In Memorium

My sister Paula died last night. She had been in bad health for quite a while, and we all suspected it would just be a matter of time. Her heart was bad, her diabetes was bad, her kidneys were bad... She was pretty much a wreck. Last night she had her sixth and final heart attack.

Paula was 14 years older than me, so we always had more of a mother/son type of relationship than brother/sister when I was a kid. She took good care of me and my younger sister, and always made sure we had fun. For that I’ll always be thankful.

She was a kind soul who loved animals, loved God, loved the outdoors, and had a thing for bad puns. I mean, really bad puns. Her sense of humor was fantastic, and she was one of the most positive people you’d ever meet. Even in the last four years when her health was on the decline she’d still be Chipper Paula. It’s a talent I wish I possessed.

She went with me the first time I saw Star Wars, and she was there when we went to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show. She loved to quote lines from Han Solo, Indiana Jones, or any of the Star Trek cast, and she enjoyed a good Mel Brooks movie just as much as the rest of us.

I’m thankful for the time we had together here on Mother Earth, and I know that Paula is in a much better place now. No more pain, no more hurt. Knowing Paula, she and my Dad are probably sitting around Heaven playing a hand of cards while surrounded by a dozen cats about now.

I’m on my way to Eastern Washington tomorrow AM to close her affairs out, put her house on the market, and to say goodbye. It’ll be hard, but it’s also a blessing to know that she finally has peace.

Driver's (Mis)education

Lately, every morning around 7:15 as I’m leaving the gym I seem to pass a carload of teens driving reeeeally slowly – you know the ones. (Here’s a hint: They’re the only 16 year olds who are out of bed before noon during the summer.) They drive at about 10 MPH, and they have got big orange magnetic signs attached to their car doors and trunk that read STUDENT DRIVER. Ah, yes. Youth behind the wheel. Run for your lives.

Question: Why can they make all kids under 21 drive around with these magnetic warnings on their car all the time? Just a thought.

Anywho, some people I know think it’s funny to get up right behind the student drivers and ride their bumper and honk their horn at them. Assholes. But I like to give the poor kids a break. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? Scared as hell to drive 5 miles per hour around the block, not sure if what we’re doing is right or not. We’ve all got to start somewhere, and when you’re 16 and are anxious/excited/scared shitless about the possibilities of driving for the first time, the last thing you need is some mouthbreather riding your ass.

I remember drivers ed. – I took it on Saturday mornings at Franklin High in Seattle’s Rainier Valley district. (It was in a neighborhood where you were more likely to be shot/mugged/beat up/all of the above than not, but I never had any trouble. Survival Rule #1: Mind Your Own Damn Business.) I’d already had “limited” driving experience by that point, including an auto accident (a long, depressing story for another day), but I was still pretty nervous about getting behind the wheel.

Of course, the instructors do little to bestow confidence. What’s the first thing they tell you? “Out of this class of 30 students, statistics prove that 5 of you will die in auto accidents, and another 5 of you will be permanently injured.” This of course is followed up by a round of “Face of Death” style auto accident films. Yeah, it’s no wonder that there are so many petrified drivers out there.

Anyway, I passed my class with flying colors, including my first terrifying experience driving I-5 through downtown Seattle. I waited until the end of July to get my license, and after passing my written test with only two answers wrong (both questions were about motorcycles; I’d never been on one, so who the hell cared), it was time for the driving portion of the exam.

The driving test, like most states, involved having a state DOT inspector ride along with you around the block a few times. You’d park, turn, switch lanes, etc., and they’d test you for accuracy, how well you use the mirrors, if you stop for any hitchhikers, and so on.

One quick fact: It was one of those rare Seattle days that was over 90 degrees, and since my Mom’s old 1972 Impala didn’t have air conditioning, all of the windows were down. Keep this in mind for later in the tale, will you? It’ll be relevant; trust me.

So anyway, I backed into my assigned parking spot and waited for the inspector to come out of the DOT to meet me. He finally shows up – he was about 90 pounds, about 90 years old, dressed like a park ranger, crotchety as hell, and packing a large clipboard underneath his arm. “Let’s go”, he grumbles as he climbs into the passenger seat.

Well, being the nervous kid that I was, I asked him if he wouldn’t mind putting on his seat belt, pretty please. (They weren’t mandatory back then, but it was still a good idea, right?) He looked over his glasses at me and snarled, “Just drive, boy.”

So I drove. And what was the first thing I did as I pulled out of the parking lot onto Benson Avenue in Renton? I jumped the curb. Great. I was off to a banner start.

Yet somehow the rest of the test seemed to go okay. I made my proper lane changes, I used my turn signals at the appropriate times, I tried to look both ways, and hey – I didn’t run over any nuns or orphans, so it was all good. I even managed to parallel park within 12 inches of the curb. Yep, despite the fact I jumped the curb early on, I felt that things were going to be okay.

And then it happened.

We were driving back to the DOT, and we passed a small strip mall that just happened to have their parking strip sprinklers going. And those very same sprinklers just happened to be set a little too high. And that powerful spray of water just happened to extend all the way out to the street. And I just happened to drive past this over-extended sprinkler just as the water was spraying in our direction.

Do you remember me telling you that the car windows were down would be relevant? It was a bull’s-eye -– score, direct hit. 100 points to Tommy!

The sprinkler went right through the open car window and hit the crotchety old coot smack in the face. I tried to maintain my composure and keep my eyes on the road while water poured down this old man’s face and onto his official Washington State clipboard. Believe me, it wasn’t easy.

Fortunately, we were only about two blocks away from the DOT, and I somehow managed to get the car back into the parking lot (without jumping the curb this time), park it, and then look him in the eye. And no - through the power of God and all points in between - I didn’t laugh.

He pulled out an old beat up handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his glasses off. His hair (what was left of it) was wet and standing up, and his ranger shirt was soaked through; it looked like he’d just ran a marathon. His paperwork on the clipboard was dripping water onto the 70’s blue vinyl seats of the Impala. But he still didn’t say anything.

Finally, he spoke. And in a very quiet voice, one that almost could be described as “defeated”, he told me I’d passed my driving test.

YES!

In spite of my jumping the curb and not turning my head enough when I was switching lanes and looking in the mirror (apparently he wanted to see dramatic head movements), and the fact that he’d just been royally hosed down, I still managed to pass my driving exam.

Long story short, I went home that hot July afternoon with my shiny new driver’s license (actually, a piece of paper – the real one would be mailed to be in 2 – 4 weeks), and the rest is driving history. I’ve been a licensed driver in two states for the last 24 years, and have put well over 300,000 miles on several vehicles.

So when I see those poor nervous kids driving around Sioux City in their drivers ed cars, desperately clinging to the steering wheel in an approved 9 o-clock and 3-o-clock positions, I smile and try to remember what it was like to be the new guy on the road

And since I have a convertible now, I always make doubly sure to check for sprinklers.

Music Makes The World Go 'Round

Am I the only person on the fact of the planet who really doesn’t give a crap about Coldplay? God, I hope not.

Every time I turn around, I hear someone else babbling on and on about Coldplay’s new album. Oooh, they sing! Well, I for one just don’t care. That stupid “Clocks” song was so overplayed that if I hear it again I’ll probably barf up a stopwatch in their honor. But now Coldplay is back, like it’s the Second Coming or something. So what?

(And before you get all up in arms about my dissing on Coldplay, keep in mind that I have just as much apathy for the Black Eyed Peas, Gwen Stefani, Mariah Carey, R. Kelly, and all of the latest & “greatest” pop acts out there.)

Let’s face it – for the most part, radio today sucks. Partially because there’s little TALENT in the musicians of today – they may be able to sing with the assistance of a backing vocal track (Ashlee, I’m talkin’ to you, honey), but do any of them have any real musical talent? How many of them can actually play an instrument? How many can write their own songs? It gets really old, that’s all. There are some very talented musicians out there – unfortunately, most of them don’t get much radio time, because they’ve been pushed aside for garbage like Britney and Avril.

Another big part of the problem though is the miserable radio airplay. Sioux City’s major radio stations (and that’s saying something) are all controlled by Clear Channel, the demon spawn of all things musically sucky. Clear Channel’s business philosophy seems to be “Hey, let’s play the same 30 lousy songs over and over and over again, until they are burned into your subconscious! You won’t have any choice but to love them! You’ll like it, because we say so!” Well, guess what, Chipper. Nope. I despise Clear Channel and Sioux City’s stations that are under their grip, mainly because they don’t have an ounce of individuality, creativity, or musical taste amongst them. I’d rather listen to cats in heat howling than Clear Channel stations. The cats would sound better, and have far fewer commercials. (And don’t get me started on VH1 and MTV – their creativity died years ago.)

But back on the lousy music kick for a minute. Why the hell can’t anyone record their own music on their own? Why does every song have to “feature” another half-ass singer? It might as well be “Crappy Talentless Girl, Featuring Loud Obnoxious Rapper”.

Whoa – I’d better be careful. I’m treading into “Andy Rooney” territory with this rant, and nobody wants that.

I know, I know. Back in the 80’s people probably said the same thing about my music. But we had some artists on the charts who actually had talent, and whose music has stood up to the last 20 years. Prince, Springsteen, Tina Turner, AC/DC, Van Halen (before Hagar, if you please), U2, hell even the Stones. These were bands with legacies, and not just one hit wonders. And yes – I’m a major Styx fan, and although “Kilroy Was Here” wasn’t their shiniest moment, they’ve continued to prove that they are MUSICIANS, and have been for over 30 years. So there, Mr. Roboto. Thank you very much.

So here I sit, with my headphones on, listening to my old music. Lots of 80’s stuff, some 60’s and 70’s, plus a little classic Muddy Waters and Frank Sinatra thrown in for fun. I do have a little bit of newer stuff – Green Day’s American Idiot is fantastic, as is the newest album from the Killers (I have Miss Katie to thank for turning me onto them), but for the most part I’ll just continue to live happily in the past, jamming to Styx, the Talking Heads, and the “good stuff” from my days of yore.

Hey, it may be moldy oldie, but at least Britney ain’t there.

‘Tis The Season

The temperature outside fell big time overnight – it’s only in the low 70’s today. In fact, it was almost...”chilly” this morning. After a weekend where there was a 107 degree heat index at 10:30 PM, it’s a blessing in disguise to have it in the 70's.

I’m glad that the temps are backing off a little bit – every day for the last 3 weeks it’s been over 90 degrees, and with the heat index in play, the temps have felt like 110 – 115. I like the warm temps enough (I’d rather be warm than cold), but it’s the locals around here who can’t seem to take it. When it gets hot, people get unbelievably CRANKY. And keep in mind that I work in a service-related position part time. So who has to deal with the crabby people in a polite way? That’s right – your boy Tommy.

This past weekend was particularly bad – lots of cranky, nasty-ass people who decided to come hang around the mall where it’s conveniently air conditioned. So they loitered, made a huge mess, and snarled at everyone over everything. It gets really old, let me tell you. Some days I’d just like to yell back, “Yeah? well, you know what – I’m hot, too. But you don’t see me all up in your face about it.” Ah, but that’d get me nowhere. Trying to reason with Sioux Cityans can feel at times like trying to reason with a brick.

So now it’s cooled off, and hopefully people will put their smiles back on for a while. But of course, I’ve already heard someone whining that fall is right around the corner, and soon we’ll be raking leaves and shoveling snow. Jesus, aren’t these people EVER happy?

We live in a land of four seasons – cold, colder, hot, and road construction. Unlike when I lived in Seattle, where the four seasons were cold rain, warm rain, hot rain, and fog. But someday I’d like to live in Florida, where the seasons are hot, hot & humid, okay, and hurricane. I can put up with the hurricanes – they only last a few days, and a decent storm is good for the soul. It humbles you a bit, and reminds you that Man really isn’t the one in charge most of the time.

So happy weather, wherever you are. Stay cool, stay warm, and stay out of the line of any hurricanes, if you know what’s good for you.

Who Wants Ice Cream?

I’m just having the day from hell. Can I just go home and go back to bed? At least this evening should be better. I’m going to taste ice cream – and get paid for it.

Not too far up the road from Sewer City is Wells Dairy, in the town of Le Mars. (“The Ice Cream Capital of the World!”) Wells Dairy is the nice people who make Wells Blue Bunny ice cream – Bomb Pops, Champs cones, Hi-Lites, you name it. A couple of years ago I answered an ad for sensory participants to evaluate products – try this new flavor, tell us what you think. In return, you get the equivalent of about $10 an hour.

It’s not a bad gig, and you get to try some new flavors of ice cream in the process. Well, usually it was ice cream. Some nights it turned out to be something like cottage cheese or yogurt, which are okay one on one, but when you have to try 10 – 15 different samples in the course of two hours, it gets a little old. But tonight it’s definitely ice cream. Much easier to get down than cottage cheese.

Here’s how it usually works – they give you a tiny sample of ice cream, labeled with a 3 digit number. Could be Blue Bunny, could be Haagan Daaz, could be Hy-Vee store brand. They won’t tell, so don’t ask. You then taste it and rate it on appearance, color, texture, flavor, right mix of ingredients, etc. When you’re finished you can either spit it out (into a plastic cup – disgusting as all hell) or down the hatch! You then have a salt-free cracker and some luke-warm water to wash the last flavor out of your mouth before trying the next one. With any luck you'll go home with a really good sugar buzz and not a stomach full of small curd low-fat cottage cheese.

Sometimes you only try 5 flavors of ice cream per night, but sometimes it’s 15. On occasion it might be 5 different brands of vanilla ice cream – which do you like the most? (Truth: most taste alike.) Sometimes it’s flavors you’ve never imagined – we tried a hot chili ice cream once that really wasn’t that bad.

I used to evaluate quite a bit for them, but they haven’t called me in months. I’m not sure how or why I fell out of their good graces – I certainly don’t think I did anything to insult them, but you never know. Part of the problem is that the lady who used to run the sensory panels went on maternity leave, and the new woman in charge doesn’t know me. So I was mighty surprised to receive an e-mail inviting me to come tonight. I’m not sure why they did it that way or if they realize it’s me, but I guess we’ll find out.

So it’ll be interesting to see what happens tonight. Hopefully it’s not cottage cheese flavored ice cream.

Red Hats Forever!

The lovely Mrs. G. and I went out to dinner last night at Theo’s, a local steakhouse that sits way out in the country a ways out of town. Theo’s has pretty good food, and although it’s not terribly fancy, it seems to be THE place around here for big parties – proms, homecomings, wedding receptions, etc.

I’m not sure why Theo’s is so popular for dress-up night. The menus look like folded newspaper sections, there are dead animal heads (and other assorted pieces) nailed to the walls, and their salad bar proudly offers up pickled herring. Yet the way people flock there for special occasions, you’d think it was Tavern on the Green. Still, we do like Theo’s, and it was nice to get away for the evening and not have to cook when it’s 99 degrees outside.

Now, I mention all of this for this reason: Seated in the middle of the dining room last night, at about 10 tables all pushed together in a long row, were about 50 little old ladies, all wearing their matching purple polyester outfits and (yes) their Red Hats. It was the Siouxland chapter of the Red Hat Society’s night out, apparently. No wonder there wasn’t an open handicapped parking space within 400 yards of the restaurant door.

Anyway, there they were – all decked out in their fancy red hats, having dinner together. Of course, the table was so long that there was no way you could’ve heard a conversation more than 5 feet away, so I hope you were happy with who you were seated next to. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the waitress wasn’t pulling her hair out (that I could see), so it seemed to me that everything was going swimmingly for the dear old Bats in Hats. (Just kidding, ladies! Don’t hit me with your handbag.) And I couldn't help but notice that most of the old ladies had a beer or other cocktail in front of them, so it's nice to know that Red Hats isn't a dry club. Drink up, girls! The night is young, and the hats are red!

Watching them made me wonder why there isn’t a men’s version of the Red Hat Society. I mean, there are plenty of old coots out there too, you know. I bet they’d like to all dress alike and go out on the town. Okay, maybe not the "dress alike" part, unless it means that they all had tractor and/or seed caps on, but you get my drift. Don’t the guys deserve a night on the town?

Ah, but football season is coming up. How could I forget? The guys will soon be huddled around the TV, comparing college kids with players they remember from way back in the 50’s and 60’s. “Yeah, he’s fast, but nowhere near as fast as Jackson was in the November 16, 1963 Nebraska – Oklahoma game. He ran 180 yards in the second quarter, including that 80 yard runback with only 4 minutes left on the clock.” (This of course will be said by an old man who can’t remember his own son’s birth date, much less his name.) So the men do have their own rituals and clubs, only with pigskin instead of the polyester.

I hope that when I’m old(er) and gray(er) there will be a club for people like me, who like to write sarcastic things about their lives and communities, and then post it on the Internet (or whatever newfangled device they have to distract us from work in year 2045.) And if there’s not a club, then by God I’ll have to start one.

So, c’mon, join now. If you promise to bring two friends, I’ll even throw in an official club hat.

Knock, Knock.

I usually try to keep my politics directly out of this blog, mainly because they'd irritate half of you and enthrall the other half, which only leads to a) hurt feelings b) hate mail, or c) a hearty round of "ooh, yeahs!" And since I'm being particularly selfish with this space and making it all about ME, ME, ME!, I have purposely chosen to keep it politically neutral.

But I saw this joke online today and it made me laugh, so here it is.

Knock knock
Who's there?
Orange
Orange who?
Orange you glad you are not George Bush, who's approval level is at an all time lowest level of 47 percent?

So as you’ve probably determined, I’m not a wild fan of the guy in the Oval Office. Funny how being lied to by your Commander in Chief over and over again can do that to a fellow. I still haven’t heard one good reason why 1,800 Americans died in Iraq. I’m not sure how cutting taxes is supposed to help the average person find a job or afford a home. And I really don’t like that smirk he gets on his mug when he’s threatening other countries to “bring it on”.

I wrote a political column for the local newspaper (a “Left vs. Right” opinion feature) for almost two years, where I took on the liberal point of view in a town that’s 80% conservative. (And a good portion of those are ultra-right wing conservatives.) I took a lot of heat at times for my columns – what’d you expect when you stick your neck out and criticize GOP policies? – but NOT ONCE did I ever receive any hate mail when I bashed Bush. Oh, and did I bash him. It was fun, actually. I called him on the carpet time and time again. I compared him to Pinocchio. I knocked him so much, I was just waiting for the Feds to come knocking on my door. (Thank God for the First Amendment, that’s all I can say.)

I keep hoping that one of these days ol’ Georgie will wake up and realize what a mess he’s made of things, and will actually take a step or two to rectify the fiasco. Sigh – keep dreaming, Tommy. It ain’t happening.

But perhaps the American public is waking up – check out those poll numbers. He’s snowed us with artificial wars and hyped-up threats of terrorism. He thinks he can get away with murder – or at least sending good Americans to die in a pointless war. But what if the tide were turning - maybe we’re not as dumb as W Boy thinks we are. Just imagine where he and his cronies would be then... and where we might go.

It may be a better day tomorrow after all.

&*$##@!

As you may have noticed, I like to write. A lot. And as I sometimes do, I like to pass out my completed works to a select few. So recently I shared one of my short stories with an ill family member. Why? As I look back on it, I’m not totally sure why I did it. Maybe I’m a masochist. Actually, I thought perhaps it’d cheer her up. She’s nutty, you see, and has spent the last few months hospitalized for a myriad of ailments. Anyway, she’s home now, so I sent her a letter and a copy of my story.

Her feedback? It wasn’t what I expected to hear. “Oh, I cannot believe the horrible language. You need to clean up the filthy language. I think we can all do without words like that.” Not, “Gee, thanks for sending it to me” or “Wow, that was nice of you to think of nutty ol’ me.” Nope – all she could do was gripe about the four letter words.

But, Tommy, you say. How filthy was this tale? Was it Penthouse Forum worthy? Was the language course enough to make George Carlin blush?

Not at all. It had one semi-curse word: “Bastard”. I referred to one character as a heartless bastard.

That’s it. No damns. No shits. No F-bombs. No Lord's name in vain. No suckers of any type. Just one little bastard.

I find that you tend to walk a mighty thin line when it comes to relatives and your writing. They’ll usually assume that anything you write is a) true and b) about them in some way. I wrote a purely fictional story from the point of view of a young boy once, and this relative was convinced it was actually about her. I tried to convince her it was just fiction, but to this day she’s still convinced it’s about her nutty self. Nope, it was all bullshit. Made up bullshit. Oops, there goes that potty mouth again.

When writing characters, you have to let them be who they are. Sometimes your imagination created characters who are morally sound, and who wouldn’t use a word stronger than “gee-willickers”. Then sometimes your imagine lets out someone a little...darker. The murderer. The thief. The heartless bastard. And these aren’t exactly the types of people you’d hear say, “Well, gosh darn you, you no-good son of a biscuit eater. Why don’t you go fudge yourself in the patootie?”

So from now on, I’m letting my writing imagination run free, without the opinions of nutty family members interfering. If a character wants to cuss or steal or shit on the carpet, then by God he (or she) is free to do so. Go for it, you heartless bastard.

And if I ever need to create an uptight, slightly nutty, close-minded shrew, then I’ll know exactly who to think of. Who knows – she might recognize herself then.

The Joys of Blogging

I just realized that I’ve now posted over 50 messages to this blog since starting it 6 weeks ago. Holy crap! 50 posts already? It’s been a lot of fun though, and a good way to let out my frustrations.

It still kind of amazes me how popular the whole blogging thing has become in the last few months. Hell, I have Word 2003 at my desk, and it doesn’t even recognize “blog” as a real word. I’ve read a few really interesting blogs out there – some excellent ones, some lousy ones, some in foreign languages I don’t have time to Babelfish, and some that are just downright twisted. Ummm, I’ve been pretty open and honest on here (for the most part), but some people really need to consider a little self-control, especially when telling the world about their sexual transgressions and/or bodily functions. Sometimes a little ‘sweet mystery of life’ is a good thing. As Miss Katie would say, “TMI! TMI!”

Still, it’s good to see people writing. It means they’re taking the time to express themselves in ways that are purely personal. Everyone has stories, and everyone has opinions, but not everyone takes the time to write them down or properly express those feelings. So it’s a good thing. And an occasionally snarky thing, in some of our cases.

So happy blogging, one and all. Just be sure to press F7 for that spell check feature every now and then, shall we?

It's Getting Hottt Outtt Therrre

It’s downright tropical outside today – 95 degrees, high humidity. Makes me feel like I’m in Florida. (Only I’m stuck at work and not at Disney World. But otherwise it feels like Florida.)

The heat and humidity seem to bring out the worst in people around here – they deal with seasonal weather all year, and for the most part they don’t go bonkers when it’s cold outside, but when it turns hot and sticky? Look out – their bad moon rises. (It’s also a full moon, which isn’t helping anything.)

I had to work at Rhymes with Rarnes and Zoble last night, and people were just nasty. One rather copious woman was hacked that the “4 ingredients or less” cookbook that she saw in our store last winter was no longer available, and she whined loudly for a good half hour about it. Sorry, Queen Tubby – books change. If you saw it then, you should’ve bought it then. (I wonder if her preferred 4 ingredients were chocolate, butter, lard, and double-stuff Oreos.) I tried to smile as she bitched and moaned, but all I could think was “STFU already.” Yeah, even ol’ Tommy was feeling a little owly from the heat.

In my full time world we’re once again battling Skippy Whitebread. They’ve reduced our staff by 66% in our group (thank you, right-sizing!), but they still expect the 3 of us remaining writers to kick out the work that 9 of us used to do. Well, it ain’t happening. We’re doing our best, but that’s all we can do. If Skippy would get out of the occasional meeting and help us out (he’s regularly scheduled for meetings 30 – 32 hours a week. No joke.), perhaps it’d help. See what working for a bureaucrat gets you? He’s mighty good at talking about work, but lousy at actually doing any.

I’m hoping for a brief cool down, but the weather Gods have said nay-nay to that. Still, it could be worse. I’d rather have it hot and sticky than 40 below zero and freezing rain any day. So I’ll quit my belly aching about that.

Time for a nice iced tea and maybe a few minutes in front of the fan.

Back to School...in July

I bitch about my primary employer quite a bit, mainly because they tend to treat us like we’re disposable. They milk us dry, promise us all sorts of things they have no intention of delivering, then when we’ve given it our all and have nothing left to give, they’ll “right-size” us right out of a job. Thanks for all the hard work – now get the fuck out.

But there is one thing they offer us poor working serfs that I do appreciate – tuition reimbursement. It’s what’s allowing me to finally go back to college and finish my degree, after all these years. So in return for that kind benefit, I promise not to rag on the company for the rest of this post. Sound good?

Anyway, yeah I’m a college student again, at age 40. I feel like the OMOC – Old Man On Campus – but that’s okay. I’m a 4.0 student so far, so take that, young Gen Y punks. I’m in a program designed for working stiffs – one night a week, 5 weeks per course. Of course, it’s a highly concentrated class schedule – pulling off in 5 weeks what a regular class does in 13 – but it’s okay. Half of the class is online, and most of the discussions, tests, etc. are all done online. We have 21 different courses in the program, ranging from economics to history to business to law. By the time we’re done in the summer of 2007, we’ll have AA Business Administration degrees. Sweet, no?

So today I had to run out and pick up the text book I’ll need for this fall’s classes – Microeconomics and Macroeconomics. Economics has always been right up my alley, for some reason. It comes easy to me. So I’m not too worried. We got an e-mail from the instructor last night discussing the curriculum, and he mentioned writing a research paper. I’m not too worried – I write plenty of regular stuff, and coming up with a 5 page long paper won’t exactly be a sweat for me. This stupid economics book set me back $137.00. See what I said about being grateful for tuition reimbursement? The textbook companies have quite the racket – no school book should cost that much, especially when a lot of CC students are paying for this stuff courtesy of a second job.

I have this summer off from school because I tested out of the classes – English Comp I and II. I went and took the CLEP exam cold; no studying, no prep – and I still managed to pass. So it’s been a long summer without school (I hate to admit it, but I kind of miss it), but I’m ready to get back on the wagon.

Way back when (1984) I was in college in Seattle, with only 5 classes left to finish my AA degree. Summer quarter came along, and I was recruited for a job. I was 19 years old, and they were offering me $11.93 an hour to start. Did I want it? Hell, yeah! So I walked away from college, 5 classes short of finishing. Long story short, I got laid off, never went back to school, and have had to live under the specter of not having a college degree for the last 21 years. Now I’m out to rectify that.

I’ve been able to go pretty far in life for someone who doesn’t have a college degree. But it’s always kind of eaten at me that I never finished what I started. But now here I am – as part of my 24 month escape plan – finishing school. I’m hoping to walk away with a degree with honors (so far, so good), and finally put that “quitter” demon out to pasture.

See you in class.

Smell that? It's BROWNIES!!!

It’s been a strange day. My supe is out sick, but Skippy Whitebread is back from his brief vacation and is now once again running around like a madman with his head cut off. Quick, someone give that man a downer! He tends to flit from one “big important super-duper” project to another, expecting us to drop everything to respond to it NOW, NOW, NOW! No wonder I have a headache.

But on the good side, the sun is out and it’s not overly blazing hot, so that’s a good sign. The humidity has also backed off somewhat, too, which makes convertible weather a whole lot nicer. Nothing worse than getting a new hairstyle courtesy of hot, wet air while driving at 65 MPH. You want hair to match Ace Ventura's? You’ve got it, baby. I went driving at lunchtime, and it was mighty nice to be outside this huge tin can and in the fresh air.

The building I work in is located about a half block from a cookie plant, where they make Snackwells and Girl Scout cookies. When the wind blows from the North, the air outside smells like brownies. This is always a good sign; when the air smells like brownies in the morning, odds are it’s going to be decent weather all day. Of course, this doesn’t always work. Sometimes it smells like brownies in the dead of winter when it’s 5 degrees outside. But for the most part, you can take the brownie-scented air as a sign of good things to come.

On the other hand, if the wind blows from the South or the West, the air tends to smell like a cow’s ass. And in the middle of summer, some days it can smell like a hot, sweaty cow’s ass. Yeah, let that mental image sink in for a minute, why dontcha.

There’s a crude nickname for Sioux City – “Sewer City” – that sometimes seems to fit. There are several beef and pork production plants (i.e. slaughterhouses) around here that have a tendency to pollute the air and give the city an aroma that smells like a cross between burned hairy flesh and... well, a giant cow’s ass. But as bad as the cows smell, it’s nothing compared to the odor of a hog. Trust me – one hog can smell about 1,000 times worse than any old cow ever did. You can get used to cow's ass if you had to. Not so with hog's ass.

Iowa’s new state motto is “Fields of Opportunity”, thanks to a statewide contest a couple of years back. I still wish they’d used my recommendation instead: “What’s That Smell?” But for now the air is a pleasant chocolate brownie scented. Let’s all hope it remains that way, shall we?

So there you go. May all your days smell like brownies, cookies, fresh-baked bread, or whatever it is that turns you on. As long as it’s not a cow’s ass, we’ll get along fine.

X Bitches

Miss Katie is in Seattle visiting the X, and if I could, I’d drive out there right now and rescue her from the X’s evil clutches. The X is an awful person, and she and Miss Katie don’t get along at all. The X is a selfish, self-centered, egotistical, BITCH – can I use any other adjectives? Nope, BITCH just about sums it up. A rose by any other name would still be a BITCH if it was referring to the X. The X couldn't even be bothered to take time off work to spend with her daughter - she had burned up all her vacation time flying cross country last month to attend a concert. Bitch.

I hope Miss Katie makes it through this visit unscathed – so far she’s spent most of her time babysitting the X’s sister’s two little brats. For free. Funny, I thought Miss Katie was a child, not her indentured servant. The X rented out Miss Katie's bedroom to a friend of hers, so Miss Katie is stuck sleeping on the floor. Doesn't this sound like Cinderella's family? (Only Cinderella's stepsisters were better looking than the X is...)

Deep breath, Thomas. Must remain calm. Must keep reminding myself that there’s a reason the X and I live so far apart. Must remember that we all know who Miss Katie really likes living with (most of the time). Must remember that come October, both Miss Katie and I won’t have to deal with the X BITCH much more.

Ah, that’s much better. I’ll be rescuing Miss Katie in about 2 ½ weeks, and then she’ll turn 18 in October. There’s no turning back then. For those of you stuck with an X BITCH like I have, my sincerest sympathy. Especially if your kids are involved.

Hang in there, Miss Katie. Vati will rescue you shortly.

Happy Birthday, Disneyland!

Yesterday was Disneyland’s 50th birthday. Wish I’d been there for the celebration – sort of. From the photos I’ve seen online, it looks like the guests were drowning in a sea of humanity, which is never that much fun when it comes down to it. Don't get me wrong - a crowded day at Disneyland beats the hell out of a normal day at work - by far. But I'd just rather spend a day with Mickey & pals without having to elbow my way through 100,000 of my "closest friends" to do so.

Regardless, Disneyland is still one of my favorite places on Earth. I’ve been there 10 times in my life, and if I was closer I’d go more often than that. My first trip produced my avatar you see – check out those snazzy 1972 pants, will ya? I have a gallon of wonderful memories from those trips, both as a kid and as an adult with my own daughter, and I wouldn't trade those days for anything.

Ah, how I wish I could go - today. Right now. Get in the car - let's go. C'mon - what are you waiting for?

My most recent trip to Disneyland? That’d be 1999, when I won the national Disney trivia contest for The Disney Store. What a cool day that was – we got a parade down Main Street in our honor, lunch at Club 33, a backstage tour of the park, and then a visit to Walt’s private apartment over the fire station. It’s right up there with the greatest days of my life.

Disneyland has always had a way of making me feel at home. There are no worries while there – the bills can wait, work can wait, the outside world can definitely wait. There’s always a good smell in the air, a planter filled with beautiful flowers, or a song playing. But most of all, there’s always an adventure waiting for you around the corner. Where else can you go and shoot into the stars, play with Peter Pan, watch pirates shoot it out, spin with Roger Rabbit, take a flume ride through a mountain, explore a haunted mansion, or any one 60 other thrills? It’s a great place for kids, but us old fogies really dig it, too.

So happy birthday, Disneyland. Hope to see you soon. Save a frozen banana and a FastPASS for Space Mountain for me, will you?

I Survived Potter

Well, here it is – early Saturday AM, and I have officially made it through the Harry Potter 6 release. And lemme tell ya – it was a blast. Rhymes with Garnes and Toble was rocking last night – hundreds and hundreds of people were in our store, and for the most part people were very well behaved. I’m honestly surprised – and a little humbled. I figured the place would be a total disaster by the end of the night, but somehow we came out practically unscathed.

I ended up taking photos of the kids with a cheap-o HP cutout. The kids stuck their heads through a hole in the cardboard, and I counted them down, “on three say Gryffindor! One, two, three...” and then I’d snap their Polaroid. We’d then put the picture in a little cardboard frame (the Lovely Mrs. G. was my volunteer/assistant), and send the kids off to find another activity to do. It was hilariously fun, for the most part. I was kind of surprised by the number of kids though who were frightened to have their picture taken. Haven’t these kids ever seen a Polaroid before? Oh, yeah – this is the 21st century – perhaps not.

Anyway, at about 9:30 a couple of the actors from the Sioux City Community Theater came dressed as Hagrid the giant and Professor Sybil Trelawney, the fortune telling teacher from the books. So the kids then posed for the rest of the evening with them instead of Mr. Cheap-o cardboard. They were very good sports about the whole thing; I probably took close to 500 photos all together.

At 11:30 we wrapped up the activities, and I went to take my place behind the resister. Every register in the store was open – the only other time I remember that happening was during our grand opening. At 12:01 AM we had a 10 second countdown, then began selling.

Or at least we tried. The books were supposed to be 40 percent off - $17.99. Yet they were ringing up at their original price - $29.99. Somewhere, an IT guy had goofed.
So for the first few minutes it was organized chaos, as we tried to manually override the registers to give customers the proper discount. Finally, at about 12:15 AM, someone at the corporate office must’ve woken up and pushed the right button, because the books then started ringing up properly.

So everyone got their book, the TV stations got tons of stock footage, and by 12:45 AM the store was pretty much empty. We threw out the last of the stragglers, locked the place up, and then...looked around at the mess.

Yes, the store was trashed. But not nearly as bad as I thought it’d be. And there were enough of us there to clean up the mess that it only took an hour to put everything back together again.

So there it was – I walked out at 2:00 AM, tired and sweaty, with a new $19.25 (with tax!) copy of Harry Potter 6 tucked underneath my arm. I haven’t read one word of it yet; I’ve been kind of busy trying to sleep and come down off my wild night. My legs are cramped from bending down for photos all night, and I’m really in need of a nap (all ready), but overall I’m ecstatic by the way the evening went.

Why can’t we have a new Harry Potter book every month?

Willie, Augustus, and Me

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory opens today, and I have seriously conflicted feelings about seeing it.

I was just a kid when the original movie version came out, and I can remember that fateful day IN ITS ENTIRETY. There are just a few days of my childhood that I can recall in complete detail: my 10th birthday (celebrated with fireworks at Disneyland), my 8th birthday (a disaster of epic proportions if there ever was one), my first day of kindergarten (Ah, the young and nubile Miss Wick...) – and the day my sister took me to see the story of Willie Wonka’s amazing chocolate factory.

I remember it so well: Paula was 20, I was 6. We’d gone to Everett to visit our Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Austin, who owned a second hand store across the street from the theater. They never seemed to sell very much stuff, but it was paradise for a kid like me, because it always meant you got to have a comic book or two from the huge dusty pile they had sitting by the back door.

Anyway, after lunch with the fam Paula and I walked across the street to the theater, where Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was playing. Red Vines in hand, we sat back and watched Gene Wilder and friends bring the story of Charlie, the Oompa-Loompas, and all of their associates come to life. And what an amazing world of pure imagination it was – chocolate waterfalls, gummy-bear trees, plants filled with sticky jam! It was too good to believe!

And then Augustus fell into that chocolate river. Uh, oh.

I remember my total, absolute, wide-eyed fear: Holy crap, that fat fucker is going to drown! (Okay, that’s not an exact quote from the time, but it was probably something close to that, albeit without the “fucker” part.) Then it got worse – Augustus got himself stuck in the tube. Why wasn’t anyone trying to save him? Listen – he’s yelling for help! Mr. Wonka? – he’s just standing there, smiling and saying, “the suspense is terrible. I hope it lasts.” For God’s sake - help him, you sadistic bastard! Help him!

Anyway, we all know what happens next. The pressure in the tube builds up, Augustus shoots off to God-knows-where, the Oompa-Loompas take Mrs. Gloop away, then they all stand around and sing a ditty about guzzling down sweets, eating as much as an elephant eats. And there I sat, shocked out of my little skin. It’s a good thing I was a kid known for excellent bladder control, that’s for sure.

Life goes on, and so did the movie. The remaining four kids and Wonka got into his not-so-much-Love Boat, and off they went for more touring and adventures...but yet my heart remained back on Wonka’s factory floor, wondering what the hell happened to poor Augustus.

Even at the end of the movie, when Charlie, Grandpa Joe, and Wonka are soaring over their non-descript European town in the Great Glass Elevator, and Wonka assured Charlie that all of the now-missing kids would be returned to their usual, rotten selves, I still wasn’t convinced. Where exactly was Augustus, hmmm? If he is truly okay (as Willie ‘Sick Bastard’ Wonka claims), why won’t he show him to us? Oh, sure – horrendous things happened to Violet, Veruca, and Mike Teevee, too, but Augustus – he shot out of a chocolate tube, shouting for help all the way!

It’s truly amazing that I’m not repeating this story to a psychotherapist to this day, isn’t it? Some kids were traumatized by Bambi’s Mom or Chernabog, the demon in Fantasia, but not me. Nope – I was mentally screwed up by the fat kid stuck in Willie Wonka’s chocolate tube.

Long story short, I had Augustus-in-a-tube nightmares every night for a month afterwards. My sister felt really bad about it – and being the wise-ass kid that I was, I tried not to make her feel *that* guilty about emotionally scarring me for life. And hey – she did buy me a box of Everlasting Gobstoppers the next afternoon, hoping that Wonka’s candy would somehow soothe my trepidation about eating something that could very well contain little chopped up bits of a fat German kid.

Over the past 34 years, I’ve seen the original film at least 100 times; most recently last weekend. I can quote large parts of the script, and my e-mail address is derived from a classic Gene Wilder line about the powers of Butterscotch, Buttergin, and Butterrum. It’s truly one of my favorite movies, and yet I still find myself having to turn away a little bit when Augustus takes his Dip of Doom.

So if you go see Johnny Depp and Co. this weekend on the big screen, be sure to show a little consideration for the 6 year olds sitting around you. For while you’re enjoying the amazing 21st century special effects and CGI world of Willie Wonka, there could very well be a poor frightened, overly concerned, totally freaked out child in your midst.

The sleepless nights you prevent might just be your own...

Hooray for Hollywood – sort of.

There’s been a lot of talk lately about the downturn in Hollywood’s box office receipts. Ooh, the movies have had 19 weeks in a row where sales were down when compared to 2004! Look out – Hollywood is losing money! Poor Angelina! Woe is Cradle-Robbing Tom and Jailbait Katie! How are they going to afford their 40,000 square foot mansions and their luxury yachts now??? Next thing you know, your favorite A-list stars will be lining up for food stamps and government cheese!

For me, the primary causes box office woes that the major studios are going through can be summed up in 5 easy points. Take notes; there may be a quiz later.

1 – Going to the theater is an incredible (and expensive) pain in the ass. Sioux City (finally) got a decent theater in town; previously the only first-run multiplex was the dumpy 12-plex at the mall, and we all know what high quality, plush complexes those mall theaters usually are. The new place is very nice, but parking is a bitch around there, since it’s smack downtown, and at $9 a seat, it’s not the cheapest entertainment source around.

Thank God we don’t have to pay for a babysitter any longer, but a night out at the movies usually means dinner of some sort before or after, so figure another $20-$30 right there. (I’m a nice guy and usually don’t make the Lovely Mrs. G go ‘dutch’. And sometimes she’ll pay, too – especially if I’ve been dragged to a movie I don’t want to see.)

And then there’s a $20 outlay in ConcessionLand. I used to work for a form of ConcessionLand many years ago, and I know what type of profit there is to be made at one of those things. $6 for a large Pepsi? What do you think you are – a sporting event? Sheesh. I usually try to pass on their overpriced, oversalted, overly-watered down junk food, mainly because I’d be richer, fuller, and probably more nutritionally sound if I just went ahead and ate my dollar bills instead.

So isn’t it cheaper, easier, and more convenient to sit at home and watch HBO? What the heck -- I’m already paying for it. (And yes – I subscribe to HBO for the movies and World Championship Boxing and not “Taxicab Confessions” or the Bunny Ranch shows. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.)

2 – The audiences are rotten neanderthals these days. Sioux City’s movie audiences are the worst in the world. But believe it or not, it’s not the kids that are the problem – it’s the dumb local mouth breathers who insist on talking all the way through the film. They repeat the lines. They shout at the screen. They tell everyone around them what they think will happen next. They loudly discuss non-movie related subjects (pizza, washing machines, grocery lists) with their neighbors WHILE THE MOVIE IS RUNNING!

I swear I have never seen worse audiences anywhere in the world than right here in America’s Heartland. It’s the middle-age farmers and 50-point I.Q. locals who are the worst; they’re used to sitting in their Barca-lounger at home in front of the TV watching NASCAR or college football, where it’s okay to shout at the screen in between smashing beer cans on their foreheads. The local senior citizens are just as bad – they tend to shout everything, since odds are they’re already hard of hearing, and they want to make sure that they’re being heard over the movie’s soundtrack as they discuss their hair appointments or what the doctor told them. Can’t you people take it HOME and talk about it there?

Meanwhile, I’m trying to watch the movie, and not have to listen to dumbass hicks and old farts chat. And slowly – very slowly – I go out of my mind.

This is the main reason why I didn’t step foot in a theater in almost two years, until the new cinema opened here last winter. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

3 – The movies themselves? They pretty much suck. I’ve seen a handful of films theatrically this year, and I’ve got to tell you – most of them stunk on ice. I did appreciate ‘Cinderella Man’, although it was way too long. But ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide’ was a huge letdown, and ‘Star Wars III’ was horribly written. And there’s no way in hell you’re dragging me into a theater to watch anything starring Hilary Duff, Paris Hilton, or Ashton Kutcher. No thanks. I’ll stay home and eat shards of glass instead. Less painful. So why pay $9 each to see something that’ll more than likely suck big time? I’ll just wait for it to come on HBO, or drop the $4 rental fee and feel 60% less guilty for turning the shit off halfway through.

4 – There’s too much damn commercialism. I’m not talking just about the 20 minutes of “pre-film entertainment” in the form of Coke commercials, Nike commercials, U.S. Army commercials, and ploys to try to make you think you’re watching something other than blatant advertising. That’s bad enough. What’s driving me up the wall is the synergy that the movie studios think they need to spill into our lives months before the film opens. Star Wars cereal in April. Fantastic Four Burger King meals. Batman cell phone ring tones. On and on and on. They blast the characters and plot in our face so much before the movie is ever released that by the time it does come out, you’re so damn sick and tire of hearing about it, you could just care less.

It used to sort-of bother me when I worked for The Mouse that we were expected to know every character of every upcoming movie months before it was released. I remember receiving a whole dossier on “Toy Story II”, explaining every intimate detail about Jesse, Bullseye, Stinky Pete, Zurg, etc. What’s wrong with letting people discover the characters DURING THE MOVIE? Why must you go into the theater already knowing every minute piece of data beforehand? What happened to the (sometimes pleasant) elements of surprise and discovery? Yikes. Don’t get me wrong – I loved working for The Mouse, but sometimes I wished I could just find cine-magic as it happened – not months ahead of time.

5 – There are better things to do with my time. Sorry, but paying good money to sit in a sticky seat staring at a gum-laced screen and listening to a fuzzy soundtrack being overridden by farmers and old goats talking isn’t my idea of a relaxing evening. Going to the movies used to be a fun experience; I really can’t say that it is any longer.

So there you go – Thomas J. Gressel’s explanation of why Hollywood is in the doldrums this summer. I rest my case. Class dismissed. Oh, and if you happen to know Barry Diller, Sumner Redstone, or Michael Eisner, be sure to pass this information along the next time you meet up at Morton’s, will you? They might just care! (Okay, probably not. But you never know.)

See you at the...um...video store?

It’s Total Potter-mania!

Tomorrow evening is The Big Night that every 12 year old in the country (and some of us 40 year olds, too) has been waiting for – the premiere of Harry Potter 6: Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. The book goes on sale at the stroke of midnight tomorrow night, and the "Rhymes with Darnes and Soble" store I work at (along with most of the other stores around the country) will be hosting a huge kick-off celebration/ sort-of party/excuse to sell a lot of HP books.

What does this mean to you, as the eagerly awaiting fan? Well, the party starts at 9:00, with games (with cheap prizes to win), food (to buy), books (also to buy), lines (to stand in), and hopefully not a million cranky little kids who really needed a nap but didn’t get one. So get in line, be patient, and hang in there, because the time is almost there. And if your 6 year old does end up staying up all night reading it, well then don't blame me for their little bloodshot eyes. Come get the sleepy little tike a Grande double mocha, and he'll be fine.

With the fun starting at 9:00, but the books not going on sale until midnight, my biggest fear is that the kiddies and their parents are going to get mighty bored waiting around for three hours for the books to go on sale. I mean, we can only entertain you for so long. After a half hour of story time, trivia, and paint your own magic wand, what do you do then? The answer had better not be “let’s trash Rhymes with Jarnes and Poble.” That’s all I’m saying.

I worked last night, and had a woman call and ask about the kickoff. Here’s what she said: “My kids are 11. Can I just drop them off and come back for them when it’s done?” Uh – no. We’re expecting upwards of 750 people to show up, and there’s a good chance that the fire department is going to limit the number of people who can come inside at any one time. So we’re not babysitting anyone’s kids at 1:00 AM. If you abandon your kids, it won’t be Hogwarts they’ll be going to; it’ll be C.P.S.

I’m looking forward to the evening – it should hopefully only be a figurative riot, and not a literal one. We’re dressing in costumes (well, those of us that aren’t too cowardly), and it’ll be fun to interact with the masses. As long as they behave themselves, that is. Act up, and it's off to Snape's dungeon for you. That, or a nasty session of "timeout" in the history book section. "No Harry Potter for you!"

But so far, so good. I was pretty certain someone would try to beg a copy of the book off me last night, but nobody did. Of course, it wouldn’t do any good to ask for one – they’d kill us and hang our heads on a pole outside the Rhymes with Warnes and Doble entrance if we even dared look at the boxes of books in the back room. Technically, they don’t exist until midnight Friday. All’s fair in love and Potter, I suppose.

I’m scheduled to work tomorrow night from 8:30 - ?. I suspect that the question mark will end up being 2:30 AM or so, by the time we clean up the messes from hundreds of little wizards and witches and their sloppy Muggle parents. Then we may have to go find a pitcher of Butterbeer or something to wash away the last remnants of the evening.

I’ll write up the full details on the evening this weekend. Hopefully everything will go smoothly and nobody (especially me) will end up in Azkaban.

Life with Skippy Whitebread

It’s been a long week here in paradise.

My supervisor Chris is out this week, so our team manager Skippy Whitebread has been on a rampage. He’s nutso with OCD, and refuses to take his meds any longer, so his obsessive/compulsive ways have been off the charts as of late. Usually I can ignore Skippy’s OCD-induced spaz attacks, but with Chris gone on vacation I don’t have my usual “buffer zone” to keep me safe from Skippy’s freakouts.

You’re probably wondering: Why do I refer to my manager as “Skippy Whitebread”? Well, if the name fits...

Skippy is a nice guy for the most part, and on a personal level we get along just fine. He’s literally from small town Iowa; a farm boy who has rarely experienced anything outside of his isolated world, and comes across as the cleanest, most wholesome, purest, Skippy Whitebreadish guy you’ll ever meet. Seriously. He makes Beaver Clever look like a sinner. Part of the nickname comes from his lunch box contents. He’s 37 years old, but his lunch box always contains the same thing – PB&J on white with the crust cut off, an apple or banana, a Jello pudding cup, and a Twinkie. He doesn’t like “high falutin’” city life, fancy food, etc., and he rarely goes anywhere other than to home or the bar on Sundays to watch football.

Ah, football. His lifeblood. When he’s not watching football, he’s talking about it. Pre-game stats, post-game analysis, in-depth information on college players from the late 80’s who are now selling used cars. July – January is the worst time for his football jones, but the off-season is just as difficult.

Now, I could really care less about football. I’ll watch the Super Bowl, and that’s about it. If I happen to miss a game over the weekend, who friggin cares. But not so for Skippy. He spends all day Saturday in front of his TV watching college football, then all day Sunday with the pros. That’s his weekend schedule, 18 weeks a year. He videotapes every game he can, then watches them weeks later - sometimes watching them over and over again. Pathetic, really.

The hitch is that he loves to talk about the game, and I really don’t give a shit. Before the layoff wagon struck he had four other buddies in our group who he’d sit and talk sports with for at least an hour a day. (Usually closer to two hours a day during the season, and upwards of 3 hours on Mondays during playoffs.) But all of his pigskin pals were axed – funny how spending your day talking football and not actually working affects your stats, doesn’t it? – so Skippy is an island all alone, with nobody to talk to about his beloved spectator pastime.

I feel bad for him sometimes – he’s got a lot of pressure on him from the company to make the three of us remaining writers perform at the same level as when we had 16 writers. But there’s only so much you can get out of us. So I know that he’s stressed, but I also know that he voluntarily gave up his medication, because he felt that it was “impeding” him. Well, sure – it kept him from driving us all batty. He seems to think his OCD is under control. Um, no.

But I’ll keep plugging along, trying not to let him get under my skin. I know it’s an illness, but sometimes I wish he’d just get off his ass and do something about it...

...and try a pastrami on rye during a lacrosse match once in a while. It might do him some good.

Whaddya want – a COOKIE?

Yesterday my employer decided to celebrate their signing of a major business contract with...cookies. They invited all of us to come down to the lobby between 2:00 and 3:00, where one (1) yellow-frosted sugar cookie was passed out to everyone by the lovely ladies in H.R.

Have you ever seen the scene in the movie “Office Space”, where the drones stand around fawning over birthday cake? It was the same scenario, only with cheap-tasting sugar cookies. "Oooh, cake."

Now, I don’t want to seem ungrateful – just snarky. I mean, come on – a cookie? Is that the best they could come up with? True – a sugar cookie is better than a kung-fu kick to the groin or another round of job cuts (which hurts just slightly less than the smashing of the family jewels), but still – we’re a company that won’t give pay raises, won’t give promotions, has cut benefits, and considers having your picture placed on the front page of the company's Intranet an “award” for performance. But by God, we’ve got your daily supply of sugar and fat! It's the perfect accompaniment to go with that lousy cup of coffee you've been sucking on since noon!

Tell you what – instead of tossing me chimp chips such as yellow sugar cookies and online “awards” that mean little to anyone, how about showing us some respect as workers? How about sincerely thanking us for a job well done? How about a pay raise, since we’re already doing the work of four other people that you laid off?

Must. Think. Happy. Thoughts. C’mon, Tom – do your best. Put yourself in a happy place – you’ve only got 23 months to go before you can implement your escape clause. Happy. Happy. Happy.

Mmmm...cookies. Good cookies. Oh, and look – they’re yellow!

Some good...Some bad.

A follow-up on yesterday’s whine-fest:

First off, remember what I said about auto repairs never being cheap? Well, I stand corrected. For the first time in my life, I had my car fixed and it cost me NOTHING. Nada. Zilch. 100% covered by the warranty. Can you believe it? Turns out the “blower resistor” (whatever that is) was bad, and it was covered by my 3 year/36K warranty. Thanks, Chrysler! I only have about 5,500 miles left on that warranty, though, so I’d better cross my fingers in the future.

So that’s the good side of the coin. The bad side? That’d be my cat, Jack. Poor old sick boy – turns out he has Feline ImmuneDeficiency Virus – FIV. His body’s immune system is pretty much shutting down. There’s nothing we can do for him except try to keep him comfortable. The vet gave us some antibiotics (oh so much fun trying to put an eyedropper down Mr. Crabass’ throat!), and with a little luck he’ll be okay and not get sicker. We’ll see. The vet says it’s serious, but not completely life threatening yet. But the time will soon come when we’ll have to make an ugly, bad, sucks-like-hell decision. As long as he’s not in any real pain, he’ll be fine. But as much as it’d kill me, I don’t want to see him suffer at all. Jack and I are pals, and I don’t want to see him hurt, no matter what.

So now I have two screwed up pets: Jack the FIV cat, and Tasha the diabetic cat. Between the two of them falling apart, it’s amazing any animals ever manage to live in our house. Tasha has to have insulin twice a day, and now Jackie needs antibiotics twice a day. It’s a regular kitty nursing home around our house.

So there you go – a little sunshine peers through on an otherwise gloomy day. And at least the bathroom hasn’t flooded again.

Car Repairs Suck!

I hate dealing with auto repairs. To me, there are few things worse in this world. Perhaps having to smell rotting garbage/burning cow flesh 24 hours a day like some people in Sioux City have to do would suck more (we’re lucky – we live upwind from the Sioux City Stench), but I somehow doubt it.

You see, as I type this my poor little Sebring is sitting in the service department at Charlie Zook Chrysler/Dodge/Jeep, hopefully getting the blower fixed. I was hoping to drive in at lunchtime, have them pop it on their magical scope or whatever it is those wizards use to convince you that something is seriously wrong, then they’d snap their greasy little fingers and fix the damn thing, and send me merrily on my way. In and out, just like that.

Ha. I should know better than to hope for something that crazy.

So I had to abandon my car, then wait for an old coot to give me a ride back to work. Charlie Zook is a good 10 miles away from work, so I’m thankful I didn’t have to walk in this heat/humidity, but the coot had the Bill O’Reilly Show cranked on the courtesy van radio, which really doesn’t sit too well with my beliefs. He’d snicker and make little bobblehead-dog comments to whatever it was that Bill was groaning on about, and I just sat there and kept my mouth shut, not wanting to be pushed out of the car on the freeway. Hey, at least it wasn’t Fatass Limbaugh on the air.

My old car (a piece of crap Buick) used to break down on me about once a week, usually in the middle of a busy highway. I swear to God that I pushed that damn car more than I drove it. It got to the point where the tow truck drivers all knew me on a first name basis. I’d call them and say, “Hi, Lou”, and instantly the reply would be, “Oh, hey Tommy. Where are you today?” I’m probably still paying off credit card debt from that car, and I abandoned it 15 years ago.

Auto repairs are never a joyous, positive experience. How many times in your life have you gone to have your car worked on and they’ve said, “Oh, it was only a 10-cent fuse.” Or “You really don’t need a new set of brakes after all. All you needed was this bolt tightened. That’ll be $5, please.” See? Never. It’s almost impossible to walk out of one of those places for less than $200, and quite often it’s more than that. Sucks big time, doesn’t it?

When I’m old and rich (har, har) I’m going to be one of those people who trades in his car every two years. The first thing to go wrong? So long, sucker – I’m getting a new one! What will I care about things such as depreciation or value? I’ll be loaded, and money will be no object! And then I’ll wake up from my dream, think, “aw, shit!”, and go get into my beat-up Buick, because that’s what old men drive.

But for now, what am I going to do? Walking everywhere sucks, and one of these days I’ll need to have that air conditioning/blower working, especially come winter when I’m freezing my ass off in 20 below zero Iowa. I don’t know the first damn thing about fixing cars; I can put gas in it, and I can drive it to Jumbo Lube once every 90 days for an oil change. That’s about it. So I’ll have to suck it up and take it, whether I like it or not. (Not.)
So here I sit –waiting for the eventual bad news. At least the lovely Mrs. G. was kind enough to agree to pick me up after work and take me down to rescue my car. Just one more reason why I love that lady. With any luck my Sebring will be as good as new in a few hours, and I won’t have to worry about anything else going wrong until...oh, at least Friday.

The Bad Luck Weekend

It was a damn frustrating weekend.

First, my poor old cat is sick. Jack has been walking around sneezing like mad for the past few days. Is there anything more pathetic in this world than a cat with a giant snot bubble hanging from its nose? I don’t think so.

Jack is somewhere around 12 now – he was a couple of years old when I took him in back in 1995. He’s always had kind of a weepy eye – the vet told me years ago that he probably didn’t have the proper vaccinations when he was a kitten, so it’s just something he’s had to live with. He’s a good old cat, and I hate to see him suffer through this cold or whatever it is he’s got. Maybe it’s from his steady diet of bats and moles? Or maybe it’s hay fever, since he seems to enjoy most of his outdoor time these days with his ass literally planted on top of the Lovely Mrs. G’s vegetable garden. He and his large butt have already squashed the cucumbers and corn, and I think he’s now working on flattening her pepper plants, too.

So Old Man Jack has an appointment with the vet for a “birthday party” this afternoon. As cranky as he’s been with his cold, I hope she doesn’t try taking his temperature. Last time the vet tried shoving the thermometer where no kitty sunlight shines, his Sphincter of Steel shot the thing across the room. He’ll have none of that, thankyouverymuch...

Elsewhere this weekend, Miss Katie came up from the basement Saturday morning and instantly said, “Dad, I didn’t do anything.” So right off the bat you knew that something was wrong, and odds are that she did it. Anyway, the next sentence said it all. “I just took a shower, and when I got out, the whole basement floor was flooded.” So I run down there, and sure enough the bathroom floor is about two inches deep in water. Our basement shower sits right over a floor drain, and apparently it clogged somewhere down the line. So a mop, a load of laundry, and a large bottle of gel-strength Drano later, everything seems to be going okay now. But what a mess.

Then, to top it off, my car is spazzing out on me. We went out to Wayne, Nebraska for the annual Wayne Chicken Show, and kept the top up and the air cranked on the way, since it was 9:00 AM and already 85 degrees with high humidity. We had our chicken fun, which is always a good way to spend a day (parades, chicken feeds, and making fun of hicks who strap real deer heads to the front of their John Deere tractors), then we went back to the Sebring. Guess what – the blower doesn’t work any longer. No vents, no air conditioning. So we had to drive home for an hour with the top down, only now the temp is about 95, and the humidity is somewhere around 80%, and the wind is blowing sideways at about 40 miles an hour. We felt literally beat up by the time we got home. I tried changing out fuses, but that didn’t help. So now it’s off to the shop for my car; it only has 26,000 miles on it; it shouldn’t be wigging out this badly already.

So my weekend celebrated a semi-broken car, a semi-flooded bathroom, and a semi-snot nosed black cat. Here’s to hoping the rest of the week doesn’t semi-suck, too.

Always look at the bright side of life...

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’ve been rather pissy lately in my posts. Part of it is the lack of sleep is making me owly. Part of it is the fact that it’s nice outside, but I’m trapped indoors being bored to death. But regardless of the reason, if I don’t start writing something a little more “upbeat”, people are going to start talking. And you know what’ll happen then: They’ll tell two friends, and they’ll two friends, and before you know it, total strangers are sending me Goth wear and my friends start hiding all sharp objects whenever I’m around.

But never fear, my faithful few. I’m going to try mellowing out and bringing a little bit of cheer to this here blog – starting now. And yes – the smile is genuine, and not there because of a hydraulic jack between my teeth.


Tommy G’s Top 10 Good Things in the World


10. Disneyland. Okay – it should probably be higher on the list, but just the thought alone of a day in Uncle Walt’s original Magic Kingdom is enough to lift my spirits. Now – who wants to race me to Splash Mountain?

9. Rocky Road ice cream. Wish I had some about now.

8. Sunrise over the ocean. Preferably enjoyed from a tropical island, where you’re feet are cold from being buried in the white sand and there’s no other sound around except the waves crashing and maybe the occasional sea bird. That’s living, I’m telling you.

7. Loud 80’s music. Yeah, yeah – mock ‘em if you wish, but there’s few things out there that will improve my attitude more than some really loud New Wave fun music from the early 80’s. You can keep your Coldplay CDs; I’d rather listen to my old Wang Chung or ABC songs any day. And remember: Frankie Says Relax!

6. Convertibles. Even though I’m currently stuck in Iowa, where dropping the top on your car is not recommended six months out of the year (frostbite is a bitch!), I still love my red Sebring GTC. Top down, baby. Top down!

5. A nice long road trip. See #6 and #7 for two prime things to have with you. That, and your camera, your sense of adventure, your Visa card, and oh yeah – a map. Your family wouldn’t be a bad addition, too – provided you can stand being around them that long. Fortunately, I’m a lucky guy that way – both the Lovely Mrs. G. and Miss Katie are expert road trippers.

4. I’m (mostly) healthy. Okay, so I could stand to drop a pound or two, and I can’t see the floor without my glasses on, but at least I’m still alive and kicking. I don’t have high blood pressure, clogged arteries, a polluted liver, kidney stones, gout, or even a spastic colon, which is always a good thing to say. Plus, my cancer is gone for now, and with a little prevention and luck it’ll stay away.

3. A balcony suite on a cruise ship. Hey, don’t knock it until you try it. You’ll find the need to sit out there and eat French fries and ice cream while staring at the ocean overwhelming.

2. My family. I’d be nothing without the Lovely Mrs. G. and Miss Katie in my life. Without sounding too Jerry McGuire-ish, “they complete me.” I’m glad that they’re around, and most importantly, I’m glad that they put up with me. Oh, and so they don’t get jealous, I must include the cats – Tash and Jack. Otherwise they’ll puke on my pillow again. They refuse to be ignored, you know.

1. The world itself. True, there are many bad things out there that happen to us, but for the most part Planet Earth still isn’t that bad of a place to be. I still think that people are basically good, despite the idiots we may run into every now and then, and that if we all try a little bit, we can keep this planet in tip-top shape and everyone enjoying their own little slice of it. (I know – that’s awfully deep from someone who likes to gripe. But hey – it’s a free country, and I’m at liberty to have a spiritual moment every now and then, aren’t I?)

So there you have it – 10 paragraphs of love. Okay, maybe not so much love as smiles. I know it made me smile to write it, so apparently it works for some of us. As for you? Well, your mileage may vary, but I hope that you’ll at least get behind the wheel and step on the gas a little bit.

The Grasshopper Wins Again

Why is it that the laziest, worst performing people you work with always seem to be the ones who get promoted? They say that cream rises to the top, but apparently the scum does, too...

Rhymes with Farnes and Coble just promoted their absolute worst lead to a manager position. “Margaret” came to our store last fall as a seasonal bookseller, and she was pretty much lazy from the get-go. (She’d worked at a different Rhymes with Jarnes and Woble store before; what she was like there, I’ll never know.) She pretty much spent her shift standing behind the register, not lifting an extra finger at all. In February she got the lead position, and her head expanded about 20 times its size. Suddenly Margaret was IN CHARGE, by God, and started bossing us around like a big-headed Napoleon. She then continued to not work very much, only now on a full time basis. Basically, she hid in the receiving room most of the shift, while the rest of us straightened her area, helped the customers, and cleaned up the place. Then, at the end of the night, she’d crawl out of her hidey-hole, pretend to be helpful, and say, “Oh, did you need any help?” Bitch.

But now Margaret is management. Thank God I won’t have to deal with her much anymore – the receiving manager works mainly days, and I work nights. She can make other people’s lives hell instead.

This isn’t the first time in my professional life I’ve watched the worst people become number one. I worked in an office a few years back for a company that was based in a different state, away from our satellite location. My little office had only 4 people working there – everyone else with the company – including all of our supervisors and managers – were 150 miles south in Oregon. And one of our co-workers, Vicky, was the epitome of lazy goof-offs. She took at least (and I’m not kidding about this) 20 smoke breaks a day, and spent a majority of the rest of her day on the phone with either her sons, her son’s girlfriends, her mother, or her husband. (Thank God there wasn't Internet access back in those days.) Then when Vicky would get behind on her work she’d whine to the managers in Oregon that “Tommy isn’t being a team player and helping out.” So guess who got called on the carpet for not pitching in and covering her ass? Hey, my work was done on time, and then some. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry her weight when she refuses to even try. When the company closed our office, guess who got promoted? That’s right. The rest of us got two weeks severance. Vicky got to work from home – and a raise. Bitch times two.

There was also Kathy, who was the newest member of our team a few years back. She was a mediocre employee at best, but surprise, surprise, she was made supervisor over all of us -- just 6 weeks after joining the group. How'd she pull that off? Well, let's just say that it turns out that Kathy and our (female) manager shared the same sexual orientation, and they stuck together in more ways than one. She was a crappy lead, and it was apparent to everyone in the company that she couldn't hack it from day one. And yet there she was - getting paid more than anyone else yet doing a third of the work. Swell, huh?

Then there’s Bobby. Bobby was a lazy slug – he looked like (and moved a lot like) Jabba the Hutt. Did as little as humanly possible. Long story short, Bobby was promoted and made $150,000 a year. Bobby has a Corvette, a speedboat, and a house he paid for in cash. Jackass times three.

What is it – what is their secret? How are these people able to fool the world? I’m a damn hard worker, and have incredibly strong time management skills. I make efficient use of my time and the tools around me to get the most done that I possibly can. My output is generally double that of my co-workers. Yet it’s these losers who end up in charge, time after time. It’s enough to drive you batty.

I have 23 months now until I can implement my escape plan. Then I’ll try to find something where my skills and abilities matter, and who knows – maybe one day I’ll get that promotion, too. Only I won’t be lazy about it. That’s not my style.

Blinded By The Right

So I’m standing in the Y’s locker room this AM, listening to the TV news about the bombs going off in the London subway and on a bus. News reports are still sketchy, and Katie Couric is busy running her mouth about what little bit she actually knows about what happened.

Standing beside me are two Naked Old Guys. And N.O.G. #1 says to his pal: “Thank God we re-elected President Bush.” His equally nude friend says, “Yeah, no terrorist would dare try something like that on his shift.”

Okay, two words: SEPTEMBER 11. Hello??? Did we forget already?

It seems to me that terrorism has no boundaries, and the scumbags behind this U.K. attack could really give a rat’s ass who is in charge across the pond in America. If they want to spread fear and panic, then by God they’ll do it. And as for Bush being the Great American Protector Against Terrorism, who the hell do you think is responsible for even more of the world’s population hating us than ever before? Why, that’d be the fella who dragged us into an unjustified war in Iraq, that’s who. So why wouldn’t the terrorists want to strike when Bush is in charge? What better way to say “screw you” to America than to embarrass the guy who dared them to “bring it on” in the first place?

Okay, deep breath. Sorry about that – I swore I wasn’t going to turn this blog into another one of my political rants. I did enough of that for two years as a newspaper columnist, and when I retired my column last January I said I would lighten up.

But it’s blind, one-sided attitudes like the Naked Old Guys possess that really get my goat. Can’t people see that there’s more to the world and our ability to survive in it than the one guy parked in the Oval Office? When it comes down to it, Bush will do what he thinks is appropriate to defend the country – just as any President would do. But he’s not frigging Superman – not by a long shot. The sight of old W. in his cowboy hat clearing brush on his farm isn’t enough to leave the terrorists quaking in their robes. Why some people insist on following along behind the far right-wing blather without looking from side to side every now and then is beyond me. Such close-minded piety is just...just dumb.

So now terrorism has hit London. And as a reward, we’ll get to have Red Alerts and increased security here at home, along with another couple of rounds of guaranteed gas price increases. (Hey - if it rains, it’s a good reason to jack the gas prices.)

Regardless of who is in charge and how you stand politically, there’s one thing we all have in common: Nobody likes to live in fear. Not me, not you. And I for one refuse to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and wondering if I’m the next mark for a terrorist’s bomb. Life is too short to spend every waking moment wondering if you’re next on the chopping block.

Lord, I need a drink...

Cat Tales - Part I

I didn’t sleep much last night. My cat wanted out at 3:00 AM, and when Jack wants out, HE WANTS OUT NOW! His favorite attention-getter is to scratch on the pantry door. The door is hollow, and at the middle of the hallway, so it’s good and loud in the bedrooms. It sounds like Freddy Kruger is out there, scraping his nails on the wall. You try sleeping through it; it’s damn near impossible. Jack discovered the power of the pantry door a few years ago, when it finally dawned on him that we couldn’t hear him scratching at the backdoor. And if God forbid I somehow manage to sleep through his pantry scratching, he‘ll come into the bedroom and start scratching on the closet doors instead. If that doesn’t work, then pal...you’re in trouble. He’ll either climb up on the bed and directly howl in my face or he’ll stand next to the bed and barf.

Ah, the glorious sound of a cat puking. I swear that sometimes he must put his own little paw down his throat to make himself yak. They really ought to record the sound of a cat throwing up and put it on an alarm clock – there isn’t a human being alive who isn’t instantly thrown wide awake at the sound of a cat puking on the floor.

So Jack went outside at 3:00 AM, but didn’t bring us home any offerings this morning. Usually he’ll show back up when I let him in at 5:30 with a critter (or a part of a critter). Yesterday it was a mole – good boy! Last week he had a banner week – a mouse, a couple of birds (I call him a ghoul when he snags those), and a bat. He seems to be pretty good at catching the bats; I think he finds them hanging in the hedge or down in the storm drain. For a while there he was bringing us dead bats or parts of dead bats every day. You’d come out the door and there on the porch would be a bat head. No body, just the head. (The heads must be a delicacy that he was saving for later, you suppose?) The next day there’d be another head. The day after we’d be blessed with a bonus – a head and one wing! It was like a twisted feline voodoo/mafia warning – behave, or you’ll find a bat head on your front stoop.

So there’s the joy of owning a pet. Jack is an okay cat, though. He and I are pals, as long as I don’t try to pet him too much and he doesn’t puke in my shoes. I’ll have to tell you about my other (nutty) cat; though. But that’s for a morning when I’ve slept more.

As for Mr. Jack, tonight I think he’ll be Kitty Outside all night long.

The Trouble with Teenagers

Okay, this may be the most personal note I’ve posted yet, so you may just want to skip this post if you’re not in the mood to see into the “heart & soul” of what makes ol’ Tommy tick.

I think I’m losing my daughter. And that, my friends, frightens the hell out of me.

Miss Katie is 17 ½ - a rebellious 17 ½. She thinks she’s grown up and can do whatever she wants now, which apparently includes walking all over what’s left of our increasingly fragile relationship. It’s to the point that I can’t believe a word that she says, and I’m having a hard time trusting her. Worse yet, I’m having a hard time seeing a future that includes her in my daily life. She lies to my face on a constant basis, she doesn’t take care of herself or her responsibilities, and she’s not the same loving person that I’ve known her to be.

In short, she’s becoming someone I don’t like to be around. I told you it was frightening.

Miss Katie and I have always had a close relationship; she and I bonded in her early years, and we’ve been good friends ever since. I remember watching her at age 4 months, smiling in her baby swing, as she listened to me sing ABC songs to her. We’d watch Disney Sing-A-Long videos for hours on end together, and we’d read every book in her collection to the point that I can still quote “Apes Find Shapes” and “Nanny Goat Had A Boat” in my sleep. Every night before bed we’d stand in front of the hall mirror and sing a couple of songs, and then she’d kiss me goodnight and ask me to turn on her music box.

When the X and I divorced, there was little doubt in anyone’s mind where and with whom Miss Katie would end up living. I proudly and with great pleasure took on the role of being a full time single parent. It was rough; what did I know about raising 8-year-old girls? – but together we set up a new home for ourselves, and we made it work. Not too long after that the Lovely Soon-to-be Mrs. G. came into our lives, and together the three of us became a family. It wasn’t always perfect – hell, what family is? - but for the most part it worked out very, very well. Mrs. G. loved Miss Katie as if she was her own child, and then some. She was the perfect mother for Katie, and I owe her more gratitude than I could ever express.

Now here we are, 10 years after we escaped the X and moved to Iowa. Miss Katie is about to be a high school senior, the Lovely Mrs. G. and I are still happy newlyweds, and the world generally revolves in good ways for us. We’re mostly healthy, we can afford to turn on the heat in the winter, and as you can tell from the size of my gut, nobody’s starving in the Gressel household.

And yet I’m feeling really out of sorts as of late, mainly due to Miss Katie and her increasingly volatile behavior. I worry about her something fierce – what is she up to? – and I want her to make something of her life. I want to see her grow and mature as a person, and to develop into a wonderful young woman. She’s an amazing kid, a great actress, and a caring, compassionate person...when she chooses to be.

But most of all, I want to be able to look forward to seeing her. I want to be able to trust her. I want to know that when she says something to me I have absolutely no reason to doubt her, because she always tells me the truth. I want to be able to look her in the eye and feel a sense of pride and joy; not a feeling that I’m being deceived or played as a fool once again.

Miss Katie lies to us all of the time these days. Big lies, little lies, they’re all the same. She sneaks around behind our backs, and then when she’s caught she either becomes defensive about it or just continues to lie some more. It’s to the point where I can’t believe anything she says, because the lies far outnumber the truths.

She recently went out and got her belly button pierced, and when I discovered it, what was the first thing she said? “Oh, Dad – it’s a fake!” Well, quite obviously it wasn’t. There I was, standing right in front of her, and she’s lying to my face. In all honestly, the fact that she snuck around behind our backs and had a body piercing didn’t hurt one tenth as much as the fact that she lied to me yet again.

Miss Katie’s prescription medication disappeared from our house a couple of weeks ago. She claims that a friend took her pills “accidentally”, and that she hasn’t been able to reach this friend by phone ever since. I don’t believe her. I’m convinced that someone else took her pills, and that Katie has continued to lie to us about it every day. It’s obvious that she wishes we’d just drop the subject and forget about it, but the fact remains that she continues to lie to us each and every single day. And every time she does? It hurts that much more.

But along with the pain from all the lies, I’m starting to develop some mighty big emotional scars. And those scars are getting thicker by the day. And pretty soon those scars are going to be so thick, they’ll cover over not only the pain of her constant lies, but a portion of the affection that I have for her as a person. True, I have an immense amount of love for Miss Katie, but she really makes it damn difficult for me to keep it alive when I can’t trust her. It’s the last thing I want in this world – to lose my daughter – but I’m afraid that’s what it may come down to. I cannot – and will not – live the rest of my life with someone I cannot trust.

Miss Katie turns 18 in October, and is scheduled to graduate from high school next May, Lord willing and she passes her senior year. Several times now I’m found myself daydreaming of sending her off into the world on her own after high school graduation – and I’m really, really ashamed of it. Fathers shouldn’t dream of moving away from their daughters, but that’s what I’m ready to do. Let her find someone else to live a life of lies and deceit with. And then the Lovely Mrs. G. and I will move on with our own lives, where we don’t have to sit up at night worrying about where she is or if she’s coming home or if she’ll ever be honest with us again.

What can I do? Miss Katie can’t be trusted, and she’s not showing us any sign that she wants to be part of our family any longer. Perhaps it’s time that she experience life on her own, and find out what it’s like to not have a trusting family behind you.

I guess that deep down I’ll always be there for her, and that I’ll support her in any way that I can. And yes, I’ll love her forever. She’s my child, and I’ll always remember that little girl singing to me in the hall mirror.

But damn – why does she have to make it so difficult to love her?

Saturday...in the park?

I's 2:25; I've got just a few minutes until I have to go face the masses at Rhymes with Sarnes and Choble. Actually, it should be a fairly quiet day, as there's a huge free concert in town today. The Black Crowes are playing at Saturday in the Park, an annual 4th of July weekend concert held across town. I would've like to have gone to see the show, but alas - I'm a working fool. I wanted next Saturday off to attend the Wayne Chicken Show, and then the following weekend is Harry Potter, so Ihad to suck it up and take one for the team tonight. Oh, well - I don't deal with crowds very well - especially drunken crowds - and Rhymes with Yarnes and Foble should be fairly dead, so hopefully we'll get out of there early. It's a nice day; I'd rather be outside playing in the grass than pointing old people to political books that they have no intention of actually buying.

So time to run, my little chickadees. I'm not sure why I said that; it's odd, I know. Strike that, reverse it. Pretend you didn't read it.

Ciao --

Fireworks Rule!

It’s the 4th of July again – a day that at one time was celebrated for our freedom, but nowadays is celebrated as a day to sleep in, drink a lot, and then blow up $400 worth of class-C fireworks. I used to buy a lot of fireworks when I was a kid, but I really haven’t bought much in close to 15 years. (Our wedding was the last time I bought any – but before that? It’d been at least 5 years.)

Just about everything firework-related is illegal in Iowa. You can have snakes, sparklers, and those mostly-harmless yawn inducers, Pop-Its. That’s it.

But just across the state line in South Dakota (about 3 minutes North from here), the world is your explosive oyster, baby! Bottle rockets, multistage aerial displays, mondo-firecrackers, and all sorts of things that will separate you from your cash and your fingertips in a matter of seconds. There are a dozen (at least) firework shops in North Sioux City, each of which advertise heavily in the Sioux City area about all the fun, fun, bang, bang shit they have to buy. Wanna make a lot of noise? They’ve got it. Wanna see lots of pretty fire in the sky? They’re there for you, bud. Wanna set the neighboring field and/or your garage roof on fire? They can probably help you with that one, too, although not directly.

Anyway, the catch-22 is that unless you happen to live in South Dakota, you’ll get busted if you try bringing any of their wares (besides sparklers, snakes, and yes – Pop-Its) back into Iowa. The Iowa cops put civilian-dressed undercover bulls in the firework store’s parking lots, who then call in the license plate numbers of anyone stupid enough to pull in the parking lot sporting tags from the Hawkeye State. The minute you cross back into Iowa, guess what, pally – there’s a state patrolman waiting for your ass who’ll be more than happy to take that bag of contraband and give you a $100 citation in its place. Celebrate your independence with that, dumbass.

I’m not a wild fan of fireworks, but still -- it’s always kind of irritated me that the local coppers have nothing better to do with their time than to write tickets to dumb kids for possessing fireworks. What – don’t they have a lemonade stand they can raid instead? I’d better be careful; I may have an overdue library book or two. It’s not like they’re transporting dope or underage hookers across the state line. We’re talking about something fairly minor here -- something stronger than Pop-Its, for God’s sake.

Growing up on the Left Coast, we were allowed to purchase “Safe ‘N Sane” fireworks when I was young (which of course would then be immediately taken apart and rebuilt into miniature bombs that were definitely not “Sane” or “Safe”.) It still amazes me sometimes that all of the kids in my neighborhood somehow managed to grow up with all of our eyes, fingers, and toes intact.

During my senior year of high school though, the city council finally allowed firecrackers to be legalized within Seattle city limits. They figured that since people were buying them illegally at the nearby Indian reservations anyway, why not sell them in town and tax the hell out of them?

So firecrackers and other mega-explosives went legal for one year. And only one year. Because legalizing firecrackers turned out to be one of the the biggest public relations disasters in Seattle history. (And that includes the 1977-90 Mariners.)

On the morning of July 5, the local newspapers and TV news reports were filled with stories about jam-packed emergency rooms and police reports of nonstop noise all night long. The Seattle fire department threatened to hold a walkout the next year if the city didn’t ban them again, after they spent all night putting out fires and bandaging up kids (both big and little.) There were reports of drunks running out of fireworks so they turned to the next noisiest thing they had in the house – the shotgun – and they capped off the holiday by firing rounds into the air.

In my ‘hood, we didn’t resort to guns, but someone did take a wire coat hanger, straighten it out, and then throw it across the bus line’s electric trolley cables. It made a pretty firework display for a brief second, which was followed by a neighborhood-wide blackout from our shorting out of the electric grid for blocks around. Yeah, them was some good times.

Anyway, the next year firecrackers were once again illegal, and not too long after that the city of Seattle banned personal fireworks entirely. And in that case, I can’t say that I blame them.

So it should be a fairly quiet 4th around our house, as long as those snakes don’t hiss as they’re lit, and no kids burn their sisters hair off with a sparkler. As for any potential damage from a Pop-It, well... we’ll just have to see about that. If today’s kids are anywhere near as creative with their fireworks as we were, I’d recommend that you start counting digits now.