Seuss, Capone, and The Babe

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The other evening, I was ridiculed by my wife for reading a takeout menu in bed just before the we turned the lights off.  Laughing, she inquired, “Did your parents read menus to you at bedtime when you were a child?”  Even though the options on this Asian menu were fascinating to me, admittedly, it probably looked a little silly.  It did make me think about what they read to me at those impressionable ages.  The stories certainly varied depending on the parent.

Most people believe reading to their children before bedtime is a key ingredient to their development.  Even without having human children of our own, I tend to agree with that philosophy. Yet, it’s not just the reading, it’s that precious one on one attention you may  receive before actually having sweet dreams or selective nightmares.

My mother would fall asleep reading me two pages of a Dr. Seuss book or two sentences of a Sesame Street novella.  I watched her eyes droop while trying her best to complete a rhyme or reason.  Who could blame her?  She was awake at four o’clock in the morning doing laundry in the basement for eight to ten of her children, still remaining in the home, before they went to school.

When my mother drifted off while reading, I would creep into my father’s bedroom many nights hoping he would read to me. (At this point in their lives, my parents slept separately, because thirteen children were plenty.)  After he worked his twelve hour shift, I knew he’d be in bed reading something to relieve his stress.  It was never about a cat in a hat or Oscar being a grouch, and I didn’t care.  With him working such long hours, it was the only time to be next to my father.  My father’s bedtime reading was a little different from what my mom would choose to read to me.   He would be reading about, amongst others, Al Capone or Babe Ruth, two of the most infamous and famous people in the world.

After my well received interruption, my father would proceed to read as I cuddled next to him.  He would also delicately paraphrase…  “And then, prohibition began and while men were massacred on Valentine’s Day, Capone never harmed any women or children.”  Or, when speaking of The Babe, he might say, “Although he was known for his womanizing, immense drinking and voracious appetite for everything, he would sign autographs for any child wishing to receive one.”  Stressing the positive rather than the negative, it made me feel at ease, wishing to take a trip to baseball’s Hall of Fame, followed by a journey through Alcatraz.

Depending on which book they held while reading to me, I would either fall asleep to dreams of calling my own home run shot, bipedal cats with gigantic hats, or nightmares of a Valentine’s Day massacre.  These days, I simply wake up hungry.

Costa Robbery

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My wife’s current place of employment, Deet Bug Spray, is sending her to Costa Rica for research regarding the recent malaria outbreak. She’s worried about the journey because she only speaks fluent English, a dose of French, some Gaelic, but no Spanish.  As an educated man, I provided some pointers. (Other than two years of taking Spanish in high school where the only words I recall are “caca” and “punta”, I had to reach deeper into my pocket of trilingual specialties for her survival phrases.)

My favorite movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, provided more practical Spanish than two years of me ignoring my high school teacher.  “Manos Arriba.” Estu Es Un Robo.”  Translation: Put your hands in up!  This is a robbery.  I haven’t explained what the phrases properly mean to my wife, but I know when she enters a restaurant, she will either get free tacos or sent to jail.  Either way, it will be funny.

Adios.

 

 

 

Catch of the Day

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My wife and I recently won the sweepstakes and decided to take a trip to a place where it only rains once a day.  Sometimes, it may rain every other day, but since I used to be a betting man, there is only one guarantee on an island other than the time: The fish is always fresh.

One of the most glorious and, to many others, seemingly meaningless pleasures in my wonderful world is ordering something off the menu without actually looking at the menu.  (I take the menu home later for leisurely bedtime reading.)

“What will you have to order?”

“The catch of the day.”

“How will you like it prepared?”

“However the chef prepares it.”

This is why I carry Benadryl in my wallet at all times preparing for uncomfortable and life threatening allergies.  If the fish is fresh, there is a slight chance, twenty minutes later after eating it, my throat may be shutting similar to the bars at Alcatraz, and my face may look similar to the puffer fish I may have consumed.  Either way, well worth it.

I do feel safe when my wife is with me to witness this production and keep her ” well charged” cell phone with her at all times in case 911 may come in handy.

Sometimes, I wonder if the catch of the day is the fish or my wife.  I’ll take the latter.

Meet the Pork

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Growing up with twelve older siblings, I just assumed we were poor.  We lived in a modest house large enough for us to sit collectively for a turkey dinner, and bunk beds in our basement providing  space to sleep at least eight, uncomfortably, with or without the farts. Yet, being young and ignorant, witnessing people living in neighborhoods within close proximity bathing in their backyard pools, I believed we must be impoverished.

Now, let me be clear. We were never poor.  Yet, even though mom and dad provided three square meals a day, when I’d see friends talk about their nightly adventures to Burger King or McDonald’s, I looked at them as the rich. Up until high school, I don’t remember ever sitting down for a Whopper or a Big Mac. It was tuna on toast every Friday night, fried burgers on Saturday night, and Sunday through Thursday, we ate potatoes and vegetables surrounded by some form of meat. How could they expect me to live in such poverty?

When I began maturing at the age of about ten,  I started thinking we were far from poor when my father replaced his old car with a slightly newer one. (His former car was totaled by one of my older brothers.) He even took me to the used car dealership to help him pick it out.  I then discerned the only reason we didn’t have a pool was because our father knew that six or seven of us might drown in it, even though he taught us how to swim at early ages.  Then, with an exclamation point, he put a definitive end to my thoughts of being poor.  He took the ones remaining in our house out to Chinese dinner.  It was pay dirt for me, and I’ll never forget it.

Without any disrespect to our mother’s cooking, dining out, since it was so infrequent, was always a treat.  It was actually a treat for our mother as well, always opting to remain at home for a dash of peace.  Yet, until I was introduced to the Far East, a pizza parlor was as far down the culinary road we’d traveled thus far, which was just dandy with all of us.

Entering the foreign parking lot of just one of the ten million Chinese restaurants in Spokane, Washington, I have to admit, my stomach was a little apprehensive.  Whether it be food or a baseball game, my dad always knew when I was nervous.  I didn’t have to say a thing.  As the youngest of thirteen, you never actually get a say in anything, but he looked at me with great confidence, and said, “Don’t worry.”  That’s all I needed.  Well, not really, but it was either I follow them into the restaurant or starve for the evening in the car.

Before being seated, I surveyed the atmosphere.  Immediately making me feel at ease was the giant Buddha sitting behind one of the waitresses.  I’d recognized him from pictures in a National Geographic.  He was wearing a smile, and by the looks of him, I thought Chinese food must be divine.  Shortly after being seated, several bowls of won ton soup were placed in front of us.  Nothing special, but ok.  I’d eaten better soup at home, but we lapped it up nevertheless.  Without having time to read the menu, dad began ordering.  First dish:  Fried Won Tons.  They looked harmless, but dad clearly pointed out the bowl of sweet and sour sauce to dip it in on the side.  One dip, and I was hooked like a Mongolian on a grill.  Holy Chinese Checkers!  We’re eating dessert before dinner!  I could have sat and drank that sauce like egg nog on Christmas or Thanksgiving.  It was absolutely delightful.  To this day, I have never met its equal. My father, when not stressed, always had the most pleased grin matching his smiling eyes when something made him happy.  We were happy.

Next came the BBQ pork.  Since birth, I don’t think I’ve ever turned anything down which was barbecued, so my excitement level remained on high.  Although the pork’s presentation made it look as if its outer lining was painted with some phony candy coating, I didn’t care.  Bring on the sweet with the meat.  All of us reaching for a piece, my first instinct was to dip it in what was left of the sweet and sour sauce.  Dad moved the sauce away quickly, and said, rather persuasively, “No, no, no.  Try these other dips reserved for the pork.”  So far, he was batting a thousand with the won tons, so I had no problem listening and paying attention to his calm order.  He then told us to dip it in a sauce resembling ketchup, followed by what looked like standard mustard, although he referred to it as “special mustard”, and finish by submerging it in the sesame seeds.  No problem.  Just before concluding the process with the seeds, he waved at my hand and said, “You need more mustard than that.  Your brothers are going to lap that good stuff up if you don’t eat it while it’s hot.  Putting a healthy dose of mustard on my piece, then cramming it in my mouth, I thought it odd the mustard was actually cold.  I didn’t know exactly what he meant my hot then, but I did within about three seconds after swallowing.  With tears floating in my baby blue eyes, dad handed me a napkin as he and the others were laughing.  The napkin wasn’t for my tears.  Rather, it was for my nose which began to drip, and although the sting was quite a surprise, I hadn’t expected some strange eating euphoria to follow.  It felt like a quick dose of sinus hell followed by heaven, or relief. I loved it.  My brothers and father, when eating their pieces, all had similar whiplash responses as mine, but we were all laughing.  My father loved to eat, entertain and be entertained.  The pork and, hot as sweet hell mustard, was gone in seconds.  “Really clears out your sinuses, huh?”  our father barked with laughter.

Eating family style, he went on to order the usual gang of Americanized Chinese splendor:  Chicken chow mein, pork fried rice, and sweet and sour prawns, which became my personal all time favorite.  I didn’t know what a doggie bag was back then, and I didn’t learn that evening.  I think we even devoured our fortunes in the cookies they brought us after the meal.  That night in China was, indeed, a rich experience.  Not remembering if he took us again as youngster, I just have to guess it was our trip to Spokane’s culinary Disneyland.

Returning home from college one year, keeping in shape with the standard mac and cheese, Top Ramen, and beer diet, I was assuming I’d arrive to a home cooked meal.  Rather, I was greeted by three of mom and dad’s grandchildren at our door.  They included one of my nephews and two of my nieces ranging from ages perhaps in the neighborhood of 7 to 11. (My oldest sister Mary’s three children.)  It was a Friday night, and they were in no mood for tuna on toast.  Dad came out to greet me, and quietly asked, “How about Chinese tonight??  Don’t tell these little shits.  They think we’re going to McDonald’s.”  I didn’t even have to answer.  We drove to the exact same place he’d taken us years ago, and their look of fear made dad and I laugh.  I used to keep my mouth shut proper back then, but they were a little more bold than I.   One of them even yelled, “THIS ISN’T McDONALD’S!!!”  Knowing their mother, there could have been some profanity amidst the panic.

Dad requested the same items, including the BBQ Pork with hot mustard.  It was nice to be on the inside of that joke.  They all winced in pain, made fun of, and laughed at one another.  Dad and I each had a beer and enjoyed part of the food.  With smiles all around the table, once again, there was no reason for a doggie bag.

 

 

 

Seasonal Changes

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A gal I currently live with delivered an astute observation while in my presence the other day.  She realized, after spending the last seven years of her life with me, that she doesn’t recognize the traditional seasons quite the same.  Before I took her in as a boarder, it was simply Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer.  These seasons only determined what she needed to wear on any given rainy day in Seattle.  Influenced by her meatball roommate, she began not only thinking, but living outside the seasonal box.  The seasons should not be merely associated with the weather and holidays, but something deeper, something fun, something that can be clean and dirty at the same time, yet, with the right attitude, quite intriguing: Sports.

Sports replaced the seasons for me the day my brothers informed me Santa and the Easter Bunny were a couple of phonies.  Fall was replaced with football, Winter was replaced with basketball, and Spring and Summer with baseball.  With the 2016 NFL season closing, my  roommate had a question for me.  “What do we do until March Madness?”  Neither of us giving a crap about the National Basketball Association, since their regular season games are meaningless, it took me a moment to respond.  “I don’t know.  Maybe read a book?”  Working long hours at the landfill leaves her only enough time each night to eat a hearty meal before her eyes begin to droop.  On weekends, she devotes her time to our animals and others in our neighborhood.  Years ago, she was a voracious reader, but lately, books have taken a backseat to pets and balls.

After college basketball’s March Madness, she will begin planning her next season around baseball’s Spring Training in Arizona.  And, of course, following Spring Training, she will book tickets to Opening Day.  The rest of the summer will be plastered with backyard bbq and Mariner baseball taking us clear through to the World Series and the beginning of college and professional football.  I have found the perfect roommate.

RogerHornsby

There is no “WE” in Team

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We, Us, I, and then some.  Pronouns, mixed with their arch enemy, Proper Nouns, can be a sinister and delicate bunch of instigators separating the realists from the loyalists.  They create unnecessary tension between the closest of friends, especially when it comes to sports.

I belong to an elite group of A-holes.  Rather than “elite”, perhaps I should use the word, “select”, or even go as far as to say, “pretentious”.  As a lifelong advocate for rooting athletic teams to victory, I refuse, when pulling for a team in our region, to say, “Gosh, WE really kicked the stalactites out of the those guys yesterday, didn’t we?”  Since I didn’t suit up for the team that day, or physically participate, I don’t recognize myself as being part of said team.  With due respect, I speak of the wins and losses equally.

The Pacific Northwest losses:

Me: “The Mariners are on an eighteen game losing streak.  These ten dollar beers aren’t worth showing up to watch them lose.  I’m staying home until they decide to win a game.”

Fan: “We just lost eighteen straight games. I can’t believe we don’t have a closer.  I could pitch better than these guys.”

Me: “Well, the Cougars blew another twenty point lead, only to lose again in the fourth quarter. This cheap beer was almost worth watching three hours of suspended anguish.”

Fan and Cougar Graduate:  “I can’t believe we blew another lead.  Our beer is even flat.”

Me: “If the Seahawks are winning, this city is much happier, but why do these fans insist on spilling ten dollar beers on my wife and me?”

Fan:  “Did we lose!!!???  Oh, crap!  I should have been paying closer attention.  Sorry about spilling a beer on your wife, dude.”

Some wins:

Me: “The Cougs and Huskies both won on the same weekend.  That’s unusual.   It would be nice to see them both ranked in the top twenty.  Let’s celebrate by drinking two beers manufactured and brewed by other people in the Pacific Northwest.  They sure do make quality beverages.  We had nothing to do with this hoppy flavor, but let’s  raise a glass to them as well.”

Husky Fan:  “I can’t believe we pulled out that win this weekend.  The Cougars also won.  They suck.  What’s up with that?”

Cougar Fan:  “We kicked butt this weekend.  The Huskies won as well?  Screw the Huskies.”

I have followed the Cougars, Huskies, Mariners, Seahawks, and former Seattle Super Sonics for almost forty years.  During those years, I’ve never purchased a jersey representing those teams, but I have invested in a mother load of hats, game tickets, beer, and time  justifying my stance as a true supporter.  I just don’t choose to use the term “We” when referring to the teams, and I feel somewhat vilified for not doing so.  You could argue, as a Washington State University Graduate, I choose not to use “We”, because I’m not particularly proud of their athletic history.  I’d rather maintain I just have some silly principals, or petty pet peeves, only few understand.

It is my opinion that a good friend of mine abuses his right to say “We” when referring to every college or professional team in the Pacific Northwest.  He did attend the University of Washington for a year, transfer to play tennis at Eastern Washington University, and remains a Cougar, and Gonzaga faithful, because he still has a valid Washington Green card.  I wish I had that passion and positive grassroots attitude.

The same friend, we’ll refer to him as Craig, called me the other day to apologize.  Myself being a professional apologizer, sincerely dealing them out like blackjack cards on a monthly basis, I was surprised, and somewhat nefariously excited to hear his act of contrition.  It was similar to a gift you don’t expect or lobby for during the gifting season.

Craig has been teaching Science for twenty years, and is well respected by his peers and, most importantly, his students.  Devoting years to establish impeccable credentials, he, additionally, is willing to adapt to the culture of the modern smart ass phone pupil.  Respectfully, he is not willing to accept the blame for his forefathers, and be part of their team.

Clearly frustrated, he called me with regard to a mandatory class he attended introducing a new topic required to be integrated into his class and others’ throughout the State of Washington.  Native American Culture was the topic, and they discussed how they could properly infuse Native American culture with the current Science curriculum.  With an open mind and heart, my friend embraced it, with one exception.  He took exception to the instructor, a whitey, using the pronoun, “We” each time she spoke of the atrocities the whites bestowed upon the Native Americans.  Each time she would use, “We”, he was offended, thinking, “Hey, lady, what occurred then was despicable, but I wasn’t playing for that team.”  On a much deeper level, he finally understood my stance.

 

 

 

 

 

A Tight Waist

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Leave it all on the mat.  That’s what wrestling coaches say. Well, one day, I tried my best not to do just that.

Eons ago, I was a high school wrestler.  Let me rephrase that.  Eons ago, I wasn’t a very good high school wrestler, especially when compared to some of my older brothers.  They were some of the best wrestlers in the state in their weight classes, and one was talented and dedicated enough to become a collegiate national champion.  Me?  I was merely an average wrestler, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t collect some special memories from this terrifically challenging and, without exception, for me, the most humbling of sports.  (I’ve never boxed competitively.)

To be a successful wrestler, you must have great passion for the sport or be a genetic freak of nature, combined with a screw loose. It is a sport requiring tremendous skill balanced with strength, stamina, and most importantly, a brand of toughness few possess.  I only maintained one of those prerequisites.  Clinging to that loose screw, I was pressured into wrestling.  I didn’t like the sport.  I respected it, but unlike baseball and football, I didn’t have the necessary passion or work ethic required to excel.  Strangely, I wasn’t pressured by my brothers or father.  My father wanted all of us to play basketball, and my brothers knew baseball was my game of interest.  So, I guess, along with a handful of coaches, I placed unsolicited pressure on myself.  Lesson number one:  In wrestling, that usually doesn’t work out positively.

Making the varsity team as a freshman can be considered an admirable achievement for a wrestler since you are competing with seniors.  So, wrestling varsity at 129 pounds should have provided me a sense of accomplishment.  Sadly, I didn’t earn that spot until later that year.  Before the first match, our head coach gave that spot to me only because of my last name.  It was a B.S. move on his part and would come back to haunt the both of us.  Lesson number two:  Everything in wrestling must be earned.

The night before the first match, after practice, I weighed 130 pounds meaning I would have to lose a pound and keep it off before the 9:00 a.m. weigh in the following morning.  Therefore, eating anything that night was simply out of the question.  (Losing weight properly does not include starving one’s self, but I was young, stupid, and our coach didn’t care how we lost it.)

Deciding to stay at my best friend Jeremy’s house the night before the match, I was also invited for dinner which I respectfully declined under the circumstances.  This was a basketball family I was staying with, and Jeremy’s mother, who shall remain nameless, was stunned to hear I couldn’t eat the night before a match.  Where would I get the strength to wrestle?  After unsuccessfully explaining the situation to this wonderful woman, who had treated me as one of her own since Jeremy and I became friends around age ten, she came up with a terrific solution.  Evidently, she had a magic potion which you could drink, or take as a pill, allowing you to eat whatever you wanted to, and the weight would be gone only eight hours after consumption.  Hungry as an orangutan in a banana factory, I didn’t ask questions.  I trusted her, so it was “all you can eat” spaghetti and meatballs for me that night, and I took full advantage of the proposal.

Before hitting the fart sack, she gave me this magic pill and said in about six hours, the weight would start coming off of me well before the 9:00 weigh in.  It was roughly 11:00 p.m. when I swallowed it down, and exactly 5:00 a.m. when I first felt my stomach move and then speak in an unfamiliar baritone voice.  It was about to speak volumes.  Literally, volumes.  Jeremy’s mother failed to read me the warning label: Will cause exploding diarrhea.  Not “may” cause.  “Will” Cause.

Making it to the bathroom in time, I think I did lose a pound or two, but felt a little uneasy about the slight panic I had before locking the door behind me.  I was hoping that would be the last of it.  It wasn’t.  Two more trips to the latrine before leaving their house to catch the bus for our road trip match still wasn’t settling my stomach or my nerves.  School buses don’t have bathrooms, and I don’t think depends had been invented yet, so I had to depend on my reliable backup: prayer.

Usually a pretty jovial person, I didn’t utter a word on the thirty minute bus ride.  I was concentrating more on my bowels than any test I’d ever taken in school.  My eyes squinted, and the left side of my mouth tilted as if I had just come off the most nauseating of roller coasters only to be forced to get right back on it.  Some fellow wrestlers kept asking me what was wrong, and it was all I could do to just shrug my shoulders in fear.  Moving further than that wasn’t an option.  One of the guys told me not to worry.  “You’re wrestling a senior, and he is a returning state veteran so no one expects you to win.  If you do win, you’re a stallion. If he beats the crap out of you, no big deal.”

“Crap?”  Don’t say the word “crap”.  I just wanted the bus to stop, someone to take me into the locker room on a Hannibal Lecter hand truck and leave me alone for about a week.

Butt cheeks puckering like they’d just taken their first tequila and lime shot, my prayers were partially answered.  I made it to the bathroom, but not before the janitor did.  At that point, upon release,  I felt the aftershocks may be over.  I had hoped I left the last of this unnatural disaster in the toilet.  There was a slight sense of relief while exiting the stall and walking sheepishly to the scale, quite sure I’d make weight and then move on with my life with respect and honor.

123 pounds!  One pound above the weight class below me.  You’ve got to be @#$tting me.  I was cleared to wrestle.  Convinced my odd disposition was just a case of freshman nerves, no one properly knew the trouble I’d experienced that morning.  As a freshman, I felt it wise not to disclose any information which could ignite hazing I did not need.

“Wrestling at one hundred and twenty nine pounds, from West Valley, freshman, Ben Gannon.”

Wrestling is nerve wracking enough as it is.  Add some volcanic intestines and a spotlight hanging over the mat while a hundred or so  people stare at two boys in singlets roll around the mat in a skillful melee.  (Singlets are the tight fitting required costumes wrestlers wear displaying every bulge, mogul, nook and cranny of the male physique.)  Family, friends, enemies and neighbors are about to witness a match thinking I must be nervous, because they are suffering from anxiety as well.  They have no idea.

Fortunately, after my last rendezvous with the John, I actually felt pretty decent, so when I trotted onto the mat to shake hands with my formidable opponent, for the first time, I became focussed on the match itself, and what I had to do to win.  Not knowing how long I could last, I figured I would have to find a way to pin him quickly.  So, when the whistle blew to begin the match, I think I surprised everyone in the stands and my opponent by taking him down within the first ten seconds giving me a lightning fast two point advantage.  My advantage didn’t last long as my opponent, rather angrily, reversed me to tie up the score.  Still, since I proved I was capable of scoring, I felt I could win.  At that very same moment, quite aggressively, my opponent, eerily discerning I had an achilles abdomen, reached around my stomach using what is referred to as a “tight waist”.   Imagine a cowboy cinching a saddle on a horse so the horse can’t free itself from the saddle.  Instead of a rope, an arm and hand surround your belly and twist counter clockwise while squeezing  to secure the opponent properly.

At first it was just every ounce of toxic gas being forced from my body, and I swear, my opponent stopped, as did I, wondering what may be showing up to the party next.  I was frozen with fear and held my post when he decided to do it once more.  Thankfully, those singlets are water tight, and everything left in my body was now splashing around in my singlet.  My opponent’s gasp came less than a second after mine, and I knew what my next move was.  I had no choice but to roll over and let him pin me as quickly as possible so I could get the hell out of that gymnasium before any leakage followed. It had the makings of epic humiliation, and when I rolled over, I wanted to scream at the referee to slap his hand on the mat to finish this nightmare before it could possibly get worse.  He did, and my opponent separated himself from me as if I was a scalding hot, repugnant cast iron skillet.  I couldn’t blame him.  While getting off the mat as quickly as possible hoping to avoid spillage, a teammate tossed me my sweats and I wrapped them around me heading to the locker room.  The singlet met its demise in the garbage can and when I came out to join the team for the remainder of the match, no one said one word.  It was the only genuine relief I’d felt the entire day, and much like my wrestling career, my suffering was over.

On the ride back on the bus, I did confide in a few of the wrestlers explaining what had happened.  Although it provided a terrific laugh, it never left the bus.  If they ever told anyone at school, I never was on the receiving end of nasty nicknames, so I felt very fortunate.  My remaining high school years could have been littered with gastrointestinal jokes.

I finished the rest of the season wrestling varsity at 129 pounds, won some matches, and took some savage beatings, but I can’t really recall one match specifically besides mat classic ex-lax.  I do know this.  Still remaining very close to my friend and his family, when I return to my hometown to visit them, I will never put anything in my mouth while at their house that doesn’t come off my own fork.

 

 

 

 

Beverages, Baseball and Buffett (with a side of Football)

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Comfort food for the ailing sporting Soul:  If anyone shed tears regarding the Seattle Seahawks losing yesterday, don’t look forward to next year’s football season.  Get over it, and look forward to baseball’s Spring Training.  The outcome of the games don’t mean a thing to the casual baseball observer, and nobody leaves crying, but they are fun, and everyones’ disposition is quite lovely, even if they dislike baseball.  Most people enjoy a beer and a little sunshine, followed by the sweet sound of a wooden bat cracking a ball. If they don’t, they can all go to Hell.

One of the many components I admire and respect about baseball, as opposed to the wonderful sport of American Football, is beer usually gets poured “in you” at a baseball game rather than “on you”, or your wife, at a football game. Depending on the city, that is one of the many reasons I love baseball more than football.  Without going into great detail, I also have a lesser chance of getting beat up at a baseball game than at a grid ironed, face painted, pre functional, potential catastrophe NFL game.

Football season is over for Seattle, our place of residence, and we are looking forward to Baseball Spring Training and the sun, though not the Mariners.  After opening day, we will only watch the Mariner games on television and pay more attention to the barbecue than the game.  That’s not entirely true.  My wife and I pay painfully close attention to more innings we wish to admit. That’s why we fly to Arizona for Spring Training.

Why is Spring Training so lovely.  It simply reminds me of a Jimmy Buffett concert: Great entertainment, happy seventh inning songs, and people purchasing beverages for others they have never met and not worrying about the outcome of the game or concert.  You will always have a smile on your face when you leave the venue.

New Year’s Revolutions

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Moses, High School Senior Picture

Moses: Mount Sinai High School Senior Picture

It’s one full week into the new year, and I haven’t broken one  commandment.  It’s a streak I’ve maintained for many years.  (The first week anyway.)  Most New Year’s resolutions are for the mocking birds.  I’ve found that not breaking the ten C’s isn’t that difficult.  So, each year, in a revolutionary, or cyclical pattern, I just do my best not to break any of them.  Rather than thinking about what I shall change each year, I simply review the commandments online, reflect on Charlton Heston’s over acting, and work on the one which tends to be the most problematic for me.  I blame this one on my father.

My dad tossed the Lord’s name in vain as often as he tossed his cigarette butts out, steps before entering church each Saturday night or Sunday morning.  I wish “thou shall not smoke” was one of the commandments.  There would be a special place in heaven for me.  On the other hand, if drinking a beer broke one of the commandments, there would be a special place in Hell for me.

Sadly, this taking the “Lord’s name in vain” is both contagious and perhaps genetic.  Usually, I use it around the animals when they puke or crap in my office, and it’s commonly directed at my lovely wife who tries to adopt, save or purchase every animal in the Pacific Northwest. Sometimes, it flies out of my mouth as easily as saying please and thank you at the grocery store, or as smoothly as Charlton Heston can utter the phrase, “Of course you can buy a gun, young man.  Just don’t use it to murder humans.  You would then be breaking one of the most sacred of commandments.  Now, get your dirty hands off me, you damn dirty teenager!”

Holy Be Jesus

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Technological gadgets rule our world the same way dinosaurs did decades ago when Jurasic Park was released.  Thus, these devices dominated much of the space beneath our 2015 Christmas trees.

Technology frightens me.  Fortunately, I am married to someone who stands up to technology with iron fingers, so when a random icon mysteriously shows up or vanishes on my laptop screen, I don’t run and hide.  I simply, and, successfully, troubleshoot through her.  We have a dog who is similar to me.  She fears technology as much as heathens fear Jesus, but she doesn’t handle her fear so gracefully.

Speaking of Jesus, we have a gift, or device, in our house which scares the Bejesus out of one of our dogs.  The device is an Amazon Echo, and it has a name.  “She” is referred to as Alexa. This is how I can, so articulately, describe it:  It is a voice activated machine capable of answering the most burning of questions or may act as a servant if you wish to give it commands.  Alexa is, basically, a highly advanced psychic eight ball with a voice.  At any moment, we can ask Alexa to play music or provide the daily news.  We may ask her to tell us jokes, or tell us how many moons surround Jupiter.  We may describe a smell in our house, and she will determine if it is coming from me or one of our animals.  She’s quite handy at times, but she can also create an uneasy environment within the room.  There are times when Alexa speaks when no one in the room is asking a question.  When Alexa begins making us feel as though we are participating in a Twilight Zone episode, we try to remain calm for our animals.  Alexa displays an ominous tone causing our dog, Etta, to stop texting other dogs in the neighborhood, drop her iPhone and run for shelter……….our bed.

Further disturbing,  Alexa will talk in the middle of the night, which is quite disconcerting when we are a full floor above her domain and again haven’t prompted her with a question or command.  Quite frankly, our poor dogs thinks it’s demonic.  When Etta hears Alexa’s voice, she bolts out of the room faster than the Amish can build a barn.  On Christmas morning, I wanted to play some classic Charlie Brown Christmas tunes, and upon hearing Alexa state, rather tonelessly, “Here are some Charlie Brown Christmas tunes just for you, Etta”, Etta fled our Christmas themed living room like a dog out of Hell.  There’s nothing like the antichrist showing up on Christmas morn.

Here’s to a scary new year.