Mount St. Hell (the tale of a seven year old brain)

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(This is only a seven year old’s perspective on his first day in Hell.  I mean no disrespect to heaven, God, my mother or volcanos……for all you jerks trying to edit my writing, yes, it can be spelled “VOLCANOES” as well……even if you are seven years old)

Where were you when Mount St. Helens blew?  I know where I was when it blew.  I was in our backyard playing football in Spokane, Washington with my brothers, and it was one of the worst days of my life……at that time of my serendipitous life.

At seven years old,  I didn’t understand or believe the magnitude of this event. I believed in several things, such as baseball, football, being forced to go to church on Sundays and my mom.  My mother, attempting to explain to a seven year old that pitch darkness would be arriving in ashes around noon made no sense at all to me while the sun still had many hours left allowing us to play before dinner.  It was the first time I didn’t believe what she said.

Believing in God, I couldn’t believe a volcano could turn off the sun like a lamp.  I thought, is a volcano more powerful than God?  I was frustrated and confused.  I wasn’t afraid, just angry because I cherished being able to play baseball and football on weekends with my brothers, and indeed, my mother was correct….as usual.

When the sun went off in Spokane, I finally believed in what those priests were saying about Heaven and Hell.  For me, heaven was in our backyard.  Then, on that dreadful day of May, 18th, 1980, I believed Hell blew many miles into our own yard from a volcano.  We had to be inside for a whole day which started out beautifully, and ended up in darkness.  My day was ruined, but then it even became worse the very next day.  We had to shovel that Godforsaken Ash that next day like it was the middle of winter.  Additionally, we were forced to wear these ridiculous masks so we wouldn’t develop some form of lung cancer.  Hell, thanks to my dad, I second hand smoked two packs a day from the day I was born.

Since then, I’ve forgiven the volcano, God, and those brand new ashes I only thought could show up on a day called Ash Wednesday, or in a tray one of my brothers would create in pottery class as a gift for our father.

I’m not quite as mature as I was in those days, but I am a bit older.  Nostalgia is always fun, even when it blows some people and trees out of their homes and habitat.

 

A Mother’s Day Hangover and 65 Cents

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When you hit the age of somewhere around twenty five to forty, you hear hangovers can last upwards of two full days.  This hangover I’m speaking of has nothing to do with alcohol.  It’s about all those mothers we have to please on Sunday.  It’s exhausting making the one, and the other ones you love so much, feel that love.

I only have one mother.  Her name is Margaret.  She is an exceptionally special person.  Yet, men and women alike choose to make phone calls to other mothers who have made a difference in their lives.  It doesn’t always have to be the one carrying you around in her belly for nine months, shooting you out of her hoo ha, and then still takes care of you and her other twelve children forty years later.  You may have outlaws…..sorry, in-laws visiting you on that weekend.  It may be your mother in-law and Grandmother in-law. (Two wonderful people) They only require two things:  Breakfast and Scrabble.  This is where a girl like me becomes a man.  I lay down the (in) LAWS.

Capable of convincing anyone on a Sunday Mother’s Day that all restaurants are closed on said day, I am equally capable of making them a hearty breakfast in our humble home for less than ten dollars and less than a thirteen hour wait in line at an “I HOPE I never eat here again”.  It’s a famous chain.  My pancakes, bacon and eggs take a mere twenty seven minutes.  This makes the mothers happy, and Ben a happy man.  Then, I beat the hell out of them in a friendly game of Scrabble.

Church:  Also closed on Mother’s Day.  Most elderly women don’t want to believe this.  In my world, Church is always closed on days such as Christmas, Easter, weddings, and most Sundays.  I’ll make an exception for a funeral.

Cards are really nice, but you have to leave that for your one and only mom.  Again, this is my world.  Phone calls are far easier than writing a sarcastic letter to your true mother who deserves so much more.  The letter I sent my mother only cost HER sixty five cents.  I placed the incorrect postage on the letter.  The mailman did deliver it ONE FULL DAY before Mother’s Day.  He just wouldn’t give it to her before she scrambled around looking for sixty five cents.  Now, I have great respect for men and women who deliver mail in rain, snow and are willing to charge my mother, (eighty five years of age, mind you) extra cash because a letter weighs over four ounces.  She paid for the extra postage, but made the postman, holding this heavy letter, wait about four minutes.  She has a great sense of humor.  Evidently, he was none too pleased with the weight and wait.  What the postman forgot to do, bless his heart, was open the mail to see if there was any money enclosed.  Indeed there was.  I also included with the letter thirteen dollars, representing mom’s thirteen children.  She called me on Saturday, and she couldn’t stop laughing.  It is the best medicine, and it made my day.

I recovered from the weekend hangover.

It takes Two to Rumble

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It does take two to rumble, and, quite often, it’s with your wife.  Scrabble, Monopoly, the Game of Life; they mean nothing compared to TV and Mother’s Day.  We have no children so I have had a heck of a time trying to get our dogs and cats to write a Mother’s Day card for her.  They can eat tennis balls, which I can’t and never wish to do, but they are incapable of using  the pen and paper I toss them.  I even provide the card.  All they have to do is write down the address, including area code, and, with their paws, give a signature……..Am I asking too much?  I think not.  The dogs and cats look at me as if I am insane.

I had their nails cut today, cleaned that gooey stuff out of their eyes, explained basic English skills, and even let them know that it’s ok to make an error……unless they’re playing third base or centerfield, or miss Mother’s Day.

What’s that Smell?

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Having a spooky honker, I am capable of smelling many items no other person the age of thirty nine can detect.  I’m also close to being legally blind so my nostrils must do the walking.

Cat Box:  Disgusting, but easy

Dog Poop Patrol: I smell better with my nose and walk more efficiently in my sleep doing that crap

Receipts:  They smell sort of strange, but I have a keen sense of getting screwed, so I am capable of discussing the manner with any banker

Clean cut grass:  I search the world for this stuff because mowing grass smells like something I haven’t had to  do for a long time.

A Baseball Glove:  There’s nothing like the smell of leather which requires molding, shaping, placing beneath your bed, allowing it to marinate in the bathtub, (with epson salts of course) or dousing it with oil.

Napalm:  I’m stealing this from a famous movie, but I’ve heard there is no better smell.  I beg to differ.  My father, fighting in the Korean War, did not find the smell so warming, since he was hit by a patch of it.

A Post Office:  Most humans don’t believe they exist; Completely obsolete.  Today, I found one and I could smell the twenty dollars they required so my mother could receive my letter in time for Mother’s Day.  My sense of smell cost me an hour in line, some profanity and a parking ticket……….my mother is worth it.

Speaking and smelling of fathers, let’s talk about Mothers instead.  They smell of peace, tranquility, laughter, honesty and flowers you forget to purchase them on that sacred Mother’s Day.

I love my mom, just like all of you do your own.  She smells better, sees better, hears better (depending on her batteries) and loves better than anyone I know.

Hopefully, you feel and smell the same about your mom as I do.

 

 

 

 

Standardized State Festering

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Ok, just raise your hands, everyone, when I ask you this question: Who doesn’t love standardized state tests?  Ok, everyone, put your hands down.  EVERYONE, PUT YOUR HANDS DOWN!  Let me tell all you mouth breathers in the audience, they can be fun……..for teachers.

Teachers get some days off.  Teachers get to act like they are grading papers during these hours of silence, when they are actually e-mailing their girlfriend in Seattle, or even a girlfriend working at the school.  This is a glorious time when teachers get to text, use I Phones, I Pads and Maxy Pads without any of the students being aware of anything.  It’s terrific because those students are completely oblivious as to what the teacher is doing.  They’re simply terrified because they actually believe this seventh or eighth grade test will determine their wealth and fame in life.  It’s a time when a student loses all hope and faith in themselves, our country and the Metric System.  (Are we still using that ridiculous system?)

Sadly, the fun has to end for some teachers on this day of reckoning.  Many students end the scheduled six hour test in five minutes.  This means two of two things.  After looking at the test, the students say to themselves, “F this noise”, or, ” I’m not even going to entertain the notion that I can pass this ridiculously biased test”, thus presenting a dilemma for the teacher, who after administering the test, must be burdened by the idea of keeping a student busy for the next silent five hours and fifty five minutes.  I developed a cure for the disease of boredom for twelve and thirteen year olds.  “Hocus Focus”.

A long time ago, in a land far to close, I was a full time employee and part time teacher at a very respected school district.  With some of my closest friends, we had to maintain our own sanity when witnessing students giving up on these tests before they even began.  I didn’t blame some of them.  I felt sorry for them.  Therefore, I broke out what I called “The Old Fashion”.  For some people, that means a doughnut.  For drunks, it’s a wake up drink, or “hair of the dog”.  For teachers, it was “Hocus Focus”.  These are two pictures you can provide on an overhead projector displaying similar scenes where you are forced to find the differences.  These students who finished the test in five minutes would work on these picture puzzles for another five minutes.  They would have to find ten differences in the pictures.  Examples:  bad hairline in one pic, full head of hair in the other, child in one yard giving the “I’m number one finger” and child in the other yard giving the “middle finger”,  a father barbecuing with a can of beer in one pic, and a father barbecuing with a bottle of vodka in the other.  These were great teaching tools.  Sadly, they hit so close to home plate for many of these students, I could not print enough of these pictures off because they were so good at finding the differences, and they loved it.  This is when a bad teacher becomes a clever teacher.  This is an ancient Irish secret: I printed off two identical pictures and told them they must find the ten differences.  They spent the next five hours and thirteen minutes working on that project.

I never gave them the answers, because there were none…..just like some of the questions on that dreadful test they were so subjectively forced to take.   I hope they get the important answers in life correct someday.

(This is written with much respect to all teachers, especially the ones I sort of worked with for fifteen years, and with no respect to the administration level and the people who didn’t have to be in those rooms for so many years…….)

 

The Neighbors have Two Dogs and Rainier

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Vicious and Kind: If a neighbor has two dogs and a wife, you know who the dogs take after.  One may be vicious like the wife, and one may be kind like the husband.  It’s simple psychology.

I was attacked viciously by one of their dogs tonight (Eben), and before seeking legal counsel, I instead went to get ice cream. It was my wife’s only wish, even if my cargo pants, just washed and dried mind you, were ripped so closely to the flesh that I, for once, saw my life flash before my balls.  Simply terrifying.

Upon inspection, my wife said it was merely slobber.  What does she know about anything?  Now, I additionally wanted to sue her for not supporting her husband.

After purchasing the vanilla bean ice cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream, I informed her I had some business to attend to before dealing with her insubordination as as a loyal wife.  She laughed.  There’s nothing worse than a wife laughing at you while she is eating ice cream, laced with chocolate and that damned cream.  I lost it.  Marching down to the neighbor’s house and pressing their door bell will all of the energy I had left, they answered politely not knowing I was going to release my hounds and furious anger upon them.  That’s when then they offered me a Rainier Beer, and that’s when the counsel rested.

(The dogs, Eben and Bo, and the neighbors have always been wonderful…………if they have Rainier………Thanks, John, Megan, Eben, and Bo.  Special thanks to a peanut named Emma who is the secondary reason I’m not suing my neighbors.

 

 

 

 

Pepper Spray Gets In Your Eyes

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When a waiter asks me if I wish to have pepper on my salad, I always say, “yes”.  When a wife asks me not to pepper spray myself, I say, “no”.  I don’t give much advice to anyone, and if I do, nine times out of nine you shouldn’t take it.  But, every now and then, I provide terrific advice which should be documented as Gospel.   Just because you purchase pepper spray for your wife from a convenient store doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.

My wife takes walks with our dogs sometimes without me.  She also works at a job requiring her to leave in a downtown area when darkness falls upon everyone.  I once told her, “I can’t always be watching over you.” Therefore, I wanted to purchase her some pepper spray because I do actually like her and worry about her safety.  There are bears, cougars, raccoons, and squirrels in Seattle.  She explained to me that you can’t find pepper spray in many stores because many outlets believe it should be illegal.  That’s when I went on a scavenger hunt for pepper spray.  I was determined to find it, even if it was on the blackpepper market.

Discovering a seedy joint located three blocks away referred to as a 76 Station, I found some pepper spray.  I felt as if I was both Lewis and Clark not only finding the Pacific, but also finding a Northwest Passage.  Much like Mariwether Lewis, this story has a sad ending.

I wish to test items I don’t purely believe can work for three dollars, especially when it comes to my wife’s safety.  So, as an incredibly intelligent man, I requested she test it on me.  She refused.  I then retorted, “I’m going to nail myself with it then.”  Fortunately, I went outside, and she said , “Gannon, if you do that, I am going to be so pissed!”(I always know I’m in trouble when she calls me Gannon.) I really didn’t think it was going to work. The first shot didn’t.  I missed myself and managed to stain some siding on our house bright orange.  The second shot……..right in the face.  I figure if you’re batting five hundred with pepper spray, it should suffice.

Completely blind in my left eye and with my face turning bright orange, my lovely wife carted my dumb ass up to the shower to get this pepper off of me.  Since one of my eyes remained stable, (my whole head was burning) I could still manage to find soap.  Another bad idea.  Some of the pepper spray residue trickled into my right eye.  Now, I was literally blind.  I screamed from the shower, “Britt!!!! I’m blind……..please help me!”

She did, and after a few hours of blindness and blistering pain, I recovered.  I can’t count the number of times of my wife shaking her head because I couldn’t see her.  I know I’ll never do that again because that stuff works.

If she can aim in the right direction, I know she’ll be safe.

I think she provided forgiveness more for the pink jacket case with which the spray was encased.  She just loves pink.  I can’t believe she also loves an idiot.

 

 

Offense or Defense? ( Dr.Jeckle and Mr. Craig)

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The noun, “Gentleman” is used far too haphazardly in this crazy world.  These days, gentlemen seem to be a diamond in the buff… much like sasquatch;  When you witness one, it’s usually a fuzzy story and your camera phone doesn’t work properly at that moment.  They are extremely difficult to discover.

Each day, I witness men not opening doors for old bags, and when you do find the elusive gentleman, he is often times not rewarded with a simple “Thank you”.  This is why chivalry is dying, but not dead.

I am a part time gentleman and half time asshole.  When I open a door for a woman going to the theater, or even a man delivering ice to a grocery store, I hold the door open for them.  If they don’t give me a “thanks” or merely a smile, I bellow to everyone who can hear me within the continent, “YOU’RE WELCOME!”  That’s when the gentleman becomes an asshole.

For years, I’ve searched the world for this elusive full time gentleman, and at one point, I had given up hope.  Today, I found him.  Just like a Sasquatch can be referred to as a Yeti, this man is also known as the original Mr. Nice Guy.  His name is  Mr. Craig.

He coaches and teaches at a shitty school in Spokane, Washington.  He is amongst a handful of wonderful teachers and coaches at that school.  And by handful, I mean about four.  The rest of the teachers don’t have opposable thumbs, so a handful of crap is what I should have written.

Craig was coaching a Junior Varsity basketball game with very little significance to the players and the rest of the world.  Craig, as a former athlete and current competitor, enjoys winning.  However, that soft touch gentleman always gets the worst of him.

Nudging him on the bench in an extremely close game, a usually reserved boy named Marc would not leave his coach alone.  Marc’s elbowing routine amidst a very tight game was not allowing Mr. Craig to coach.  “When am I going to get in, Coach…….When am I going to get in the game?”

In his usual easy manner, Craig replied, “Alright Marc, you are entering a tight game, so you need to remember what I’ve taught you at practice, ok?”

“You betcha, coach.”

Craig patted him on the back upon entering the game, but knew his team was going to lose.  Craig didn’t really mind the losing part, but he did mind that when Marc entered the game, Marc did not know if he was on offense or defense.  These are times when gentlemen develop rage after countless hours of coaching and teaching.  I call it the Jeckle and Craig Syndrome.  When this young man was supposed to be playing defense, he  thought he was playing offense.  When he was supposed to be playing offense, he assumed he was on defense.  Jeckle left the gymnasium and Craig showed up, screaming, “YOU ARE ON OFFENSE!”.

They lost the game, but it wasn’t Marc’s fault.  Craig left the gym and the gentleman returned to tell this young man he did his best.  The gentleman silently left in his car transforming into his alter ego.  Craig drank several beverages that night but has a spot in both Heaven and Hell reserved by Econo Lodge.

I still haven’t found Sasquatch, but I have found the elusive gentleman.  You can look him up on the website “GFRO”.  It’s similar to the “BFRO”, also known as The Bigfoot Research Organization. The acronym “GFRO”represents a group of people who believe gentlemen indeed exist. It’s the “Gentleman Friendly Research Organization.” I swear to you, THEY exist.  They’re just hard to find.

 

 

Mariner Jet Lag (it’s raining in seattle?)

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Once again, I am on the same jet lag wave length as my wife because of my love for baseball and pure hatred for (I’m not going to provide them the decency of using proper nouns or capital letters) the seattle mariners.  This organization has made me feel as though I was on a twenty two hour flight back to India.  I’m exhausted watching the AM games in Japan, and my wife is currently filing divorce papers regarding the alarm clock issues.  Nothing makes any sense.  My wife and I were just fine before the mariners chose to play in a country (a country who once upon a time, bombed us in the island of Hawaii).  Now, we are at athletic odds because she can’t understand my desire for the great game of baseball, and our new time zone, even in the US of A.

Don’t call me unless it’s at two AM.  If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m either napping, or talking to my Japanese Lawyer.  He’s awake at two PM, where it is apparently the land of the rising sun.  Perhaps that’s why seattle decided to fly twelve hours and play twenty four hours of baseball……..to find that rising sun.  I haven’t seen it for a week.

 

Opening Dismay

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Other than Pearl Harbor and poor driving skills, I have nothing against the Japanese.  I have everything against a team in Seattle, Washington, located in America for having baseball’s opening day in anywhere but America. The Seattle Mariners are playing the first game of the season in Japan.  This is America’s official pastime, but it seems to me, for the team I root for, since I reside in the city, it is America’s official posthumous time.  The first game of the season is usually the first and last for our fairly ridiculous sport crazed city.

I don’t give a crap what people say about the NFL, NBA, soccer and any other sport, baseball is America’s favorite pastime. (Disclaimer: I love each one with the exception of the NBA and soccer.) Opening day is special, and it belongs to baseball.   It doesn’t belong in Japan where I have to set my alarm clock for three AM, instead of the usual three PM schedule.  This is truly unholy on one of the most holiest of days.  My wife will have to hit the seventh inning snooze button when the Mariners, with severe jet lag, are losing in that inning, just around seven AM.

The official owner of the Mariners lives in and is from Japan.  Qualified sources have informed me he won’t be attending the game.  I think he is an elderly owner, but I don’t give a shit if someone has to bring him into his luxury box seat by way of a forklift while he’s collecting money on a pallet selling Ichiro jerseys.  He should be in attendance.

This may sound a bit moronic and immature, but I celebrate this day much like people celebrate Christmas and Easter.  I celebrate the Lord’s birth and His resurrection, but I really don’t look forward to the presents or the eggs……unless they are deviled.  Baseball’s opening day?  That’s what I look forward to, but not in Japan at three in the morning.

I hope you all have a great opening day.  I won’t.  Hot dogs and beer don’t fare well with my stomach that early.