Author Archives: Ben Gannon

Eat Night of the Century

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Is it the fight of the century?  I guess.  It’s only 2015.  We are paying one hundred dollars to see the bout between two boxers on our color television set.  I can’t even mention the fighters’ names because it would do an injustice to the pugilistic society.  Both are tremendous boxers, but neither will match the greatness of the likes or unlikes of Ali, Frazier, Leonard, Duran, Marciano, or Rocky.

Will the fight be worth it?  I guess.  Several members of the non boxing community sanctioned by me will be attending this function at our house.  Their tupperware filled with side dishes accompanying the pulled pork and chicken wings we provide will be their cover charge.  Will that be worth it?  Yes.

The food and company was worth it. The fight was merely a leftover nobody wished to take home.   Next time, we’ll just do it without a fight.

 

 

Hiyah!!!

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My great nephew, Rocco, is truly great.  When he visits our house, he is well mannered, fun, and possesses a terrific personality.  Additionally, at the age of five, he has a fondness for technology and, like his mother and father, wants to always remain on the cutting edge of it.  However, his father, Pat, and mother, Lacy, wisely, always want to stay at least one step, or in this case, one karate chop ahead of him.

Rocco and his family enjoy using a selfie stick.  For those of you who don’t know, a selfie stick can be described as an elongated stick you can attach to your camera or mobile phone, allowing you to take better pictures or films of yourself or others in the background.  (I like to refer to it as a long distance facial stick.)  The stick also can be attached to a strap which is wrapped around your chest, leaving the camera hands free.   After filming yourself, you can then watch the unedited footage from a computer with your parents observing the action.   It’s basically the worst idea for a child to have attached to their chest.  Actually, unless taking a family photo, it’s just the worst idea since unsliced bread.

At one point, Rocco believed the selfie stick was a hell of an idea with thoughts of capturing every move he made in his backyard.  I can’t blame him.  Everyone wishes to see themselves on T.V., and, sometimes, just once is enough.

One afternoon, Rocco had one of his neighborhood cousins over to play in the yard.  Promising to be careful with the selfie stick and camera, Rocco was allowed to use it until dinner time.  With no surprise, after a while, there was a bit of a ruckus in the backyard between the two cousins, and Rocco was brought in for dinner while his cousin was taken home crying.  Selfie stick status:  Unharmed.  The ruckus was deemed by both sets of parents as nothing but the usual sibling disagreement, or they were just plain tired and hungry.

Post dinner, Rocco’s parents asked if they could watch the footage before his bedtime.  Reluctantly, Rocco agreed, and they all watched the magnificent cinematography with laughter for thirty glorious minutes.  At the 31st minute of his directorial debut, strangely, Rocco asked if he could excuse himself to bed early.  His parents found this odd because, clearly, there were fifteen minutes remaining of the backyard motion picture, and Rocco had never requested to head to the fart sack earlier than completely necessary.  Nevertheless, they excused him, but keenly, knew something was rotten in their neighborhood.  Although tired of the feature film, they decided to finish the remaining fifteen minutes on their own.  They weren’t disappointed with the entertainment value, just a little with Rocco.

While making sure Rocco was tucked into bed, they walked downstairs and pressed the play button again.  After several minutes had lapsed,  what sounded to be the start of a disagreement with Rocco’s cousin turned into one precise universal word echoed throughout the neighborhood by Rocco,  thus completely explaining why he was so eager to slumber.  “HIYAH!”  Pat and Lacy heard Rocco’s bellow on the computer loud and clear just before his tiny little hand landed a karate chop on his cousin’s outstretched paw which may or may not have been reaching for the selfie stick.  Crying soon ensued and the ruckus mystery was solved.  Making the biggest selfie stick mistake a five year old can make, Rocco had filmed himself committing this egregious act of toddler violence.

Since Rocco’s parents are rational people, I believe they had an honest chat with him about his misbehavior, but didn’t take the incident too seriously.  Evidently, Rocco was sincerely sorry and would apologize to his cousin the next time they met.  However, Rocco had a serious question for them the next morning.  He asked them, just in case he was allowed to use the selfie stick in the future, where the pause button was located on the phone camera.  I told you he was great.

 

 

 

Kiss and Tell

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Recently, my sister, Dorothy, asked me to participate in a half marathon with her.  Beyond my early twenties, I have never really embraced running because a touchdown or stolen base isn’t at stake.  Therefore, I needed some convincing.  She then informed me it wasn’t just any marathon, but a rock and roll marathon.  This means that during the marathon, bands will be playing loud music at every corner, pounding your brain much like your tender feet pounding the pavement for thirteen painful miles.  (Why couldn’t she have asked me to participate in a rock and roll barbecue!????)  I told her this music could only cloud my running rhythm and perhaps induce me to dance freakishly or bust out into an air guitar solo amongst the other weirdos in Seattle.  Even though I don’t listen to rock and roll anymore and can’t name one current rock and roll band, I said I’d do it.  (Dorothy lives in California and it’s not often I get to see her.  Otherwise, the answer would have been “Hell to the NO!”

As a talk radio dork, I don’t often listen to rock and roll.  I don’t buy CD’s, and if someone should ask me who my favorite rock and roll band is, I could only answer with a kiss.  At a very early age and in a very special way, Dorothy, amongst other older sisters, Patricia and Maggie, introduced me to the rock and roll band, Kiss.

Not having reached the age to attend public school, I didn’t require an alarm to wake up for anything.  Yet, I was awakened by one each morning.  It was blaring, dream shattering rock and roll music played by my teenage sisters after our father would leave for work.  When my father was home, we never really listened to music unless it was “A Very Perry Como Christmas”, or a “Paint Your Wagon” classical musical on T.V..  However, when he’d go off to work each morning, long before my three older sisters had to be at school, they’d fire up the platinum.  Evidently, my mother didn’t seem to mind too much as she was getting ready for a full day’s worth of laundry, which was everyday for her.  Even though only five of her thirteen children still lived in the house, her load remained heavy.  Perhaps, it was the music inspiring her to press on.

I was curious about the aggressively noisy music.  In the mid seventies, I was still attached to Elvis and could play a mean tennis racket guitar, but this was far different.  This current music held a loud, edgy, almost dangerous tone.  Secretly, I grew to accept it and enjoy some of it.  I would stay in bed each morning listening to many songs, but one in particular played by Kiss titled, “Rock and Roll All Nite” became my favorite.   I began paying attention to the lyrics and wondered what it would be like to rock and roll all night and party every day.

When my sisters and two older brothers would finally leave for school, the music would end, leaving only my mother and me at home for the day.  Mom always kept me entertained.  She’d read to me, play card games with me, and when I could convince her, she’d come out to the yard and try to play baseball with me.  This was terrific, but I remember changing our routine up a bit when I asked her to play some records for me.  Of course she would.  It might give her a break. So, while my mother reached for an Elvis record, I stopped her and asked if I could listen to some of the music my sisters would listen to while I was still in bed.  Not a problem.  I chose the live Kiss “Alive” album and knew exactly which song I wanted to play: “Rock and Roll All Nite”.

With mom going downstairs to make us lunch, I placed it on track five, and listened to the song several times.  I had already memorized the words while listening to them countless mornings, and I could hear mother laughing at me downstairs as this four year old, toe headed, bushy haired rockstar belted the the lyrics out, air tennis guitar in hand, as if I was their one man miniature cover band.  All I needed was some sinister makeup and a disgustingly long tongue.  It was exciting, but after a bit, I grew a little tired of the song and began listening to the band speak in between sets.  This was even more intriguing than the music. They would bellow to the audience statements and questions which seemed scratchy at first, but after a few listens, some became quite clear, one in particular.  I memorized it as well. The lead singer would say something profound such as this:   “Hey, Detroit!!!  (Fans screaming at the tops of their hair) DOES ANYONE OUT THERE WANT SOME WHISKEY!!!!!!!!!!?  From downstairs, when this question was screamed by the lead singer, I could hear mom dub in her own portion of the album.  Each time I would play this part of the album, mother would bellow from below, “DOES ANYONE UP THERE WANT SOME BUTTERSCOTCH PUDDING!!!!!?  Cool as can be, (she always was and still is) instead of tossing the record like a frisbee into the atmosphere, rather, she simply modified it.

Each day for lunch, mom would always give me butterscotch pudding, my favorite, for dessert.  So, shrewd as she was, she made an executive suggestion for me to make the record that much better.  As a consummate professional, even at the age of four, I knew everything had room for improvement.  I was all hair and ears.  She implied that instead of asking the audience if they would like some whiskey, perhaps I could replace “whiskey” with “butterscotch pudding”.  Now, I had no idea what whiskey was at the age of four, but I did know this.  There ain’t NOTHIN better in this world than butterscotch pudding.  She had me play the record again with both of us making the proper substitution.  “DOES ANYONE OUT THERE WANT SOME BUTTERSCOTCH PUDDING!!!!!!!!?   The fans still roared, and it stuck.

Years passed, and at some point in my life, I had to try this whisky Kiss raved so highly of in 1975.  I did, and mom was right.  Butterscotch pudding was a far better substitute.  It took me a full night to realize pudding was superior, but by the next morning, I had made my definitive choice.

Pre-marathon meal?  Butterscotch pudding……..I still love that stuff.

 

 

Marching Out of Madness (Without Grace)

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WE’RE NOT ALL WINNERS!!!

Years ago, I loved to gamble, and I did quite a bit of it.  And, I can honestly say I was pretty crummy at it.  It never became an addiction, just a hobby.  You know, one of those hobbies where you take c-notes (one hundred dollar bills) wad them up into little balls and toss them into a dumpster, hoping one lucky bum will find them.  Since I wasn’t married, had no children, and it was my money, I figured it was okie dokie.

I don’t know why, but I lost interest after a while.  It’s been years since I’ve even had the urge to place a wager on a pony (unless it’s the Kentucky Derby) or a professional team.  However, if you call filling out a college basketball bracket and handing someone twenty dollars “gambling”, well, then I’m still a pretty lousy gambler.

This year, as millions of others did, my wife and I participated in a pool of drowning bettors wishing to win a small sum of money and a dash of pride during college basketball’s March Madness.  The name is appropriate.  Although this month of sporting excitement can be loads of fun, it can also be wildly maddening.

People all over the country brag about their tournament picks before tipoff, and shortly after tipoff, those same people are ripping the piece of paper displaying their senseless decisions into millions of embarrassing shreds and then burning them out of recycling spite.  This is the dark path gambling can take you.  (It’s a felony in the states of Oregon and Washington, amongst others, to burn paper.) No, I’m not referring to myself.  I’m far more environmentally conscience than that.  Not wanting to waste a piece of paper, I keep all my picks on my computer.

Wishing to explain the process in not too much detail, I will merely say that in our group of imbeciles, one must attempt to choose all of the winners in a sixty four team college basketball bracket, including the champion before the madness begins.  Points are gathered along the road, and you want to have the most wins, especially the champion.  This is not an easy task, but most semi-intelligent gamblers can have fun throughout most of the three week tournament, hoping to be victorious.

Whatever the grade below semi-intelligent gamblers is, I’m a member even below that one.  Even though my wife and I picked the teams collectively, she wanted me to pick the champion.  As the man who wears the cargo shorts in the family, I should have demanded she choose the winner.  But, I deferred to her suggestion and chose with every ounce of knowledge I didn’t possess.  As a result, I did not choose wisely.  The team I chose to win the national championship was out the first day of the tournament, thus leaving us a 2 and 1/3 million to one chance of winning the pot of greens at the end of the tournament.  Since my wife and I were in this together, we were watching our team go down like a barn in a cyclone.  Ironically, our team was the Iowa State Cyclones.

During the game, even though it was close, I could sense the Cyclones were destined for failure, and as much as I tried to summon the gambling Gods and ask for advice on how I could possibly place the blame on my wife for this devastating loss, the prayers were answered by the Gods telling me to shut my pig headed mouth, and keep the remote in her hands.  Because gamblers are remote controls’ worst nightmares for fear of being smashed or tossed into a far away land, I followed part of their advice.  I handed the remote control to her, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.  Before officially marching out of madness, I released an “F-Bomb”. It was a bomb men, women, children and animals could hear all across our zip code.  Usually, I reserve these for the golf course, or any place where my wife can’t hear them.  Following the obscenity, I then marched right outside the house, because I knew that’s where the woman wearing the cargo pants in our house would send me.  Just because you’re old enough to gamble, it doesn’t mean you aren’t a child.

March Madness is officially over for us, and so are the “F bombs” from me.  But, baseball is right around the corner, and believe me, if you hear an “F bomb” floating around the Pacific Northwest, just check the Seattle Mariner box score for a loss, and know these ones are not resonating from me, but from my lovely counterpart.  During baseball season, these are tossed around our house like salad, and it gives me a little ammunition for the next time I gamble on anything.

Appreciating Gifts: It’s a Gift

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Recently, I’ve been informed by social media that children are now registering for birthday gifts much like future married couples and later divorcees have done for decades.  Some people may think this is a reasonable and efficient idea, but other than vomiting, I don’t have much to say about this issue.  Personally, I don’t have a problem with gift giving and receiving, but I do have a bit of a problem with certain celebrations of birthdays at young ages.  When countless friends and relatives are invited, the birthday Prince or Princess doesn’t always seem too appreciative of the gifts showered upon his or her royal crowns, thus creating a sense of entitled greed.

Perhaps, I’m just too old fashioned.  When I was child, I remember annually receiving gifts from my parents at very modest parties. Once in a while, a neighbor might show up for a piece of cake, but I knew my parents frowned on inviting many friends over, because they didn’t want them to feel obligated to bring anything for me.   Or, perhaps I just didn’t have many friends.

I once received a gift from a friend at school on my birthday, and the outcome was bitter sweet.   I still feel awful about my lack of appreciation for the gesture of kindness to this very day.   It was my saddest and most memorable of gifts.

In the eighth grade, I befriended a girl, and we eventually, according to others, became the school’s most conceited couple.  She found out that my birthday was coming soon and wished to purchase me a gift.  I begged her not to buy me anything.  Since I didn’t receive an allowance, I knew when her birthday came knocking on my wallet, other than a student body identification card, the only items filling it might be a couple of baseball cards.  So, unless she liked baseball cards, she would have to settle for a dandelion I could pick in our backyard.

Continuing to pester me, shrewdly, I announced to her what I wanted for my birthday: A new car.  Most thirteen year olds can’t afford this, so I thought it ended the discussion.  Indeed, it did.  And, of course, on my birthday, she still presented to me a gift at the lunch table we had been sitting at together for the previous five months.  In front of all our other friends, I opened it, and it was a car.  It was a remote controlled car.  Actually, I had never had one, and all my guy friends were impressed and a little envious.  So, we all took it out to the pavement outside the lunchroom and I let them all play around with it.  I then told her how much I liked it and gave her a hug.  For me, this was a display of sincere gratitude.  Usually, she couldn’t even get me to hold her hand.

A few months later, she presented me with another surprise at lunch. She broke up with me.  When you’re that young, breakups shouldn’t mean that much to you, but this one did.  For years, all I really cared about was sports.  Now, I found myself really liking this girl, so you could say I was a bit heartbroken.  What was wrong with me? Additionally, since she couldn’t provide a proper reason for the breakup, you could say I was a bit PISSED.  Nevertheless, I took it in stride, said goodbye, and did what any mature thirteen year old would do in this situation.  After baseball practice, I went home, walked into my room and looked at the car and my baseball bat.   Grabbing them both, I strolled out the backdoor, and I remember mother asking me, “Where are you going with that bat and car?”  Calmly, I told her I was heading out to the field beyond our backyard.  She just looked at me strangely.  When I made it to the field, I beat the holy hell out of that car into a thousand little plastic and rubber pieces.  Moments after I did it, I think I felt shame, but at the same time, closure.  Years after I did it, I’d matured slightly and sometimes thought about her and the car and what a horribly rotten thing I’d done.  The car was long gone, and it could never be replaced, along with my lack of appreciation for it.

Although she and I went to the same high school, we never spoke once to one another.  However, twenty five years later after that incident, somehow, the girl and I met again.   Being very contrite about what I’d done all those years ago, with a chuckle, she provided proper forgiveness.  Six months later, we were married.  We share that story with many of the same friends we had long ago, because they remember the car but never properly knew the reason for its demise.  It always makes them laugh or get angry wondering why I just didn’t give it to one of them.

Now, I tell her each day how much I appreciate her, and she says thank you and reciprocates the notion.  Now that’s a gift I can appreciate and won’t beat the hell out of with a bat.

Maids in Mad Hattan

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Because of my recurring nightmares about our eight long days working and vacationing in Manhattan, I thought I’d resurrect a story by strict orders from my counselor.  She told me it would help rid myself of my semi-hatred for the city and its inhabitants.  I’m extremely sensitive.  Just ask my family, friends, neighbors, wife or dogs.

After my wife lost her wedding ring within the first twenty four hours of being in New York, I thought the worst of this trip was swept away by the notion that, although the ring represents our loyal relationship, it doesn’t define it.  Once recognizing this, I thought the worst of the New York trek ended in our hotel room.  Sadly, it didn’t.  The worst existed outside our hotel room on our twenty first floor.  Twenty one is an unlucky number.  Just ask the bartenders twenty one years ago when I celebrated my twenty first birthday.

Following the disappearing ring fiasco, the next day, I thought I’d attempt to to justify my life as a writer by working peacefully in our hotel room.  It was a weekday morning, and other than the room cleaning, I thought I’d be quietly left alone.  Six or seven sentences into solitude were interrupted by voices outside the room.  And, as Dr. Seuss would write about the “Whos in Whoville”, the voices started out low, and then started to grow.  These voices were not of English or Australian origin, (the only two languages I speak)  therefore, I couldn’t discern what they were saying.  Knowing it was none of my business, and not caring in the least about what their conversation may concern, my only wish was for them to decrease their volume.  After a minute or two of listening to these voices, which seemed to be located directly outside our room, I could not help but decide that in any language, although beginning as bickering, it had indeed increased to vehement arguing. In my language of origin, when a conversation swings from bickering to vehement  arguing, sometimes, it can lead to fighting.  And, as predicted, when the abject yelling began, I thought it best just to pack up my computer and head to the lobby where I could find a place to work, because, clearly, our hotel room was not as convenient as I previously imagined.

Walking out of the room, out of curiosity, I did wish to see who was making all the racket.  Two doors down, two men, employees of the hotel, AKA, maids, were nose to nose by their cleaning cart screaming what must of been the foulest of foreign obscenities I’d ever heard.  At that point, I merely chuckled, turned toward the elevator and noticed a female maid frozen with fear as she watched the spectacle.  I then told her she may want to call security.  She merely stared, watery eyed, and frozen with fear.  I then turned back to the Un-Merry maids only to witness the loudest, fiercest, most solid open faced sandwich slap I’d ever seen.  It was ON!  Retaliation didn’t come in the form of a slap.  Rather, it was a closed fisted smash to the nose, dropping the predecessor to his back.  Now, it is me in shock.  Here I am, second day in New York City, outside my hotel room, witnessing two fifty something maids, decked out in all their serviceable material glory, cleaning bottles dangling from their holsters like ammonia filled pistols, beating the Holy Hell out of one another.  Perhaps it was a Holy War.  Either way, this was a brawl. This is when I yelled at the lady to call security.  She wouldn’t.

Now, I’ve been told that breaking up a fight can be a silly thing to do, because you may end up with a bottle busted on the backside of your head, depending on who is watching.  With this circumstance, I thought I may get a broom handle bashed upside my  head, or smothered by a dirty sheet.  For all I knew, they could have been fighting over this lady!

I would have just walked away, and told security myself, but the man on top of the other, now rendered helpless by the headshot, continued to beat the man to a point where the bleeding looked a little dangerous.  So, instead of physically interfering, I used all my bilingual strength, summoned both my loudest English and Australian languages, and bellowed at the top of my larynx, “THAT’S ENOUGH!”  Evidently, they spoke English and the down under tongue as well, because they both stood up and bolted in different directions, leaving a derelict cleaning cart.

My heart was beating far too much at this point.   I felt I should have at least been allowed the opportunity to walk down a dark alley in Midtown Manhattan before something like this should happen.  Gathering myself, I strolled to the elevator, made it to the lobby without further excitement and talked to the concierge.  We never saw the un-merry maids again.

I’d like to tell you we slept well for the rest of the week, but we didn’t.  The man next door spent the remainder of our six days in New York throwing up each night as though it would be his last trip to New York, or anywhere for that matter.  I would also like to say it’s my last, but I know it isn’t.  I’ve watched the Yankees play, but I haven’t seen the Mets.  Leave it to baseball to bring me back to Hell.

 

New York and a Diamond in the Rough (Hotel)

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I wish someone would be kind enough to write and publish this blog for me.  I will admit to being a little confused in this “country” or city affectionally known as New York, New Tips.  Evidently, four times isn’t a charm.

While traveling to New York for the forth time, since the third certainly wasn’t a charm, I thought I’d give it another gentlemanly shot.  We came on a business/vacation trip.  My wife came for work.  I came for vacation and to write to entertain, confuse, or bore people throughout the cyber world.  I also came to run in Central Park. That is my happy, semi- sane place.

My wife lost her wedding diamond in our hotel within twenty four hours after arriving safely to this place of  Metropolitan Magic.   I believe it was the first time something tragic happened in my life which wasn’t my fault.

Tears were flowing from her more efficiently than the faucet in our room.  Therefore, I can only assume, or, surmise, she loves me.  So, I guess I’ve got that going for me.   Not shedding a tear myself, I told her it was o.k.  The diamond can be replaced.

Tearing apart the hotel sink, I gave up when the hair and filth overwhelmed me with dry heaving and disgust.  I was willing to catch a flight back to Seattle, purchase her another diamond and be done with it.  She claimed I was being a bit too dramatic.  She was right.  That makes her my diamond in the rough.

Surly in Seattle

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The 2015 Super Bowl Sunday with my childhood favorite Seattle Seahawks playing for the championship of the American version of football world dominance ended emotionally: I’ve been waiting my whole life for this;  how can it get any better?  Wait a second…someone just informed me they won this title last year.  I guess I’ve only been waiting my whole year for this.  How can it get any worse?

For the last two weeks, everyone has maintained smiles in Seattle because of their NFC Championship win.  That’s the only reason I was hoping the Seahawks would win the Super Bowl.  A happy Seattle makes a happy Ben.  If they lost, which they did in the most inconvenient of fashion, I knew I would return to the angry traffic, (whether it be on the road or in a grocery store) the cloudy, rainy, and dismal atmosphere surrounding this beautiful city……depending on the weather, traffic, time and professional athletic success.

A little perspective:  I was fortunate enough to spend Super Bowl Sunday morning with my wife, two of my six sisters, and a wheelchair in an Emergency Room occupied by my mother.  Inconveniently, after separating her shoulder after a pre Super Bowl Touchdown Dance, our one hundred year old mother didn’t realize her fall would make her recognize all of her children cared more about her than the Super Bowl.

When we showed up at the E.R., and after mom knocked back a couple of pain pills, she looked at me with a bit of confusion.  Her eyes locked on mine and she said, “You look just like one of my sons.”  Entertaining her, I asked her which son I looked like.  (she has seven of them and I am the runt of the litter)  “Ben.”  Bingo.  I pulled a dollar out of my wallet and told her she won the pot.  It was a seven to one long shot, but she indeed earned that buck.  Three hours later, my mother was released from the hospital.  She was not going to miss the forty ninth Super Bowl.  Perhaps, she was so driven to watch this game because she missed the first forty eight Super Bowls while making pounds of clam dip for her husband and thirteen children.

Returning to our home in West Seattle, my wife and I watched the Super Bowl in disbelief.  Rather than crying because of the Seahawk loss, I instead laughed and decided we needed a vacation, because everyone in Seattle began honking their horns out of anger instead of the twelve man happiness.  Where are we heading?  We are going to the happiest place on Earth……..New York……a self proclaimed “country” which doesn’t believe the state of Washington exists any other time than football season.   It’s just too surly here in Seattle.

The Beacons are Back

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Leading a life of crime, I’ve been thrown out of many establishments.  I’ve been thrown out of bars, restaurants, classrooms, and campgrounds.  Never, up until this last week, had I been asked to remove myself from a beach………two days in a row, by women twice my age.  I’m forty two.  I guess I need to grow up.

Taking a leisurely stroll with our dog, Etta, on a surprisingly cloudy day in Seattle, Washington, we decided to take the trail leading to the rocky beach of Puget Sound.  The trail was quiet and the beach was nearly empty of Seatown humanity, save for, from a distance of about a half mile, three white beacons glaring in our direction.  Etta and I thought nothing of it.  Since there were no other dogs or people nearby, I released Etta (a bernese mountain dog) from her leash and enjoyed watching her chase the tennis ball and sticks I threw to her as though she was my black and white receiver.  Since we have no human children, watching her run, jump, wag, and smile on the beach is about as close as I can come to being a happy father.  When I was a child, I remember countless times begging for brothers, sisters, mother or father to throw me a baseball, football, shoe, a rock, or ANYTHING in my general direction so I could possibly catch it like a Major League center fielder or an all-pro NFL wide receiver.  I also remember them smiling watching my tail wag in the process.  Just like this day with Etta, harmless family fun.

Continuing our fun, we moved along the beach heading south towards the white beacons which seemed to be moving back and forth like wounded, frustrated chickens.  Finally, I surmised that these beacons were humans. Out of respect for the general public, when people are around, I commonly place the leash back on Etta’s collar just so they can feel at ease around our dog.  (Etta is very large, but is as sweet as a Hermiston Watermelon.)  Proceeding along the beach, we were heading back to the trail leading us to the wooded area of the park  when the beacons attacked.   Waving their arms wildly with their triceps flopping back and forth with the breeze, they were trying with all their might to speed walk in our direction before we made it to the trail.  I smiled and knew what was coming.  These three old ladies, or Q-Tips, as I and others affectionately refer to them because of their glowing white hair, were dead set on kicking us off of one of God’s glorious beaches.  Now, to their benefit, there are signs reminding us common canine owners or “criminals” that dogs are not allowed on the beach, but I thought this day could be an exception for bending the law.  (On weekends, there are usually more dogs than people on this particular beach.)  Nervously, Etta sat down on my feet where she seems to feel the safest.  As I pet her head and told her not to worry, I allowed the ladies ample time, about three minutes or so, (thirty feet away) to finally arrive and provide the proper lecture, thus probably making their day while fighting for justice the AARP way.  With a smile on my face, I said, “Good morning, ladies.”

A little rattled by my kind greeting, old bag number one,  excuse me, “Queen of the Q-Tips” bellowed, “YOU CANNOT HAVE THAT DOG ON THIS BEACH!”  It wasn’t really a bellow, but the tone was clearly sharp as a fowl’s beak.  I truly believe she wanted me to argue since she had her younger hens staring me down from behind her in case I made a move to strike.  Simply, I said, with a smile and eyes swaying back and forth from her’s to Etta’s, “I know.  We’re sorry.  We were just trying to find the best spot to get over that rock embankment so we can safely get back on the trail.”

“Good.  There’s a spot right over there.  You best be on your way.”  She turned toward the others, only in their spring seventies, and looked at them as if to say, “See, I told you I could teach this young man, thinking he’s Marlon Brando, a thing or two about breaking the law. ”

Since Etta and I had successfully committed our misdemeanor for the day, we happily returned peacefully to the trail without so much as a fine, or proper explanation as to why they couldn’t apply a little rational human discretion.  “Have a nice day ladies.”  Yes, I said it, and I meant it too.

The very next day, Etta and I took the same walk under the same circumstances.  This time, the Queen sent one of her younger beacons to catch us as soon as we set foot on the rocks and sand.  We were probably ten feet into our walk when this beacon of mass destruction of fun arrived.  She was a little nervous, but she did her best to keep us from spreading the wrath of Hell unto God’s beach and stealing all of its natural beauty.  We didn’t wish to steal anything from the beach. We merely wanted to harmlessly lease it for about fifteen minutes.  With a pair of binoculars dangling from her neck as though it was her weapon of choice, she stated sternly, “You know, you really can’t have your dog on this beach.  You both need to get back on the trail.”  This time I gave her another smile, and said, “I know.”  Etta and I just kept walking along the beach as though it would be worth the fine if proper law enforcement stormed the beach and seized the two of us.  She provided the necessary old lady gasp and “Well I NEVER!” expression as Etta galloped on the beach while I gave her encouragement by shouting what a good dog she is.  We had our fun until we came to a spot where God, the only one I was going to pay attention to on this day, would say, “Ok, Son, you’ve gone far enough.  You’ve proved your point.  Now, you and Etta get back on the trail, and have a terrific day.”

Etta and I did have a terrific day, and not a soul was harmed.  One of these days, perhaps I’ll grow old, broken, surly and grey, and begin enforcing the law instead of breaking it.  Then again, maybe I won’t.

 

 

Here’s To New Years (My Toast to Some People)

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Hashtag:  I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.  Sadly, I have an excuse.

If the world was a safe place, we’d all be in better shape.

Let’s make this clear.  I don’t enjoy jogging.  If someone was chasing me years ago, I used to enjoy a good sprint now and then.  Unless I am  participating in a sport involving some sort of ball, with the exception of soccer, I get no kick out of running these days.  However, since we live next to a beautifully wooded park with trees filled with squirrels, owls, eagles, and sometimes, murderers, I make it a point to stroll through the park on a daily basis.  Walking becomes my movement of choice so I can more easily spot the beauty nesting, perching, crawling, or spying from the trees.

I like to take advantage of the park by either walking or jogging in it with one of our dogs.  If I have my choice of walking or running in a park whose trails lead to the majestic Puget Sound with an Olympic Mountain backdrop as opposed to a gymnasium where there are far too many mirrors. I choose the outdoors.  It’s a terrifically medicinal and physically healthful activity for Etta (the only dog who wakes up as early as I do) and me.

Mornings work best for me when working out.  If I don’t do it then, I probably won’t do it all.  Getting some exercise out of the way early also allows me to return home to share quality time with my wife who claims she has a job to get to by nine or ten in the morning.  Seems like a win win for all of us.  Not so damn fast.  The sun doesn’t rise until about 7:30, and I am ready to roll by 6:00 a.m..  In a perfect world, this shouldn’t be a problem or an excuse for me not to get my Irish Icehole down to the park on a daily morning basis.  Unfortunately, there is a significant glitch and legitimate excuse for me to stay home and, instead, use our eucalyptus (elliptical) machine which I despise.  Annually, there is a murder at this park when the sun is down.  People are advised to stay out of the park until daylight hours.  Normally, if I didn’t have a family to feed my family, (and by that, I mean cook for) I would probably take my chances.  (It’s probably the only reason my wife doesn’t encourage me to go.)  But, there is nothing worse than worrying about being ambushed at any moment passing a tree by a common ne’er-do-well lurking behind one of the pines sporting a knife, gun, machete or chainsaw.

So, here’s a toast to all those sons of bitches out there who scare the hell out of me, making it that much more difficult for me to maintain my girlish figure and for all those others struggling to fulfill their New Year’s Resolutions because of these Lincoln Park Pirates.  I guess most of the pirates won’t be capable of reading this, so I will do the next best thing any good Catholic boy would do.  I will simply pray for them each night and request they all burn in Hell.

Cheers