Mi Espeedo (My Speedo)

My wife and I are in Italy.  Other than sitting down to dine, or walking hand in hand for miles absorbing the cuisine and menu sightseeing, we really haven’t acknowledged one another.

Originally planning to update my daily Italian food blog, I have bumped into a few obstacles on this trip to Rome and other neighboring cities.  Gluttony, Sloth, Extreme Gluttony, Sloth, Premier Gluttony, Sloth and Epic Gluttony.  Behold, my seven Italian traveling sins.

After squeezing in a few extra morsels of anything that ends with a vowel movement, we additionally manage to crawl to the local Roman Colosseum, and Pantheon for some historical sightseeing.  They all make you think of your next meal, for it could be your last.  (Even though my wife is tagging along, since we are too busy to talk while eating and sleeping, she is merely a white Alfredo shadow sauce of myself.)

At this point of our journey, I can only explain my culinary exploits by means of a Speedo.  The Speedo salesmen around these parts are not profiting from the likes of me.  Shares in the Speedo market have plummeted twenty percent since my arrival.  Each time my wife asks me to finish her meal, that’s one more Speedo I won’t purchase simply since they don’t carry a “control top” variety.

Chow

 

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Scotlandia Part Deux

This is dedicated to The John of Wellingsons. (He is one our neighbors.)

Before my wife and I traveled to Scotland, my now ex friend, John, told me to try the haggis.  This is basically intestines, the heart, and lungs from a sheep.  I thought I had to at least try it because it is a Scottish staple.  It looks as dreadful as it tastes, but I worked it down my gullet as though I needed to get a free pass for escaping a Scottish prison.  It went into my mouth tasting of feces, and it left my body as black volcanic lava for an entire day.  Cheers, you J-hole!

Haggis at the Guilford Arms, Edinburgh Scotland

Haggis at the Guilford Arms, Edinburgh Scotland

 

 

It may be as Weird as it Gets (KEEP PORTLAND QUIET!!!)

Traveling abroad, meaning three pavement hours from our house, my wife and I felt as though we required a passport.  Not because of the three car pile up en route to Oregon from Seattle which added an additional three hours, but because we were entering a semi mythical land called Portland.  Not quite fitting in, we should have taken our passports.

I am a throwback from 1973.  That means I was born in 1973.  I remember the Seattle Super Sonics winning an NBA Championship in 1978, but I don’t remember the Portland Trailblazers winning the title the year before.  Portland, to me, only existed for two reasons: A couple of brothers.  One lived in a suburban house located close by in Gresham, Oregon……home of the Gophers, and the other traveled there from time to time on business tours.  Interesting, but not intriguing enough visit Portland Proper.

Watching and being entertained by a show called “Portlandia”, my wife and I felt intrigued enough to visit.  We wanted to know if it is a Real Landia.  I guess we may have felt it was like Atlantis.  So, let’s just call it Atlandia, for now.

Research allowed me to recognize this city to be a bit liberal.  Living in Seattle, I completely understand what that term means.  However, I didn’t know they had signs displaying how liberal they are before even arriving in this very fair city.   Just short of Portland, Exit 22 read, Dike Access Road.  That was our introduction.  The pictures then followed with the pudding……which was terrific.

Portland is worth a thousand pictures.  I’ll leave the last for best.  That’s Portland.

Before displaying these pictures, I must choose wisely regarding their order of importance.  This has been a dilemma for me because I am completely distracted by how goofy this city is and hopefully remains.  Let’s begin with the words and phrases, and synonyms.  “eccentric”.  “unbalanced”,  “unearthly colorful”, “odd and unusual”, “weird but has money”, “strange”.  All valid definitions.  I, personally, decided to define Portland as the way we experienced Portland.  “Charmingly Ridiculous”.  We fell in love with the ridiculous, yet charming atmosphere surrounding a city you may not believe in before leprechauns and unicorns.

Most of this blog is not about pictures.  It’s about the process.

1) Loser:  This graffiti is located on the top of a dilapidated building.  Why would one go to great lengths just to invalidate someone’s brilliant masonry?  When spray painting the white word, “LOSER”, atop a building, are they referring to themselves?  Personally, I  don’t know how this person paid for or developed the scaffolding to accomplish such a deed.  You lose.

2) If anything is really weird, stupid, or can’t sell in Portland, you just put a bird on it.  Although permanently borrowing this idea from the television show, the birds do exist on anything that won’t sell………because they’re so cute when not on your windshield.

3)  Face masks: Hockey, Mt Saint Helens and Ash.  That’s all face masks are good for.  Don’t scare the crap out of me when I merely want an innocent bacon wrapped maple doughnut from a place called “voodoo doughnuts” while waiting in a one hour line to have brunch with the devil.

 

 

4)Euro Trash:  That is indeed the name of this culinary cart.  I qualified for only reading the menu.  Accepting it as a compliment, I still was not allowed to order any trash.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5) Bone Marrow and Cedar Plank Receipts:  Literally, both were served at the SouthPark restaurant.  We were in charge of  recycling the wood.  There are no wood chippers allowed in Portland.

6) Pillows:  At the hotel, you are required to request your pillow.  They come with all shapes colors and dimensions.  Fluffy is not on the list.  Hard candy and peanut brittle is on the list.  Crispy Cream?  No means no!  You can also eat it in the morning if you aren’t willing to brush your teeth.  White is just simply not on the list.  When we asked for a special order, “the cedar plank pillow”, they became angry and told us to order room service.   This is Portland, not Sarcasmland.

7) Earplugs:  Providing earplugs at in our hotel room was not a necessary item, especially because they only provide one for unnecessary recycling purposes.  The earplug was more of a gift, much like a hotel pillow mint, merely requesting you, as said below the earplug, “Let’s keep Portland Quiet”.  This one was internally and externally funny to me.  Accidentally, I ate the earplug.  You don’t want to imagine the internal and external damage which ensued.  I couldn’t keep Portland Quiet.

The following morning, I awakened to dump trucks recycling my ear plug.  So, the only proper means of measurement when called upon in a situation such as this, I pulled out my Barney Fife badge and one phony angry bullet and screamed, ”  “KEEP PORTLAND QUIET!”  All became quiet on the Portland front…..except for my wife who was peacefully sleeping.

Whatever…..I’m skipping eight.  I’m all about throwing everything away, even if it flies haphazardly into the neighbor’s yard, but c’mon? My brother and I happily did that with the neighbors dog feces.  But, fluorescent lightbulbs in the middle of a park?  This is where it gets weird and dangerous.  Happily, I would sleep in garbage on an overnight stay at the Hilton Trash Can, but I prefer concrete, to light bulb shrapnel.

Ending our journey at a feminist bookstore, my wife was upset because I didn’t take a piss in front of it.  She’s crazy that way.  I just didn’t find it to be proper, especially since the bookstore was closed on the Sunday.  We did read this sign which can only be allowed to be read for the faithful followers of this tidy blog.

 

Genuinely enjoying the food and the personalities on this friendly tour of a bit of another dimension, we can’t wait to return.  Keep it weird, Portland, but I won’t keep it quiet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who is Pat Conroy? (Kiss my shrimp and Grits)

My inspiration for writing is devoted to one person, and a whole lot of other ones.  That was written with confusion, but allow me to explain.

His name is “The Prince of Tides”.

Visiting the majestic city of Charleston, South Carolina, my wife and I drank the beer, ate the cool shrimp and grits and tasted a dish called “she crab soup”.  I will never find its’ equal.  My favorite author, Pat Conroy, is respectfully known in Beaufort, South Carolina as a man who wrote, “The Prince of Tides”.  He has also written many other books blessed with grace and a voice I’d like to hear and have one beer with.   I did not wish to receive an autograph, see his home or annoy him in any way.  It was pure maple syrup curiosity.

In South Carolina, Britt, (my wife) and I, would ask questions as to what we determined the nicest people in the world. Our questions seemed to be answered. They shook hands.  They said strange phrases such as “Please and Thank you”.  When I opened the door for anyone, they replied,  “Thank you Ma’am, or Thank you, Sir. These were white women and black men treating all of us as equals.  I am indeed a man, but if they were to refer to me as a ma’am, I would  reply with great dignity and say to them….with a genuine smile.”You are very welcome”.

Pat Conroy provided excitement for the mere notion of the scary attempt at doing what I wished for. Writing.  Middle School students provided the gasping relief to know I required a different profession.

My first job interview as an English novice, I was asked one very, and  dreadfully dishonest question.  ” Who is your favorite Author?”  Initially, I thought, in the most phony of ways, Shakespeare,  Chaucer, Hardy, and even the saddest and craziest of all, Emily Dickenson.   I needed to impress these idiots so I could make forty grand a year with summers off.

Beg to differ.  Rather than pulling out the confusing cards such as Shake, Chauce, Emily Dick and even Hardy…..who made me suffer for three long years without baseball, I busted out Pat Conroy.  None of these imbeciles knew who I was referring to.  I said, “you know, the guy who wrote the “Prince of Tides.”

Their response………oh……….yeah, yeah…..good good.  Anything else?

Nope.  It was at that moment,I recognized how ridiculously stupid administration could be.  There was no Waaaaayyy I was going to work for them.

I didn’t get the job, but I knew where my path was leading.  After fifteen of years teaching, I finally found my Shrimp and Grits.  And, I’m going to retire with her.

I did meet Pat Conroy, and he was just as expected.  He was the Prince of Tides, and South Carolina is definitely, the prince of tides.

Ben Gannon

 

 

 

A Very Hindu Valentine (Business and Sickness)

While my wife’s guts and mine recover from our trip to India, I must leave those who follow this silly blog with quite a cute story regarding a completely different part of India’s business culture with which neither of us were aware.  My wife, Britt, and I went to India for two specific reasons.  She went for business, and I went to get sick.  I’ve already documented my sickness, so let’s go for some funny business.  Traditionally, in the United States, although many people ignore this, relationships within the place of employment are frowned upon by the Human Resource Department (usually ran by a robot) and cherished by those who love good gossip.  Generally, it’s just not a great idea.  This is what made India so interesting this time around.

Britt’s first day of working in Bangalore, India brought a few surprises.  With much disbelief, just prior to entering the 9th floor office, she was notified this office required a dress code since it was the most Holy of Commercialized Days:  Valentines Day!

I’m not joking AT ALL.  Following is the dress code for this work day.  These are only color dress codes representing ones love status:

Pink:  you are looking for love

Red:  you are in love

Yellow: you are looking for opposite sex friendship in the work place

Orange: It’s complicated

She had a quick response to the man chaperoning her to this new office:  “Seriously?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

Now, of course, my wife, not knowing about any of this, was wearing the loudest and prettiest pink blouse in the room, meaning she was definitely looking for love in all the wrong places.  They took this wildly seriously.  Showered with flowers, she was THEN (this is after flying 22 hours for a “serious” business trip) called upon to be the master, or mistress of ceremonies ending the day.  This required her to name all of the couples who had matched up on this day.  Additionally, some were dedicating love songs to their co-working matches made in India.  Ultimately, Britt informed me they didn’t do a lick of work.  Suspended in disbelief, she could only relate by thinking of those second grade Valentine’s days when your desk was littered with cards from secret idiots.  It was just too cute for her to be mad.  When we were youngsters at school on this day, parents would bring cookies, teachers and janitors would be pissed about the party atmosphere, and absolutely no work would get accomplished.  This was quite similar to what my wife witnessed on that day.

Returning to the hotel room two hours late, and after she had previously informed me, via e-mail, of this sacred dress code, I could only assume she had found someone new to love.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  She was merely forced to be the judge and jury of the office decoration campaign.  Someone was to be honored for how well they decorated their cubicle.  (I’m not shitting any of you)  I believe there were eighty cubicles to be judged.

It made my day in the hotel room feel much more simple and boring.  All I was required to do was crap and puke.  I’m no stranger to either.

By the way, she noticed I was accidentally wearing a red t-shirt on that day.  It was actually a crimson shirt representing Washington State University, meaning:

Just wait until next year.

 

 

What Day is This?

Roaming the streets of India can sometimes be a bit unnerving.  It can also be funny.  White guys become confused with the time and days in India.  We don’t know if it’s Hare Christmas, Easter, or Dinner Time….(that’s my favorite holiday).  I asked a wonderfully nice Hindu, “What day is this?”  Her response.  “Yesterday”.  I actually have this on film.  Who’s the idiot in this country?

Looking for my wife one day, I asked what street I was on.  The response was “yes”.  I felt compelled to ask another question.  “Where am I”?  Response:  “yes”.  They speak the English language, but they don’t hear the English language.  Neither do I.

I don’t blame them.

Stop Looking at Me (a trip to the zoo)

Walking through the streets of India, I believe the white man is recognized as someone going to the zoo.  It’s sad.  Everywhere we go, we wish to fit in.  I do enjoy experiencing anything new, but sometimes, you get that strange feeling you are not wanted.  You laugh too much.  Your hat and jeans make you look pretentious and borderline offensive, your hair is dirty blonde, you walk on the wrong side of the dirt, and you ask too many questions.  This is when you should know it’s time to leave the party.  At the zoo, I believe the animals appreciate your presence and affection for about five minutes, then wish you to leave.  Quite understandable.

In India, when anyone of our color shows up, we are initially a novelty item.  One of those trinkets you purchase for three dollars and seventy three cents, only to enjoy it for about ten minutes.  Then you get tired of it and send it to someone in another part of the planet so they can get tired of it too.  Nevertheless, it’s out of your sight and quietly out of your mind.

Colors, pictures, smells, sounds and sights resonate through our television and texting senses.  We forget touch.  That’s when it becomes scary.  If you see an animal on television, you think it’s cute.  When you touch one at the zoo,  sometimes, they get a bit agitated.  And, they should.  We are trespassing on their property.  We are invading their space.  It seems fun for about two hours, but you sense when it’s time to leave or retreat to the hotel.

Visiting a developing country is not always fun and games.  I look at people and smile.  Sometimes, they smile back, but other times they look at me with distain, wishing for me to leave.   That’s why I’m not the one going to the zoo.  Rather, I’m the one in the zoo.  The stares consume you.

Initially, I thought I was the one going to the zoo in India.  I was peering, taking pictures, using a camera in disbelief, ………..and then I noticed I wasn’t at the zoo, I was in the zoo.  I was the one maintaining the funny voice making them laugh at me.  I was the one wearing funny clothes making them chuckle.  I was the one they wanted to take a flight, back to where I belong.

It’s time to go home.

 

Remembering the Alley

For those of you who know me, I wrote something almost a year ago about an alley. For me, it provided meaning, substance, and an unworthy completion to this world.  Luckily, and happily, I’ve lived another year to see it again.

I can still see the alley, but not from my room.  I wish for it to remain in my thoughts and dreams.  My wife, Brittney, and I are staying at the same place I found my fortune in peace one year ago, and she told me to visit Cricket Alley once again. I wish my sister, Maggie, and my brother, Tom, and so many friends could visit.   They can’t.  I can’t.  Sometimes, you don’t wish for good sequels, because they don’t come true.  Rather, you dream about them, only to believe the second one is that much better.

Rocky Two was ok.  Jaws Two stunk.  India Jones, although entertaining, compared to the first, was The Temple of Doomed. I took a peek at our Alley today, and I knew it was meant for One sacred day. I left our alley alone.  There are no sequels in India.

Ben

Immortality in India

Three days of sickness in India makes one wish to be safe in a hospital anywhere but India.  We leap to conclusions while serving time in the bathroom.  “I’ll never eat again!!!  I’ll never drink again!!”  Typical eating and drinking hangover phrases. For those three days, I’d pretty much written my will, cashed in my chips and called those I love to say “goodbye”.  Today, I’ve never felt better and I’ve figured it out.  If you drink the India Cool Aid, you develop an understanding of the India Cool Aid.  Suffering for three days is much like penance.  “If you eat our food and survive for three days, you are allowed to stay for an additional thirteen days, and enjoy yourself because the worst is behind you.”

My brother, Steve, an immortal, taught me something about getting sick when fishing on the open sea.  It also applies to visiting India.  In India, you are always waiting to get sick.     If someone jumps on a boat, thinking they will be tossing their breakfast from here to there, well that’s what will happen.  With this mind set, you are, inevitably, going to get sick.  Steve, in the holiest of words once said, “Drink a bunch of beer, throw up while you’re catching a fish, and keep fishing, you pansy.  Your mind shouldn’t be worried about your stomach.  Your mind should be worried about other things like having a good time!  WOOOOOOO!”  I’m just quoting that from my brother, Steve’s, Bible.

After those three days of illness, I really have felt exceptionally better.  I’m having fun with my fellow Chennai brothers, eating anything I want, not wishing to die or provide a will and testament, and having a great time. Lessons sometimes follow pain.  Ultimately, with certain sacrifices, those lessons should remain fun.

In the name of the Father, Son, The Holy Sprit, and Steve…….Amen

A Guide for Traveling Simpletons (me)

Do you remember those educational films we watched in elementary school regarding etiquette in the classroom, cafeteria, playground, or bathroom?  Perhaps you’re not old enough to recall these, especially if you don’t know what a projector is.  These films were highly acclaimed short movies, including scripts displaying Steven Spielberg type quality. They made you want to be a well behaved boy or girl at Pastywood Elementary in any white picket fenced neighborhood throughout the country. Those films were both brilliant and quite entertaining.  Six, seven and eight year olds were held captive, I mean captivated by these dingy, gray screened masterpieces during the course of about one half of a delightful hour.  However, I’m a bit upset today with these productions, although maintaining profound reverence for them, because they never provided one for traveling abroad.  Here’s a script I will present for students all over the USA, hopefully enhancing their global travels.

(Only requiring narration from a man or woman, there is no dialogue from the actors, other than mouthing words)  In order to properly get a kick out of this, you must be 30 years of age or older and use the corny voices of the narrators..while using your imagination as to how stupid these actors were made to look…….here we go…….10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  ….projection scramble…..and action.

Look, there’s Ben and his wife Brittney packing for a long trip to India.  See the smiles on their faces.  They look healthy and happily married.

Once fully packed, Ben and Brittney sadly say their goodbyes to their dogs, Jack and Etta.  Oops, don’t forget cats, Jazz, Lola, and Grandpa Dennis.  (insert narrator chuckle) Doesn’t this seem like one big happy family?  Off to the Airport.

Before entering the airport, they take one last look to see if they have their passports, plenty of reading material for a 22 hour flight, and Brittney’s plastic flask containing only three ounces of liquid.  Be careful, if you take more than that, those squirrels of authority figures may confiscate it.

Uh oh, here comes the strip search.  Look at how well behaved Ben and Brittney are while being subjected to such ridiculous measures.  They take it in stride and are prepared for flying.

Ben and Brittney ate a hearty meal prior to taking the flight because, “ouch”, airplane food can sometimes be scary, kids……..almost as much as the flight.  They seem to be taking all the steps necessary for a fun and safe flight, minus the scary food.

Twenty hours into the flight and, “wow”, they’ve almost made it.  Brittney looks like she can see the finish line, but, “hmm”, Ben has a strange look in his eyes.  Looks like twenty hours is far too long for flying without food for Ben.  Take a good long look at Brittney’s gesture towards her husband while he suggests such nonsense. (overacting with a scowl and shake of her head) Seems to me, the wife may be the one with the most common sense in THIS family.

After finishing his inflight meal, by the look on Ben’s face, I’d say he made a poor decision, wouldn’t you, kids?

Uh oh, look at that. Considering those hand gestures, well it seems as though Ben’s recognizing just what a fool he’s been.  No, those looks from side to side are not just to peer at his pretty wife or stare at the foreign fellow sitting next to him.  Rather, Ben’s clearly looking for a restroom sign before the fasten your seatbelt sign comes on.  Ding.  Remember, safety first.

Exiting the plane, even with that grimace on his face, it looks like Ben will make it to the proper place of doing what all of us sometimes have to do.  Now, he just has to make it to the hotel.

Upon checking into the hotel, the happy couple doesn’t look as happy as before, do they?  Brittney seems agitated, almost as though she wants to pick a fight with her silly husband.  That wouldn’t be a good start to this trip, would it?  They have to be in India for 16 days.

Why is Ben clutching his stomach while walking to find their room?  That’s right, he has to go good potty.  Well, Ben sure must be a lucky traveler, because he makes it to the room without an accident.  However, his raising a fist in triumph is only bad Karma for what is to come of the next three days.

Whoa! Brittney should be polite and turn up the volume on that television set, because Ben’s heading off to the bathroom again.  As you will learn, sound travels well in a small hotel room.

Oh no, Ben is now washing his hands with tap water!  That’s a no no in India.  Now he looks as though brushing his teeth is a good idea.  Don’t grab your toothbrush, Ben, unless you use bottled water to rinse out your mouth.  Poor, uneducated Ben looks like he’s made another vital error.

Ben’s mouth opening and closing in a fetal position like a fish out of water are not those of one talking or singing.  Those are referred to as groans.  We’ll speak more of those noises when we next approach, “The Guide to Deep Sea Fishing”, subtitled, “Just because You’re Fishing, Doesn’t Mean You have to be Puking”.

Spending the next three days in bed, amongst one other more familiar place close by, should we feel sorry for Ben?  No, because he didn’t follow the simple rules of traveling abroad.

(Most of this is relatively true.)