84 and Still Kind of Hearing (Who Shot KFC?)

Bless her soul, my mother is the Irish version of the bizarro Godmother of 13 goofs.  She’s the kindest, sweetest and deafest 84 year old on the planet. Obviously, I’m a bit biased regarding this subject of our mom, commonly and affectionally referred to as Helen Keller.

We always consider our mothers and fathers as the best on their birthdays.  This will be short and cute.  Today is my Mother’s 84th birthday.  I’m celebrating it 25o miles away by merely calling her to tell her how much I love her.  She is  still capable of smacking me on the behind, but my hearing is just a touch better than hers.

My mother, Margaret, doesn’t always turn up her hearing aids, or perhaps, she’s just messing with us when we call her, thus keeping the conversations short.  We shared a nice conversation this morning, and as her kind soul will dismiss her birthday, she wished to know how my wife and life was doing.  I responded, “Britt’s having a rough time with one of our animals getting old and perhaps passing on.”  My mother responded, “Britt’s moving out?”

“No, mom, don’t worry about anything.  We’re very happy and this is the first girl who doesn’t want to leave me…..let’s talk about something else you can’t hear.  I’ll sing Happy Birthday to you.”  (That’s a great way to disguise a terrible singing voice.. Brilliant.)  She didn’t hear it, but she loved it anyway, just like she unconditionally loves all of her children, grandchildren and Great grandchildren.  This last quick paragraph is just too fabulous to be left behind.

Patrice, one of my thousands of fabulous nieces, purchased Kentucky Fried Chicken, also known as KFC, for my mother today.  According to Patrice, it was just as greasy as it used to be……even with the new name.  Mom, bless her creative soul, said, “Don’t worry, I’ve never liked that JFK Chicken anyway.”  Gosh, I love her.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

 

Madness (one step beyond my room)

This is an exciting day.  It’s not just because College Basketball March Madness is one hour from starting.  It’s because I’ve convinced my wife that this day is so important.  I don’t have to work today.  Merely strolling out of our bedroom at 5 o’clock a.m. , feeding the cats and dogs, making her pancakes, replacing lightbulbs, AND doing dog and cat poop patrol is the only way to justify sitting on my butt watching the great games of college basketball.  When I pick up poop, it is madness.  Therefore, I deserve a reward.  Reward:  Lazy guy watching basketball.

Sadly, I have no money on any of these teams, but I am rooting for friends who do.  It really isn’t about the four dollars we toss in at the office for a twenty dollar payout, is it?  It should be about loving a sport and forgetting about the office and money for a few days.

March Madness is a great opportunity to bond with people.  At my former place of employment, we were forced to endure “team building retreats”, though we would have been better off just having a staff basketball pool.  Having to deal with office morale getaways from heaven made me want to descend directly to Hell.  You know, the ones where people want to gather, hold hands, and discover the essence of teamwork.  Just thinking about that made me excuse myself to the bathroom to vomit.  I don’t want to trust someone at some camp who catches me when I’m falling.  I want to be watching and betting on a game.  If every boss in this country would encourage gambling during this short stretch of days, morale would be uplifted to heavenly measures.  Employees would be happy…..therefore, those employees would work more diligently at the office for their employer after the madness ends.

I’m not encouraging gambling.  Most of the time, gambling is miserable.  Having something to root for is fun.  I lost a bet last night rooting for my friend, Tim.  It didn’t work out.  I missed out on his office March Madness pool because I waited two years to call him until I needed him.  Tim is a great man, and a good friend, but, ultimately, we have to bet on ourselves.  Ourselves are the ones we can truly count on.

Embrace the madness.

A Very Hindu Valentine (Business and Sickness)

While my wife’s guts and mine recover from our trip to India, I must leave those who follow this silly blog with quite a cute story regarding a completely different part of India’s business culture with which neither of us were aware.  My wife, Britt, and I went to India for two specific reasons.  She went for business, and I went to get sick.  I’ve already documented my sickness, so let’s go for some funny business.  Traditionally, in the United States, although many people ignore this, relationships within the place of employment are frowned upon by the Human Resource Department (usually ran by a robot) and cherished by those who love good gossip.  Generally, it’s just not a great idea.  This is what made India so interesting this time around.

Britt’s first day of working in Bangalore, India brought a few surprises.  With much disbelief, just prior to entering the 9th floor office, she was notified this office required a dress code since it was the most Holy of Commercialized Days:  Valentines Day!

I’m not joking AT ALL.  Following is the dress code for this work day.  These are only color dress codes representing ones love status:

Pink:  you are looking for love

Red:  you are in love

Yellow: you are looking for opposite sex friendship in the work place

Orange: It’s complicated

She had a quick response to the man chaperoning her to this new office:  “Seriously?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

Now, of course, my wife, not knowing about any of this, was wearing the loudest and prettiest pink blouse in the room, meaning she was definitely looking for love in all the wrong places.  They took this wildly seriously.  Showered with flowers, she was THEN (this is after flying 22 hours for a “serious” business trip) called upon to be the master, or mistress of ceremonies ending the day.  This required her to name all of the couples who had matched up on this day.  Additionally, some were dedicating love songs to their co-working matches made in India.  Ultimately, Britt informed me they didn’t do a lick of work.  Suspended in disbelief, she could only relate by thinking of those second grade Valentine’s days when your desk was littered with cards from secret idiots.  It was just too cute for her to be mad.  When we were youngsters at school on this day, parents would bring cookies, teachers and janitors would be pissed about the party atmosphere, and absolutely no work would get accomplished.  This was quite similar to what my wife witnessed on that day.

Returning to the hotel room two hours late, and after she had previously informed me, via e-mail, of this sacred dress code, I could only assume she had found someone new to love.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  She was merely forced to be the judge and jury of the office decoration campaign.  Someone was to be honored for how well they decorated their cubicle.  (I’m not shitting any of you)  I believe there were eighty cubicles to be judged.

It made my day in the hotel room feel much more simple and boring.  All I was required to do was crap and puke.  I’m no stranger to either.

By the way, she noticed I was accidentally wearing a red t-shirt on that day.  It was actually a crimson shirt representing Washington State University, meaning:

Just wait until next year.

 

 

What Day is This?

Roaming the streets of India can sometimes be a bit unnerving.  It can also be funny.  White guys become confused with the time and days in India.  We don’t know if it’s Hare Christmas, Easter, or Dinner Time….(that’s my favorite holiday).  I asked a wonderfully nice Hindu, “What day is this?”  Her response.  “Yesterday”.  I actually have this on film.  Who’s the idiot in this country?

Looking for my wife one day, I asked what street I was on.  The response was “yes”.  I felt compelled to ask another question.  “Where am I”?  Response:  “yes”.  They speak the English language, but they don’t hear the English language.  Neither do I.

I don’t blame them.

Stop Looking at Me (a trip to the zoo)

Walking through the streets of India, I believe the white man is recognized as someone going to the zoo.  It’s sad.  Everywhere we go, we wish to fit in.  I do enjoy experiencing anything new, but sometimes, you get that strange feeling you are not wanted.  You laugh too much.  Your hat and jeans make you look pretentious and borderline offensive, your hair is dirty blonde, you walk on the wrong side of the dirt, and you ask too many questions.  This is when you should know it’s time to leave the party.  At the zoo, I believe the animals appreciate your presence and affection for about five minutes, then wish you to leave.  Quite understandable.

In India, when anyone of our color shows up, we are initially a novelty item.  One of those trinkets you purchase for three dollars and seventy three cents, only to enjoy it for about ten minutes.  Then you get tired of it and send it to someone in another part of the planet so they can get tired of it too.  Nevertheless, it’s out of your sight and quietly out of your mind.

Colors, pictures, smells, sounds and sights resonate through our television and texting senses.  We forget touch.  That’s when it becomes scary.  If you see an animal on television, you think it’s cute.  When you touch one at the zoo,  sometimes, they get a bit agitated.  And, they should.  We are trespassing on their property.  We are invading their space.  It seems fun for about two hours, but you sense when it’s time to leave or retreat to the hotel.

Visiting a developing country is not always fun and games.  I look at people and smile.  Sometimes, they smile back, but other times they look at me with distain, wishing for me to leave.   That’s why I’m not the one going to the zoo.  Rather, I’m the one in the zoo.  The stares consume you.

Initially, I thought I was the one going to the zoo in India.  I was peering, taking pictures, using a camera in disbelief, ………..and then I noticed I wasn’t at the zoo, I was in the zoo.  I was the one maintaining the funny voice making them laugh at me.  I was the one wearing funny clothes making them chuckle.  I was the one they wanted to take a flight, back to where I belong.

It’s time to go home.

 

Remembering the Alley

For those of you who know me, I wrote something almost a year ago about an alley. For me, it provided meaning, substance, and an unworthy completion to this world.  Luckily, and happily, I’ve lived another year to see it again.

I can still see the alley, but not from my room.  I wish for it to remain in my thoughts and dreams.  My wife, Brittney, and I are staying at the same place I found my fortune in peace one year ago, and she told me to visit Cricket Alley once again. I wish my sister, Maggie, and my brother, Tom, and so many friends could visit.   They can’t.  I can’t.  Sometimes, you don’t wish for good sequels, because they don’t come true.  Rather, you dream about them, only to believe the second one is that much better.

Rocky Two was ok.  Jaws Two stunk.  India Jones, although entertaining, compared to the first, was The Temple of Doomed. I took a peek at our Alley today, and I knew it was meant for One sacred day. I left our alley alone.  There are no sequels in India.

Ben

Immortality in India

Three days of sickness in India makes one wish to be safe in a hospital anywhere but India.  We leap to conclusions while serving time in the bathroom.  “I’ll never eat again!!!  I’ll never drink again!!”  Typical eating and drinking hangover phrases. For those three days, I’d pretty much written my will, cashed in my chips and called those I love to say “goodbye”.  Today, I’ve never felt better and I’ve figured it out.  If you drink the India Cool Aid, you develop an understanding of the India Cool Aid.  Suffering for three days is much like penance.  “If you eat our food and survive for three days, you are allowed to stay for an additional thirteen days, and enjoy yourself because the worst is behind you.”

My brother, Steve, an immortal, taught me something about getting sick when fishing on the open sea.  It also applies to visiting India.  In India, you are always waiting to get sick.     If someone jumps on a boat, thinking they will be tossing their breakfast from here to there, well that’s what will happen.  With this mind set, you are, inevitably, going to get sick.  Steve, in the holiest of words once said, “Drink a bunch of beer, throw up while you’re catching a fish, and keep fishing, you pansy.  Your mind shouldn’t be worried about your stomach.  Your mind should be worried about other things like having a good time!  WOOOOOOO!”  I’m just quoting that from my brother, Steve’s, Bible.

After those three days of illness, I really have felt exceptionally better.  I’m having fun with my fellow Chennai brothers, eating anything I want, not wishing to die or provide a will and testament, and having a great time. Lessons sometimes follow pain.  Ultimately, with certain sacrifices, those lessons should remain fun.

In the name of the Father, Son, The Holy Sprit, and Steve…….Amen

A Guide for Traveling Simpletons (me)

Do you remember those educational films we watched in elementary school regarding etiquette in the classroom, cafeteria, playground, or bathroom?  Perhaps you’re not old enough to recall these, especially if you don’t know what a projector is.  These films were highly acclaimed short movies, including scripts displaying Steven Spielberg type quality. They made you want to be a well behaved boy or girl at Pastywood Elementary in any white picket fenced neighborhood throughout the country. Those films were both brilliant and quite entertaining.  Six, seven and eight year olds were held captive, I mean captivated by these dingy, gray screened masterpieces during the course of about one half of a delightful hour.  However, I’m a bit upset today with these productions, although maintaining profound reverence for them, because they never provided one for traveling abroad.  Here’s a script I will present for students all over the USA, hopefully enhancing their global travels.

(Only requiring narration from a man or woman, there is no dialogue from the actors, other than mouthing words)  In order to properly get a kick out of this, you must be 30 years of age or older and use the corny voices of the narrators..while using your imagination as to how stupid these actors were made to look…….here we go…….10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  ….projection scramble…..and action.

Look, there’s Ben and his wife Brittney packing for a long trip to India.  See the smiles on their faces.  They look healthy and happily married.

Once fully packed, Ben and Brittney sadly say their goodbyes to their dogs, Jack and Etta.  Oops, don’t forget cats, Jazz, Lola, and Grandpa Dennis.  (insert narrator chuckle) Doesn’t this seem like one big happy family?  Off to the Airport.

Before entering the airport, they take one last look to see if they have their passports, plenty of reading material for a 22 hour flight, and Brittney’s plastic flask containing only three ounces of liquid.  Be careful, if you take more than that, those squirrels of authority figures may confiscate it.

Uh oh, here comes the strip search.  Look at how well behaved Ben and Brittney are while being subjected to such ridiculous measures.  They take it in stride and are prepared for flying.

Ben and Brittney ate a hearty meal prior to taking the flight because, “ouch”, airplane food can sometimes be scary, kids……..almost as much as the flight.  They seem to be taking all the steps necessary for a fun and safe flight, minus the scary food.

Twenty hours into the flight and, “wow”, they’ve almost made it.  Brittney looks like she can see the finish line, but, “hmm”, Ben has a strange look in his eyes.  Looks like twenty hours is far too long for flying without food for Ben.  Take a good long look at Brittney’s gesture towards her husband while he suggests such nonsense. (overacting with a scowl and shake of her head) Seems to me, the wife may be the one with the most common sense in THIS family.

After finishing his inflight meal, by the look on Ben’s face, I’d say he made a poor decision, wouldn’t you, kids?

Uh oh, look at that. Considering those hand gestures, well it seems as though Ben’s recognizing just what a fool he’s been.  No, those looks from side to side are not just to peer at his pretty wife or stare at the foreign fellow sitting next to him.  Rather, Ben’s clearly looking for a restroom sign before the fasten your seatbelt sign comes on.  Ding.  Remember, safety first.

Exiting the plane, even with that grimace on his face, it looks like Ben will make it to the proper place of doing what all of us sometimes have to do.  Now, he just has to make it to the hotel.

Upon checking into the hotel, the happy couple doesn’t look as happy as before, do they?  Brittney seems agitated, almost as though she wants to pick a fight with her silly husband.  That wouldn’t be a good start to this trip, would it?  They have to be in India for 16 days.

Why is Ben clutching his stomach while walking to find their room?  That’s right, he has to go good potty.  Well, Ben sure must be a lucky traveler, because he makes it to the room without an accident.  However, his raising a fist in triumph is only bad Karma for what is to come of the next three days.

Whoa! Brittney should be polite and turn up the volume on that television set, because Ben’s heading off to the bathroom again.  As you will learn, sound travels well in a small hotel room.

Oh no, Ben is now washing his hands with tap water!  That’s a no no in India.  Now he looks as though brushing his teeth is a good idea.  Don’t grab your toothbrush, Ben, unless you use bottled water to rinse out your mouth.  Poor, uneducated Ben looks like he’s made another vital error.

Ben’s mouth opening and closing in a fetal position like a fish out of water are not those of one talking or singing.  Those are referred to as groans.  We’ll speak more of those noises when we next approach, “The Guide to Deep Sea Fishing”, subtitled, “Just because You’re Fishing, Doesn’t Mean You have to be Puking”.

Spending the next three days in bed, amongst one other more familiar place close by, should we feel sorry for Ben?  No, because he didn’t follow the simple rules of traveling abroad.

(Most of this is relatively true.)

 

Characters and Character: Shayne (the Wing it Master)

This is not an obituary.  At least I hope it’s not.  That would be really embarrassing.  The fine man I’m writing about is, to my infinite knowledge, alive and still kicking peoples’ asses with his boots.

Many fabulous names and characters float through the sky as though they should be fictional.  This is, indeed, non fiction, making it that more special knowing this fabulous character who has fabulous character.

I don’t know how old I was when I met him.  I don’t know how old he was when we crossed paths.  He is the father of two friends of mine, Mike and Tracy.  His name was and still is Shayne.  His last name is Wing.  I often thought, “What story book did this guy appear in and how is he an actual super hero of mine?”

Allow me to describe this character with character.  Shayne Wing is a Viet Nam Veteran.  He served our country with terrific courage, and went further while serving his wonderful wife, Shirley.  He’s been a terrific father, perhaps a good husband, (that’s nobody’s business) a man of valor and quite genuinely, a friend to my brother, Tom, and me.

Shayne Wing stood for many things. He believed in his country and fought in circumstances I can’t even fathom.  He encouraged his sons to be good men.  They are.  He dominated youngsters on the basketball court which he built in their backyard with his own two middle fingers and a pair of cowboy boots.  But, there is one thing Shayne Wing could do which is more amazing than any character I have known or faced.  He was the only man capable of discouraging a young man known as Me from playing basketball.  This guy would work ten hours in cowboy boots, come home, not take off his cowboy boots, and proceed to demoralize the neighborhood boys playing on his court by scoring more points than all of us on that court.

During the offseason of baseball and football, the neigborhoodlams would gather at Shayne and Shirley’s court to play some basketball.  Shayne would eventually arrive and teach us some lessons on the court.  Quite naive, and watching basketball in an era where you witnessed a Bird in Boston, some Magic in Los Angeles, and a Doctor in Philadelphia,   a young man trying to emulate their moves and shots didn’t rise up to the guy in the boots.  That’s why I focussed on some things I was decent at……baseball and football.

Football season is officially over.  Baseball is on the way, but I still love the game of basketball……when it matters.  Shayne Wing made me appreciate what really matters.  It’s when you know a guy will fight for your safety, work an honest day, and provide enough for a family while having the energy to come home and play basketball with the neighborhood gang of misfits.  I hope he still has those cowboy boots, because they were made for shooting.

Ben

 

Twas the SuperBowl

Twas the night before the SuperBowl, and all through the house, all creatures were snoring because they were soused.  The bottles were scattered by the chimney with despair, in hopes that St. Gambler soon would be there.

The people all passed out were snug on the floor, while prophetic visions of money pranced upon them once more.  And one dog in a ‘kerchief’ and another dog in my lap, had just settled our betting brains down, knowing soon they would get a proper betting slap.

When out on the deck, there arose such a clatter, no one could stand up to acknowledge what was the matter.  Somehow, someone managed to stagger to the window quite unclear, only in hopes to cure the hangover with a beer.

This person could not see quite clear, but he could hear a voice coming from near.

“On Tom, On Greg, On Patrick and Craig.  On Mr. Russell, oh, why must I beg?”

The voice came from a mysterious soul.  Or, it could have came from just some random A-hole.

Those beckoned were gamblers waiting for the sun to rise, but inevitably, we all knew we’d hear their cries.  The cries would begin with Madonna’s half time beating, but the cries would continue with no proper living room seating.

Most of these friendly gamblers in the room were betting on a man named Brady.  There was another stranger in the room who looked a bit shady.  This man was taking their bets with a nod, and most were certain he was just a fraud.  There were others betting on someone named Manning.  This ensured the stranger that his wife could afford tanning.

There were chips, chops and dip, a chicken wing or fifty, but to describe what happens next, can delicately be described as not nifty.

Those friendly gamblers would eventually lose all their money.  This didn’t place them at great odds with their honey.  Remotes were tossed aimlessly with no care, several gamblers fell on the floor just pulling their hair.

The stranger left with a pile of cash, and he was the only one who didn’t need it stashed. He strolled back to his house with this satchel of dough, presented it to his wife, whose name happened to be Flo.  Of course, with that name, clearly she worked at a diner, and with that money, life would certainly get finer.  Yet, although realizing that money is not the root of evil, sometimes the “love” of money makes you act like a weasel.  This is precisely why this woman named Flo, could feel in her head her brain starting to grow.  She decided to proclaim with great clarity, “I think I’ll give this satchel of cash to a worthy charity.”

Her husband understood (sort of), and slowly exited the room, threw a few F bombs and picked up a broom.  He knew that was the only way he could honestly make money, and that was just perfectly fine with his honey.

Be wise, my gambling friends, on this day.

Have a fun day thinking about the SuperBowl at church this Sunday.  And although his wife, Gazelle, wishes for you to pray for him, I believe Tom Brady has enough of everything.   Rooting, I believe, should be kept separate from praying.