Pumpkin Police

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Sarcasm is a wonderful weapon when it’s used properly upon others.  When it’s tossed back at you with wicked power, it can be equally effective.

I write so I can help pay the rent.  If I wrote to make a ton of money, I don’t think I’d see, hear, or have any contact with earthlings I enjoy……i.e…..relatives, friends, and even an occasionally friendly neighbor.

Britt (AKA…Yoko Gannon) and I recently moved to a new neighborhood, thus befriending and defriending members of the community.  Sir John Ellingson and his wife have welcomed my wife, Britt, and I into this humble neighborhood.  His wife, Megan, and their daughter, Emma (AKA…Peanut) have also made us feel welcome.  They bake us magnificent banana bread, prepare terrific omelets and invite us to their daughter’s dance and ballet classes.  Genuinely, and without any sarcastic tone, they are great people.  John actually irritates me because he is taller, maintains more hair, stays in shape, has a good job, is a great father and is just generally better than me.  He also has a sense of humor and sense of dry wit, making mine sound infantile.

Britt, Megan, John, Emma, Chris, (John’s friend) and I had some appetizers the other night at their house.  John was a bit irritated with me because I don’t update my blog enough.  I tried to explain why my updates aren’t always up to date.  My editor always wishes to read my blogs before sending them to the world.

John is a man who knows I stay at home attempting to write.  He also knows there are times when I just get to take the dogs to the park and prepare dinner for Britter Bear Gannon. One recent day, while suffering from writer’s blockage, I purchased two pumpkins so I could surprise Britt with my carving talents.  Britt happily and proudly described my artistic prowess with the pumpkins to John.  In a needle like fashion, John responded, much like the mayor of West Seattle,….”so Ben just sits at home and carves pumpkins all day”?

I don’t get offended easily.  I get offended really easily.  If I had balls below the waist, it would have been considered a low blow.  Since I don’t have balls below the waist, I merely interpreted it as verbal slander.

John, my new, and perhaps ex friend, works long hours. I wave him goodbye when he leaves for work.   Other than making fun of baseball teams I root for, he supports my writing and motivates me to be a good husband, and eventually and hopefully, some day, a good father.  There will never be another “Peanut”, but maybe someday, Britt and I will have a Cashew.

I shall now provide a picture displaying the 8 working hours, or 8 seconds it took to create these Halloween monuments.  Easter Island, The Pyramids of Egypt, The Sphincter, all close seconds to my master pieces.  These may be the eighth and ninth wonders of the world.  How many wonders of the world exist?  Sorry.  I don’t trust Wikipedia.

Super Heroes

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I’ve always wanted to be a super hero.  Who doesn’t?  If we could assist distressed and endangered women, men, children and impatient travelers, what could be better? Unfortunately, with my lack of super powers such as the capacity to fly, invisibility, inhuman strength, good looks, underwater communication with sea creatures, not to mention the lack of funds to purchase cool cars and shark repellent, I have become a super zero.  I don’t even have it in me to buy pepper spray.  This brings me to the sad transitional point.  Pepper spray doesn’t necessarily make you a Super Hero.

Recently, and I am serious, there has been an odd trend of “Real Life Super Heroes” floating around the country.  It has become an enigma only I have time to ponder.  Specifically, according to the papers, Seattle based,  these are ordinary people roaming certain jurisdictions attempting to keep the peace.  They fabricate costumes, such as masks, fake abs, capes, and most importantly, their special unique power which apparently no earthly being possesses, pepper spray.  THIS IS NOT A SUPER POWER!  It works when jogging down 1st and Pike St. when someone asks you for a handout, but in a crowd of drunken sailors who just wish to partake in a friendly fight, jumping in with pepper spray is only going to get your ass kicked by the only drunken sailor avoiding the spray.  People, so I’m told, even have witnessed bears doused with this substance only to wipe it off and develop a use of the English Language saying, ” ok, it’s go time”.  Yikes.

According to The Seattle Times, a man referred to in the “real life fantasy world” as “Phoenix Jones” designed a mask, suit, tie, and cape to fight crime only with pepper spray.  A Youtube video displays him sprinting in, said costume, attempting to break up a fight prompting him to pepper spray men and women before assessing the situation.   Observers and police officers noted that the men and women were merely dancing  after a fun evening of partying.  The video progresses to this masked crime fighter attempting to break up this street clearing brawl of talking and dancing only to retreat from a middle aged woman wielding a shoe while beating the hell out of him.  Luckily, for Phoenix Jones, his plastic helmet saved him from ultimate demise.  He then escaped in an SUV.

Police apprehended “Phoenix Jones” later that morning.  He was booked for assault with a “hurtful and made someone cry weapon” and was released shortly after his companion, and partner in crime fighting, “Sun City Jones”, posted bail.  His face was revealed, but I will spare him further embarrassment from posting a picture of this formerly masked crusader.  I will, however, poke a little fun of what he could have been doing at the time to save our nation with pepper spray.

Have you ever seen a man or woman take a penny out of that sacred penny jar at the inconvenient store?  Pepper spray his or her ass, including the clerk.  Have you ever been sickened by the mother of three children illegally sampling a grape at a grocery store? Don’t just pepper spray her, pepper spray the children, and just to get you in the hall of fame of justice, pepper spray all the fruits and veggies surrounding this evil mother of three, thus poisoning any others who commit such crimes.   That will be an eye and mouth opening experience for those who steal 2 ounces of produce while still in the store.  Jaywalking! Spray that Grandma until she actually knows where she is!  Where is Phoenix Jones when we need him!!!??

Honestly, I hope these real life comedians, or heroes have great intentions.  However, if you are only armed with pepper spray and good intentions, may God be with you.  You may run into some of my friends who aren’t so kind.  Let’s leave it up to the police to pop a cap in anyone’s ass.  At least they are licensed to do so.

Nine One One Nick

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Years ago, there was a TV show titled, “Kids say the Darndest Things”.  This was a gentle way of avoiding the obvious, more honest title, “Kids say the dumbest things”.  For adults, we do observe many cute phrases spewing from the mouths of children.  Additionally for adults, we observe many stupid phrases spilling out of fellow adults’ jaws.  I am no exception to this rule, and I have often been on both sides.  Yet, this little story is not about me.  It is about a young man known as Nicholoueaus Young.  Since his parents were so elated and delusional at the time of his birth, they couldn’t imagine a more difficult spelling for the name Nick.  Or, they just wanted to despise teachers for inevitably misspelling his name while grading his papers.  I will spare us all pain, suffering and glaucoma by only using the name Nick.

Only knowing Nick as an adult and my brother in law, I can confirm that he is now a very intelligent, witty, hard working man currently serving in the Navy fighting to maintain our freedom.  Stories I hear about him as a youth display him as a fun, silly young boy who possessed a great deal of knowledge regarding his childhood rights, yet didn’t know much about phones.  Evidently, Nick had, at the tender age of 5,6, or 7, committed the heinous crime of using a permanent marker to create his own form of graffiti on the hallowed walls of his home.  Details are a bit sketchy here, but apparently his parents sent him to his room.  For a young boy who wishes to be outside pretending he is Indiana Jones, this is much like being sent to San Quentin.  The punishment didn’t seemingly fit the crime.

Knowing his rights as a child, Nick was convinced this was a form of child abuse.  Thus, in a fit of rage, he screamed, “THIS IS CHILD ABUSE………..WHAT’S THE NUMBER FOR NINE ONE ONE?????????!!!”.

I wish he would have called 411 for directory assistance to ask about that strange location of 911.  Now that would have been simply rich.

Side note:  Upon being released from his bedroom , his record and room remained clean…………right up to the moment when he was upset at his parents once again and poured cologne into his step-dad’s Stetson Cowboy hat.  So, faced with two choices, being confined to a bedroom for the remainder of his life or joining the Navy, Nick chose the Navy.

I wonder if they still have brigs??

Legitimate Baseball Emergency

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Trying to maintain some aspect of originality, I usually don’t quote many authors or stories that aren’t mine, my family’s, my friends and or enemies.  However, after reading the following story in The Seattle Times this morning, I thought it was worth sharing.  You don’t have to be a baseball enthusiast to appreciate it.  I hope it’s true.

“A 97-year-old- Wisconsin man called 911 because he couldn’t find his TV remote and wanted to watch the Brewers’ playoff game,” noted Brad Dickson of the Omaha (Neb.) World Herald, “Considering that he is 97 and how often the Brewers make the playoffs, I say the call is justified.”

It reminded me of some wise old Seniors I know well.  Baseball can also be funny.

Yankees and number 13

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I don’t hate anyone.  Personally, I’m just too worried about my wife and myself to have the time to hate people.  I do, however, acquire a lack of respect with certain people and sometimes athletes.  Last night’s game between the Yanks and the Tigers made me sleep well.

There will  be no names mentioned regarding this subject, because quite frankly, the names are not worthy of mentioning.  I will mention numbers.  The number 13 is very important to my wife and me.  Strangely, it represents many wonderful things in our life.  For anyone who knows me, they may understand this statement.

Seeing people fail is never fun.  However, when they wear the number 13 on their back, and have been proven to have taken drugs which makes that person much richer than me, I get a little irritated.  Sadly, my wife and I happily rejoiced when number 13 struck out to end the game.

I am now going to confession, because that was mean.

Baseball enthusiast……..But not a lover of the Yankees

Baseball and Moms

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Soap Operas are not the only item “stay at home mothers” enjoy.  I know of three who can provide evidence of this statement:  Margaret Gannon, Rose Parcher, and one of my best friend’s mothers.  She wished to remain anonymous, but I am only going to say she resides in Walla Walla.  I believe that is the reason she requested to remain anonymous.  All three of them love the game of baseball.

Let’s just refer to the latter of this simple list as “The Walla Walla Sweetheart”.  She holds season tickets to a baseball team in Walla Walla, known as the Walla Walla Sweets.  She never misses a Sweet game and additionally doesn’t miss a Seattle Mariner game.  (that’s when I question her sanity, even though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her)  This is a woman who doesn’t swear even after watching the Mariners make fools of themselves, or observing the Walla Walla Sweets get demolished by the Crab Creek Minors.  She simply says, “oh fishy doo hooks”.  Apparently, according to my friend, that is her nicest and most lovable form of cursing.  She has used this phrase so long, it is now being considered to be placed in the infamous Webster’s Swearing Dictionary.

On to Rose Parcher: This is a completely different form of human.  Rose is teetering on the age of, and this is just a guess, one hundred and seventy seven.  Just like her children, Vic and Tim, she is tough as nails.  She is also as fun as a feather.  I watched baseball with Rose because we both enjoyed the games, and her spaghetti is absolutely worthy of a prize.  She also was fun because she used colorful words I wasn’t used to hearing from a woman, or man, or sailor of that age.   I was confused at the time because I always want to rate things in order of importance.  Her use of the English Language was colorfully fascinating, (she didn’t use words or phrases such as, “fishy doo hooks” when she was pissed. Let’s just leave it at that.  Rose’s knowledge of baseball was baffling, but her spaghetti was a very close first second or third to my enthusiasm for baseball.  We always had a good time betting on pennant winners, eating great food, and tossing some really nice F bombs.

Margaret Gannon:  Because this is my dear mother, I do have to save the best for last.  As the last of thirteen children, and at an age too young for school, I was all alone with my mom at home.  Most of my siblings were in school, fishing in Alaska or working at a lumber mill.  Yet still, it was necessary for me to play catch with someone.  Mom was my only option.

Asking her to play a game of catch with her was extremely cute. Reluctantly, mom always complied.  She is an amazingly talented woman.  Witnessing her artwork, I knew she was very impressive with her left hand, but when we went to the backyard to play catch, she honestly didn’t know if she was right or left handed.  By the way, she is ambidextrous.  I was young enough to not know what that word meant, but when she asked me what hand she should use for throwing, I replied, “I don’t know, how about the one you write with”. She was fabulous.  I then knew I didn’t require playing catch with a father or a brother or sister who just wasn’t and couldn’t be around.

My sister, Teresa, and I spoke the other day.  She remembers convincing our mother to stay home from school in 1973, the year I was born, to watch the baseball playoffs.  Mom understood the importance of witnessing us watching something making all of us so happy.  Dad probably would have said “no”, but since he would leave for work before the other children would have to go to school, mom wanted to watch the game with people who loved the game.

When the team she was rooting for would lose, she would whip out profanity.  “Darn it”.  Then, she’d make lunch and dinner for the whole gang.  The gang would then go out and play baseball.

Baseball Magic

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For those of you who don’t care for baseball and find it extraordinarily boring, you missed history last night.  I even missed some of it.  Everyone knows of players such as Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, and Roger Maris, but we only see them in museums, or read books from the past or perhaps just hear old stories from a father who loves the game.  Last night, I witnessed a part of history (fun history) I will be capable of telling a son or a grandchild about. It was an evening I wish I could have shared with my late father.

There is no possible way to go into details regarding everything that occurred last night.  I can only say that when seeing marvelous athletes compete and win, my wife and I looked at each other and collectively said, “Do you have goosebumps?”  Yes.  And it’s not necessarily because of  the team you’re rooting for, it’s sometimes the fans.  These teams and fans come together as a team and a family.  I’m not limiting this to baseball.  It can be soccer, football, hockey…..I don’t really care.  What I do care about is seeing people in a stadium hugging someone next to them who they don’t even know.  It gives people a chance to forget. With our economy, there are millions of people who are struggling not only financially, but emotionally.  But if you can forget for a day or even a moment about your stresses, those goosebumps make you laugh, smile and even provide tears of joy.  It was good to see so many people happy.

Regardless of the sport, many people will root for the underdog.  Last night, the underdogs (plural) won.  There was a perfect storm in baseball.  The Yankees lost to the Tampa Bay Rays, thus allowing the Rays in the playoffs.  At one point, The Yankees were up seven to zero in the eighth inning, but somehow, the baseball Gods prevailed and allowed the Rays to come back from this deficit and win in the bottom of the 12th inning on a walk off home run.  The fans blew up with fabulous emotion. The Red Sox lost to the last place Baltimore Orioles, thus eliminating the Sox from the playoffs.  The Atlanta Braves lost a crushing defeat to the Philadelphia Phillies, allowing the St. Louis Cardinals to knock the Braves out of the pennant race and give the Cards, who were at one point, 10 games out of the race to now have a chance to win the coveted World Series.  (This may be a bit confusing for those of you who don’t watch baseball).  I’m even confusing myself.  Ultimately, and most importantly, all of those games being played at roughly the same time, ended in spectacular dramatic and historic fashion within the course of 25 minutes.  We didn’t have enough television sets to watch them all.  Baseball historians have recognized these feats as having never occurred over the course of a century. 

This may sound a bit corny, and off topic, but there is a song by The Doobie Brothers titled, “Listen to the Music”.  I’ve never been around a person who couldn’t laugh, smile or sing along to this happy tune.  Last night, we were listening to the music.

Baseball, while sometimes boring, can bring strangers together, whether you know the game or not, in a very positive  way.  And, it can be magical.

Phones (sell phones)

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I shall now write with regard to phones as though you and I are common cave dwellers.  Land lines RULE.  Oh, so you say you don’t know what a Land Line is??  Let me progress.  These are phones which don’t require touch tone anything, don’t necessarily give you poor service (Verizon) and when you actually sit on it, it doesn’t call an ex girlfriend pissing your wife off.  Rotary phones, which once existed, were wonderful.  These were phones allowing  you to make a call when forcefully placing your finger in an obviously circular area rotating it seven times only to reach the presumed innocent recipient.

They were strange phones where,when dialing,  you didn’t hear a rap song or a Jerry Seinfeld tune.  Instead, you received a buzzer dictating whether the said recipient wished to talk to you or not.

Because I love my late Father,  I can’t even get into call waiting.  That was a no no no.

Ben

College Football (personal rivalries) and Target

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Millions of people love the game of football.  I’m one of them.  For those of you who don’t really give a damn about the game, this is your chance to jump on the “I hate football bandwagon”.  Specifically, in my case, I am going to watch, with furious passion, every down of  THEE University of Washington football games this year. Or, if I may “Flatball games”.  Now, of course, I will have to plan this very strategically with regard to the young Britt and Chain.  It’s a simple solution.  When I require watching a Husky game, our bargaining agreement is that she is allowed to visit a place called Target, where she can get drunk by purchasing five thousand dollars of crap she, the dogs, cats, and less importantly, I don’t need.  (I’m currently wearing a Dairy Queen shirt purchased for 10 dollars by my wife, Britt……the neighbors are making fun of me).

My current wife and I graduated from the less relevant Washington STATE University… home of the Mighty Meowing Cougars.  She earned a psychology degree, and I purchased an English Degree.  Thus, it’s a bit odd we support the local Huskies.  My ex-wife, her two brothers, father, several cousins and one of their dogs graduated from the University of Washington, all with honors, including the dog, who is currently a licensed physician.  I won’t mention any of their names, including the dog’s, but they were all good people….including the dog.  They were also wildly smart and talented in ways I can’t even begin to fathom.  Therefore, I grew to hate all of them purely out of jealousy.  The WSU, UW, rivalry amongst some of us in this new family also began to blossom….and, by blossom, I don’t mean like a flower or a glorious butterfly, but a bitter ugliness only idiots like me can understand.

During the rivalry Apple Cup Weekend, I had internal disagreements with my then mother in law.  She possessed less knowledge about football than I did about the next coming of Christ.   As a self proclaimed prophet regarding Husky/Cougar games, she was correct most of the time.  The Huskies have a terrific tradition with beating the Cougars, but the Cougs were making a stance for many of the years I attended the college.  By stance, I mean the Cougs ACTUALLY beat the Huskies on several occasions.  Much like a person with Alzheimer’s might react, she could not recall a time the Cougs had ever beaten the Huskies……..which had happened the year before.  Still, she would make comments like this which made me wish to swing, but you just can’t justify hitting a girl even when it’s about football.  “Do the Cougars really think they can beat the huskies?” I was only speechless because I provide forgiveness for the blind, deaf and stupid.  I maintain far more respect for people such as my mom….blind, deaf, kind, and far from stupid.  By the wayside, my ex mother in law was far from stupid.  In fact, she was always kind to me yet smart enough to get in my football kitchen.  I hate it when people are brighter than me. Darn it!

I couldn’t watch the annual Apple Cup rivalry that day because: One, I was spineless and TWO: I spent most of the day at Nordstrom’s with my ex-wife and mother in-law.  On the drive back home, I convinced wife and mother in law to turn on the game radio.  The Huskies won on a last second field goal, and mother in lawless looked at me with disgust, further convincing herself she knew football better than most.  I then threw up in her new car.  It was my only form of defense.

Back to football, rivalries, and Target. If you were paying any attention to college football over the weekend, you may have noticed that the University of Washington narrowly squeaked past a very formidable opponent, Eastern Washington University which happens to be a division 2 school.  The U of W was extremely lucky to be victorious.  Only making a friendly bet with brother Tom, I thought the Huskies would easily conquer.  I lost the bet, but really didn’t care because Britt was happy not looking for the remote control in The Puget Sound.  (secretly, I began rooting for the underdog, Eastern Washington)

Guilty of jumping on the pretentious University of Washington Bandwagon, and now living in Seattle, I have been made fun of by fellow Cougs and friends including my wife, who just simply despise U dubious.  An experience on Sunday solidified their argument…….and it was not created by jealousy…..sort of.

In line at the local farmer’s market, I noticed the non-gentleman in front of me was wearing a U Dub Cap.  Kindly, just bored standing in line, I said, “wow, that was a tough one yesterday…..Eastern really put up a good fight”.  That was all I had to say.  This jerk was pissed because the Huskies only won by three points.  He was abjectly disgusted by the fact the infantile Eagles of Eastern Washington, formerly known as the Savages, could even entertain the notion of winning.  For those who know and appreciate the game of football, this was offensive.

Initially,  I wanted to cram my knuckles through his pretentious teeth.  But, remembering my pacifist background much like a vegetarian transitions from meat to soybean, I made the conscious decision not to kill him.  And then, he kicked it up a notch.  This guy struck a nerve with me forcing me to call my “Swing Like a Wild Man Settle Down Hotline”.  After lying about playing this high level of football, he went on to describe how a team like Central Washington University should be playing with High School children.  My brother, Tom, an all state running back, played football for Central for four years.  He never made it to the NFL, but anyone who watched him play, had and maintains tremendous respect for what he did on the field.  At that point, the man in this market was in danger of having his necked snapped after disrespecting my brother.  My fuse was getting shorter and shorter as the line grew longer and longer and the tomatoes were getting older.  That’s when I called the hotline.  Coincidentally, my wife answered.  She was at Target and politely told my not to swing like a wild man.  I relaxed, smiled, and walked to Target, where she bought me an ice cream cone and a ridiculous t-shirt.

(for those of you a-hole husky fans who are not arrogant,  I apologize…….believe me, there are plenty of a-hole coug fans)

Let’s just all keep our egos in check, and Husky fans . . . please stop making it difficult to support your team.

Ben Gannon