Cheers

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Three brothers and a brunette walk into a bar, and the bartender says, “May I take your order?”. My brother, Greg, responds, “We’ll take six beers”.

I hate jokes, but reality is funny. Although Greg and his wife, Molly, were living in Connecticut at the time, during the visit (intrusion) from his brothers Mike, Tom and Ben, we decided journeying to Boston’s Fenway Park would be fun since we are all baseball enthusiasts. I refrain from the word “fan” because the word “fan” is derived from the word fanatic and reserved for those whom  wish to wear shoulder pads, helmets, face, chest, or ass paint. Don’t get me wrong, I love football, I just recognize why my wife loves baseball more. She’s less terrified at the ballpark, and I can’t beat up a person who spills beer on her while she or he is wearing a fabulously stupid looking helmet.

Boston’s temperature that day was, I believe, 175 degrees, give or take a couple degrees.  Thus, we were all parched and required some beverages.  So, we went to a bar called the Bull and Finch, also known as Cheers from the television situation comedy.

When Greg ordered the double beers, the bartender was a bit mystified because there were only three guys and Greg’s wife, who ordered an Ice Tea.   The  bartender’s  reply was simple.  “I tell you what guys…I”ll bring you the equivalent of 2 and a half beers each only if you can guzzle them without coming up for air.  If you can do it, the next round is on us.”  Reluctantly, Tom and Mike declined.  Happily, Greg and I accepted.  Returning with the gigantic beers, and with a smirk on his face, the bartender, I think his name was Moe or Sam, said “drink up”.  I am not proud of this, but Greg and I terminated those beers much like Mike Tyson would dispose of opponents or pigeons.  When the bar dude stood wide eyed while ponying up to the bet, I tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Don’t worry, we were going to drink it like that anyway”.  He received a nice tip.

Over our shoulder, a nice Canadian couple (did I capitalize canadian…..should that be a proper noun?……)  decided to attack the same experience.  With a frown on his face, the bartender agreed to provide the male portion of the couple the same beer.  To make a long story even longer, his beer was mostly consumed by his beard and the rest was consumed by the sidewalk. His girlfriend spent the rest of the afternoon with us.  We kept swilling.

After devouring wonderful food and watching a great game, we were forced to go back home. Greg and Molly’s rented place was fabulous.  It was about 17 square feet, but it had a pool. The landlord had simple instructions for our family….  “No one can dive into the pool!!!”.   Greg had simple instructions for the landlord. “Don’t tell my brothers not to dive into the pool.”  Upon arrival, the landlord stated, “I just love your brother, Greg, and his wife, Molly, but  please don’t dive into the pool.”  (read that with a Boston accent….it’s much more funny). With Greg shaking his head, Tom and I immediately did a swan dive into the pool, surfacing as cackling dolphins only to await their eventual feeding of herring and laughter.

She recognized our crazy behavior, and stupidity, but accepted our gift of laughter.  All was well in the world.  Cheers.

Ben Gannon

Waste Paper Service

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 WASTE PAPER SERVICE

 

This story is not about a picture of two young ganstas deciding to, idiotically, take a photo in a coin operated photo booth.  Rather, it is about a hat and an ice cream man who created the hat.  The WPS displayed on my brother Tom’s hat represented Waste Paper Service, a youth baseball team Tom was playing for and the business we were representing.   I was merely the bat boy for two reasons: one, I was too young to legally play on the team, and two, that name (Waste Paper Service) was just far too embarrassing. We were the Bad News Bears of Spokane, Washington.

Our coach and local Ice Cream Man, Walt Mabe, a Vietnam Veteran, had a passion for baseball and a further passion for arguing with umpires.  Having  utmost respect for any veteran, Coach Mabe was no exception.  This brave man had his left leg removed after stepping on a land mine while fighting in Vietnam.  However, he maintained some idiosyncrasies which must be acknowledged.  First of which being that his ice cream truck was the only one which didn’t play the traditional jingle, “The Entertainer”…he would play “Ride (Flight) of the Valkyries” from “Apocalypse Now”.  Additionally, the baseball games we played would usually last upwards of 17 or 18 hours because he kept a rule book handy in his wooden leg which he would pull out on an inning by inning basis.  As a Catholic, it would create an image of a baseball priest providing a homily after each strike or ball.  Those poor umpires, making about 4 cents an hour with coach Mabe’s rants, are now, hopefully, and deservedly in some sort of baseball heaven.

I’m sure my brothers Tom and Greg will provide additional commentary on Walt’s quirks.  Yet, I will quickly present the most memorable one.  While taking infield practice, (for those of you who despise or know nothing about baseball, this is when the coach hits ground balls and fly balls to the players prior to the first pitch of the game), rather than using a bat, and I kid you negative, coach Mabe would use his wooden leg.  Going to the ballpark was always genuinely interesting being coached by this good man. Bless his baseball soul and his wooden leg.

Just a typical Spokane little league experience.  You play for a team sponsored by and named after toilet paper, coached by a man with a wooden leg who uses it as a bat, and the games would last 16 or 17 hours.  Yet, I still love the game of baseball.

(All is true with exception of the ice cream truck jingles.)

Gone Fishin’

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Gone Fishin’

Fishing gone wild

The Older Boys Fishing I will refrain from saying these pictures are worth a thousand words,  just a few billion. Initially, I wanted to provide a hocus focus, requiring the viewer to recognize the differences in these two pictures.  I will provide you a hint on one of the secretive details;  our father was in one of them.  It’s hard to spot.  He must have been the photographer for the black and white picture, and why the hell do these guys look so impressive standing at attention in the picture below?  My brothers Greg, Tom and I are in the picture with our father, taken a mere twenty years after the photo of my brothers Mike, Steve and Glenn.   The other brother, Aaron, is living in a place called Driggs, Idaho….we think.  Clearly by the time his thirteenth child (me) was born, our father no longer tried to institute a hygiene code on fishing trips.

Always being embarrassed and picked on with regard to my hair, I now wish to pick on my older brothers, Tom and Greg.  Commonly referred to as “Toe Head”, I was agitated and obviously ignoring a mirror on a daily basis. Notice their smiles which seemed to come out of a garbage can.  Notice the pants which came directly from a patch shop.   Tom, an extremely talented man, wasn’t talented enough to tuck in both sides of his shirt.  Greg, additionally talented, was only capable of zipping up his trousers three quarters of the way. I blame this on my mother.  Zipping up pants is something which can only be taught by a mother, or maybe Greg just became bored and tired after peeing in the woods.  My hair speaks, in fact screams for itself. Finally, notice who has the most fish.

We were fishing at Scookum Lake at the time with our next door neighbors, the Jeffries. They were very nice people.  Dad didn’t have a truck, so Bill Jeffries graciously agreed to cram three sons and one friend into the back of his pickup truck with a canopy.

As you can see, we captured many fish and hadn’t showered before or after the picture.  My older brothers, captured below, caught many fish as well, yet seemed fairly well groomed.  I believe Tom, Greg and I were wearing the same Gannon-me-down pants as my older brothers, Mike, Steve and Glenn were wearing from nineteen fifty something.

This story begins and ends with pictures, yet there is one ignoramus signature story with which I must conclude.  On our journey back home, I was considerably concerned with making it back home to see my mother.  Therefore, when I sensed we were within a mile of our house, I tapped on the glass of the truck beckoning Bill to pull over.  Keep in mind, we were literally next door neighbors.  When he reluctantly, and kindly responded to my request, probably thinking I had to take a pee, I asked him a simple question:  “Can you drop me off at my mom’s place?”  Bill just laughed and said, “Sure.” My brothers still make fun of me to this day.

DM (VD)

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Now, as most of you know, none of my posts are profound or at all groundbreaking. This particular post will be equally similar, yet sadly true. Never in my life have I encountered an individual waltzing, strolling gracefully, or dancing in the rain after leaving the DMV. In fact, I believe most ex convicts exiting the DMV have a high, if not 100 percent chance of offending again within minutes or seconds upon leaving the DMV. The level of impatience and anger manifests to a level even the Pope couldn’t resist.

Today was no exception. I am not an ex con, (depending on the definition…just a simple man wishing to renew his license), but, after shaving this morning, grooming my receding hairline and putting on a nice shirt, and after the 2 Plus hours waiting for my number, 379, (this should be noted) rage became a part of the equation. During the 2 plus hours, my facial hair growth appeared to be the length of a non sophisticated guru. Honestly, I had a five o’clock shadow before my picture could be released to the public or my wife. Personally, I don’t give one good damn about the public, but when my wife witnesses this cross culture picture of me resembling mug shots of Gary Busey, Nick Nolte, while adding a sprinkle of James Brown into the mix, it’s a bit embarrassing. Especially, since I just had my birthday and merely wished to renew my license without any unlawful disorder.

If you enter the DMV thinking you will return to your Aunt’s funeral within two days, well then you should expect and deserve to stay there for the next three days. I was actually pleased when the man assisting me said I would return to my wife by dinner. (I arrived at 10:00 AM to the DMV, merely eight hours before I should have dinner ready). So, my rage was not confined to the time constraint, but the ridiculous fact that after waiting for 2 negative hours, and being informed 25 bucks would be sufficient at the desk, I became additionally agitated when I owed one hundred dollars and was unable to pay with my Visa Card. They only take Master Card. I implore you, I am not making this up. I only had 80 or so dollars in my wallet. Therefore, I was forced to sprint across the street and withdraw, or as I felt, “withdrawal” more cash from the AT -Am I an idiot machine.

Refusing to wait in line for several more decades, and not having a razor handy, I ran back to the same desk, plowing through countless confused Asians, Hispanics, Middle Easterners, Russians, Indians, Native Americans, and two white people. She allowed me to pay the necessary fee without waiting for my wife to wonder if I had left her.

After taking the eye test, which includes reciting letters and identifying colors (I hate to say this but the colors were far more difficult………not because I couldn’t see them, I just haven’t been quizzed regarding my color I.Q. for quite sometime. Nervously, I answered, “Mauve” to one of the colors. After being questioned, I resorted to the boring colors of green, red and blue. Eventually, I passed.

The recitation of letters was easy for me because I stare at a computer and write letters 12 hours a day. Not letters to my family or friends, just random letters because I knew one day I would have to renew my license.

Ultimately, the reason I did not leave with rage was because I felt dreadfully sorry for the Asian taking the eye test prior to me. He was standing before me and the mugshot picture lady, or affectionately referred to as “picture bitch” while attempting to pass the eye test. Let me preface this by stating Asians and the elderly, no matter how fossilized, are stereotypically considered unsafe and unstable when behind a wheel, bicycle, wagon or conversation. My refusal to accept this racial profile is only recognized when the two fuse together much like oil and saki. It just doesn’t work. This poor elderly Asian was capable of identifying the colors, but he could not identify the letters presented on the Disney Multi Color and Letter Opti View. Twelve or Twelve thousand minutes went by while listening to this gentle man try to justify his case in a language the receptionist simply, as well as any others in the DMV room, could not decipher. The only sentences I was capable of discerning were after the DMV Princess asked, “Why weren’t you able to read the letters when you could identify the colors?” His response, with an interpreter, “The letters were just too damn small”.

After successfully receiving my mugshot and license, I knew this man had no way of getting home. Therefore, I offered him a ride. Since he couldn’t see me, he respectfully declined. I then left and didn’t allow two cars to merge into my lane, thus displaying my own layer of rage.

Britt and I had a nice dinner.

For some, a nice ending

Mat Classics

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Bubble Room…. Pegasus Room…. Circle Room… all respectable bars and establishments in Tacoma, Washington from 6 in the morning until we don’t care because we won’t show up until they are serving breakfast and Miller Light the next morning. My good friends and brothers, Tom, Steve, Mike, Russ, perhaps Greg, depending on the year and which nephew was participating in this annual wrestling tournament (The Mat Classic) were possibly present. My memories are not foggy, just unclear and a little rainy.

Without fraternal interest, Tom, Russ and I discovered this Tacoma Dome Tournament because we developed a love for wrestling and a hatred for Spokane. Most people would agree, even if they didn’t necessarily like the sport of wrestling. The enjoyment of attending a sport without a bitchy wife or disgruntled insignificant other is naturally therapeutic and generally fun. Included in the annual fun would be a three month stretch of Russ, Tom, and I saying to one another, “What sweet place shall we stay in the tropical city of Fife, (just seconds from the Tacoma Dome)?”. On line, we would sometimes discover a cockroach engrossed dilapidated hotel laced with prostitutes and a bullet hole riddled room. The majority of these economic hotels are based upon William Shatner’s suggestions through Price Line Dot. Con Artist. It never mattered to us. Us meaning, Tom, Russ and me. We were there for the wrestling and the bars. Additionally, regarding the hotels we’d choose, entertainment was top notch in the evenings. After a long day of betting on wrestlers, we’d order a pizza and sit in our room watching a full episode of cops right out of our window. Then, Tom and I would have the great pleasure of listening to Russ drunk dial his wife, inevitably resulting in a verbal gunfight.

Mornings during the Washington State Tournament were perhaps the most fun. The anticipation, the debates over which wrestler would win the tourney, the steak and eggs delivered by a smoking waitress…..not a smoking hot waitress, but a smoking waitress were epic. We were so excited that when her ashes would fall upon our hash browns, we’d still gobble them up because if we complained, she may stop bringing us beer.

After 10 or perhaps more years of attending this sacred event, Tom, Russ and I have ten thousand wonderful kid friendly stories which may or may not be true. This one is mostly true. Yet, keeping with the ghost theme (this will be the last) we encountered a possible apparition inside one of these bars. After consulting with those who represent me, (Tom and Russ) none of us can recall which room we were having breakfast and a couple beers.

With reverence and reference to my beloved brother, Steve, (I speak this way because he will out live mortals. Therefore, I am providing simple eulogies for my friend and brother while I am still alive). The Bubble Room was his preference for breakfast prior to the big event. They served pancakes the size of really big pancakes, sausage with or without ashes, and toast almost appearing as if they’d been toasted. Butter was served on the side for regulars, but since we were annual nuisances, they provided the butter for a very small fee. Additionally, they stocked up on beer for this yearly ritual.

I believe it is referred to as onomatopoeia. For those of you who are not English Majors and geniuses such as meself, me will describe the word, “onomatopoeia”. These are bullshit noises used by ghosts, people with asthma, and constipation, only accepted and interpreted by people who believe in ghosts, people with asthma and those with constipation. While eating and drinking our breakfast, several of us tuned our ears to a sinister moaning within the bar. None of us were willing to accept or admit to the fact there could be something unearthly and goolish within this establishment. Therefore, we swilled more beverages and masticated more food. When the moaning and groaning, and MWHAhhhha wouldn’t subside, we all finally looked at one another and said collectively, “Do you hear a ghost?”. Since we all heard it at the precise time, we knew there was something more than wrestling, stale beer, and mediocre food we’d experience this weekend. Once again, since I am terrified of ghosts and the elusive Sasquatch, I was elated because witnessing one of these beings with others, mostly tougher than myself, I wouldn’t feel like such an idiot presenting my testimonial on the Tacoma 5 o’clock News.

All of us walked gracefully to the proximity of the sound thinking we would find something changing science and drinking forever. I’ve never been more sober. Frightened, I let Tom and Russ enter the refrigeration section of the elite restaurant along with the others ( I don’t remember everyone attending the social dysfunction). (I believe Mike Thew may have been there……I don’t want to leave him out, although he probably would) Sneaking into the refrigeration station, (only drunk men can sneak up on ghosts) we witnessed something far more shocking. Beneath perhaps 12 or 67 cases of beer lay a cigarette smoking Bubble Room waitress. She had apparently tried to reach a top shelf case when all of the remaining cases crashed upon her. It was as if a dump truck had deliberately and happily piled this precious substance upon this unlucky lady.

Luckily, all my stories end happily. My friend, Russ, applying his CPR training was on top of her in a jiffy, yelling, “lady, lady, you ok?” Her reply? ” just get this God Damn beer off of me”. We all did, but I still consider Russ to be a semi hero. I still thought she was a ghost.

Concerning the waitress, she had minor damage to her knee. Since the fallen beer had become flat and we saved the morning, they let us tote all the fallen cases into our cars, vans and trucks. That’s a lie. We were far too sophisticated to drink flat beer. So, we went to a different joint to listen for ghosts and drink good clean adult beverages.

Not the end…..too many stories for ten years of weirdos and wrestling. Sometimes, it’s just difficult to separate the weirdos from those whom, like me and my friends and family, are merely goofy.

I am trying to set the stage for more classic mat stories….

Ben and his buddies

T1 – Stephen

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Perhaps I should explain the reason people sometimes refer to my brother, Stephen, as T one. It’s sort of cute, which is the only time you can describe my brother this way. Not that he isn’t a handsome man, cute is just not the preferred way to describe a man who could french kiss a cobra and still be alive.

As a youngster, Steve had a slight speech impediment. His S’s would stroll out of his mouth as T’s. For example: “What month is it, Steve?” Answer: “Teptember”. “What do you want for dinner tonight?” Answer: “Take”. “Who are you taking to the prom?” Answer: “Too Ellen Mays”. So, naturally, when responding to the question, “What is your name, young man?”, he would reply, “T ONE”. Instead of being the boy named “Sue”, or “Two”, he will forever be known as the boy named, “T One”.

Mere clarification for some of the blogs: Ghosts, Posts and T One.

Ghosts, Posts and T1 (Stephen) – Part II

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Both distinctly and vaguely remembering Pat thumb through the guest list makes me laugh to this very day. I truly believe he thought the ghosts would check in by their names, room numbers, and identify themselves as ghosts: Casper, Donner, Blitzen, Bill, Past, Present, Filepe….(we had to be politically fair….ghosts are not confined to being American). Even as strangely off beating with a beer track, if you will, I recall looking at Pat with a sort of confused and whimsical smile, thinking, “what in the hell are you doing?” Never the more, I respected his thoughts, inquiries, and seconds of painstaking research this young man had placed forth during this challenging day of drinking, dancing, celebrating a wedding, and ultimately spotting a ghost.

We tip toed, (staggered) down several hallways and corridors seeking something which may create a story only our grand kids and everyone else knows we would be lying about. It was glorious! Pat had that look in his eye. You know the one; the one kids apply when looking for ghosts. He wanted to catch one and beat the dead hell out of it for scaring him as a youth. Me? I was just gathering drunk material. Seconds went by, literally, (when seconds go by hunting for ghosts, it feels like years) and we found nothing, zero, bagel! It was a sad midnight. Pat was melancholy. I was relieved. Yet, although finding no ghosts, there is, indeed a happy ending.

In this quaint hotel, many guests did not have bathrooms in their own room, including ours. So, as many naked people do, they adorn themselves with these ridiculous customary white robes provided by the haunted hotel. Pat, my good friend and nephew, would witness these living humans walking, or as he stated “floating”, peacefully to the “john” or “bath”, pointing a finger at them screaming, “LOOK! GHOSTS!!!”. These friendly patrons would become mortified witnessing this red haired (looking like it had been scorched from hell) crazed man (Pat) and sprint to their rooms. Then, we’d share a good chuckle and adjourn ourselves to our own haunted room.

Peacefully, we all fell asleep at midnight only awakening to Steve’s Three o’clock a.m. internal Kramer alarm. “C’mon, We gotta get on the road!”. Not wishing to argue with a man who can kill you with one flick of the fist, we reluctantly, and literally rolled out of bed. Funny thing was, Steve, who looked remarkably stupid in his white ghost robe, was prancing around the room, repeatedly saying, “Hey! This carpet is all wet. Why is this carpet so wet? This is weird! Maybe a ghost came in here and pissed! Cool!” At that point, my most trusted brother, Tom, looked at me with those father like eyes and quietly said, “You pissed in here in the middle of the night, didn’t you?”. My reply? “I don’t know? Probably, but don’t tell Steve”. I must have been too damned afraid to go to the head down the hallway myself, so I just happily urinated on the haunted hotel carpet. Or did I??????????

That’s a stupid ending. Sorry, Steve, I couldn’t hold it.

Post Ghost Syndrome: Pat slept the whole way home, Steve pondered urinating ghosts, Tom wondered how he had subjected himself to such idiots, and I was merely happy Steve didn’t know he was walking in my piss.

Truly…..I think.

Benjamin J. Gannon

Ghosts, posts and T1 (Stephen) – Part I

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Being terrified of ghosts is not necessarily a weakness in a man, if you can call me that.  Yet, I don’t wish to see a ghost, have dinner with a ghost, high tea with a ghost, fly in an airplane with a ghost, or receive vaccinations from a ghost.  This is something I am neither proud nor ashamed of, just the fact, man. They simply scare me, and I have no faith in swinging like a wild man with fists which fly through the opponent whilst frightening the benjesus out of me.

My brother, Steve, however, fears nothing, (or at least that’s the way I wish to think of him)….including ghosts.  He’s the Spokane version of Chuck Norris.  Steve is the only man who haunts ghosts.  As a witness to this, I can also attest to it while staying in a hotel with him, my brother, Tom, and Steve’s son, my nephew, Pat.

The three of us ventured to the McMenamin’s Edgefield hotel in Oregon because it is supposedly haunted.  Coincidentally, my brother, Mike, was also getting married in the same city….. at the same hotel’s ballroom.  We paid homage to my brother, Mike, and his sweet bride, Brenda, by attending the celebration because we love them both, and there was free beer.  Our main quest, however, since on the way, we could not find the elusive Sasquatch was to find a friendly ghost at this exclusive hotel. Keep in mind, my fear of ghosts, goblins, demons, and Sasquatch remains, yet in the presence of Steve, I’m not really afraid of any of those supposed myths.  To this very day, I believe the reason we didn’t witness any of these conundrums was because they were just too afraid to witness him.  This is a sad point because he is one of the most affable and funny earthlings I have ever met.  Sasquatch and a ghost would be ever most happy to meet and have a beer, or 200, with my brother.  They just have to be good bartenders and not steal from him.  That’s the point where he taunts, haunts, and scares.  Additionally, it’s the reason why I’ve only stolen (a fifth of good whiskey…and I have an excuse) from him once.   Lessons are learned quickly from Steve.  We are very close brothers to this day.  I’ve just moved to a different area code.

Now the quick story begins.  As curious and inebriated gentlemen do, they seek ghosts in hotels claiming their existence.  Tom, the least gooned up and most logical man at the time merely scoffed at the presumption.  Steve just wanted to go to bed and didn’t care if a ghost crawled in with him and kissed him goodnight.  Pat, my nephew, was definitely on a quest and didn’t care if the poltergeist was the size of the Statue of Liberty.  I followed him because one: I was intoxicated and, two, he is the son of Steve.

Chapter T2 will have to follow.  Concerning Steve’s life, it is like Star Trek…continuing and continuing and continuing……but in a wildly fun, inspiring, and personally memorable way.  Live long and foster.  This story is close to being finished.  Others may provide different perspectives.  None of which, other than mine, will be accurate.

Gamblogging

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I’ll keep this brief.  Some people say Blue Tooths, VHS, Beta Max (Craig Hanson) microwave ovens, deep fried turkey ( or anything deep fried for that mattter…or batter), DVDs and STDs are the greatest things since sliced bread.  I just ate an ice cream sandwich.  To me, that is the greatest thing since sliced bread………..unless I win this bet I have with a friend (AKA Bookie) concerning the Huskies and Cornhuskers game tonight.   That will be really, really good bread.

Ben