on Halloween.  Our children only witness our gluttony with pain and anguish waiting for the pies and “a la” anything rich with sugar to be unveiled from the oven.  Do they dream of anything the night before Thanksgiving?  No.  If only they had something to believe in which has been shrouded in mystery.  Therefore, I propose, only as a write-in, “Sasquatch” or “Bigfoot”, to be the official, 2015 and beyond, Thanksgiving Day Mascot. My agnostic views regarding this subject only provide further substance to the, otherwise, outlandish topic.

What will Bigfoot bring to the Thanksgiving table? Probably nothing, other than the cornucopia presented by them to the natives and pilgrims centuries ago.  However, your children will either be terrified and/or excited straight down to the britches at the possibility of this creature strolling through their back yard the night before the feast.  In order for the children to get excited, they need more than turkeys, pilgrims and drunken uncles to dream about the night before Thanksgiving.  They require something as universally recognized (or sometimes unrecognizable) as the elusive eight to ten foot tall hairy Sasquatch to dance and stomp on their roof on Thanksgiving Eve.  As peaceful as that may not seem, rest assure, your children will be wide awake the following day afraid to speak to their elders regarding such a preposterous idea.   This is precisely what the elders wish.  On Thanksgiving, the children should be afraid and not heard.

What shall the children place in the yard for Sasquatch as a form of acceptance?  Since this a professional study, according to scientific analysis, they eat mostly roses, blueberries and blackberries when in season.  Seeing as November is not the season for such ruffage, Sasquatches will settle for mashed potatoes and gravy.  They are particularly finicky about their gravy.  Lumps will only agitate them, and since they are also particularly interested in throwing large rocks when agitated, I would advise you keep the gravy smooth.

How does one know a Sasquatch is present during the holiday gathering if one of our bipedal brothers from other hairy mothers doesn’t arrive?  Physical evidence does not only rely on a dead specimen.  This evidence may be gathered by hair samples, scat, (bigfoot droppings) or even voice recognition, save for the text version.  The colorful and hair raising “whoop whoop whoop” disguised gracefully by Bigfoot’s second cousins, “the Swinging Singing Siamea,” can only be heard in its most natural of habitat, “AnyZooUsa”.  However, they can’t be heard on the last Thursday of  each November.  According to legend, those “whoops” on Thanksgiving are a guttural cry which can only stem from the belly of a Bigfoot.   If one is fortunate, the “whoops” can be heard when the human family is eating dinner, but, much like leftovers, they are only left for the believers.  Some naysayers believe the “whoops” are contrived from human relatives singing their praise for the smooth gravy and moist turkey.  Yet, when the “burps” arrive and the “whoops” subside, there is only momentary silence.

That’s when the legendary “whoops” remain.  Just like an angel receiving her wings when a bell rings on Christmas, when a person gives sincere thanks for the beautiful meal provided on Thanksgiving, arriving in the form of a burp, the Sasquatch and his family grows another beard; thus, keeping itself hidden within the trees and brush where it perhaps belongs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hit ’em Where it Helps

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Don’t wait until they die.  While they’re still here… hit ’em where it helps.

There is no better way to send someone to their grave just prior to death than telling them, years before they parish, how much they mean to you. (That is, if the person has affected you positively or even profoundly. Otherwise, you may just let them rest properly and get the hell out of the way.)

We lose many, unexpectedly, without having the chance to outwardly express our appreciation for them.  To me, this isn’t tragic, just a little unfair.  On the same stage, we all wait patiently, or impatiently, for loved ones to pass on to what we wish for them to be a better life.  We then wait until the ashes are distributed, and sadly wish to have said  or written anything to them providing meaning above and beyond their call of beauty on this earth.  Don’t wait.

Even as a young boy, I recall attending funerals when the eulogy was provided with terrific passion and respect, only for the widow or widower to have stated, following the procession, “I wish ‘he’ or ‘she’ could have been present to hear that”, or “I wish ‘he’ or ‘she’ could have heard those beautiful words commemorating such a graceful life.”

Don’t wait.  It’s not too late.  Hit ’em where it helps.

Hey, Bartender…..Thanks.

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As a very fortunate person, I have an enormous amount with which to be thankful.  When possible, I enjoy giving thanks in person.  It seems less contrived. When I text someone an apology or a thank you, it usually requires many edits.  Most thank you letters or texts seem to be preceded with or followed by an apology and an unreasonable excuse.  This makes giving thanks at the dinner table on Thanksgiving a little uncomfortable, if you wish to be sincere.

Some people don’t like, in the least, being forced to give specific thanks around a table of friends and family on Thanksgiving, and I believe holding hands around said table should be, in a written invitational agreement, optional.  I’d prefer to just say thank you and be on my eating way.  (I do understand these requests won’t get me invited to Thanksgiving dinner, and I’m ok with that.) However,  I will be forthcoming in giving thanks to someone through a blog.  It’s genuinely peaceful not being forced to do something against one’s wishes.

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I’d like to give thanks to the bartender who kicked me, along with three of my brothers out of another one of my brother’s tavern years ago.

Dear Bartender,

Sorry you had to kick us out of our brother’s tavern the night before Thanksgiving.  I am additionally sorry if the owner wrongly terminated you because of the unfortunate turkey wrestling incident.   We deserved to be thrown out and had no idea you were placing the stuffing inside the turkey precisely when the incident transpired.  We thought it was dressing you were carrying out to the table, commonly mistaken for turkey stuffing.  Never will we make this mistake again.  Thank you for teaching us a lesson.  I have not been thrown out of my brother’s tavern since.   By the way, having a bunch of brothers, I will say it was mostly their fault.

Sincerely,

One of their brothers

 

Fantasy Foolsball Lessons (R.I.P.)

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If you really want my money, sell me a car or invite me to be in your Fantasy Football League.  In full testosterone gear, the 2014 Fantasy Football Season is in its ninth week, forcing me to recall some of the several thousand silly mistakes I’ve made in my life.

I currently own a car and a fantasy football team.  Each of them cost me money and respect.  They also require maintenance.  The car needs oil, much like I need the money to buy a computer, enter a fantasy league and place my gridiron gladiators in grave positions in which the team will ultimately fail.  The process of selecting a quality fantasy football team or a reliable car, according to your personality, are additionally similar.  My personality maintains an uncommon balance of impatience and abject stupidity.  For example, it took exactly thirty minutes for Carlson the Car Salesman to convince me to roll a particular car off of the lot.  The last fantasy football team I acquired took me a mere thirty minutes to assemble.  With this evidence, one may surmise that I have a tendency to dismiss the detailed research many others find necessary in the decision making process.

Shortly after beginning my first career, I purchased an automobile the very same year I was introduced to fantasy football.  Their demise ended in similar fashion.  Within my budget, the car seemed to be a reasonable deal.  It was advertised as having four wheel drive, power windows, locks, and according to the speedometer, only one hundred and twenty miles on it.  Come to find out, that speedometer was way off.  It only WENT to one hundred and twenty.  The four wheel drive was only two wheel drive, the defrost worked primarily in the summertime, and the air conditioner limited its availability to the winter. To drive a short story an even shorter distance, the truck ended up in the valley of misfit automobiles.

FFImage-NewspaperAs a first time owner of a fantasy football team in 1996,  I thought I could choose a team wisely and with terrific courage.  To help the process of developing a formidable team, I used a Fantasy Football cheat sheet I found in a nationally recognized sports periodical. That’s also where I thought I found my wisdom.  On draft night, while swilling beer and after choosing my number one pick, a running back, I learned a quick fantasy league lesson.  This lesson was much quicker than any running back in this draft…..especially mine. Once you choose your player, under no circumstance are you allowed to reconsider your pick.  No matter what the scenario, you are stuck.  After making my decision, one of the more competitive assholes participating in the draft let me in on an important detail regarding my player’s success.  He was dead.  Evidently, one month prior to this draft, he had been shot and killed in a nightclub.  The periodical I was using had been available in print one week before the player’s last rights were given.  Some of the competitors thought this was hilarious….. not the man’s death, of course, but over the notion I would make such a colossally horrific choice.  Personally, much like holding on to a live hand grenade, I found it quite courageous.

Here’s a tip:  Don’t take any of my advice……about anything…….ever.

What Did We Do? (At the Coffee Shop)

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Sometimes, the encounters we dread the most turn out to be easier than anticipated….with the right attitude.

Although a dubious honor, I have been deemed by some as the most impatient man in the world. (my wife crowned me with this honor, and her mother agreed so the winner of the prize was unanimously settled.  I even have a plaque with an inscription of my title on our mantle.) That being written, coffee shops are a terrific place for an impatient to man to become annoyed.  On the contrary, they can also be a place of comfort as well as being therapeutic if your stress is managed properly.  Now, being impatient in a coffee shop is almost as dreadful as being impatient in a Department of Motor Vehicle’s Outlet Store when tabs are going on sale for half price.  Therefore, one must generate the nerve to tolerate even the most simple of inconveniences.

Coffee shops offer a variety of reasons to squat or stand as patrons.  If you are a caffeine crackpot, you run in, run out, even if it means pushing aside a senior citizen or two while trying to successfully get to your car before you are ticketed for using a handicapped parking spot.   You may also get your breakfast in a convenient flash while ordering the Pastry a la Punctual.  This danish is always available (a.k.a., yesterday’s danish) therefore, you can receive it even before the sun comes up.  An additional attraction most coffee shops offer is free wi-fi and a safe, quiet, comfortable environment with which to work. Usually writing from my computer lab at home, I need a daily break from the dogs begging me to take them for a walk.  I need an hourly break from continuously entering the kitchen looking for a snack when writer’s blog block is bellyaching for food.  So, I pack up the computer and head for a coffee shop.  Basically, I need a break from taking breaks. Although I do order a drip coffee, I only take advantage of the latter of the attractions normally maintaining few distractions.

While entering one of the billions of coffee shops in Seattle, I find the last empty available table equipped to uncomfortably sit three.  Two tables directly to my right hold the same occupancy level and are comfortably occupied by one person each.  Perfect.  I order a cup of coffee and set up computer camp: backpack, laptop, notebook, pens and cellphone (for emergency purposes only).

Fifteen minutes pass and the words I am forming into complete sentences may be the beginning of a nice anecdote….and I believe the conclusion just walked through the door.  It is a man in his mid to late sixties, well dressed, probably successfully retired, and bored with laptop in tow.  The two strangers, let’s say in laptop stations one and two, also analyze the situation.  Collectively, we share a glance and read each others’ minds.  Which station will he choose to share?  Station one sits a young lady looking like she is probably armed with mace, although her broad shoulders tell me she wouldn’t require it with this new patron.  Station two holds a middle aged techno servant to the corporate Gods who doesn’t even smell the least bit friendly. Or,  Station three, me……a person making eye contact with a smile too often with strangers leading them to believe I am as harmless as they come.  Station one and two don’t even flinch.  They think I’m doomed, and they are correct.

Sure as Seattle has Starbucks, this gentleman asks me if he may share my table.  With a semi-phony smile, I say, “of course” and make ample room.  (Working on patience also breeds kindness.)  Indeed, there is plenty of room, but he strikes me as a man seeking conversation which is the very last thing I am seeking.  To convince him I’m busy, I began writing sentences making no sense at all just to keep him from saying or asking anything.  My fingers begin bouncing off the keyboard like tiny kangaroos in heat.  I can’t afford to pause, yawn, sneeze, cough or even clear my throat.  Feeling him staring at me searching for the right time to squeeze into my life makes me so self conscience I begin to sweat, and I know he can see the drips forming on my receding hairline like a Scottish army of nervous souls.  While fidgeting with his laptop, I flash a glance at him wondering if he knows the shop’s wi-fi password.  Certainly, I would offer it to him for no charge.  Again, working on my patience breeds kindness, but unfortunately, too much kindness.  If taken advantage of, kindness can manifest into anger.  Responding to my glance, he busts in with his first question: “What did we do without computers?”  Pompously grinning, Stations one and two knew I’d take the bait.  Since the question can be construed as rhetorical, I can take advantage of the option to ignore it, but don’t.   Rather than smiling and shaking my head in response with an incredulous “Duh, I don’t know” look on my face, I answer his question as though I could see it coming on the AARP express lane of rhetorical questions.  My thoughts weave concise statements of what it was like for me before computers.  “We played outside.  We played kick the can in our backyard. We had disorganized rock fights and rotten potato fights in neutral fighting fields.  We competed in wiffleball, baseball, and football in our yards, and played basketball at any park with a hoop.  We boxed and played hockey in our basement and ate dinner as a family.  We walked through wooded hills where hobos made their camps, and when forced to, we read books.  When one random trail in the hills grew tiresome or monotonous, we’d find a different one to blaze on the way to a seven eleven where they’d be giving away day old donuts.  We built tree forts, snow forts, walked throughout our neighborhood on Halloween and weren’t afraid the neighbors would poison us.  Ya know, that sort of stuff.”

I thought it provided a definitive answer to his fairly easy question. Chuckling, he adds, “Yes, those were the days.”  At that point, I believed the conversation began with his introduction, proceeded with my body of evidence convincing him there was life before computers, and ended with his conclusion.  Not so fast.  His eyes slide from mine to my shirt.  “Are you from Spokane?”  Ahhhhh!  I look down at the shirt I’m wearing and notice it is adorned with a caption reading, “Spokane Sasquatch”.  This is a college in Spokane and its mascot is the Sasquatch.  (I did grow up in Spokane and teach middle school there for upwards to fifteen years before moving to Seattle.  My wife thought the shirt would be  a nice gift and a friendly reminder for me to never return to Spokane unless they actually found a sasquatch roaming the hills I used to climb as a child.)  “Yeah.  I was born and raised there.”  That’s all it took.  Quickly, he proceeds, “I was born and raised their too!” Of COURSE, he was born and raised there as well!  This is perfect!  We will have so much to talk about!  We can share so many stories of our old crapping grounds.   Now, it is all Station one and two can do to keep from falling off their high chairs laughing at the uncivilized knucklehead from Spokane entertaining this man’s wish to commiserate.  Placing my normally impatient pistols down on the floor, I wave my white flag and surrender.  Very kindly, with terrific patience and a semi genuine grin, I respond, “What a coincidence.”  Growing up a few blocks from me, he remembers the hills we roamed as children.  He attended the same church as our family.   According to him, his father or his father’s best friend, both well respected physicians in Spokane, may have delivered me and another one of my siblings into this world.  Graduating from Gonzaga University in Spokane, he raised an eyebrow when I told him I graduated from Washington State University.  His raised eyebrow seemed more like an “I’m so sorry” than an “Oh, what an interesting school to choose, and what led you from Pullman to Seattle?”  You see, once you begin and accidentally encourage conversation with many people like this very kind man, the questions coming your way usually cease to exist.  Notoriously, this is when I begin twitching and feeling uncomfortable, because knowing then, I must find a way to put out the conversational fire before it gets out of hand or the coffee shop closes.  However, I find a way to relax and remembered moving to Seattle, thinking how very busy everyone seemed to be, making many of them extremely impatient and extraordinarily rude.  That could have rubbed off on me that very day.  It didn’t.

I didn’t fabricate a story of how my wife was 9 and a half months pregnant and I should probably get a move on to the delivery room.  I didn’t send a text to a friend, requesting he call in a bomb threat to our coffee shop of horrors.  Rather, I merely enjoyed listening to this man find pleasure in talking about his memories of a hometown revisited with a common stranger.  Before the shop closed, the gentleman and I shook hands, and he made his exit before I did.  Perhaps, he was tired of me asking so many questions when fully engaged.

Ultimately, I engaged in friendly fire, and not a soul was harmed.  It didn’t feel charitable, and I didn’t walk away thinking, “well, I’ve done my civic duty today.”  In fact, it turned out to be a pleasure.  Patience and kindness are virtues we almost, at times, try to avoid.  I’ve been guilty of it.  But, when you look upon such terms, try to recognize them as honorable traits instead of obstacles of displeasure.  I guess you could ultimately say, even when busy,”sometimes, ya gotta stop and smell the strangers.”

 

 

 

Jeter’s Choice

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With Derek Jeter’s spiritual passing from the New York Yankees, he will be resurrected in Boston’s Fenway Park on Saturday to play the Red Sox but refuses to play his once chosen position of shortstop out respect for his twenty year spot at sacred Yankee Stadium.  Instead, he has chosen to be their pitcher.  With his moxy and flavor for the dramatic, he will probably throw a no hitter.

I’ve never liked the Yankees, but in the world of baseball, and the way it’s meant to be played, you couldn’t help but like and respect him.  He did it the right way.