Category Archives: Uncategorized

Three Men and a Sucker Punch

Posted on by
Reply

Sometimes, what happened in our living room, would leave the living room, or just sprint out of it in shame.

As a spectator, and still a boy of maybe 12, I witnessed something spectacular. It was a wrestling match between by brother of 16 and a formidable opponent: one of his older brothers of roughly 25. The details are a bit sketchy, but the conclusion is definitive. My father was there not to officiate, but to time the massacre.

The wrestlers were two of my six older brothers. Although siblings, they maintained different styles of athleticism. The elder, Aaron, was an excellent high school baseball player, which was the only sport he participated in while in high school. His love and talent for the game was natural, however, it couldn’t match his lackluster attitude, which we decided he did only to drive our father crazy. He could have been a terrific football player…..no, too much “rah rah!” B.S. Wasn’t his style. He would have been an excellent basketball player……nah, too much work. While he seldom wrestled, when he did, Aaron seemed to allow his opponent to gain a quick and large lead, before pinning his opponent with ease. This drove his coaches and my father nuts. It seemed deliberate. Perhaps it was his interesting sense of humor, which remains to this day, or perhaps he just didn’t give a damn. Aaron’s ability and his elite speed was no match for his disinterest, or what he would maintain as arrogance.

Tom, his living room opponent, was a little different. Great attitude, and impeccable work ethic. Having superior athleticism, Tom acquired All-State awards in both football and wrestling, and would eventually earn him the school’s best athlete award, not to mention a college football scholarship. When he was 16, he was a man.

Verbally sparring in the living room, Tom and Aaron were not interested in the riveting golf game our father was trying to watch. They were arguing about who was the best wrestler. Dad told them to take it out on the lawn. Evidently they agreed that someone must be there to officiate. Now, there was no way in Hell the old man was going to get out of his comfort zone, walk outside and officiate this mess. So, Aaron proposed a solution. Aaron bet Tom he could take him down ten times in thirty seconds. In order to speed things up, Dad agreed to be the timer. He even chuckled at the thought of what may happen, knowing Tom was a little too big for his Buster Browns. I stared at Tom, knowing he had never been beaten. If I had any cash, I may have even put that cash on Tom.

They both positioned themselves, Tom with a look of determination, and Aaron smirking. Dad, waiting for this pissing contest to be over, quickly said, “Ok, lets get this started. Ready…..Go.” By the time I could get nervous for Tom, Aaron had taken him down eight times in less than twenty seconds leaving only ten more seconds for him to survive. While Tom seemed a little tired, the only breathing Aaron was doing was out of laughter. Tom had met his match, and he knew it. Tom then took the matter into his own hands, literally, when they entered the center of the living room for the last ten seconds. With abject surprise, Dad and I watched as Tom punched Aaron in his stomach, or I think it was his stomach. Aaron dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes with the wind knocked completely out of him. Knowing it was an illegal wrestling move, and fearing reprisal, Tom quickly fled the scene of the bet. It was over, just like that.

While the old man and I sat laughing at Aaron wheezing on the floor, Tom was no where to be found. While still wheezing, Aaron chuckled at Tom’s keen sense of how to conclude a battle less than royal. After catching his breath, Aaron asked, “Where’s Tom?” Dad merely stated, “Probably close to the Idaho Border by now.” (That’s a half hour away from our house….driving.)

Although Tom was disqualified, upon his return he seemed a little satisfied. Not as satisfied as Dad who was back to watching a golf game with softly spoken commentators. This was a well deserved nap for the old man.

The C-Note

Posted on by
Reply

“The best money I ever spent.” That’s how my old man described giving money to a ne’er-do-well he wished to not see again. When someone was in need, my father would happily give cash away, no questions asked. He taught me a helpful lesson when he used one of his C-Notes (one hundred dollars to non-gamblers) to keep a neighborhood thief from storing his stolen tires in our garage while we were on a vacation. This fellow was shady, and after discovering the stolen tires, my father deduced who the culprit was. Dad floated him a hundred bucks after he expressed his hard times, and Dad knew he wouldn’t be repaid. That was actually Dad’s plan . . the neighbor avoided us from then on, and never returned to Locust Road. Perhaps. he was just avoiding the house with thirteen children … we’ll never know. I think expecting the shady neighbor to avoid contact with someone he owned money was a clever bet on the old man’s part, though. Thank God our father was a semi pacifist.

The Every Other Daily Corona: 6 Seats Away

Posted on by
Reply

My old man indoctrinated strangers in a civil, albeit it odd, fashion back in the early eighties when a few of his thirteen children were still in school. You could say he was a man ahead of his time, as he seemed to encourage people to socially distance from him on a routine basis.  He was a suit wearing, neatly combed executive at a radiology clinic in Spokane by day, and well…..a bum in the neighborhood on weekends.  Some of my siblings hated it, but I actually enjoyed it.  One of my brothers didn’t care for it at all.  Our old man would attend baseball games, wearing a mangy sweater with cigarette burns, talking to my brother about his last at bat in between innings.  It was usually encouraging and his analysis was often times spot on.  Dad had the credentials after being drafted to play professional baseball before fighting in the Korean War.  When my brother would return to the dugout, one of his teammates would ask him what that hobo was saying to him.  My brother was ashamed to admit that it was his father.

Taking his six foot rule a bit further with strangers was a bit embarrassing for the rest of us and our mother.  On a short weekend vacation to Seattle, he would find a hotel with an indoor swimming pool and hot tub.  While four of the thirteen children were horsing around in the pool, he wished to use the hot tub.  Once, their was a group of young couples probably in their mid twenties monopolizing the tub when dad was trying to find a place to sit.  There just wasn’t enough room, so he stuck his foot in the water and tried to make small talk with one of the couples.  “I’ve heard one of the easiest ways contract this H.I.V. Virus is sharing a hot tub with others who may have the virus.  Isn’t that the damndest thing you ever heard?”  Three seconds later, he had the tub to himself.  My sister, Maggie, who became a registered nurse and is on the front lines to this day was thoroughly embarrassed by his behavior even at the age of thirteen.  “Dad, that’s a bunch B.S.” Good old Rodney Gannon would just chuckle.

During the aerobics era, we’d often have people in our neighborhood walking the streets to get exercise.  If they lived more than one house away, our old man didn’t know any of them.  He’d be outside smoking a cigarette, and stop them in mid stride just to offer them a cigarette.  I’ve never seen such sinister looks from people.  I thought it was hilarious.  “Well I NEVER!” would be the usual response from some old bag trying to exercise on our street.  You’d never see them twice.  Our dad’s shit eating grin was delightful.  Out of his office on the North Side of Spokane, he made the Valley his own little world by, in very civil ways, pestering those who didn’t know him all for his own amusement.  He took his job so seriously, I think it was his way of winding down, and lightening the world up a bit.  My friends, who knew him well loved it.  While tossing a baseball or football around in the front yard with my friends, they would stop the action and nudge one another and say, “Hey watch.  Mr. Gannon is going to say something funny to this person walking down the street.”  It never failed.  It brought belly laughs for them.  I’d just smile and shake my head.  I guess he was amusing those who knew him as well.

Rodney wouldn’t go to movies much because of the crowds.  We’d sometimes convince him to go to one we knew he’d enjoy.  Raiders of the Lost Ark was playing at a local theater and it was packed, thus difficult to find many open seats together.  You could have referred to it as social distancing from our father at the theater.  I was sitting next to Maggie when she nudged me and had me look up to where the old man was seated.  He’d always buy two supersized barrels of popcorn, one for him and one for others to share, even if they didn’t know him.  Normally, if it wasn’t a packed theater, the people sitting next to him would whisper, “Let’s get the Hell away from this weirdo.”  With no other seats available, they couldn’t move six seats down, so they’d humor him and take the popcorn and pass it on down the line.  That didn’t bother us.  Watching him eat the popcorn was borderline embarrassing.  Anyone who didn’t know him would be convinced it was his last meal.  One handful or front loader at a time, he would shove three quarters of it in his mouth leaving the other quarter in his or someone else’s lap.  That was during the previews.  When the previews were over,  the popcorn was gone, and not wanting to leave his seat, he’d offer a complete stranger twenty bucks to go get two more buckets, one for him and his girlfriend and one for himself.  He’d also tell them to keep the change hoping they’d just leave with his twenty spot and walk to the nearest Chinese restaurant for a decent meal.  They’d return with the popcorn and, by the end of the movie, they even seemed to enjoy his rascally behavior.  With butter soaked hands, they’d even bid our old man adieu by shaking hands with him.  “That was one Hell of a movie.”  And he, was a helluva man.

Broken Furniture

Posted on by
Reply

“Broken Furniture”  sounds like a song I may or may not have heard as an infant.  I did, however, grow up with a band of sisters and brothers whose only instruments were their fists and shouts.  According to our friend, Vic, we lived in a madhouse. This is nonfictional.

Our friend, Vic, tells me stories about this madhouse when I was too young to remember the stories.  Actually, I wasn’t even born before Vic began studying our family values.  Those values included breaking furniture, bloodying noses and saying “Grace” before dinner.  This was followed by more broken furniture, backyard wrestling and sleeping on the lawn if they didn’t settle down.

Vic once asked my father a logical question , wondering if we were poor, “Can’t you afford new furniture?”

Our father responded with equal logic.  “We’ll buy new furniture when they are all gone.  It would be a ridiculous waste of money if we paid for it now.”

Vic couldn’t help but understand and laugh.

 

 

Voices

Posted on by
Reply

Singing commercial jingles. Is there something wrong with my wife?

That’s her thing.  She loves singing along to terrifically poor commercial jingles.  I wish it didn’t make me laugh or smile.  Actually, my wish to laugh and smile is critical.  She grants me that.

Lee Marvin in Paint Your Wagon

Lee Marvin in Paint Your Wagon

It all changed with this pesky and raspy cold or flu people are getting.  After taking days off of work, the voice I heard singing the jingles suddenly sounded similar to Rod Stewart, Louis Armstrong, Lee Marvin and Morgan Freeman.  I thought it was funny.  So did she…sort of.  She just didn’t care to be to compared with elderly male celebrities. I had to leave the room when she laughed while doing spot on impersonations of these people while wildly sick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Southpaw

Posted on by
Reply

My wife is impossible.  She’s just so unreasonable.  She also scares me. Luckily, she is married to a man who uses reason, patience and kindness when dealing with her and our animals.  For months, she had been bugging me about getting a cat. Well, now we have one.  It’s the same old story all the time.  “Oooh….look at that cat.  It’s so cute.  I’ll take care of it, I promise.”  While she’s working three jobs, guess who will be taking care of it?  Yeah.  Exactly.  Me.  It burns and scratches my ass……quite literally.

Our cat, Otis, has his own personnel key to our house.  It’s actually a key to any room in our house.  We named him after my wife’s favorite character in The Andy Griffith Show, and he seems to be living up to his name.  Otis spends much of his time in his cell, or pantry number one after he’s had a snootful of catnip. He sleeps it off, receives a terrific breakfast from his Aunt B (my wife, Britt) and we wave him goodbye until the next weekend.  Sometimes, if he staggers into the pantry, he begins meowing uncontrollably.  We then read him a book by Dr. Seuss or sing him a song titled Cat Scratch Fever. This and these antics which follow are eerily similar to those exhibited by Otis Campbell on the A.G. Show.

Sometimes, he can’t find the pantry.  He may be passed out in the office, one of our closets, in the dishwasher, beneath the couch, or head first in one of our many urns occupied by former pets using their ashes as though they are his stadium’s many toilets.

Having never witnessed Otis Campbell throw a punch, I couldn’t tell if he was right or left handed.  Our Otis is definitely a southpaw, and I have the scars to prove it.  Sure, just like a champ, he’ll set you up with several right jabs and then surprise you with a vicious left claw.  My wife wonders why our blankets and pillow cases look like a crime scene in the morning.  DNA central.

Once, after we returned home from dinner, we found him riding around on our dog, a one hundred pound canine.  Otis weighs just over a pound.  This was after he found the key to the catnip cabinet.  Just like Barney Fife, I convinced my wife to allow me to provide some necessary form of rehabilitation.  After detoxing throughout the night, I started by giving him the renowned Sylvester the Cat Rorschach test.  After displaying a number of pictures, each response was the same.  “Tell me what you see on this piece of paper.”  Meow.  “How about this one?”  Meow.  The third one he just pissed on.  He looked at Britt with pleading eyes, and she laughingly dismissed him.  She thinks everything Otis does is funny.  She and Otis need to have their own act in Vaudeville.  I didn’t find it funny at all.

I did get back at him once.  Attempting to exercise on the treadmill, Otis came wobbling into the room.  He was fascinated by the treadmill.  With my legs moving, I remained stationary.  Instead of asking me, he just jumped on the treadmill, and after several cat rolls, went flying against the wall.  He hasn’t been on it since.  That made me laugh.

Ultimately, Otis is a pretty affable cat, and we can’t help but love him.  You have to, don’t you?  Just like you and your good for nothing, booger eating, pants pooping, can I borrow some money (borrow?….that’s a laugh) will you watch them for the night, soon to be spending time in the County Jail children.

My parents loved me.  Well, I’m pretty sure they did.

 

 

Youth Group and The Simpsons

Posted on by
Reply

In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy spirit.

That’s how we’d begin the Catholic confessional process.  Then, there was, Bless me Father for I have sinned.

Let thee who is innocent or clear of sin cast the first stone…..or something like that.  In Spokane, Washington, evidently everyone who attends church on Sunday is clear of sin, because after mass, the parish members would be casting stones immediately, both figuratively and literally.  You had the National Inquirer old bags gossiping in the parking lot, and you had the children, including me, actually participating in a rock fight on the church’s property.  The old men would just be smoking.

It’s great to feel free of sin.  Guilt is awful.  I don’t go to confession anymore, but this blog can become my sort of confessional medium.  In addition to confessing some of my past sins, I’ll take the liberty to confess a few of my friends’ and brother’s sins…..without their permission of course.

Growing up in the Catholic church, one of the many sacred and ridiculous items to check off your pious list was to attend Youth Group one night a week.  Depending on the year you were born, these classes would be held on either a Sunday or Monday night when you were in high school.  They were preparing us for conformation…..sort of a half ass way of creating a transformation for children of God to Men and Women of God.  You sat in these two to three hour sessions amongst students throughout the Spokane Valley, also parishioners, led by some poor soul searching man or woman preach to us about Heaven and Hell.  Let’s just say it wasn’t on the 17 or 18 year olds’ wish list of things to do on a Sunday or Monday night.

I blame my brothers for many of my abominable sins.  Their Youth Group sessions were on Monday nights.  So, when I was home watching Monday Night Football with our father, my two older brothers would leave the house heading toward St. John’s for their weekly 6 o’clock pain dispenser.  I’d smile wryly as they’d leave the house.  They’d do it by way of the nearest pizza parlor providing the game on television.  Not only did they skip the meetings, one of my brothers, a senior in high school, had a fake identification card so he could buy the pitchers of beer.  (he is now a reverend, compliments of the Internet) It didn’t take me long to figure out why they were so happy and a little wobbly when they’d return.  I was old enough to figure it out.  I was also smart enough not to rat them out for fear of a severe beating.  You didn’t have to sign in to these meetings, and the twenty something teacher never called our home to ask where they were, probably afraid of the same thing I was afraid of.  I think my wise mother figured it out and didn’t care.  Dad would be in bed when they’d return so there was no time for questions.  We already knew how to recite the Our Father, Hail Mary, The Apostle’s Creed and dozens of other written statements pounded into our head once a week at church.  If there were questions, my brothers would open a bible and pick any book according to Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John and quickly discern something they hadn’t discussed in a class they didn’t attend.  It was one of their favorite nights of the week.  Now I have to repent for confessing someone else’s sins.  I just recited ten Hail Marys.  That should be good enough to move on to the following paragraph disclosing one of my own.

By the time I was a senior, after attending the classes religiously as a Junior, I thought that was enough.  My brother, the future reverend, was now living in an apartment on the Spokane River.  This became my fortress of irreverent solitude on Sunday nights.  Although Greg, (oops, I said his name) worked weekends, I had befriended his roommate (an agnostic) who was old enough to buy adult beverages.  Instead of going to Youth Group, which became Youth Puke to us, I’d head to their place to drink beer and watch The Simpsons. It was delightful.  I swear I learned more from The Simpsons than anything I’d learn at Youth Group.

It was there I’d eventually receive my certificate of confirmation.  Never getting bed wetting drunk, just a few beers, I’d leave reciting a semi genuine act of contrition and, by grace of God, return home safely.

In the name of The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,

Amen.