Mcconaug (Hey)

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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.

 

Much Ado about Football (or nothing)

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I’m back in the fantasy football saddle again, and I am about to get bucked off only two weeks into the season, and it’s all my father’s fault.

The Fantasy Football League with which I’m currently participating does not require an entry fee.  It’s just meant to be fun, friendly competition amongst some friends and family members on my wife’s side.  Since both my wife and I have teams, we can share Sundays together watching modern day gladiators on television while I barbecue or cook a hearty Fall stew.  No gambling, great entertainment, digestible food, and a loving family.  Sounds like a stress free environment, right? Wrong.  Although it’s a great league filled with terrific participants,  there is only one thing keeping it from being perfect.  Me.  If this is where I strive for competitive excellence, I should seek therapy.  When my fantasy team falters in some way, I find myself speaking to the television set with a volume causing our dogs to look at me and say, “You ok, Papa?”   Who do I blame?  My father.

Years ago, my father’s art of raising his voice at a television set, fruitlessly trying to manipulate football players’ brain patterns, created tension throughout a very large household.   This trait being passed down to me is my only semi-legitmate excuse for acting like an immature ass in front of my wife and our confused animals while watching football.  I only wish they understood.  When I was growing up in a very large Irish/Catholic family (another excuse for just about anything stupid we’d do) we would watch the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football game every Saturday.  Let me clarify.  Dad would watch Notre Dame, and we would watch Dad.  Watching him seemed to be more entertaining.   Although our father didn’t really know, or claim to know, a great deal about gridiron strategy, he did know when a coach or player, especially the quarterback, would make a mental mistake.  When they did, the cigarette he was smoking would fly out of his mouth just before the verbal tirade.  They didn’t even wish to be on the ash end of his comments questioning the players’ and coaches’ levels of intelligence.  Remarkably, he could get his point across without too much profanity, so it didn’t make anyone in the room too nervous.  In fact, my brothers and I would try to keep from chuckling during his outbursts.

Without knowing the X’s and O’s of football, my father was all about clock management.   “Why are you running out of bounds when you need to keep the clock running?  That running back needs to have his ass kicked up between his shoulder blades.”  Or, “Ahhhhhh………why pass the ball when you need to keep the clock running?  This quarterback doesn’t need his head examined, he needs a lobotomy.”  Or,  “If they show the coach’s wife in the stands one more time looking nervous, I’ll fly to South Bend and give her a reason to look nervous.”  That last one was probably made up, because my father wasn’t a violent man.  And, although he liked going to Vegas or Reno once every few years, he wasn’t much of a gambler, so I know he didn’t have cash on the game.  This is why I questioned why he took it so seriously, and I have to question myself at the same time, because it’s simply ridiculous.

My brothers, Tom, Greg and I would root for Notre Dame, but mostly just because it would keep dad in a good mood.  Other than that, we didn’t really care.  We were preoccupied with the sweet sizzling smell of mom’s Saturday night burgers and getting a kick out of counting how many cigarettes dad would polish off during a stressful ND loss.  We must have second hand smoked two packs a Saturday back then.  Ahh…. when smoking was funny.  Those were the days.  Thank goodness he wasn’t a big drinker.

On the contrary, one of the wonderful traits my father passed down to me is the art of forgetting very quickly the meaningless loss with which you weren’t even a participant.  Even after a Notre Dame loss, when Dad’s cigarette was replaced with one of our mom’s burgers, all was well.  And, similarly, after the bowl of piping hot stew and warm french bread is placed in front of me after a stressful day of watching this terrific sport, I develop fantasy football amnesia.

Luckily for me, when my wife catches me uttering something sounding like I belong in a straight jacket during these fantasy football Sundays, a few minutes later, I’ll catch her doing the same, and we can both laugh.  She’ll never admit it, but I think she takes it more seriously than I do.

 

Striking Out

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Teachers are striking in Seattle, and because I was a public school teacher for fifteen years, I’ve been respectfully asked by family and friends how I feel about the situation.  Being a former teacher should provide some validation regarding my opinion.

It’s a tricky question for many, but not for me.   The simple answer is that I oppose the strike.  Although I maintain an enormous amount of respect for most teachers, I also feel their duty remains in the classroom with their students even if they believe in further compensation.  I use the term “further” because I know teachers’ salaries, and some of my best friends in the industry don’t complain.  I understand one of their complaints.  Class sizes are out of control in many school districts.  It can be the difference between being a babysitter and a teacher.  That was just one of the reasons I left the profession.  Sadly, I lost my passion for teaching.  That was the most logical reason for leaving.

Here are some of the perks of teaching:  Two and a half months off in the summer.  Every other holiday as well as the day before and after off.  The option to coach, and yes, work a little harder, while putting in some extra hours and being compensated for the additional time.  Those were the least important perks for me and many others entering this profession.  Making a positive difference in a student’s life was, without question, the largest benefit.

Coaching was an additional opportunity for us to create solid relationships, not only with students, but many times, their parents.  If a student didn’t finish a classroom assignment, we didn’t send them home before practice.  We allowed them a half hour in a sweaty wresting room, or rainy football field, to finish assignments before working out for the next hour and a half.  That was punishment enough, and it kept them out of the trouble away from school they could so easily find.  The parents thanked us for keeping them in check for those extra two hours.

At age twenty-three, sadly, I showed up for a paycheck, wondering what my next profession might be.   One month after turning twenty-three, I showed up every day because the students needed me.  It only took me a month to figure it out.  I never complained about a paycheck.  I also had to slap myself for forgetting why one chooses this profession.

I’ll make this clear.  I never considered myself to be a great teacher.  I will also confess there were days I showed up to school, and a smile and laughter was all I had to offer.  Those were the moments I didn’t earn a paycheck.   The students and their care for me in some dark times picked me up,  and that’s why I felt truly blessed for those fifteen years.

I never went on strike.  I just retired.   I will admit that after moving to a different school with a different demographic, those students broke me.   Some people would argue that was the easy way out.  It wasn’t. I miss the students, some of their parents, and the fellow teachers I had the pleasure to work with each day.

Garbage

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Every Tuesday, much like our dogs, I wake up with a purpose.  I take the garbage out and expect someone with a driver’s license to pick it up on said day.  It’s only once a week, and it’s not so much for my wife to ask of me.  She’s a peach.  They forgot to pick it up this week.

Two large dogs, two cats, coupled with a bunch of cooking, creates a bunch of garbage. That’s why we pay people to pick garbage up on a weekly basis.   “People” meaning GARBAGE MEN OR WOMEN!  Get used to that title.  I used to deliver ice and I had to get used to the phrase in mid July during one hundred and something degree temperatures, “Pretty cool job, huh, Iceman?”  “F you.”  That’s when I decided to get a college degree.  It’s also the beginning of a bad joke and an angry man.

Yard waste, recycling, and God forbid I write it, “Garbage”is the Holy Trinity of the men or women of the Union who decide when, where, and how they dispose of it.  They control our waste.  Their power is undeniable and unforgiving.  I spend so much time placing consumables and their ugly cousins in different baskets, I forget to tell my wife how much I love her when she leaves to go shopping.  The basket happy bastards, after dictating the day, minute, hour, or month they may drop by to pick things up, laugh when you are unhappy with their service.  Hold on.  I just received a very nice message from my wife proclaiming her husband is not an A hole.

She is the peach in my basket.  Done.

Swinging like a wild man,

Ben Gannon

 

Jackdog

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My step dog, Jack, just turned 14 today, and his tail is still waging.  So is his mouth. His mother, my wife, has treated this dog with respect, kindness, and the proper diet: Table scraps and gourmet cupcakes.JackBirthday-Cupcake

Jack is cute, friendly, thoughtful, has a terrific sense of humor, yet maintains discipline within the boundaries of our property with respect to the squirrels. He is also overweight. We don’t know why.

Our veterinarian lectures us about Jack’s weight.  He also can’t believe how fat, old yet healthy he is.  Our vet also tells us to never feed him table scraps.  Before people judge us, and by the way, we don’t give a crap if you do, I would like to define our “table scraps”:  These are Jack’s table scraps.

Grilled Pork Tenderloin Medallions drizzled with a balsamic glaze accompanied with Sauteed Mushrooms and Garlic Toast.  It’s His go to meal.

Rainbow Trout lightly dusted with seasoned Snoqualmie Falls pancake mix, crispy fried in olive oil with Steamed Cauliflower and Broccoli.

“We can never smell it” Grilled Sockeye Salmon over hickory coals and garlic asparagus.  Jackdog pisses outside.

Chicken Parmesan with Vine Ripened Tomatoes stolen from neighbor’s garden to create a bowl full of Basil Marinara.

The Ridiculous Rueben:  St. Patrick’s Day is the only day Jack requests the most expensive corned beef, cabbage, and cheese.  This comes with toasted Rye and a special sauce.  Complimentary spilled beer on the side.

Cajun Catfish fry with Caramelized Onions.  (Mardi Gras comes more than once a year for our Jackdog.)

Grilled Halibut with Lemon Basil Vinaigrette and Roasted Brussels Sprouts.  (Jackdog likes this with a cheap white wine.)

Roasted Chicken with Rosemary and Buttery Brown Sugar Butternut Squash.

Backyard Marshall Burger:  Look it up.  It’s posted on my blog.

Grilled Brats with caramelized onions, sauteed mushrooms and peppers.  (Jackdog loves this while watching baseball or football.  He’s a great admirer of both sports, and I’ve never witnessed him spill a beer.)

JackDog-SteakJackdog’s Favorite:  Ribeye Steak.  No sides.

One might think my cooking must be dreadful if such culinary delights become scraps. Quite the contrary.  I make enough for five.  We have another large dog as well.  I also save the fifth helping for myself.  Piss on the cats.  They can eat rats.

Happy Birthday, Jackdog.  Keep waging.

 

JacksSteakDinner

Gone Vishin?

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My mother has always maintained solid vision.  While her hearing may be taking a stroll between Selective Street and Helen Keller Avenue, her vision remains keen.  When I visit her, and we watch her beloved Seattle Mariners, she always knows when her favorite baseball player, Franklin Gutierrez or “Cutierez” is at the plate.  It’s not when the announcers call his name, but rather, when she sees his striking good looks from her recliner, well over ten feet away from the television set. (She seems to be able to spot a good looking man from 6 blocks away.) So, when Gutierrez struts to home plate, she makes the announcement.  “Guty’s up!”

Recently, my mother had to watch the Mariners from a hospital bed because of a recent scare.   She was admitted for a couple of days, undergoing many uncomfortable tests but has since been discharged with an expensive bill of health.

Although hospitals are seldom a place where laughter is in abundance, our mother made us all laugh during her first day of being admitted.  A nurse began asking mother several questions or to perform certain tasks, mostly checking on her senses and level of consciensness.  What day is it?  What month, year, squeeze my hand, push on this, pull on that, toss that tissue in the nearest basket, who was the Heavyweight Champion of the World in 1973…..etc, etc, etc.  My sisters, Anne, Patricia, Maggie, as well as my wife and I watched with pain in our eyes because we knew how uncomfortable this beautiful, 87 year old mother of 13 was during the interrogation.   That’s when mom converted our eyes filled with uncertainty to ones filled with the laughter we inherited from her.  One of the last questions from the nurse was, “How is your vision?”  With an incredulous look on her face, mom gasped, “What!”.  “HOW IS YOUR VISION?”  Almost sounding agitated by the endless questioning, my mother answered, “Oh, I don’t care about fishin!”

We all busted up heartily, providing us a moment of relief, and when we told her why we were laughing, she busted up as well.  Sadly, the nurse didn’t think it was so funny, especially when I requested the next question for our mother should be about her hunting skills.

We knew she’d be home soon at Anne’s, comfortably watching “Guty” from her recliner with the sound turned up as loud as possible for no reason whatsoever.

Prayer

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Religion and decisions, much like politics, are tricky subjects.  I voice my opinions with God, Jesus, the Catholic Rosary, my wife, some dear friends, and my mother. The latter seems to be the most impressive.

I have decided to rely on my mother’s faith, genuine goodness, a dose of prayer, drizzled with a wonderful wife, to live my life as properly as I could wish.

A very fortunate man.

By the wayside, don’t rely on Trump to run our nation.  He is a perfect example of what our mothers warned us about.

 

Out of the Woods

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My wife was out of town for a few days so I thought I’d surprise her with something special upon her return.  I not only purchased a new toilet seat for our master bathroom, I installed it as well.  This was meant to astonish her and anyone who knows me (the installation part).

As a novice with respectful regard to toilet seat purchasing, I quickly found out there are two kinds of toilet seats.  The home furnishing store I visited offered plastic seats and wood seats.  Knowing ours was not plastic, I chose the wood.  It turned out to be the wisest marital and latrine choice I could possibly make.

We have three bathrooms in our house…..not that you care.  I do.  My wife’s first choice of bathrooms after retuning from her journey was the wrong one.  With excited anticipation, when she entered the one closest to our entrance, I yelled, “Why are you using that bathroom!?”  She looked at me as though I may be crazy.  It’s a look I commonly receive.  I could only wonder when she would be ready to use the new toilet seat upstairs.  I may be a bit goofy, but it isn’t often when I say something such as, “Hey, you should use our bathroom upstairs.  Wouldn’t that be fun?”  It wasn’t until the wee hours of the night when she finally used it.  Coming back to bed, I was wide awake, excited to hear about her new thrown and tell her of the proud King who installed it.  Nothing.  I decided to let it rest.  It was was indeed for the best.

The next day, my wife informed me that our five year anniversary is right around the corner, and she then asked me what significance five years may have for those lasting this long in bliss.  Knowing five years is a record for both of us, that was my only response.  She then needled me further about silver, gold, platinum, and other more recognizable anniversaries representing marriages lasting more than five years.  As a certified neanderthal, I stared at her with furrowed eyebrows and a snarled mouth halfway open.  This is our way of saying, “Are you serious?” Or, “How the Hell should I know?”  She caught the drift before any words could blow hard from my lungs.  Then, as usual, she educated me about something I don’t give a crap about.  Evidently, since the middle ages, people have celebrated each anniversary with a traditional gift associated with that year.  Less significant anniversaries are associated with gifts of paper, aluminum, glass, lint, plastic, and even foam rubber.  As a man of culture and science, I pondered her lesson and could only think, speak and wish for one thing the five year anniversary might offer: Beef Jerky?  Sadly, no.

Being a very fortunate man, in our wedding vows, we agreed to NOT purchase one another gifts on anniversaries, only take trips to places such as Tijuana, Spokane Washington or Bora Bora.  Since we have neither the time nor patience to travel with one another outside our zip code right now, I guess I decided to break one of our sacred marital vows.  The traditional five year anniversary gift actually is wood.  Look it up.  That wood toilet seat sure came in handy this year.

Now, I only have to remember the date.

 

 

 

A Whole New Concussion

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After finishing an earlier story about a treehouse, I was soon provided with added material regarding the story.  This was material understandably forgotten.  Details were not omitted, just forgotten.  Whenever I write a story about our family, inevitably, if they read it, one of the family members involved with the piece will inform me about a portion of the story I may have forgotten.  It leaves me wishing I would have contacted them prior to publishing it.  The treehouse blog, “Nails….” was no exception.

According to one of the story’s antagonists, my brother, Greg, informed me that not far from the tree we were domesticating, (about fifty feet away) sat a chicken coop.  Save for some rusty nails and some chairs used for our neighborhood gang meetings, it was empty. By the time I was born, I guess mom and dad began preferring store-bought chicken.  We still referred to it as the chicken coop, although it should have been renamed, “the fire hazard”.  To my knowledge, it never burned down, but it did contribute to some of my head trauma growing up with elder siblings.

Having a rather large backyard, we always had hoses spread around the grounds.  Some of them worked properly without gashes while others were merely rubber derelicts waiting for a trip to the dump in the truck we didn’t possess.  Evidently, either during one of our breaks from building the treehouse, or after the construction of it was postponed, my brothers thought they’d put one of the dead hoses to use.  Tying one end of a hose to a branch of our treehouse, and the other end to a tree standing next to the chicken coop, it would, potentially, make an excellent zip line with the rider landing safely on the roof of the coop.  It seemed like a fun and challenging project for my brothers, but the question remained: how could they do it and make it safe at the same time?  They put their minds and heads to work with one towhead (me) in the hole.

Once the hoses were securely fastened to each tree, we then needed some form of vehicle to transfer supplies or humans from one side to the other.   Unable to find anything useful outside, we ventured inside to find something we probably shouldn’t remove from the house.   Soon, we discovered a seat we could attach and hang from the hose with a crude form of rope.  One of my brothers found it in the piano room.  Our piano, one that had been tuned about the last time our coop had chickens, possessed a cushioned chair used for anyone wishing to sit and bang on the keys.  It wasn’t actually a seat, but a hope chest acting as one.  The top came off easily and looked like the perfect answer to our dilemma.  Dragging it outside and using some heavy twine, paired with styrofoam to decrease the sliding friction, the padded seat dangled uneasily from the hose.  There was only one thing remaining. We needed a volunteer, so to speak, to test the makeshift zip line.  My first suggestion was to borrow one of our sisters’ dolls and give it ride.  As usual, my brothers ignored me and needed something more accurately resembling a human. I don’t remember volunteering, but I do vaguely remember brother Tom guaranteeing me I wouldn’t regret giving it a shot, because there just might be some benefits if I had the courage to go first.  According to Tom, mother would be so proud of me, she would buy extra Ding Dongs and Kool Aid at the store for all of us.  (All lies.)  Reluctantly agreeing to be the test pilot, I sat on the piano seat and with only a baseball hat wrapped around my skull, I was prepared for sliding.

The slight downward slope would provide the momentum for me to successfully slide from one end to the other, and the chicken coop roof landing would only leave me easily hopping off the moment before possibly crashing into the receiving tree.  The degree of difficulty, even for me, seemed quite low.   The highest point during the trek was probably no more than ten feet, so it really didn’t look like anything too dangerous.  After a quick pep talk from Greg, “You’re not going to die” shadowed by a semi-confident smirk on Tom’s face, I guess I was prepared for slide off.

From the moment I left the branch,  I knew I’d either reach the coop head first or bail out off the seat of terror.  I had time for neither.  Just after deployment, my speed accelerated, in my primitive mind, from zero to sixty in less than a second leaving me simply terrified. The styrofoam began sizzling and the jostling rope, which was really just some crude form of twine, snapped and the seat and I floated to the hardened dirt with my skull hitting just before the cushion which broke upon impact.  (Greg’s added memory had now brought mine back.)

People say you see stars and hear birds when you get knocked upside the head with tremendous force.  I only heard laughter, and eventually saw Tom and Greg’s faces when they reached me on earth.  They did ask if I was o.k., and I believe my only proper response was an uneasy, “uh huh.”  They seemed to be happy I wasn’t dead, so I felt pretty good about that.  However, just when I came to my feet, the trees, grass, coop and brothers began to blur, not with tears, but with dizziness.  “You sure you’re o.k.?”  “Uh huh.”  Staggering inside our house, I thought I could hear one of them yell, “When you come back out, bring some sodas.  You’re a hero!”  Of course, this was followed by laughter and me entering our house, collapsing on the nearest couch and then vomiting for the next few hours which is exactly what happens when one gets concussed.  Sometimes, it hurts to be a child hero.