Anyone who knew me as a child or high school philanthropist, drifter, song writer, poet and idiot, recognized I was a Dodger fan. (Mostly for the hot dogs.)
Tonight, I’m placing my plastic LA Dodger helmet,( purchased from a local drug store in Spokane Washington forty years ago) down…rooting for a game seven. I’m not rooting for the Rays, I just want one more game.
America needs a game seven.
One of my six sisters has cancer. That is a really awful introduction. I guess my brain is a bit broken as well as my heart.
Smart, beautiful, dynamic, great sense of humor and flat out genuinely giving whether it was out of her pocket or, more importantly, out of her soul. That is our Patricia.
My six sisters have all treated me wonderfully. It was similar to having seven mothers. Morning, day and night, I always felt safe with all of them, including Patricia.
Patricia’s force of positive nature made you think, laugh and love.
I’ve been educated in many ways regarding my family. I love them all. Patricia didn’t just teach me to think, laugh and love, she taught me to embrace it. Spread it. We all need it.
For that, I am truly thankful.
Thank you, Patricia,
Benji Blooper
(You are the only person I allowed to call me by that name)
I……We love you.
Rolling down the stairs while fighting with one’s sister shouldn’t be something to celebrate, but it can be funny, especially when your father and mother are hosting a dinner with the local Catholic Priest. Thank God I was only a spectator. None were wearing masks because it wasn’t Halloween, and no Covid. It was just prior to the decade we all wish to forget….the eighties.
I won’t even recite the profanity used while my sisters were rolling down the stairs fighting over a precious sweater, housing fleas who couldn’t even afford the rent to our closet. Far too graphic.
Regarding the sweater, the priest forgave them thinking the sweater may have been the shroud.
Sorry.
My wife has given me two great honors. Or perhaps, they are a little dubious. She says I am the most impatient person in the world. Not in the city, state, or country, but the whole world. Additionally, she has deemed me the king of apologies. With a tremendous deal of hard work and ridiculous behavior, this stature didn’t come as that much of a surprise.
I began sincere apologies probably at the age of ten. That was when I ruined a new shirt while in a fight with one of my older brothers’ friends. Although I didn’t start the fight, the verbal abuse this boy was tossing at me, like a 95 mile an hour fastball, just made me blow a fuse. So, when my mother made be apologize for not using my constitutional right of “Sticks and Stones may break my bones…..” you know the rest, I apologized to both her and the friend.
As the years passed, I went on to apologize frequently to administrators at school for heinous crimes such as spitting on the ground during recess. That landed me in the office, but it seemed the principal thought it would be a waste of his time to punish me. I was paroled immediately.
Giving a “high five” during P.E., after hitting a home run sent me to the office as well. Perhaps, I was just too excited. This was the fifth grade, and apparently, my friend hadn’t experienced pain and excitement at the same moment. He cried, and I was sent to the Warden of Puberty. (He was a good guy.) I sort of rolled my eyes with this apology, thus kicking me down a notch on the contrite apology meter of life. Rolling his eyes as well, the principal’s punishment: “Don’t hight five too hard.”
Fast forward to high school. I don’t remember apologizing for much until seventeen years of age. I was guilty of trespassing on property. I do remember apologizing to the police officer who provided the ticket. It wasn’t so much the trespassing part, but I was driving one of the tractors on the premises. Presiding in juvenile court, (what a dream) my father and mother stood by me. The judge was shaking his head.”Will you try not to make any ridiculous choices again?”
“Yes”.
“Please the court, give this young man 10 hours of community service.”
I’m also hell at thank yous! I thanked the judge for not sending me to Alcatraz.
While doing my 10 hours of hard time at Goodwill in Spokane, Wa, home of the most sinister criminals, and International House of Pancakes, I was told I wasn’t folding clothes properly.
Sorry
Debates regarding the election are soon coming. They won’t change my mind. Similarly, when it comes to cramping in bed, my dear friend, Marshall, and I had a funny debate on whose cramps were worse. I don’t know how old I am, but I do know he is older than me, thus giving him an advantage. We went through the feet and calves, but my ace in the hole were the hamstrings. Excruciating.
There was no winner. I proclaimed at the end of our conversation that we should just start discussing the weather.
Everyone loves Chips. I love eating them, but my brothers and I always made fun of the 80’s show about two cops trying to save Los Angeles….the city of angels. Chips.
We had so much fun making light of poor acting and lame story lines. I was the silent partner with my witty brothers, but I once took the opportunity to make them laugh with a blender.
The theme song was so stupidly prepared. Rear! Rear! Rear! Rear!
After taking a break from watching the show with shame, we went downstairs to make a milkshake. I cranked up the blender to stage five and then six and then seven. It was spot on to the “Chips” opening.
Loudly. Rear! Rear! Rear! Rear!
The shake turned out great.
I have pets, but that bores people. As a former teacher, I had teacher’s pets, and I didn’t give yankee damn about admitting I had teacher’s pets. I don’t care for the term, but the students who were respectful, kind to others, turned in assignments on time and were just genuinely decent people, they were rewarded properly. They could get a drink of water or take a leak anytime they wanted. The others had to deal with the man. That man was me.
Instead of making the other pets cry, I made them laugh. Assignments were turned in on time.
Tomatoes grow in your garden or the boxing ring. I prefer the garden. As a part time pacifist, and never a pugilist, unless it was in our basement, or on the baseball field, or on recess, or in a high school hallway, or in a parking lot, I always preferred fresh tomatoes out of a garden (as opposed to fighting) with bacon, mayo, properly toasted bread and lettuce. It seems to win every time.
Happiness is hard to come by these days. but a good BLT will make you forget the unhappiness for more than a minute, especially if you can share it with a friend.