Debates regarding the election are soon coming. They won’t change my mind. Similarly, when it comes to cramping in bed, my dear friend, Marshall, and I had a funny debate on whose cramps were worse. I don’t know how old I am, but I do know he is older than me, thus giving him an advantage. We went through the feet and calves, but my ace in the hole were the hamstrings. Excruciating.

There was no winner. I proclaimed at the end of our conversation that we should just start discussing the weather.

Everyone loves Chips. I love eating them, but my brothers and I always made fun of the 80’s show about two cops trying to save Los Angeles….the city of angels. Chips.

We had so much fun making light of poor acting and lame story lines. I was the silent partner with my witty brothers, but I once took the opportunity to make them laugh with a blender.

The theme song was so stupidly prepared. Rear! Rear! Rear! Rear!

After taking a break from watching the show with shame, we went downstairs to make a milkshake. I cranked up the blender to stage five and then six and then seven. It was spot on to the “Chips” opening.

Loudly. Rear! Rear! Rear! Rear!

The shake turned out great.

This morning, our Alexa alarm clock went off at 4:30 A.M. When the ringing began, I told Alexa to go to Hell. She responded with a very loud version of “Help” by the Beatles. My wife and I began to laugh, and it did get us out of bed.

Bravo, Alexa….Bravo.

I have pets, but that bores people. As a former teacher, I had teacher’s pets, and I didn’t give yankee damn about admitting I had teacher’s pets. I don’t care for the term, but the students who were respectful, kind to others, turned in assignments on time and were just genuinely decent people, they were rewarded properly. They could get a drink of water or take a leak anytime they wanted. The others had to deal with the man. That man was me.

Instead of making the other pets cry, I made them laugh. Assignments were turned in on time.

Tomatoes grow in your garden or the boxing ring. I prefer the garden. As a part time pacifist, and never a pugilist, unless it was in our basement, or on the baseball field, or on recess, or in a high school hallway, or in a parking lot, I always preferred fresh tomatoes out of a garden (as opposed to fighting) with bacon, mayo, properly toasted bread and lettuce. It seems to win every time.

Happiness is hard to come by these days. but a good BLT will make you forget the unhappiness for more than a minute, especially if you can share it with a friend.

Playing baseball with a player known as Dingy, he was quickly known as having the best arm in our league. As a hitter, in practice, I never wanted to face him. I never knew where the hell the ball was going. Living with six older brothers, and sisters, I’d had enough concussions.

There are two types of people in this world. Those who spill maple syrup on their remote control and those who don’t.

It was cold outside. My mother made me wear a jacket. I haven’t been to the symphony since 1990. Hovering around age 46, you do the math.

While being a less than stellar student in high school, one of my teachers, Mrs. Cahallan, inspired me to write. She was my civics teacher, and a great one. At that time, a junior, with a miniature mind, I was too interested in baseball to care about legislation and the government. In fact, to me, branches were only made for swinging and ultimately falling to the earth. Gravity is underrated.

In order to gain some extra credit, just to bring my grade to a “C”, Mrs. Cahallan said if I went to the symphony, she’d offer us some bonus points.. So, my friend, Andy, and I did just that.

It wasn’t difficult to convince mom and dad to go out on a weekday. Hell, we were going to the symphony and after telling them the story as to why, they thought it was an excellent idea. So, after covering up properly, Andy picked me up and we headed to downtown Spokane, Washington to witness a cultural event. We did it by way of the local Zip Trip, where Andy, equipped with a fake identification card, purchased a twelve pack of beer. Since we had at least 30 minutes before showtime, we headed to Riverfront Park and proceeded to drink the beer. Fortunately, the park was within walking distance to The Metropolitan Theatre of un-welcomed 17 year old idiots.

We purchased our tickets as though we belonged to a club while ignoring the looks from tuxedos and fur animals staring with distain. Andy and I weren’t wearing hats and our hair was combed. That’s pretty much all we had going for us that evening.

After finding our way to our seats, we noticed we weren’t close to the aisle. This proved a problem to overactive bladders. We just shrugged, and said, how long can this concert last? One hour in, we began fidgeting, but knew we could make it to intermission within a half hour. Intermission wasn’t for another hour after finally reading the literary paper they had provided in the lobby which I quickly tossed in the garbage….I mean recycling bin. Andy kept his not for posterity, but to provide documentation of our existence at the Met to Mrs. C when arriving to school on Monday.

Scene Two, That’s when game time was over, Either we pissed our pants or left attempting obscurity. Perhaps both. Neither was quite successful or graceful. Excuse me, and pardon me didn’t leave the theatre of being excused or pardoned. We were shew shewed! We were, “get them out of here!” We were even, “Call the police on those little bastards.”

Peacefully, we left, and we passed the class. I even remember writing this to Mrs. Cahallan and trying to convince her it was only soda we were drinking. She didn’t buy one word, Yet, she loved the story. God Bless Her.

Some people believe my friend, Marshall, is fictional. If you do, I don’t care. He is real. I have pictures. They are not fuzzy piics like sasquatch. The pictures depict him as a well groomed, educated and terrific man…..and friiend.

Even with glasses, Marshall taught me how to see, but far more importantly, listen. He and I listened to ballgames on the radio when they were on a T.V. ten feet away. (It was glorious.) We listened to carnival rides at the State Fare, and both said, “F that noise”. That was a ride we never bet on.

Don’t just see. Bet on Listening. Then, and only then, can you can translate the Bull S—t

Thank you, Marshall.

Ben

Some see, but forget how to listen.

When watching a baseball game, my wife requires salted peanuts and a hotdog. Is that so wrong? She did ask for mustard at a recent game. High maintenance.