It’s that Time of Rear Again

Posted on by
Reply

“Uranus is a dark, scary, gaseous planet.” C.O. Hanson

Other than the “scary” adjective, those are the facts.

A good friend of mine just had their annual colonoscopy.  Another good friend of mine teaches middle school. Those are also facts.  Which is worse?  It’s debatable.  This is clearly a compare and contrast or chicken and egg situation.

My close friend teaching middle school Science has the unique opportunity to discuss our galaxy annually to a group of students who are more intrigued with Uranus than any other planet.  Many years ago, when I did my time, or penance, as a middle school teacher, a young man coined the phrase, “What happens in Uranus, stays in Uranus”.  Science teachers were introducing a unit requiring students to create travel brochures for planets, and this young man came up with the best planet catch phrase in the Milky Way.

After the student submitted his brochure to his Science teacher, the teacher immediately walked down the hallway, brochure in hand, to the English teaching wing of the school.  It was his first year at the school, and he was asking me, of all people, for my advice as to whether this was appropriate and what type of grade the student should receive.  I responded with laughter, and further believed the student should receive an A+ for creativity.

A few years back, I retired from teaching middle school, but my friend remains in this dark, scary, gaseous planet.  And, annually, he must properly describe the difference between “Your Anus” and “Uranus” before conducting his solar system unit.

 

The Most Interesting Dog in the World

Posted on by
Reply

Our dog, Jack, suffers from vertigo, but he doesn’t suffer from a lack of confidence.  He’s the first dog I’ve ever met who enjoys going to the Veterinarian.

imageWhile other dogs may enter the clinic with fear, he acts as if he is a V.I.D. at the local veterinary speakeasy.  And, after twelve or so years of being an honorary member of this exclusive canine club, he is.  Strutting through the doors sporting a furry reddish golden retriever blazer and unnecessary leash, Jack is greeted by two employees, one taking his leash with honor, and the other respectfully petting him.  Receptionists blush as he saunters with dignity to the scale, not requiring the usual request necessary for other dogs.  Proud of his 120 pound frame, he turns to the nearest nurse, winks, and says, “Who loves ya, Baby?”

They don’t ask my wife and I if he can have a treat before seeing the doctor.  They know his order.  It’s a dry bone, solid, not broken.  Rather than ravenously devouring the bone, he carries it around as if it was the finest of cigars.  Usually too proud to drool, he will only do so upon request, but the drool must land in a cup with his name on it and kept in a refrigerated box for posterity.

Despite Jack’s bravado, we still have reservations when he moves so easily behind the closed doors with only the doctors and nurses.  At the age of fourteen, we know his time is limited, regardless of how unique he is.  Yet, he always turns to us before entering the “patients only den” and reassures us with a sniff in the air, knowing our smell remains only feet away.  Never letting us down, he always returns with the same swagger he walked in with, and is showered with hugs and kisses from those who don’t wish him to leave the premises.

Recently, our Jack had a bout of “vertigo” and it was our first time witnessing it.  When he collapsed on that Sunday, we thought the worse: heart attack, stroke, seizure?  Never seeing him in such a desperate need of attention, we weren’t frightened, but concerned this day may be his last.  Knowing he was still alive, frozen with uncertainty and panting as though each breath could be his last, my wife and I carried this one hundred and twenty pound gallon of fuzzy love down a rather large flight of stairs and placed him in the back of our car hoping to reach the hospital before his demise.  We made it, and so did Jack.

After Jack was diagnosed, several hours passed, and he was eventually released to us.  Upon being released, these people, from a hospital foreign to Jack, having never met him before this day, had a very difficult time saying goodbye.  With a few canine cocktails in his system, he seemed happy to see us, but as a true gentleman, or gentle dog, looked at those in the hospital who comforted him in his time of trouble, tipped his hairy hat and wagged goodbye.  Perhaps, he is just the most affable dog in the world.

image

 

For All Intensive Purposes

Posted on by
Reply

My father was directly hit by an A-Bomb while fighting the war in Korea, and he survived it.  Part of this introduction is true.  If you are over the age of six, you probably can figure out which portion of this intro may be realistic.

Napalm and the A-Bomb, at the tender age of six, seem synonymous when asking your father about war.  What’s the difference between napalm and the A-Bomb when you are six years of age?  It would take an elementary teacher to describe the subtle difference to my brother during a show or tell session in the nineteen seventies.

While the teacher, probably suffering from a hangover, and not properly preparing for Monday’s lesson plan, asked my brother and other students about their father’s background, he responded by providing misinformation regarding our dad’s military service. Rather than disclosing the fact our father was burned by napalm in the war, he stated, “My dad was hit with an A-Bomb in the Korean War.”  This quickly sobered up his teacher.

“An A-Bomb?”

Confident with his remarks, “Yes.  It burned the back of his legs.”

“Are you positive it was an ‘A-Bomb’?

“Pretty sure.  My father would never lie to me. He has the scars to prove it.”

Not wanting to embarrass my brother, the teacher simply suggested he clarify this with our father before discussing the matter any further.

Indeed, our father had the scars to prove he was burned by napalm, so my brother wasn’t lying.  Mistaking “napalm” with an”A-bomb” my brother was just was a little hazy about the truth.  I can’t blame him.  Six older sisters yelling, singing, or just talking drives a man either insane or develop a poor sense of hearing.  He chose the latter.

Everyone makes honest, unintentional mistakes whether they are six or sixty. The English language perpetuates this fact.  Years ago, while struggling through college, I took a job at a worm farm where someone I worked with continued to improperly use the phrase, “for all intents and purposes”.  Instead, he would say, “for all intensive purposes”.  Not knowing him very well, and not wishing to hurt his feelings, I didn’t have the heart to correct him.  Someone else working at the farm did, and we all had a laugh, including the man misusing the phrase.  In fact, he thanked the person correcting him.

At the age of six, people should be excused for replacing napalm with an A-bomb, and at the age of sixty, you are excused from using the phrase, “For all intensive purposes”.  And, if the person uses it in an angry manner, just let it slide.  It actually is correct.

We already live in a crazy world.  Just think about how much crazier it would be if we added phrases instead of words to the lovely game of Scrabble.

To a Very Graceful Thanksgiving

Posted on by
Reply

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…….”  Just before plunging into a Thanksgiving feast, my father would utter these words, followed by a simple prayer, and when finished, his sons and daughters would all say with sincerity, “Thanks Mom!”  Since she prepared most of the feast, both before we ate, and after we were drowning in gravy, turkey and stuffing, we would again display our gratitude.  We weren’t forced to do it.  Rather, we knew we owed her the gesture.  And, when the eating subsided, someone would do the dishes.  I was always thankful for those suckers.  Since I was the youngest, it was preferred I just stay out of the way.  No problem.

As a child, those were the days when saying grace and being thankful was so simple.  I was truly thankful for my mother, father and food.  Later, in the early teens, it became a little more taxing to start thinking about those who don’t have food on the table, a roof over their heads, or someone to do the dishes for them.  If you were fortunate like me, you began realizing why we should be so thankful for so many other things besides the side of mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie.  So, as I grew older, the more difficult it became to give thanks before dinner, especially when invited to others’ homes where grace took on a whole new despicable meaning.

I’ve always despised publicly giving thanks on command.  After my dear old mom and dad retired from providing the feast, I ended up in the foreign and ungraceful territory of being invited to other people’s homes for Thanksgiving.  Always being grateful for an invitation which includes food, I would give proper thanks to the person providing it well before dinner was served.  This was an early mistake.  In the event that they asked me to openly give thanks at the dinner table, I was out of ammunition.  This was especially true if I was the last in line to spew any unoriginal appreciation.  Someone before me had invariably already given props to God and Jesus, their dying Grandmother, their children, their friends, their health, their spouse, their disease in remission, their neighbors, their newfound sobriety, or their ability to vaporize themselves exactly when it’s time to help with the dishes.  Can’t we just have a moment of silence instead?  I know what I’m thankful for, and I don’t give a damn what the guy next to me thinks about what I’m thankful for that particular year.  It’s really none of his business.  And, I sure as hell don’t give a yankee dime about his moment of thankfulness.  Now, add holding my neighbor’s sweaty hand during this fifteen minute unceremoniously pious nightmare.  Blahhh.  As a good Thanksgiving guest and soldier, I would suck it up and participate for the host, but I didnt’t have to like it, and I probably wouldn’t return.  Or, should I say, won’t be invited back, after someone recognizes my eyes rolling or an accidental gasp of misery.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am wildly fortunate, and my list of gratefulness  could seriously go on, and on, and on, until the dinner gets cold.  I’ve also given my traditionally required share of toasts at weddings which went about as well as a Donald Trump eulogy at a Muslim’s funeral.  Once, in my early twenties in Reno, Nevada, I attempted to say Grace after several shots of tequila and apparently passed out before finishing.  Therefore, people should be thankful I don’t wish to speak publicly.

My wife and I have hosted Thanksgiving a few times, and if someone wanted to pray or give thanks, we let them do it out on the deck with the dogs.  I am completely joking.  We have never hosted Thanksgiving.  Ok, we have, and I have always encouraged someone, besides me, to say grace before the display of gluttony begins.  So, in truth, I’m not that big of a T-Day curmudgeon.

This year, my wife and I will be cooking at home by ourselves with the rest of our family: two dogs and two cats.   For that, I am thankful. (For the dogs anyway!)  Since my wife has to be back to work at the Sheet Metal Manufacturing Plant by five o’clock,  I’ll be doing the dishes.  For that, she is thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Sometimes, It’s the Worst of Times

Posted on by
Reply

For those of us who don’t murder others out of spite, religion or politics, I applaud you.  Why can’t it be that easy?

In general, I’m opposed to murder, and don’t wish this piece to shape anyone’s, or my lack of knowledge, regarding the tensions between Sunni, Shiite, Sundried, and Sunnyside up Muslims.  I simply don’t understand these religious gangs of the Middle East. That’s the only way I can describe them.

I know as much about politics as George W. Bush, therefore, I disqualify myself from competing in debates I wisely avoid.  I simply don’t, or don’t choose to, understand.

After watching the news for several hours last weekend regarding the terrorism in France, I thought it may be prudent to research why people were dying in Paris.  Watching cartoons, similar to what I viewed as a child in my School House Rock days, introducing me to The “Bill of Rights” (I’m just a Bill”), I remained dumbfounded.  I then watched a documentary about the Crips and Bloods. That was enlightening.  As far as I am concerned, the extremists in the Middle East, or their corporate sponsors, are just a group of gangs pushing, shoving, stabbing or shooting those who don’t agree with their views.

While viewing the bloodbath in France on television, my wife and I spoke to one another as is if we were the most fortunate people on earth.  In essence, we are.  This is our great fortune.  In the morning, we open the refrigerator and wonder what’s in it.  Sometimes, when a fuse blows, we replace it.  If we think a twelve pound turkey isn’t enough for Thanskgiving hangover sandwiches, I order a fourteen pound organic one pleasing both the turkey and my wife. When I need a haircut, I stumble across some money and force myself to get one.  Unless I am at a wedding, I don’t dance.  I don’t sing unless I am drunk.  I don’t play scrabble unless it’s a rainy day, and it has to be with my wife or a great friend. Rarely, I wear pants.  I don’t own or carry a gun.  I hope and pray my neighbors leave me alone with my Louisville Slugger. It’s that easy. I enjoy, with my wife, and some dogs and cats, a good meal, followed by a repeat episode of Seinfeld before going to bed when baseball is out of season. Sometimes, those are the best of times.

Amazon.Masks

Posted on by
Reply

There are three things I love in life besides anarchy. I love my family, eating and laughing. The anarchists sometimes provide the latter. Disagreeing with all forms of government is fantastic, and I thoroughly enjoy those supporting the concept while, so hilariously, trying to make a point. Both the subject of anarchy and those spreading it around like “I can’t believe it’s not butter” makes me laugh. Justice is never served through ignorance, and protesting corporate greed while wearing masks purchased through the company with which you are protesting qualifies as ignorance.

MaskMarchThe Million “Mask” March was held last week in front of Amazon.com headquarters, and employees of Amazon were properly warned to not wear their badges when exiting their place of work last week. This march was commemorating Guy Fawkes, a poor soul, who designed the infamous Gunpowder Plot in 1605 with hopes of blowing up the House of Lords in London, because he didn’t much care for the bourgeoisie hanging around in England at the time.  I almost find it silly, and a little embarrassing when attempting to describe this less than momentous event. His attempt was an epic failure. Legend has it, even disabled children were laughing at him during the process. I’ve visited London and slept next to Lyndsey Buckingham Palace, and although I didn’t enjoy the pretentious environment, I had no intentions of blowing it up.

This is where the plot weakens.  While protesting the evil empire of Amazon.com, many of the protesters, in a mad rush to make it to the march, purchased their sinister masks from Amazon.  It was a less than shrewd move costing them money while placing their cash directly into Amazon’s hot pockets.

 

 

 

The 2015 World Series Lap Dance

Posted on by
Reply

At a very young age, like millions of others, I dreamed of playing in baseball’s World Series.  Around age twenty, that dream was shot to Hell.  Since then, watching the series each year, I thought it might be fun to actually attend a World Series Game before my demise.  Living in Seattle with the hapless Mariners, I gave up on that idea as well, quite sure I’ll be dead before they make it to the Series.  Upon breaking this news to my wife, she suggested I fly to Kansas City to watch Game Two of the 2015 World Series.  One of her coworkers from Kansas City happened to have two extra tickets to the game.  It took me awhile to think about this possibility, but since Game Two was the next day, two seconds later, I thought I’d take advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Unable to take off work at the Asbestos Plant, sadly, my wife wouldn’t be able to make the trip.  Figuring I’d go alone, I did call a friend, another baseball enthusiast, bragging about my news.  He looked at his calendar, told me he could take a couple of days off, and said he would meet me in K.C..

Both of us safely arriving in Kansas City, we checked into a hotel and headed to the game.  In a sea of blue, “Let’s Go Royals!” was heard all over Royal Nation from the time we began our half mile walk and the chant continued when we entered the stadium.  Blue towels waving everywhere you looked, there was an elation we’d never witnessed quite like this.  The electricity of the home crowd was contagious and the excitement was better that I had imagined.  All spectators at Kaufman Stadium stood with fanatic anticipation while awaiting the first pitch.

Initially, I was going to describe the highs and lows of the game in great detail. Then, I thought I’d condense it. The Kansas City Royals were victorious.  Without the balls and strikes, hits and runs, I will tell you that, after a great play in the home team’s favor, giving a high five to one of your best friends, and then turning to complete strangers and doing the same at the World Series is absolutely glorious.  That’s a feeling I will cherish forever.  It was an amazing atmosphere, fantastic game, and an unforgettable experience.  Almost as unforgettable as our cab ride the day after the game.

Having a few hours to kill before heading back to Seattle, my friend, Craig, and I wanted to head downtown and find some Kansas City BBQ.  Available cabs were difficult to find that day, but the concierge hooked us up with, as she described, a very trustworthy and competent driver.  (Is there any other kind?)  “His name is Jimmy, and he’ll meet you out front in fifteen minutes.”  Spot on, Jimmy was there in fifteen minutes and knew exactly where we needed to go for the best BBQ: World Famous, Arthur Bryant’s Barbecue.  Perfect.  On the way, Jimmy told us a little about himself.  Jimmy told us he was a little person.  Jimmy told us he was a former wrestler in his prime.  He also told us he could drop us off, let us eat, but we had to call him when we were finished as he needed to made a quick trip while guaranteeing us he’d get us to the airport on time.  He seemed affable enough and a tad odd, but I figured we could call another service if necessary.

After eating far too many ribs, praying they were devoid of e. coli, I called our “competent” cab driver.  He promptly answered, but said he’d be running a little late.  A little unnerved, I simply stated, “Jimmy, we can easily call another service.  How late is a little late?” Responding with confidence and honesty, and clearly wanting our business, Jimmy said, “Seriously, Ben, this lap dance will be done in five minutes, so I will be about ten minutes late.  I WILL get you guys to the airport on time.”  I was NOT expecting that response.  Another first for me.  A little stunned, I just said, “Alright.  See you in ten minutes.”  Hanging up, with a goofy grin and chuckle, I turn to my friend, Craig.  With a nervous enquiring look on his face, he asked, “Is everything alright?”  Semi lying, I replied, “Uh huh.  Jimmy’s going to be a little late, though.”  My friend is a little more conservative than I am, so it was understandable why he looked at me as if I may have hired the wrong cabby.  “What’s going on?”  Now, with a deadpan look, I replied, “Jimmy’s getting a lap dance, but she’ll be done with him in five minutes, so he’ll be here in ten.”  Busting out laughing, Craig merely said, “Ok.”

Once again, Jimmy’s punctuality was impeccable, and he was exactly ten minutes late, and we made to the airport in plenty of time.

I’ll always remember attending a World Series Game, and hopefully, it’s not my last.  I’m pretty sure that’s the last time I’ll ever meet a Jimmy like that.

 

 

 

Back to the Torture

Posted on by
Reply

My eighth grade nemesis, Michael J. Fox, is back in the news again with the rest of the cast of Back to the Future, celebrating their 30th anniversary of the 1980’s iconic movie. The blockbuster first deposit of the trilogy Back to the Future, starring Michael J. Fox, made him a mega celebrity.  Back to the Future II  included a scene with Michael J. Fox staring with disbelief at a futuristic reader board surprising him with the announcement that the Cubs had finally won a World Series on October 21st, 2015.  Since this is the 30th anniversary of Back to the Future, it caused quite a stir amongst fans of the movies and especially those who know a little about baseball.  Was Michael J. Fox going to be part of this possibly prophetic movie, thus ending Chicago’s dry spell of 107 years without a ring?  Or, would it merely be another reason to get excited for the Cubs, just to be disappointed two innings into their last and most abysmal loss of the season, thus ending a very hopeful year?  The latter of course.  I couldn’t even finish sautéing an onion before I turned around to see they were down six to zero by the second inning.

I wasn’t a Michael J. Fox fan when he became a daily part of my life the year Back to the Future II was released.  This would have been around 1986.  I had to look into his dashing eyes everyday for the better part of a school year, because his face remained in the locker of my eighth grade girlfriend, and probably every other girl’s locker in our school.   This didn’t bother me at first.  Seeing him many times on his hit series, Family Ties, I felt no immediate threat.  This may have been because my father, who watched the show with us, would always comment on his size.  According our father, Michael J. Fox was only about four feet tall.  About the fortieth time I met my girlfriend at her locker, and knowing girls tend to like tall gentlemen, I, measuring in at a towering five feet six the time, informed her, very smugly and with definitive confidence, of her crush’s height.  “Ya know, he’s only about four feet tall.”  She quickly gave me a “What are you getting at?” look, which also could have been interpreted as, “What are you some sort of an A-hole” look as well.  I chose to leave the matter alone hoping that perhaps as our relationship matured, the picture might later be replaced by me.  I hadn’t graced the cover of Teen or Tiger Beat magazine, but there was a whopper of a picture of me plastered to my student identification card, displaying my awkward smile and unkempt hair.  Gladly, I would have given it to her upon request.  That never happened.  So each day, I merely hoped to find the back of her locker with Michael J. Fox’s dazzling smile missing.    That never happened either.

Wildly silly, much like most thirteen year olds, I stopped enjoying Family Ties each Thursday night and when the subject of Back to the Future came up, I lied and told others I didn’t care for the movie.  When asked with excitement if I’d seen the movie, I’d merely shrug, and say, “phh, you mean that ridiculous time travel movie with the twerp playing a guitar while acting as if he can ride a skateboard without a stunt double?  Yeah, I blew five bucks on that poorly casted piece of crap.”  I was a jealous critic at age thirteen.  I’d walk away with shame.

Michael J. Fox was now Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties, and Marty McFly from Back to the Future.  Therefore, even more pictures of him began growing in her garden of locker dreaminess.  Although I had buried the subject beneath the two of us,  I began having nightmares with Michael showing up either with a pretentious smile or sinister smirk.  He’d then taunt me.  “Do you know who I am? That’s right.  I’m Michael J. Fox.  I’m rich.  I’m famous.  I will be the cutest the guy on the planet for the next decade. And guess what?  When your girlfriend turns 18, I’ll only be in my late twenties.  Doesn’t sound like much of an age difference now, does it?  Have you even began puberty?  Your girlfriend loves me, and wake up with this.  I can get in her locker anytime I wish.”

I’d wake up with my 13 year old frustrated fists flying, catching nothing but dust in our basement. Quickly, knowing it was time to get ready for school, my mind was made up regarding the next meeting amongst my girlfriend, her locker, me and Michael’s delicate face.  Upon her opening the locker, I was going to, with great fury, punch the first picture of him I saw so hard, my envious clenched fist would not only crush his phony grin,  but it would then blast through the concrete behind her locker, thus breaking every bone in my hand.  With gnarled knuckles, I’d pull what remained of his head out of the bloody locker and throw his wadded up onion as far as a ball of paper could fly in a Junior High hallway…….about three lockers down.  That was my plan.

During my mission, not able to run through the halls for fear of being busted by intimidating hall monitors, I walked with excessive speed, dodging friends, acquaintances, teachers and janitors while seeking the locker and its squatter.  Before I could reach my destination, someone pulled the fire alarm, and there was a mad rush for the doors amidst prayer from all those attending the school, teachers included, that this was not just a drill or a prank.  Waiting outside for five minutes, much to everyone’s dismay, it was merely a prank, so we all had to return to our lockers and proceed to class.  This five minutes provided time for a moment of clarity.  If I completed my task as imagined, what would my girlfriend think of me?  What would that accomplish? If I knew her properly, she would have been embarrassed for me, and then perhaps never spoken to me again. For once, I actually thought of her.  She had always been nice to me.  We shared a very kind relationship mostly based on mutual respect for each other and inside jokes directed at friends and teachers making us the most conceited couple in the school.  We had fun together.  Ultimately, it was never her taunting me.  She had never intentionally made me feel inferior to this small movie star.  In fact, he was in her locker before we had even met that year, so actually, I was infringing a bit on their relationship.  It was time to act like I was five feet six inches tall and rise above Michael J. Fox and those pictures.

Still making my route to her locker, we didn’t have much time to talk, so I merely stopped to greet her briefly.  In the process of her opening the locker, I wondered if should bother taking a glance at my nemesis, thinking it may induce irrational behavior.  Yet, figuring I’d inevitably be tested sooner or later, I decided to get it over with.  Peering into her locker with a little anxiety, when I scanned its interior walls…………………….they were all still there.   Crud.  For some reason, I thought with my new found maturity, they would disappear not only in my dreams but in reality.  No such luck.  Still, I never even clenched a fist, and I never thought twice about that funny, talented and teenage girl’s crush again for the remainder of the year.

Every now and then, when my wife and I see an interview with Michael J. Fox, sadly suffering from Parkinson’s Disease, I jokingly make fun of her for maintaining that nauseating collage of pictures in her locker.  She just laughs and rolls her eyes.  I even texted her the other day when Mr. Fox and others were being interviewed regarding their epic movie and the Cub’s World Series Prophesy.  Randomly, I wrote.  “Hey, Britt.  You know, I still tower over Michael J. Fox.  Sincerely, your five feet nine inch husband.

 

 

The Raffle

Posted on by
Reply

Every parent should know that a one dollar raffle ticket is all it takes to destroy a boy’s dream.  They should teach this at the Juilliard or Dr. Suess School of Proper Parenting.

With the National Football season in full swing, and living in Seattle with the “12th Man”, it’s an exciting time for everyone in this city and throughout the State of Washington.

I’ll enter our neighborhood supermarket on Sunday mornings before the Seattle Seahawks game and be the only person present without a jersey.  I’m not a member of the “12th Man” brother and sisterhood, consisting of rabidly loyal Seahawks’ fans, but I do watch and root for the team each week.  For those loyal twelves, when they win, there is celebration.  After a loss, I witness adults crying.

Returning to a stable home in Seattle, when the Seahawks win, I smile, and look forward to the next game.  When they lose, I simply say, “Oh, what the hell”,  happily listen to my wife spew some profanity laced professional athletic hatred for about five minutes, and then we look forward to next week’s game.  You see, back in the late seventies, when I was six years old, I was thee “12th Man”.  It was at that same age when my extreme, or extremely ridiculous, loyalty came to a tearful halt.

I was the emotionally unstable fan at that age who would, after a Seahawk’s loss, find a room, hide in it, and let those pathetic tears fly like the weak birds I witnessed being crushed by the opposing team.  Try living with that when you have two older brothers, or rather, hyenas, licking their already cynical chops, waiting to verbally pounce upon me after exiting the room.  My red eyes couldn’t hide the fact that I was, most certainly, the “baby” of the family.  Every once in a while, remaining close to those brothers, I am reminded of those days, and we all laugh.  However, crying was not the reason I eventually gave up on the Seahawks.  It was the raffle.

At age six, I spent a great deal of time with only my mother at home.  Being the youngest child, all my siblings had more pressing obligations at school than a boy in kindergarten. When inside, the doorbell would ring each day several times.  It was usually the Milkman, Avon Lady, Girl Scouts, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  The Milkman was the only one I appreciated because I could persuade mom into purchasing a half gallon of ice cream to go with the fifteen gallons of milk required to fill up a family of thirteen.

One day, someone mysterious showed up to our doorstep with a raffle ticket in his hand.  Being the only man, or, boy, in the house, I kept a close eye and open ear when mother would open the door.  Listening to their brief conversation, he seemed to be a nice fellow only asking for one dollar in exchange for two free tickets to a Seattle Seahawk game as well as an all expense paid stay at Seattle’s luxurious Westin Hotel, brunch included.  I didn’t have to look in mom’s purse before I knew she had a dollar in it.  Before the salesman could file his taxes, I talked my mother into buying one of these tickets.  For an ignorant youth, that raffle ticket meant only one thing:  Free tickets to a Seattle Seahawks game and staying at the Westin Hotel with all the players.  Proudly, at the age of six, I knew what a ticket was, but sadly, I didn’t know what a “raffle ticket” was.

Other than figuring out travel plans, when my mother handed over that dollar to our neighborly shyster, I felt assured a ticket to a National Football game in the famously loud and notorious ugly Kingdome.   After the first week, I began bugging my mother about how long it would take before I had the tickets in my giddy paws.  With a kind smile and positive, yet truthful, words, she properly explained what the raffle was, softly describing how there was a pretty solid chance someone else, equally deserving, might end up winning the raffle.  Not giving up hope, she also encouraged me to write a letter to the Seahawk’s organization explaining, with great respect, why I was their biggest fan.  That was easy.  In my mind, I was.  After a few calls, my mother provided me the official address to the public relations department of the Seahawks.  I knocked this letter out in great detail, describing their best players, future Hall of Famer and wide receiver, Steve Largent, quarterback, and future Hall of Mediocrity, Jim Zorn, their charismatic kicker, Efron Herraha, and other players the public relations department probably didn’t recognize on the roster.

A month passed and the Seahawks never responded.  Later, I remember looking at the ticket and noticing the date of the game had passed.  It was official.  It wasn’t a winning ticket.  I understood, and when I showed it to my mother, she knew I was hurt, but I wasn’t crying.  She made me feel as though there were better or worse things to cry about.  Then, she gave me some butterscotch pudding.   It was the last time I cried over a losing team.

 

Mcconaug (Hey)

Posted on by
3

That’s it. I’ve had it.  I can’t take it any longer.  Although I swore to ignore it, he has broken me.  Matthew Mcconaughey is the most embarrassing man on television.  Saturday Night Live has spoofed him.  I knew that was coming the first time we watched one of his Lincoln commercials.  After seeing one of his commercials for the first time, my wife looked at me and said, “You have to write about this.”  I told her it wasn’t worth it, and the Onion would be all over it before me.

The world has laughed at him, and he continues to get stoned all the way to the bank; that is if he can convince a steer in the middle of a dirt road to give him directions.  I no longer envy his sculpted body, because with beauty, must come the beast, which is his brain.  Admittedly, when his commercials air, my wife and I stop, as if in a trance, and wonder if one of his commercials can be worse, or more laughable than the one before.  He never disappoints.

If we ever have children, when they are old enough to watch and discern television, we will give them a test to decide whether they are worthy of us creating a fund for their college tuition.  We will show them several Matthew Mcchonaughey commercials and then show him or her a bowl of cereal.  We will then ask our child which one is more intriguing. If the child chooses the bowl of cereal, we know this child has a chance.  If the child chooses the Matthew Mcc….(I’m tired of trying to spell his last name)……commercials, he or she will be cut off from any college tuition whatsoever.