Fiascos and Debacles

The words fiasco and debacle are terrific words.  However, they sometimes can be used haphazardly in certain situations.  Never actually being aware of how strong these words are, I am guilty of abusing them without acknowledging their official meanings.  Throughout the last two weeks, I have tossed these words out of my mouth like a salad shooter or balls exiting a pitching machine.  I feel as though I’ve been unfair and wish to apologize to these words.  This is not easy……I’ve never had to do this before.  Here it goes:  Sorry, Mr.and Mrs. Fiasco.  Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Debacle.  That hurt, but now I feel a little better.

Official Ridiculous Definitions: Fiasco: “a complete ridiculous failure”.

Debacle: “a crushing defeat” or 2, “a ruinous collapse”.

My father used to watch Monday Night Football with us and was agitated with words so commonly used from commentators such as “unbelievable” and “incredible”.  A wide receiver catching a ball across the field is not incredible or unbelievable when it occurs several times a game.  A talented and wonderful play…..yes, but not incredible or unbelievable.  Let’s save those terms for someone who jumps off the top of the Empire State Building without a parachute, lands on his or her feet without a scratch, and then heads for some good Italian food.  That’s both unbelievable and incredible.

Let me explain where this may or may not be going.  My wife and I were assisting the move of one of our dear friends moving from Spokane, Washington to Los Angeles, California.  Since we reside in Seattle, Washington and my friend lived in Spokane, our only choice was to facilitate communication between the moving company and our friend while he painstakingly placed all of his precious belongings in packages, boxes and bags. (I stole that line from my man, Dr. Suess……Grinch).  It  wasn’t an easy task for all of us, but I can’t really consider it a fiasco or debacle.  If he doesn’t arrive safely in LA, then we may choose such words.  Otherwise, it was simply a boiling mess.  I don’t believe it was a ruinous collapse, crushing defeat, or a complete failure, it was simply a time to help clean up.

The next time I complain and moan about vacuuming our dog’s hair, I will refrain from using the phrases, “This is a (bleeping) fiasco”.  Or, “What a (bleeping) debacle”.  I’ll merely yank the remaining hairs off the top of my head, and think, “This is a mess”.

Those messes can be easily cleaned up without punching a fist through a wall.  I’m old enough and wise enough to know that just costs me more money and, more importantly, cell phones and remote controls.

Godspeed to my friend…..I hope he makes it

New Friends

Unless it’s Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, I’m really not into this crazy culture known as rhymes.  I’m not even good at it, but since meeting this new friend, I am compelled to write about him.

Here we Bo;

Our new friend is named Bo,   comma

We treat him as if he was our Bro, comma

He’s really quite mellow and an extremely nice fellow, but he maintains this interesting quirk of pissing on our flo.  (floor)  The End

You won’t be able to find Bo on Wikipedia so I will provide some TRUE background knowledge regarding our four legged friend.  He has short legs, a wonderful personality, terrific parents and is our two dogs’ new toy.  I hope our dogs don’t eat him like all of their former toys.

Like me, Bo gets a little lonely sometimes and wags at our door wanting to play.  It’s hilarious and we can’t turn him downtown.

Thanksgiving Traditions

We all have our Thanksgiving traditions.  Some people uncomfortably hold hands and pray giving thanks for what they are receiving on the table.  Some people don’t pray at all but give thanks to that mouth guttering turkey on the table.  Some people don’t have turkey at all.  I’ll brighten this up a bit.

Our family of 13 had many traditions, but only one of them was truly glorious.  It wasn’t the nose bleeding fights we’d have in the basement that thankful day causing our father to ban us from boxing gloves.  He was a wise man, but bare knuckles weren’t a wise alternative for us……brothers and sisters both.  It wasn’t someone drinking so much eggnog that precious day causing them to throw up at the dinner table, thus causing me not to partake in Mom’s exquisite cuisine.  It wasn’t even mom being irritated because, in later years, that there was a beer can in every sacred picture.  Mom wasn’t, is not, and never will be a drinker.  That’s probably why she’s 80 something and in better shape than all of her children.  This other tradition is one I believe most can relate. There are three rounds of Thanksgiving dinner.  The first round consists of mass quantities of food, mixed in with someone, (my nephew, Dean), vomiting, followed by those capable of witnessing that event, and actually finishing their dinner.  Second round:  Mom and the sisters doing dishes until next Thanksgiving came around the calender.  Third round: The boys becoming hungry enough to make turkey sandwiches two hours after eating turkey, mash potatoes, sweet potatoes, (I once remember swimming in mom’s gravy as though imagining we could actually afford a pool), and as usual, some idiot would show up with this weird salad known as a Waldorf.  This contains fruit.  I am a fruitcake and I love fruit but not on Thanksgiving.  That thankful day, I would say “no thanks” to fruit.  When I sat down at the table, I was watching Carnivore Central, and nobody was going to change my channel.

Now for the best tradition of all.  It wasn’t always just mom, dad, and the 13 of us in this humble house.  Brothers and Sisters eventually began getting married (to other people who were not related to us…..sorry that happens in some states) and started having children of their own.  That added a bit to the table. Remarkably, we also had friends showing up to mother’s magnificent feast.  So, now we’re talking about five or six hundred thousand people we have eating, drinking, fighting and throwing up.  Growing older and a bit more crotchety, and mysteriously wiser (that usually doesn’t happen with men my dad’s age), he, my father, wanted these people, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, friends, sons in law, daughters in law, potatoes, turkeys and people he didn’t even know to get the Hell out of his and my mother’s house.  Therefore, the ideal tradition began.  He confiscated all the keys of people capable driving home with their children and started each one of their cars up.  Sometimes, when dad made a point, it didn’t have to be with words.  He was a man of action.  With exhausted fumes blowing through our block, driveway and house, everyone collectively said, “well I guess this party’s over…..see you next year”.

I never knew my father was a genius.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Microsoft Bullies

This may come as a surprise to many of my friends, relatives and anyone who knows me,but I am not a wizard when it comes to computer skills.  As embarrassing as that was to say, it is a relief to get that off my separated shoulder blades.  It’s an admission of guilt making my week much better. (I wish my friend, Jack, could admit his lack of computer skills….he would feel much better as well.)

Guys like Jack and I are old school.  We like to write quietly on paper and talk in ALL CAPS.  Isn’t that how Ted “the dead” Roosevelt said it?  Anyway, that’s just not the way it works these days. Sometimes, you must conform.

While struggling with my computer this morning, somewhat angrily, I summoned my wife, fortunately ill today to assist me with minor problems so I could accomplish something on this day besides picking up dog crap. As usual, she happily allowed a computer simpleton to feel a bit better regarding his skills.

Quite seriously, I just don’t know computers.  Sometimes, I know how to write, but my critics respond to me about not knowing what an RSS, VPS, CCR, VCR or STD really is.  I do know about one of them.  All but one intimidates me.  The other one embarrasses me. I hate to be embarrassed. This leads me to the point.

Frustrated with the computer, my wife led me on a mysterious path only three or thirteen people know how to navigate on this planet.  She instructed me that invisible Icons do, in fact, exist.  For those of you who don’t know what an Icon is, it is a picture which you can click on telling you to go here or there, much like a Dr. Suess book.  It’s simple, fun and easy.  This other button was much like finding the elusive Sasquatch.  It’s fun, but not simple nor easy. It shouldn’t exist unless you find the dead body, or in this case, scroll down to the bottom of the screen to an invisible icon notifying you have done something stupid.  My computer situation was rectified.  My issues with Microsoft Bullies was not.  They are laughing at me right now.  They know I played baseball and football, and they seem pleased to destroy my level of semi intelligence.

When my wife was describing these problems, I was blown away by her computer knowledge.  Therefore, I asked a simple question when finding this invisible icon.  “How the Hell was I supposed to find that”?  Her reply:  “Don’t worry, I took 13 classes on operating systems, and some of these smart guys are just trying to F with guys like you.”

I was never a bully, but I do sometimes feel threatened by those with higher intellects.

Oh, and by the way, if I ever run into any of you Microsoft Bullies, I will beat the crap out of you until you give me the secrets to using this machine.

Love and kisses,

Ben

Happy Halloween…bad economy….no potato famine

Halloween can sometimes be tricky. That’s a horrible and non punny introduction.  However, today I was researching treats people may hand out on this sacred day recognizing ghosts, goblins, murderers, the devil, dash in a sprinkle of a child dressed as a nice hobo or perhaps a pirate who kindly pillages and plunders, a broom flying witch (no, I am not referring to my former principal) and a guy dressing up as Steve.  He is my Irish brother.

Sleepy Hallow was about a legend known as “The Headless Horseman”.  My brother, Steve, is about a legend known as Steve.  Legend has it, and I confirmed it earlier this morning, he did something absolutely deplorable and despicable one Halloween evening while living alone in his house 30 some odd years ago.

This is not for the faint of heart, so look away or run away if you are a bit squeamish.  My brother, Steve, is a bit of a health nut.  He enjoys an occasional beer, but candy really isn’t his cup of cavity.  Therefore, while living in his humble rock house, he thought  giving out raw potatoes providing nutrients to children would be far more important than providing candy corn and apples riddled with razor blades.  That part is true.  This next legendary part I’m hoping is true.  One of those raw potatoes went flying and crashing through one of his windows that Halloween night, thus costing him more than a bag of Barber Shop Bubble Gum.  Who knows?  The culprit could possibly have  been one of his younger brothers.

Tonight, I am dressing up as Steve.  That will scare the Halloween out of everyone.  They won’t be getting potatoes, but, much like Steve, they will receive a laugh, a smile, and sadly, a few cavities.

Have a safe evening and enjoy the fun memories of Halloween.  …….(unless you are a boyfriend who doesn’t enjoy watching his girlfriend dressing up as a prostitute).

Game 6

Witnessing great baseball games has been a theme for my baseblogs.  I will keep this short, weird and a bit confusing. Previously, I wrote about a World Series game my father and I watched 23 years ago, not necessarily changing my life, but for one evening, definitely providing a bunch of fun.

Game 6 of the World Series ended last night in the bottom of the 11th inning on a walk off home run by St. Louis Cardinal David Freese.  The St. Louis Cardinals were not the team my wife and I were hoping to win.  As very spiritual people, we were praying for them to lose.  As most common people know, God, Jesus, Bud-ah, Beelzebub, and Mormon Young watch all of these ballgames, even on Sunday.  They were all partying last night because of the fun it provided for so many people.

The home run leads the two teams to game seven of the series and my wife and I are rooting for the Texas Rangers.  My gambling background believes I irritated the Baseball Gods by thinking the Rangers had it won in the 9th inning of the game last night.  To all the gamblers betting on the Rangers that evening, I hold full responsibility for saying, “This game is over”.  I was already eating a bratwurst while celebrating before what I thought was to be the last pitch dictating the outcome of the game.  For St. Louis Cardinal fans…….you’re welcome.

Other than wanting and trying to believe in Sasquatch, UFO’s and other ridiculous supernatural phenomenons, after watching Game 6 of The World Series last night with my wife,I had to question my insanity. During the game, we believed the stars were colliding and weird things were happening.  I guess you could refer to it as a moment of Baseball Clarity.  At the end of the game, my thought was, “Are you World Serious?”  If the well respected Bill Shatner would have been present in our living room, he would have said something profound like, “We have gone where no team has gone before.”  That’s a little dramatic, but for a goofball like me, that’s how goofy I was last night.

For stars colliding, convening, and sometimes convincing, the Cardinals have some strange Karma I don’t want to believe.  It’s much like not wanting to believe in ghosts.  No thank you.  Will you go to some other house?  You scare me.  I’m not betting on the Cardinals to lose because they scare me.  (That, and our stock has decreased significantly over the last couple of days)

Last night’s game was arguably one of the greatest World Series games in history.  Tonight’s game may be anticlimactic.  Who knows?  As a baseball observer for many years, it has been the most interesting and fun post season I’ve ever witnessed.

When I wrote about another wonderful World Series game occurring 23 years ago, the home run hero was wearing the number 23.  Last night’s hero was wearing number 23. Twenty three years ago, Tony Larussa, was the opposing manager to the man crushing the game winning home run, thus crushing the team’s spirits so many years ago.  Tony Larussa is now the manager of The St. Louis Cardinals who is defying many odds and strikes.

I really hope Texas wins tonight, and I think they should, but strange things happen in this wacky world.  My gambling money will remain in my pocket this evening.

By the way, I’ve never bet on baseball.  I just wildly enjoy the sport.  Just ask my wife.

Watch Game 7.

Ben

Cereal :(

So I was sitting around drinking breast milk the other day and I thought to myself, at 24 years old, this may be a bit too old to drink breast milk.  I am a Master Jedi when it comes to doing stupid things.  Allow me to explain.

My mother-in-law, sister-in-law, including her fascinating infant, were in town over last week and we had a magical few days together. Britt’s nephew, who we shall refer to as Ty Bone, a six month old dynamo, became a bit fussy about eating. Ty Bone required a bit of coaxing to finish his breakfast one morning. Remembering the days of my brother, Steve, eating dog food from our mother’s kitchen, I decided to take over, thinking Gerber’s Cream of Wheat couldn’t be that awful. Evidently,when children, which I have none of, see an imbecile eating something, they tend to throw down their arms and eat it too.  Ty Bone needed to eat.  While being a Great Uncle, I showed this beautiful young boy how to eat. After sampling Ty Bones brunch, there was a tang I couldn’t quite identify.  It turns out that “Gerber’s Cream of Wheat” was actually cream of  boob.  I didn’t know mothers placed breast milk in baby food.  As a simpleton, I only thought babies drank the stuff in closed doors, or solitary confinement.

Trish, my sister-in- law, was extremely kind and funny when she said, “Do you know what you just ate?”  I told her I ate some Gerber’s food to persuade your son to eat.  She then told me what additional garnishes were sprinkled in the food.  I then excused myself to the nearest bathroom.

Not only embarrassed, accidentally drinking breast milk for the second time, I felt horrible for Trish’s husband, currently fighting for us overseas, not being the first adult to try it out.  Sorry, Nick.

As a male married with no children, I was forced to further research this important subject.  When I do research, I text, tweet, or rotary dial certain qualified individuals possibly possessing more knowledge about profound subjects.  The responses were astonishing.  I did not know this was a common occurrence for mankind.  I will again change names to protect the disgusting fathers and husbands.

Pat:  Oh yeah, I tried it.  It was a little thick, but I drink whole milk, and her’s is a lot cheaper.

Chris: I need it before I go to sleep at night.  (he is thirty years old)

Ben:  I am going to stick with Lucerne Skim Milk.

Ty Bone:  Just give me a boob and I’m fine.  Don’t give me any of that Gerber crap.

I am so glad I don’t remember my days as an infant.

The World Series and My Dad

Some of you may know that the first game of the World Series begins tonight between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Texas Rangers.  Many of you may respond by saying, “what, huh?”  Or, “Who Cares?”  Well, I do care because it represents a memorable and significant evening I shared with my late and great father 23 years ago.

In the 1988 World Series, my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers were playing the “Unbeatable” Oakland Athletics.  The heavily favored A’s were predicted to win the series quite easily in a 4 game knockout sweep.  Not too keen on being, once again, athletically disappointed, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to witness the Dodgers getting the crap kicked out of them.  Therefore, I was somewhat easily persuaded by three of my friends to attend a high school dance that Saturday evening.  After mentioning game one of the World Series was on that night, they really didn’t care.  They had girls in their, I mean on their minds.

Only a sophomore in high school, I still had to run things by my father and mother before sneaking out of the house.  So, when asking dad if I could attend this dance that evening, he pondered my request for less than a second and said, “Negative…..You will be watching the World Series with your mother and me tonight.  The memories of this game will be far more important later in your life than a half ass ridiculous high school dance where you’ll just end up getting in some sort of trouble.  You need to focus on school and sports…….not girls”.  He couldn’t have been more right or prophetic that magnificent Fall evening.

Now, when my father said to any of his seven sons they were not allowed to do something, arguing was simply not an option.  His word was Stone Cold Gospel.  When he told his six daughters they were not allowed to do something, they didn’t quite cower to him like the boys.  They were always far tougher and a little more outspoken than us.  They still remain the same.  (I’m only still friends with them because I am afraid of them)

Secretly, wanting to watch the game, it was easy to tell my peers I would be unavailable for The West Valley High White Dance Down.  They knew, and liked my father, but also knew when Rodney E. Gannon said, “no”, …well that was that. They just strolled out of our living room without much to say but, “sorry”.

Now for the boring details of the game:  Kirk Gibson played for the LA Dodgers that year and was apparently ferociously competitive.  He helped lead them to the World Series even though suffering numerous injuries during the course of this long season.  His knee injuries did not allow him to start in the first game of that World Series.  That was disappointment number one for dad and me.  Early on in the game, a very respected man in the baseball community (steroids) known as Jose Conseco, (I hope I spelled his name wrong) hit a grand slam putting the A’s up 4-0. That was disappointment number two.  I’m glad my mother’s clam dip was so good that night because it was the only thing keeping me from running away from home.

Much like baseball, a son only gives his father three chances before saying, “I’m Out”. He was down to his last disappointment strike.  While stuffing myself with chips and dip, trying to ignore the game, I noticed the Dodgers were making an attempt to come back and make a game out of this debacle.  With Kirk Gibson, not even on the bench, but in the training room, barely able to walk, the Dodgers chipped away at the A’s lead making it 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth.  It was then when Kirk Gibson asked the batboy to get him a batting tee.  The manager, Tommy Lasorda, also known as Tommy Lasagna (he once claimed to have never turned down food ending with a vowel) had no intentions of allowing this hobbling athlete to enter the game.  However, down to their last out facing Dennis Eckersley, thee most feared closing pitcher in the game, he considered putting Gibson in as a pinch hitter.  With two outs, and nobody on base, a lesser known player, Mike Davis, drew a walk.  Thus, the winning run would come to the plate.  Lasorda beckoned for Kirk Gibson.  Unable to run, a game winning home run was the only option.  On a three and two count, with fifty thousand fans screaming, Gibson jacked a backdoor slider into the right field stands of Dodger Stadium for the game winning home run sending the loyal followers into a high five frenzy.  It was his last at bat of the series.

The Dodgers went on to beat the “unbeatable” Oakland A’s to win the World Series.  I couldn’t thank my dad more for keeping me home that evening.

We celebrated by having mom’s Saturday evening burgers and making fun of the fools inevitably getting their hearts broken at that coveted dance.  I didn’t sneak out that night.  I also realized that dad wasn’t being a tyrant keeping me home.  He just wanted to watch the game with the last of his seven boys.  That was one hell of a memorable moment, not just for baseball, but for a father and son who didn’t always see eyeball to eyeball.

After my last and closest brother left for college, I was left alone with mom and dad for those high school years and it wasn’t always easy for any of us.  After that evening, dad and I became a little closer.

That was 23 years ago, almost to this day.  Ironically, or coincidentally, Kirk Gibson was wearing the number 23 that night.

Baseball Moments – Footage of Gibson\’s World Series Pinch Hit