Southpaw

Posted on February 17, 2020 by Ben Gannon

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 February 6, 2020 by Ben Gannon

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.

Phone calls and Chocolate

Posted on December 20, 2019 by Ben Gannon

Will you go with me? Those were the five most romantic words many would hear, write or say when growing up in Smokane, Washington. What did it mean? Well, when in the 5th grade, I guess it meant you had exclusive rights to senseless and meaningless conversations with this person when school was over for the day. Ninety nine percent of the couples acted like they didn’t even like each other. I guess that was solid foreshadowing for marriage.

Stuck in traffic, on her way back from her new job as a weight calibrator for Big 5 Sporting Goods, my wife and I were talking on the phone. Yes, she was hands free. Since it was her first day on the job, we were going to celebrate that night. So, I did something I never did when we were friends in junior high. I asked her to go with me. Of course, she asked where I wanted to go, so I had to remind her of our childhood days when people would ask others to go with one another, meaning go steady with one another. Initially, she said she’d have to think about it, but when I told her I was cooking one of her favorite dishes, creamy parmesan chicken, she said yes. It then came to her attention that I never asked her to go with me when we were in the 8th grade. One, I just thought it was stupid, and two, our phone at home was only used for my guy friends and my father when he’d come home from work. That line would remain free because he was the first called when the business he worked for had a break in. Their security system, Sonitrol, would call dad before they would call the police. Anyone on our phone phone would soon hang up before he entered the door. We even used teamwork to keep the old man happy. I would be close to the door where I could still see the ballgame and picture window at the same time when he’d arrive. Tom would be in the upstairs kitchen guzzling milk from the carton, and Greg would be on the phone in the kitchen talking to either a girlfriend or guy pal. Upon arrival, I’d shout to Tom, “The old man’s home!”, and Tom would give the hand signal to Greg who would quickly hang up so we could give the old man a proper greeting. So, any chance I’d have to talk to Britt, who had her own phone in her room, would have to be at school. It presented a minor, yet significant challenge to our relationship.

Even though in the eighth grade we weren’t, legally, a couple, everyone knew we were steady. It wasn’t until she broke up with me that same year that I finally found out we were actually a couple. That took a whole new wheel off our wagon, and it would become a different story altogether…a story I will bore you with on a different day.

On the long commute home, Britt asked me if I ever went with someone before her. Sadly, my answer was yes. In the 5th grade, I befriended a girl during recess. Although it was innocent, we still had to hide our innocence from the recess Nazis. You know, the old stay at home motherly bags abusing their power because they wore paper mach’e badges. No swearing. (now referring to Cool Hand Luke) That’s a night in the box. No fighting. That’s a night in the box. No spitting. That’s a night in the box. No kissing. That’s a night in the box. No winking. That’s a night in the box. Oh boy, did they love having that power. I was once sent to the principal’s office for spitting while playing baseball during recess. Thank the Lord we had a reasonably smart principal or warden. When I admitted guilt regarding the crime I committed, he quickly rolled his eyes and told me to get back to the ball field and only spit when they aren’t watching you hit home runs. We both laughed and I knew he had larger issues to deal with as did I with this girl.

This friend of mine, Shelby, was very nice, smart and also funny. Three terrific qualities. I think she felt the same about me. However, she was a bit more mature than me. I thought we could have fun hanging out on recess, but only as friends. Not so fast. During reading class, while I had finished my school work early, I was busy reading one of the classics……..Mad Magazine, when I was handed a note looking like it had come from the office containing a chocolate bar. The note also contained a message reading, “Will you go with me? Signed by Shelby. I wanted to answer no to the question, but I also wanted to eat that bar of chocolate more than one of my mother’s delightful rice crispy treats. Therefore, how could I feel good about myself by answering no? So, ignorantly, I answered yes and gobbled up that delicious treat like a crow on a peanut. I guess I had a girlfriend. (Looking back in intelligent retrospect, I should have answered no, ate the chocolate and went to confession admitting my guilt and saying ten Hail Marys. Sin forgiven. Isn’t Catholicism sensational?)

Shelby had her own phone and now wished to call my home. When a girl calls a boy at our house, sirens blare and brotherly and sisterly vultures swarm your presence. Nothing but awkwardness. She did call twice. The first was during dinner, so I had a legitimate excuse to end the call quickly. The second one was a little more interesting. I answered the phone, wishing it wasn’t her, with a not so suave, “Hello”. It was Shelby, and the first sentence she uttered was, “I heard you broke up with me.” Now, that day, being very uncomfortable “going with” someone, I had mentioned to a guy friend I was probably going to break up with Shelby. Evidently, this person I confided in gave her the grave news before I could. So, when confronted on the phone by Shelby, meekly, I said, “Yeah. Is that ok?. Thankfully, she was cool about it. No tears, no screaming, just a simple, “Ok. See you tomorrow.” It was that easy. (Why can’t divorces be this easy?)

We remained only friends even through high school and I was even invited to her wedding years later. Just like in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the townspeople were leery of the relationship the Hunchback had with the gypsy girl, Quasimodo, said with an uneasy and defensive tone, “Twas the gypsy girl, she gave me water.”, I could, properly, during that 5th grade relationship with Shelby, say, “Twas the gypsy girl, she gave me chocolate.”

Over and out.

The Drive In Rookie

Posted on December 13, 2019 by Ben Gannon

With winter around the corner, the drive in movie theater my wife wife works the concessions for, The Foggy Window, will be shutting down soon for the season. It made me a little nostalgic with regard to my first experience at a drive in theater.

In 1977, I was four years of age when Star Wars hit the big screen. Apparently, I was too small for the big screen, so I was left at home while my older brothers and sisters went to the movie during the holiday season. I vaguely remember being upset, but my mother made up for it by donating an extra gallon of egg nog to its most worthy organ……my stomach. Three years later, some of my older siblings returned from working in Alaska for an annual visit. That was always terrific because they had a load of spending money, and they would be very generous to the youngest siblings still living at home. Maggie, 8 years my elder, Greg, 6 years ahead of me and Tom only four above. Two of my sisters returning from Alaska, and I don’t remember which two, would show us some high old times in the city of brotherly tolerance, Spokane, Washington. There was pizza, Chinese food, skating at the downtown Pavilion, and of course carnivals. My older sisters were always pleased to pay for everything even though our old man would kick in a few bucks each to pay for some of the festivities. He wanted them to save their hard earned money, and they wanted to blow it. Maggie, Greg, Tom and I didn’t give a rat’s constitution. They were the limo drivers and we were riding first class.

One of my sisters, it could have been Anne, Theresa, or Dorothy, read in the Spokesman Review an advertisement for a drive in movie viewing of Star Wars being shown that night. She thought it may be fun if we went, even though everyone had already seen it but me. They all wanted to see it for a second time, and were thrilled to know I’d never seen it. I was elated. I can go? I’m only seven. My sisters said, “It’s PG, who gives a crap. You’re going, Ben.” Hell, the movie could have been X rated for all they cared. Even if the movie was titled, Ben Does Baltimore, they wouldn’t have given a crap. They weren’t going to watch the movie anyway. The drive in movie theater is a terrific place to baby sit and drink beer. So, we loaded up the station wagon (limo) with people, beer and a few sodas from our own refrigerator, and headed to the local theater.

I’d heard tall tales about drive ins such as people hiding in the trunks of cars getting in for free. I wasn’t in for that. It seemed like we would be crossing a border, and that was terrifying to me thinking I may never see my mother and father again. Plus, it was a sin. However, it would have given me ammunition for confession since I wasn’t much of a sinner in those days. I still wanted to play for the Team of Jesus, rather than the Satan Slaves I’d heard so much about in church. We went straight. No laws had been broken, yet.

Greg, Tom and I hit the concessions like it was an Ali/Frazier rumble. Popcorn, (extra butter flavoring) licorice, gum, soda, (we had already pounded the ones from home on the way to the movie) milk duds, M & Ms and anything else to keep us awake. We were ready to head to a different galaxy loaded with Jedi Knights, some guy in a bigfoot costume making weird noises, a band of goofy aliens playing disco music, and a dude named Vader. I’d just hoped it was better than Star Trek, the movie, because that sucked.

Before the speakers were set up properly, all you could hear was laughter the medieval hand full crunches of popcorn and the opening of beer cans. I didn’t know if that was legal or not, but I didn’t care. Let the drivers get loaded. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

With the speakers set up, I noticed the sound was similar to the crunching of popcorn. You could basically hear every third or fourth word of what was being spoken on the screen. With the lot packed we had no choice but to listen, or not listen to the movie that way. Looking back with the sounds of my beer drinking sisters’ laughter mixed in with the sheer volume of their normal conversation voices which couldn’t even be measured in decibels, would have drowned out whatever was being said through the speaker. No chance in even a civilized Hell could I dream of shushing my sisters. They seemed to be having fun and our bellies were more than satisfied. That’s when I decided to utilize a talent I had developed during dinner time at the short table during the holidays. I could read lips.

Always disappointed not being able to sit at the tall table with the adults, I was the oldest and angriest at the short table with my booger eating nephews and nieces. What a crock. Trying to ignore the youth at our table, I could always hear belly laughter at the big boy and girl table with several of my brothers telling stories which were apparently hilarious. After grace was delivered, there was no pious nature at that table, and I wanted desperately to hear what they were saying. I love to laugh more than I love a terrific stuffing laced with mounds of sensational gravy. So, I would figure out who was providing the laughter and watch his or her lips to decipher what they were saying. My nephews and nieces must have thought I was crazy, because I would join in on the laughter. “What the hell is he laughing at?” they would utter during my fits of heavy chuckling. It became a gift I would use at the drive in that night.

Unfortunately, I was not able to catch every word, but I could follow the plot, which was dandy for me. However, my gift would soon turn to the dark side. Darth Vader, a pretty significant character in the movie, wore a mask. How the hell do I read lips when someone doesn’t even have lips? I could only hear muffled breathing through the chunks of speaker remaining after Greg became impatient and gave it a few whacks with an old shalalie he found in the back of the station wagon commonly used as a threat when we’d get unruly in the car.

When the movie ended, I asked a few questions about what I may have missed, but I knew I’d eventually see it again, with sound. Just being with my siblings, both young and old made me happy. Camping in a sugar, butter, and booze smelling tavern on wheels was enough for me. I think Greg drove us home. He was only 13, but he was sober, and even drove us off road in a local field pretending he was captain of the Millennium Falcon dodging asteroids while my sisters screamed with laughter, begging him to go faster and faster. Without seatbelts, we were flying around the station wagon like stove top Jiffy Popcorn. It was fantastic.

We made it home safely, and tried to clean the car as best as we could. My sisters made sure the 24 cans of beer consumed remained at the theater grounds. Dad wouldn’t have enjoyed seeing them the next morning in the trash. It was a hell of a night for the Gannons. No arguing, no bullying, no fighting, no atomic wedgies, no religion, no politics, and no sound other than laughter. I’ll take that any day or night.

When I told my wife this story, it convinced her to apply for the tech support job opening at Foggy Window Drive In next Spring. She’s pretty good with that sort of stuff. I wonder if Amazon.com needs people like her. I hear they pay pretty well. We sure could use the extra scratch.

Profanity Diner

Posted on October 16, 2019 by Ben Gannon

My brother, Greg, can make anyone blush. It’s usually in a diner when others are eating biscuits and gravy or a six pack of pancakes loaded with every diabetic’s dream.

He also deals with reality, and at this point in my life, I’m grateful he does.

Years ago, he met a girlfriend of mine in a diner. I was also there with my brother, Tom. He was primarily there for the coffee and steak and eggs. Greg was there to evaluate. I was merely in the diner to introduce them to this odd girl they’d never met. My date at the time had a name. I can’t quite recall it. I do remember her profession. She helped impound repossessed cars. What’s wrong with that? I was merely a teacher repossessing and impounding students, so I thought we had a great deal in common. My brother, Greg, frowned upon her as though she was just another one of those dirt diggers, hoping to get whatever money I didn’t have and place it in her filthy back drawers. According to Greg, she wasn’t up to snuff. It was then when I asked Greg to give her a chance. Tom had a mouthful of food. Greg had a mouthful of advice. After speaking to this girl for almost five minutes, he turned to me and said, in his loudest of diner voices, “If you f–k, this up, I will kick the living s–t out of you!” People turned their heads at how vocal he was, appalled by his profanity. Greg was just recognizing her intelligence, beauty, wit, charm and sense of humor all in those five minutes. I wouldn’t say it was his most charming of moments, but it did stick to me like Greg’s gorilla glue always did.

I took his threat into consideration and asked her out for another date, this time without my brothers. She decided, upon my brother’s advice, she would accept, only because she didn’t wish me to get the s–t beat out of me.

I finally figured out the girl’s name and she later became Vice President of a local repossession dealership in Seattle. Britt and I have been happily married for the last 12 years and I haven’t had any s–t kicked out of me.

These days,Greg frequents diners working for tips or free bacon while giving other couples solid advice. Most of those customers end up properly divorced. We were two of the lucky ones.

Tom gave up coffee for smoked trout and hikes.

All is well.

No Horse

Posted on October 1, 2019 by Ben Gannon

Soccer is terrific if you love it. Football is great if you can take it. Basketball is wonderful if you can endure it. Baseball is magnificent if you can believe it. Other than baseball, I can’t say I love or even like all of the major sports. However, I embrace them.

Watching the Major League Baseball Playoffs tonight, I didn’t have a horse in the race. I didn’t care who won and I only knew of a select few of these elite players participating. In the 8th inning, I may have been alone in our house, but there was seating room only during that 8th inning when The Washington Nationals were in pursuit of defeating the Milwaukee Brewers. The city of D.C. blew up with joy rather than uncertainty. You don’t have to have a horse in the race to enjoy life…..and sports, can provide that joy.

First Day (The Wooden Arm)

Posted on September 7, 2019 by Ben Gannon

My wooden arm only lasted one day.

School was in session this week for those educators and pupils young and old, and I began to remember, as a retired teacher, what the first day would bestow upon the students.

As a former middle school teacher, I once entered the classroom on the first day of school acting as if I had a wooden arm. I don’t really know why. Perhaps, I just wasn’t prepared and I thought I’d just wing it. (I hate puns….that was purely accidental). It wasn’t my first year of teaching. I just wanted to shake things up a bit by providing some mystery on the first day of new clothes, possible friends and enemies as well as their newest teacher. I developed the idea from some friends of mine walking around at parties similar to the police officer’s antics from Mel Brook’s Young Frankenstein. This enforcer was a one armed ornery cuss who would place sharp objects in his arm, such as darts, just to keep track of them. My friends would have to move the fake wooden arm with their, quite capable left, (very scientific flirting) wishfully attracting the attention of girls. They did attract attention, yet only making the girls stray. The girls were indeed silent with intrigue. Emptying my plastic cup of stale beer, I recognized how this could assist me in my professional career as a teacher.

When the, “what the hell did you do this summer?” essay, annually introduced by other teachers, I felt as though it sunk beneath the students’ ears and sailed aimlessly above their heads like dusty glue only burnout teachers could clinch to themselves taking comfort in their inauguration assignments.

I chose a different route. Evidently, middle schoolers are terrified of prosthetic limbs. My wooded arm made its appearance before attendance call. Stiff angled right arm was also in attendance. Making myself three quarters present, my students were silent for almost a full period upon my entrance. Unless you discount middle school day dreamers wishing to be home by the end of my preposterous scene, they would have given me an award for phoniest teacher.

By the end of the period, with mostly silence, other than a call of attendance, I began looking aimlessly and helplessly for my pencil and pen holder. Asking if anyone had seen it and describing it as a plastic great white shark with its mouth agape, they turned their eyes to the floor and elsewhere, either trying to help me or wonder when the actual lesson may begin. The bright students believed in the phony arm, but they also thought I snuck into this school acting as if I was actually a qualified teacher, or just a bum who found some khakis left behind the thrift store along with a button upped collared shirt.

We continued our search for the pencil holder as if we were searching for the Northwest Passage. Collectively, we became the middle school corp of discovery. One bold student asked me why this was so important to me. I told her it was a gift holding dark memories for me, yet it was almost critical we find it together. She was further mystified. Is our teacher just flat out mad? “Have any of you seen it?” Most of them just stared in silence while others provided an awkwardly slow shake of their head. I then stared at my right arm with disgust, fingers molded firmly for more than a half hour with elbow cocked in one position forming a right angle with my forearm and bicep. Giving up hope on finding the pencil holder, I took my free left hand and lifted a sharpened pencil and said, not with anger or force, yet with subtle desperation, I have a place for this pencil. I was going to jab it into my wooden arm.

After the gasp, I displayed my proper upper torso and was embraced by the students . Then, I was informed, by my wonderful principal, Ms. Hoffman, who would fly by my room from time to time on her broom, I was never to pull that crap again. One of my students had a relative who had lost his arm in a boating accident. Not funny. I obliged. Ms. Hoffman and I still laugh about it whenever we speak. She took great care of me, and was probably the only employer who could stop me in my tracks without being tripped.

The year went well, not without its glitches, and I can assure you, I pissed off plenty of students, parents and administration members along the way. I can also say I taught them how to respect themselves, others, education and, yes, even a man with two arms,two legs, a full heart and half a brain. At times, many could say I didn’t do everything the right way. I didn’t. That’s the beauty of it all. I recognized it. Those who thought they were always doing it the right way, sometimes missed the boat. That boat could be surrounded by sharks.

Diner Jokes

Posted on August 16, 2019 by Ben Gannon

Jokes piss me off. I don’t care if they are profanity laced or offensive, I just find them to be a nuisance. I don’t enjoy someone embarrassing themselves when laughter doesn’t follow, and I have the second worst fake laugh in the world. My wife owns the number one spot in this category.

While visiting a local diner for brunch with my extended family, we were accosted (that’s a little strong) how about assaulted not once, twice, but thrice by a bartender honing his lack of skills for the comedy club.

We were celebrating my wife’s grandmother’s 91st birthday and enjoying listening to her nostalgia filled with wonderful stories of her past. Enjoying ourselves while preparing to order, a bartender (the only table available was located next to the bar) interrupted our collective conversation with attempting to provide our table with the gift of laughter. A tad rude, but no big deal. Once he began speaking, I diverted my eyes, because I could smell a joke coming which would probably be just as cheap as the dirty napkins at our table. Sit directly in front of him, he gave most of the attention to my wife. Now, that made me chuckle. She has a exceptional sense of humor but also doesn’t care for jokes. This was terrific for me, because I knew she would be forced into busting out her outrageously ridiculous phony laugh. That would and did make me chuckle. Looking at me with distain, she turned her attention back to the mindless King of Comedy. He delivered properly. It was a wildly lame joke. Insert wife’s fake laugh. Her grandmothers stared at him and didn’t laugh, smile, or frown, even though she did think it was a bit odd. She couldn’t hear a word of the joke anyway. My mother in law laughed, because she is a very kind soul, and I think she enjoys corny and unoriginal jokes with no clever swagger at all. I think that’s great. We’re just different.

There was no harm done and when he completed embarrassing himself, we returned to our peaceful conversations. Two minutes later, hop along joke dealer two graced himself again for a second dose of pain. Strike two. That’s where I was a little annoyed. Same scenario, similar crappy joke, and priceless fake laughter. My father in law, one the finest and nicest people I know, looked like he wanted to physically 86 the bartender from his own place. Again, it ended without bloodshed, so all remained well.

I won’t bore you with next joke encounter of the third kind except for the fact my wife flashed me a look of “don’t” when she knew I was going say something like, “why don’t you take your colossally stupid jokes outside and make someone else miserable out on the deck instead of torturing us?” Instead, I resorted to an eye and head roll. My eye and head rolls are those of legend. You can see me performing these rolls from different zip codes. I think the jokester caught mine and did not return to our table. End of Chapter.

Now don’t get me wrong, I think I have a pretty good sense of humor. Some people think it’s little too dry. That’s fine. It is all subjective. And, I don’t expect others to have the same. My wife and I are Seinfeld people, while others may have love the well deserved beloved Mash. Both considered comedically magnificent in their own individual rights. Mash just isn’t our style.

Let’s make this a little more colorful. I believe it’s important in relationships to share certain things, one of which being a similar sense of humor. I’m not saying it’s critical, but to me and my wife, important. I melt when I hear her genuine laughter whether I am providing the laughter or not. Hell, I don’t even mind when she laughs at me. I’m extremely adept at doing stupid things or perhaps dancing when I shouldn’t. My wife and I have known each other since we were 13 years old. We made each other laugh then, and after a bit of a glitch, are still together today, laughing each day when we wake up and before we fall asleep. But, let’s imagine a hypothetical situation. It’s the year 2008. I don’t know her and we are both at a bar, and I notice an empty chair next to her. Although she looks dirty from working on an oil rig, I see beyond the dirt and the filth and approach her while she is paying attention to two television broadcasts. One, is a Seattle Mariner baseball game and the other is CNN. CNN is in the middle of its entertainment segment. Upon reaching the bar to order a beer, I turn her and say, “Did you know the Seattle Mariners are a Major League Baseball team?” My eyes would read that I was ridiculing their deplorable organization. That would guarantee me a chuckle earning me that seat next to her. I would then have her turn her attention to CNN, and I would say, “Do you see that guy Donald Trump right there? He’s going to end up being President of the United States one dark day.” That would earn me belly laughter and a date for Friday night.

I guess the joke’s on her.

Easter (The Holiday Trinity)

Posted on April 20, 2019 by Ben Gannon

In the spirit of resurrection, I thought I’d resurrect this piece from Easter 2014. It only took me five years. – Ben Gannon

I’m going Holy on my readers’ butts today. Don’t change that website. Not to worry, there will be no preaching. That’s not my style.
As many of you know, this week is considered Holy Week for those believing in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Looking back upon my Catholic upbringing, believe it or not, I enjoyed this week, concluding with Easter Sunday, more than Christmas. Palm Sunday is where it all begins. Unlike Christmas when it is traditional for some to unwrap one gift on Christmas Eve, you receive a gift on Sunday, a full week before Easter proper. The congregation meets outside for a prayer and all parishioners are given a palm representing the greeting Jews provided Jesus when he arrived in Jerusalem. According to the bible, they waved them like banners at a ballgame, then respectfully laid them on the ground before him like a green carpet while he began his journey to crucification. Don’t worry, I’ll try not to provide anymore misinformation regarding the bible and I’m certainly not becoming a Catholic Missionary. These are just fond memories when I actually learned and appreciated the finer points of attending mass.

Faithfully, I showed up and participated for over thirty years without missing a Sunday, even while we were on vacation, and even more miraculous, when I attended college at Washington State University. This was especially miraculous because my father and mother weren’t there to force me to go. Prayer and tithing, even if tithing consisted of a two for one Burger King Whopper discount coupon, were the only two reasons I graduated from a University annually placed in the top ten list of the nation’s leading party schools. (Quite a dubious honor.) One of my roommates was Catholic, so we would attend Saturday evening mass and then proceed to defile ourselves until two or three in the morning. I digress. Let’s get back to this Holy Week.

Once you receive your palm, you enter the church and proceed to follow along with the same readings you have heard the last ten years of your life. However, it was simple to avoid the Sunday Snooze because you held this palm in your hand. Traditionally, you and your brothers and sisters would spend the next hour in the pew fashioning a cross from the palm’s strips. It was a fun competition to see who could create the finest cross someone could die upon. Mine would commonly turn out looking like the letter X draped with seaweed. Even Jesus would have taken exception to carrying this thing around. “Uhh, yeah, I don’t mean to complain, that’s really not in my nature to do so, but is it possible I die on something a little more…..well, cross like instead of cross eyed? Great. Thanks.” Those crosses, mangled or not would adorn our mantle for the year. They would then be burned and used as ashes for Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the same day one is asked to give up something significant, like beer, for forty days. This made Easter Sunday, the day Lent ends, especially sacred for the adults who tackled this forty day sacrifice. After Palm Sunday Mass, you then began thinking about Easter Sunday and the hunt.

Before Easter Sunday, there is slight speed bump referred to as Good Friday. This is the day Christians commemorate the passion, or suffering, of His death on the cross. Didn’t seem so good to me. As a youngster, I didn’t understand the Holy Day’s name, and I am still a bit confused. After Good Friday has passed, you picture Easter Eggs so big they’d make ostrich eggs look like gall stones. One more day of planning your strategic backyard hunting scheme. This was basically how I could outwit my two older brothers. Stay as far away from them as possible. That was my only hope. They were bonafide egg thieves.

I loved the hunt almost as much as the deviled eggs mom would fabricate shortly after. As for the Easter Bunny, I never believed in that crap. I didn’t want to. Since we were coloring the eggs, I figured it out pretty quickly. Mom and Dad would never let some creepy rabbit in our house to gather our eggs and hide them in our backyard. If a large bipedal rabbit did enter our house, one of my brothers, having a midnight snack, would grab a shotgun and go Elmer Fudd on that rabbit’s ass. The only rabbits in our house were made out of chocolate. For my brother, Tom, those chocolate rabbits had to be solid. As our resident chocoholic, Tom refused to eat the ones which were hollowed out of bounds. That was too chocolate ghetto for him. This is also followed by a feast which would include ham, turkey and all the necessary fixings. We had mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, gravy, hot rolls, fruit salad, stuffing, and I need to stop, because I am now feeling Catholic guilt and shame remembering so many other families in our humble neighborhood who didn’t have the means for this. Crap. Thanks Catholicism.

Now, if you think about it, to solidify my point, I felt like this was the trinity of holidays. It wasn’t just the Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit, Amen. It was Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving all rolled into one. There were gifts, there was a phony character called the Easter Bunny, there was an enormous feast, there was family, and there was Sunday Mass where Deviled Eggs were dancing in your skull. Can you want or wish for anything more? Yes, you can. Once you grow old enough to be the one hiding the eggs, rather than hunting for them (always a proud moment for the youngest in the family), you realize how fun and satisfying it is to hold the hand of the youngest niece or nephew helping them find enough eggs to rival their elders. We always tried to keep the competition fairly equal to avoid any tears. There will be NO crying on Easter! You know why? BECAUSE THERE’S NO CRYING ON EASTER! (Thanks, Tom Hanks.) All these children were so wildly happy…..and all just to find a few eggs.

Ultimately, when you grow to investigate the true meaning, or story if you wish, it is as inspirational of a story one can read and disbelieve, read and question, or read and believe. I choose to believe. It gives you hope when you are down. It gives you faith when you have fallen. It gives you the genuine will necessary when your life seems to have spiraled out of control and you feel lost and thus beaten. But, then, you ponder this story and think, “For crying out loud, this dude rose from the dead! I think I can get off this dirty floor before the count of ten and keep fighting for a better life for myself and others.” Or, you may just find that your head is up your ass for an unusually large amount of time. If that occurs, think about the Resurrection of Jesus, grab a great big wad of your hair, if you still have some, and pull your head out. Maybe, just maybe, that’s what Easter is all about.

Happy Easter

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Child One

Posted on November 18, 2017 by Ben Gannon

At the age of ten, a girl, who would later become my wife, was an aspiring actress. After one performance, she then became an expiring actress. In the off broadway elementary play, “Johnny Appleseed”, she played the part of “child one”. I always found it funny or interesting when directors or even writers don’t provide names for some of the characters. Not only do you not have any right to be in the elementary show business, we won’t even give you a proper name.

Britt, embarrassed, disclosed this information to me when we met at the age of thirteen. I take this stuff seriously. She was a terrific friend and would do anything for me. Likewise, I’d do anything for her. That director is currently buried somewhere in Las Vegas, and she never made it to Broadway.

Her only line was, “Pa, Pa! Johnny Appleseed is coming.”

When she exited the stage, Britt was greeted by her parents. They didn’t mention one thing about her performance which wasn’t award winning. They did talk about their day at work. As tough as she was and is, she wasn’t crushed by her critics, or lack there of. She chose to move on to other ventures.

Currently working at a potato farm in Idaho, Britt is satisfied, and we are never hungry. So, I guess you could say she did make it off Broadway.

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