The olympics have come to a close. Sadly, I didn’t watch much, but I remember when the Winter Olympics closed in 1980. I was seven, and it wasn’t over for us.

My brothers, friends and I took the closing ceremonies to a different level after the US Hockey team won the gold medal. We took it to our basement for the next year.

At seven years of age, I was chosen to be the goalie, because I was stupid and respected Jim Craig, the goalie for the US Hockey team, and I also wanted to block shots with a mask adorned with a Shamrock. That dream ended when I became simply a target for my older brothers and their friends. My mask didn’t have a shamrock tattooed on it. It was far worse. In our basement, I found something resembling a mask covering your nose and mouth. After placing it upon my mouth with a rubber band and electrical tape, someone said to me, “You idiot. That’s a cup.” At age seven, I didn’t know the difference between a mask and a cup. Let’s be clear. I’m already stupid……but can you imagine how dumb I was at seven?

As premature baseball players, one was required to wear a cup protecting their genitals from being hit, swollen, disfigured, malnourished or even ruptured. I didn’t know this. Not sure if I even had balls then.

I wrapped it around my head as though I was a motocross racer. It was quite similar, and at a much smaller scale, resembled a goalie’s mask. It had holes for breathing. Not sure why nuts required that. I guess it was a sweat issue.

We also didn’t have hockey sticks. These were replaced with golf clubs donated by my father’s friends from a country club which he was not a member. No pucks…. Only used golf balls. Ice? Negative. The concrete floor was as close as we could get to Lake Placid.

Everyone but me chose their weapons. The forwards chose two, three, four or even five irons. Anything above that would elevate their slap shot above my ribs or head. A pitching wedge was just unmentionable, because it may break the already dim ceiling lights in the basement.

I was left with a putter, cup and a catcher’s baseball chest protector.

I don’t know if I was more terrified of the golf balls aimed at me, because the opposing team didn’t seem interested in scoring, or the basement shrapnel flying from the floor. (By the time mom discovered what we were doing, it was too late to stop us or call for help) I did also have a baseball glove in hand and some athletic tape surrounding my forearms to disguise any bruises.

Never finishing a game with the USA Flag wrapped around me, rather, I paraded around the basement with something more like a beach towel we found at a local river covered with sand, hair, and cheap suntan lotion.

Thanks to the “cup”, I never suffered a broken nose. And, I never finished a game with a red, white and blue flag. Black and blue was fine with me.

Gambling is fun, if you have the funds, or proper representation just large enough to save your thumbs.

The Super Bowl awakened us, hit us, and some quite hard. Therefore, so does gambling. Personally, I don’t really care about the bet I made with a friend. In fact, I’m happy I lost the bet, because, he will say, “No big deal, you can buy me lunch after this covid stuff subsides.” I guess I’m in the clear for another couple years!! What a chump!

That easy ride takes me to a thought of betting with people during the Super Bowl. Common people….you know….morons. Me. (I stole that line from Mel Brooks in Blazing Saddles,)

People, or, “morons”, still make resolutions. My very simple belief is people make new year’s reservations before the Super Bowl. Anyone who bets on that, like me, is a simpleton. It’s ok to be stupid, as long as you admit to being stupid yet having the money to choose poorly. That’s where it becomes confusing for some.

The most money I’ve ever made gambling was betting against a very smart roommate with a bad habit. I won’t identify the roommate and close friend, nor his legal habit, but he did buy me a Chinese dinner annually after losing the bet. Even if his check bounced at Tom Yung Fhoo Mee, he wasn’t stupid, decided to finish his pharmacy degree, became a quite successful pharmacist, and never bet with me again.

I never wanted to be famous. Perhaps, that’s why I’m not. With my action figure past, I could have been famous…so so famous.

G.I. Joe was famous because this plastic model of destruction convincing his company to accept him and many children wanting to be like a doll, yes, a doll, embracing an arsenal and no conscience. This doll carried a bazooka, hand grenades, machine gun, and bug spray. G.I Joe was an action hero to many.

Action figures are defined as play time boy toys made out of silicon, rubber, and asbestos. Sometimes, toy makers would inject a little maple syrup to increase the intensity required for to secure a hill.

In the mid seventies, I became an action figure. Yet, I was a real life action figure for my brothers. Not supplied with hooks, knives, grenades, or guns, I was succumbing to mental suppression and physical abuse because I was wearing leg braces at the age of five. Wearing the braces lasted two years. The fun my dear brothers had with me only lasted a few months.

The leg braces were fine for a few days. I learned to live with them. They were funny looking. Leather shoes, a triangular crotch separating my legs with leather straps wrapped tightly around my thighs and shoes with tire tread soles. To be honest, although wildly uncomfortable, I didn’t mind the attention at all. Even if the attention would come with a form of torture, a term I loosely use.

Going in depth with how wonderfully my family treated me during this time I was supposed to feel so helpless and sorry for myself, they made it properly clear they would help me if necessary and I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. Some of them also said, “Since you’re getting all the attention, you are going to pay a price for it.” During the winter months, I became a three and a half foot tall Christmas tree ornament hanging vertically with my brothers and neighbors taking aim. Yes, they’d hang me upside down dangling from a tree. Other than the wool gloves covering my face with one hand and my genitals with the other, I was defenseless.

I didn’t know what “paying the price for it” meant until I was swinging from a tree in my braces, only to be targeted by snowballs during the “Happiest Time of the Year.” My silver bells weren’t ringing. They were stinging. After a long half hour, I could only wish for the balls to cease. Eventually, they did.

Entering high school, the stories grew like a beanstalk. Teachers would ask me if I was pelted with baseballs, footballs, hockey pucks and even golf balls as though my father would drive us to the nearest golf course allowing my brothers to hang me from a tree on the driving range. None of those things ever happened.

This is a bit foggy, or snowy, but I’d like to remember two of my oldest brothers showing up one day to witness the public display of humiliation. Brothers Steve and Glenn arrived one day and put a very stern and prompt end to the snowball throwing gallery, telling them, as my father would sometimes say, “If this happens again, we’re going to kick your asses up beneath your shoulder blades.”

I neve dangled from a tree again.

Appreciating the State of Arizona is easy. Arizona has a rich history, pristine views of a particular canyon I’ve not properly visited or even researched, many golf courses, outlaws depicted in movies, pickle ball glory, and my favorite, minor league baseball. Arizona also has zoos. In fact, some of the best zoos just west of New Mexico.

Much like my Irish history, I hadn’t given much thought to zoos as being a part of my culture. Those silly DNA ancestry results about me and my fellow shillelagh swinging Micks always resulted in nothing but potatoes and drinking, even tossed in with a few bouts of gambling. Yes. I get it, and I’m not particularly proud of my cultural stereotypes. That’s when I thought of going to a zoo in Arizona, which couldn’t be further from my heritage, or so I thought. Allow me speak and embrace a bipedal departure from my tarnished history.

After being licked by camels, giraffes and toucans, my wife and I headed to the primate section of the park. As God and my wife’s witness, she thought I encountered one of my relatives.

Yes, it was a monkey. At first, I thought it was merely a cute, long armed species wanting everyone’s attention. My wife then pointed out, “hey, I think he likes you.” As a sensitive hetero-primate myself, I’ve never been approached or attacked by a lower chain of species, so I felt safe, as I was at least four feet taller than him. So, I wandered around his confinement to see some of the many others also in this chain linked environment. They paid me no attention. The one taking a shine to me kept following me as if he recognized me. My wife’s amusement was clear, and so was my curiosity along with his. While the monkey, wearing no goofy shriner’s hat, nor carrying a pail for tithing, it was evident he was dancing, prancing, and even did an uncomfortable magic trick for me pulling a banana out of his “fur”.

I could have moved on to the elephant exhibit, but my wife convinced me to stay and entertain the monkey, or her in the process. It was an experimental way of convincing me and everyone else at the zoo that it was as if I was more of a primate than a human.

The monkey was far more talented than I could ever be, but I did look around me and found each human in the zoo almost as interesting as the monkeys. The humans were walking around with something called corn dogs. Even the thought of eating what may be considered a “corn dog” seemed quite medieval. They also carried change in their pockets for something called a wishing well. Get Real. As I realized how interesting this “human exhibit” was to me, it became more clear the monkey and I had a good deal in common. At this point I purchased the monkey a six dollar beer, which I didn’t pull out of my somewhat hairy chest, and offered it to him. He then drank the beer, ate the cup, and we parted as similar, yet different bipeds. Our only difference was clear – I don’t eat plastic.

After further analysis, I get it. A DNA kit determined that I was 30 percent Irish, and 70 percent monkey. It was displayed properly within the ancestral family tree. All of my ancestors were not just beating down trees filled with Apples (to make Apple jack), they were also swinging from those trees.

Along with colds, coughs, and oxygen tanks, not to mention Covid or computer malfunctions, and intentionally not responding to texts, those days still remain. I’m guilty of not providing a blog for those who give a crap. Just like Christmas Cards, I’m late, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember New Years of the past, present and future…making me a prophet.

Do you remember when the first day of the year meant something, other than hangovers? #bowlgames.

Now, it’s merely just breaking your new year’s resolution.

In the late 70’s and early to late 80’s as well as the early 90’s breaking into the late 90’s, there was a reason to wake up at the crack of clam dip. We watched the Coton Bowl, Sugar Bowl, Orange Bowl, and ended the evening with the Rose Bowl. Not to make light of it, but the “Me Too Bowl” was something I couldn’t properly relate to, similar to my favorite bowl, the “What About Me Bowl”, which still is pending charges, depending on the outcome of certain judicial decisions.

Our mother always made clam dip for us to end her cooking for the New Year’s Day. It came in a casserole dish as large and loud as our catholic and quite pious father using phrases such as “God Damn it!” or “Jesus Christ!” while watching Notre Dame piss away another National Championship. Our brother, Greg, would utilize the same profanities only to be asked to go on the lawn with the other dogs. It was blasphemy and hypocrisy at its finest. Tom and I just ate and enjoyed the games

I miss those days. Simple. Fulfilling. Profanity included. Not giving a damn about resolutions at the age of 5 through 18, we were merely enjoying the games, eggnog and clam dip.

I’ve never served my country unless it was community service after a ridiculously stupid trespassing violation. Dropping dollops of mashed potatoes and gravy on a starving person’s plate wasn’t heroic, and it wasn’t scary. It was just the right thing to do.

My father served in Korea, and although I’ve read parts of books and periodicals about the Korean War, I always wanted to grasp how he felt in battle. Other than suffering through one of the coldest winters in Korea, he gave very few details. However, after being decorated as a war hero, earning the Silver Star, two bronze stars and a Purple Heart, he didn’t deem himself as a hero. He praised those fighting.along his side, who saved his life while dying on behalf of not only him, but our country.

I did ask him a fair question. “Were you ever afraid?” That’s a tough question to ask a man, especially when you want the answer to be “NO.” In my eyes, and in my heart, he was a hero, not just as a Veteran, but as a father and husband. His answer was not what I wanted. “Right down to my socks, buster.”

Even after that response, I still believed he was a hero. I didn’t understand then, and without serving or participating in a war, I can only try to understand now. Courage isn’t about being fearless, it is about taking action even when you’re terrified. Courage is moving forward. when you are afraid and moving on even when you are scared right down to your cold, wet socks.He wouldn’t have been a hero if he wasn’t afraid. Perhaps, when I asked him that simple question, he was afraid to answer it honestly to his youngest son, but he did.

That’s bravery at its finest.

The Northern lights. As a ten year old, I didn’t know what the hell those were. It could have been a lamp hovering over a basketball hoop or a left field fence for all I knew. I did know this. When my mother would reach for a wooden chair and stare to the North, it didn’t matter. I’d stare with her.

Our mother spent decades in that yard watching and reluctantly participating in our backyard adventures, whether it was baseball, football, basketball or kick the can, she’d be there. One night, she asked me if I wanted to see the Northern Lights, and I didn’t care if was a 30 watt lightbulb. I said, yes.

She sat in the chair and I sat on the lawn next to her wondering when this light would turn on to illuminate our yard and house. Mom sat patiently, and I sat impatiently waiting for something I wasn’t sure I believed in or not. I tossed my impatience aside, along with my leather baseball glove, and decided to believe in her. Something I should have done long before.

An hour went by ( to me that was a day) and I saw nothing but dark blue sky. Usually, a chatter box, my mother was silent for that hour. I still sat by her believing something may happen which would define me as a man, child, infant or just a plain old earthling. Much like Sasquatch, the lights didn’t properly arrive. Yet, she believed, some day, they would. Therefore, I remained faithful as well, that one day they would arrive…just not that night.

Last Saturday, after hearing from the local news the Northern Lights could be witnessed at sunset, I sat alone on the grass waiting to see them in all their glory. I wasn’t alone. Although it was a beautiful sunset, the brilliant lights seen in internet pictures never arrived, much like Sasquatch. Yet, sitting they made me realize the most magical part of the northern lights was actually our mother.

Although we never captured it in its full brilliance, I thought there was more to Northern Lights than just the colors. It was faith and wondering what was beyond those lights. My mother always believed there was more somewhere else. At the time, I didn’t, but I do now. Still never seeing the Northern Lights, I went further and found out there was something beyond those lights which would make me happy. Thanks to her, I’m happy.

My wife doesn’t like surprises, neither do I. Whenever she comes home, she does love the celebration…..to a point. She loves the rose pedals, the confetti, the music, “Hail to the Chief” playing, and the champagne poured into her eyes. Gratefully, she welcomes me with egg rolls from our local Asian cuisine haunt, Jack in the Box.

She also loves the new tattoos we all have representing our love for her. I have an “I love my gal” on my constitution. Our dog, Laney, has a “Feed ME” on her forehead, and the cats have tattoo’d paws reading, “Meow” on one paw, and “Claws R Us” on the other. They are bad ass kittens.

This is where my wife draws the line. Our 120 pound dog knocks her down before she can enter the door. After the 5th trip to the emergency room, I keep our dog locked up in a room with a tomahawk shaped bone. That’s her medication. After 5 hours, I release her and she strolls out of the room, a little uneasily, and gives my wife a delicate hug followed by wet kisses.

My wife does appreciate the affection, but further appreciates the lack of emergency room visits. I finally figured it out.

Pull over! When my brother, Steve, said, “Pull over.”, it was a command, not from the police, but from God. The police? Ahh. No big deal. God. Big deal. We pulled over because even God forgot one of the commandments. “thou shall not pull over unless I say so, or Steve says so.”

My brother, mike, was driving and semi sober. He pulled over and asked Steve, “why do you need wine sauce?” Steve’s response: “cuz wine sauce is goooood!!!! Wooooo!

After a hard and glorious day of fishing and drinking, the wine sauce, which never came to fruition, allowed us to let Steve drift off into this inebriated wine sauce world he wished to inhabit. He was the Willy Wonka of drinking. A world of pure imagination where he could make dreams come true at his tavern filled with watermelon pull tabs, Ribeye pinball machines and Dodger Darts. He did make dreams come true.

Right or not, the wine sauce I infused with chicken stock, garlic and onions, it seemed right.

Hello!!!

Answering the phone in this fashion was the only way for a parrot to receive calls in an office. Mike worked as a lumber broker in Oregon. Freddy was my brother Mike’s parrot, and everyone grew to like him, other than Mike’s wife. I guess you could say Mike and Freddy were kindred spirits.

Freddy was purchased for 2,000 dollars in Hawaii. Much to Mike’s dismay, he pleased his wife by allowing this bird to enter his life. I’m sure it’s something he won’t forget. Nor would Freddy.

Even though we sometimes refer to people as having birdbrains, this particular bird was far more intelligent than humans. More importantly, Freddy was unique and funny with a keen sense of knowing who loved him and tried to understand him.

We all thought our oldest brother, Mike, was crazy for buying this bird. He wasn’t crazy, and much like everyone in Mike’s world, he welcomed him to our goofy world as family. I’ll never forget when he traveled to Spokane, Washington for his first Thanksgiving. Freddy was a hit. Amongst people he didn’t know, he was a bit shy, and when we wanted him to ask for a cracker, he backed away and hid in his cage until the turkey was ready. Freddy was very well mannered when it came to table manners or matters. All of us were upstairs when Freddy called out, “Turkey’s done!” It was shocking. “Turkey”s done, turkey”s done, turkey’s done!” Our mother was blown away. She expected to walk down the stairs to see a bird wearing an apron with an electric knife prepared to carve it. Freddy was walking around, and greeted our mother with a boisterous “Hello, turkey’s done.” Indeed it was. Freddy didn’t carve the turkey but he entertained what became his guests throughout dinner. I wish i could disclose Freddy also said grace, but he left that to our father, who was interrupted during his brief grace, by shouting, “Everyone’s hungry!” It was beautiful. We were all very hungry. Mom served Freddy up a plate, but he forgave her for cooking up one of his kin, and denied the plate, respectfully, for a plate of birdseed.

Freddy arrived in the Continental United States to witness the stupidity, self absorbed attitudes floating around the states. Freddy took advantage of it with great personality and grace. Mike’s wife would leave the shower, and Freddy greeted her with a, “Hello Bitch!” He would also use other metaphors I am too young to provide. (I can’t hide my blushes).

Mike called the bird dealership inquiring about the dirty bird’s vernacular. They informed him of the many languages he spoke, but forgot to tell him profanity was his greatest gift. Mike thought it was funny, and after the divorce, Mike got the bird.

Years later, Freddy and Mike became room mates. Mike paid the bills and
Freddy provided the entertainment.

One week, Mike had a business engagement, and as a responsible birder, he invited a quest to look after Freddy. Sadly, things didn’t go well. Without proper details I only know the guest was stellar when taking care of Freddy with one minor detail. He was watching college football in a recliner when, deciding to get a refreshment, declined the recliner, only to hear a shriek and a “F#@%!!’ Freddy’s leg was stuck beneath the recliner. Freddy’s leg was badly broken. Quickly, the guest drove Freddy to the vet with Freddy yelling at him, and cursing, sometimes in various languages. They arrived safely, a cast and crutch was provided, but the hospital stay was decidedly longer than expected.

Upon Mike’s return, he visited Freddy immediately; Freddy was diagnosed with a fracture to the upper and lower bird leg. Mike wished to take Freddy home, so he did so after approval from the doctors. After returning to Mike’s or Freddy’s home, Mike noticed something was wrong with Fred. He no longer happily spewed profanity and seemed depressed. Mike returned to the Vet addressing his concern and when entering the facility, the other birds celebrated his return with words I can’t and won’t disclose. Freddy was depressed. Quite simply, he missed his friends.

Reluctantly, Mike and the Vet agreed this was a better home than one he could provide.

Mike visited Freddy frequently with Fred’s open wings and a “How the F@#K are you?!

They are both fine.