Happy Halloween

It’s Halloween, and the 20th anniversary of one of my favorite nights ever. Twenty years ago tonight I was part of Haunted House Productions, the group that put together Seattle’s annual KUBE/Coca-Cola/Tape Town/Variety Club Haunted House.

Ah, but this wasn’t any old cardboard walls and peeled grape eyeballs sort of operation. Nope, this was the Haunted House that people said “rivaled Disneyland”. We spent 9 months building the thing, which was packed with 10,000 square feet of stuff. We had a flooded room, a rat room, an entire city street, 3 mazes that people were lost in for upwards of an hour (they were painted solid black, with absolutely no lights), a saw room, a cave, “meat grinders” that fell from the ceiling, and a tilted room – an entire room built inside another room, tilted at an angle. Walking through the house took at least 30 minutes, and we’d have people lined up waiting to come in for up to 3 hours. It was that big.

Our building was on the corner of 4th Avenue and Royal Brougham Street in downtown Seattle – right next door to the Kingdome. (There’s an I-90 freeway onramp there now – it was torn down 6 months after we moved out.) The building was once home to Swift & Premium Pork Producing – little piggies came off the trains behind the building, went in one door, and came out the other as bacon, ham, and sausage. Yes, it was an honest to God slaughterhouse once. Swift moved out sometime in the 70’s, and the building was used as a warehouse for years, until it was finally slated for destruction as part of the I-90 project. So we got to use it from 1981 – 1985 for our charity haunted house. (In 1983 we moved uptown for a year, but came back in 1984 when the freeway construction was delayed.)

It really was the time of my life, “working” with the haunted house. I say “working”, because it was all volunteer labor, and in the end we all spent more money out of our own pockets to make it happen than we’d ever be able to recoup. There were about 60 of us who spent our spring and summer building the place, then another crew of about 200 volunteers helped us run it for the two weeks we were open.

I, along with four friends, ran the security department. The biggest threat to our actors at the time was drunks who’d try to take a swing at the ghouls or who’d try to help us tear the place down, but unfortunately while we were still open. So we had hidden security towers in place, and entire crews of people who “roamed” the house, looking for troublemakers. I caught an amorous couple going at it doggy-style in one of the mazes one night – I should’ve told them that they were screwing in an empty cement corner where thousands of pigs had their throats slit, but it probably would’ve turned them on more. But for the most part it was a blast – we worked hard, raised a ton of money for the local children’s hospital, then partied well into the night.

It really was the greatest learning experience I’ve ever had. I met so many different people, picked up a lot of interesting habits, and had a lot of fun. Oh, sure – I was flat broke, and the pressures to “get a real job” were huge, but it was still worth it.

In some ways I wish I could still do The House. But I think I’d rather keep the memories the way they are. Wonderful memories. Things like a six-foot sign saying “Shut Up, Melissa” (she really did talk a lot), Sargoth the puppet, the lady who peed her pants in the house, the $5 bet, “Sneaky-Creepy” (hide & seek with the lights out), fire extinguisher wars, Dogs of Death, the hidden passageway into the safe, groupies, top hats, Miss Wendy the DJ, Rah-Rah-Robbins, B.E.M.F., Rebel, “Some Guys Have All The Luck”, Drunken Stupor Wednesdays, and a bathroom vandalized with the most interesting graffiti you’ll ever see.

I love those memories. And trust me, there are 1,001 more. Someday I’ll have to sit down and write the story of them all. But for now, I’ll just remind you of these 3 Halloween hints:

1 – Beware of Captain Cavanaugh. (You would’ve had to have been there.)
2 –If you value your digestive system, don’t eat the hot dogs.
3 – Have fun.

Happy Halloween --

What Time Is It, Anyway?

My manager at work (Skippy Whitebread) NEVER comes to work on time. Well, just about never. In the 5+ years I've worked for him, he's been here before 8:00 AM probably all of 3 times, and that's only because big shots were in town and had scheduled 8:00 AM meetings.

Skippy usually wanders in anywhere from 20 - 45 minutes late, depending on the day. Sometimes he calls and says that he's running behind, but usually he doesn't. What a good example to set for your employees, eh?

Anyway, imagine my surprise when I saw him walking down the hall this morning at 7:40.

Huh? What's going on? Why in the world would Skippy actualy be here before he's supposed to?


Ah - then I remembered. Daylights Savings Time. Spring forward, fall back, and all that jazz. Could it be that Skippy was that dumb that he forgot to set his clock back an hour? This is the question I asked him.

Amazingly, his answer was YES! He didn't realize he was 20 minutes early until he got here!

Good Lord.

Now, I pick on Skippy quite a bit - mainly because he deserves it. He's more of a bureaucrat than a manager, and I'd probably drop over dead if he ever said "Tommy, I think you're doing a great job." He's also deadly afraid of speaking to upper management, so our serious problems with the computers and our lack of assistance falls on deaf ears, because he won't take our issues to management and ask for assistance or updated tools. He spends his days (once he shows up, that is) in meetings, and rarely interacts with anyone in his team, unless it's when we happen to join him on a conference call. So Skippy is a fairly ineffective manager.

But this - showing up early? That might be the beginning of a whole new Skippy Whitebread. Perhaps the worm has turned. Perhaps he'll start coming to work on time everyday. Perhaps he'll even give us a little credit and acknowledgement of the hard work we do.

Ha, ha, ha. Happy Halloween. $10 says he leaves a half hour early today to make up for his early arrival.

The Ballgame Is Over!

When I was leaving the gym this morning, I couldn’t help but notice that there was a smashed TV set in the parking lot. It looked like it’d been tossed from a multi-story high window, which given that the Y building is only 3 floors up, isn’t really a possibility. Still, this bad boy was mangled up real good.

Seeing the broken boob tube made me wonder – is this the work of a disgruntled Houston Astros fan? Heh, heh. The ChiSox swept the ‘Stros in four. That’d be enough to turn an otherwise passive sports fan into a Television Killer, I suppose.

Not that I really care – unless the Mariners or Dodgers were in the World Series, I doubt I’d turn it on and risk missing “Lost” or something worthwhile. I used to be a huge baseball fan, but too many strikes and arrogant multimillionaire steroid-packed players turned me off from the game. Nowadays I’ll stick to World Championship Boxing and maybe the Super Bowl, if I’m home.

Growing up in Seattle, my sister, friends, and I used to go to lots of Mariner games. Tickets were only $2.50 for the 100 level outfield bleachers back then (or $1.50 for the 200 level, if you were really broke), and we’d have a blast watching the Mariners publicly humiliate themselves with their poor play. Trust me; the late 70’s and early 80’s wasn’t the best time in Seattle Mariner history – when their starting shortstop was actually praised in the local papers for reaching a .200 batting average, you know that something was wrong.

Still, it was a good time. I “somehow obtained” an entire case of 1979 All-Star Game ballots, so my friends and I spent countless hours punching out little chads for our favorite players. Vote early, vote often. We also somehow managed to usually receive duplicates of everything given away on promotion night - free Mother's Cookies was aight, but the best? That'd be bat night. Every kid wanted a genuine Louisville Slugger to bang on the Kingdome's cement floors.

We also made it a habit to pester/annoy/aggravate the Kingdome ushers as much as humanly possible. These were people they purposely hired to have as little sense of humor as possible. I sometimes wonder if their funny bones had been surgically removed; they were that stoic. But the way they dressed – in brown wool coats, black pants, yellow shirts, and brown berets (yes – actual berets) they looked like giant nachos, so if they couldn’t laugh at that, then there was no point.

In the Kingdome (an awful place if there ever was one) there was a small roped off gate near the first base foul line that was the ultimate holy mecca for all 12 year old baseball fans – if you somehow were able to cross the rope, you’d be into the “good seating” area – the reserved seats. So we’d usually do whatever it took to distract the usher long enough to let our buddies sneak around the rope. Probably 7 times out of 10 we made it, which is certainly a better batting average than Mario Mendoza ever had.

Once you were in the “good seats”, the goal was to get as close to the first base field as you could without ending up in someone’s seats. Because if a latecomer was to show up in the 2nd or 3rd inning and find you parked in his reserved seat, odds are you’d have to try to explain to the Humorless Nacho Ushers why you were there. This, of course, would be followed by the pointless patdown of yourself, looking for your “oops, I must’ve dropped it” ticket stub. Everyone knew that you didn’t really have a ticket to sit there, but we’d try the move anyway. (It’s the same one 19 years olds use when they’re carded trying to buy beer.) So we’d sit carefully, watching the game while watching the aisle to see if anyone carrying a King Beer and a Dog of Death (Kingdome hot dogs were notoriously bad) was eyeballing you and wondering why you were in their spot.

But baseball is now over for another season. I haven’t been to a Mariners game since about 1992, and I’m pretty sure that the outfield seats aren’t $2.50 any longer. The Kingdome was imploded a few years back, and there’s a brand new football stadium for the Seahawks in it’s place.

And although I’m not certain, I’d really like to hope that the new Safeco Field ushers got to choose new uniforms. And maybe are allowed to smile every now and then.

One Person's Castle Is Another Person's Dream

Out of curiosity and/or boredom I’ve been looking at houses for sale in the greater Tampa area. Hell, we’ve got another 21 months until we can move, I don’t even have a job there yet, much less a job that pays me enough to afford a new place, yet already I’m dreaming of a new house somewhere near the Gulf of Mexico. Nutty, aren't I? But hey – dreams are free. Mortgages sure aren’t, but dreams are.

So anyway, I’ve been looking online at different properties in the greater Pasco County area – just NW of Tampa. We’d like to live somewhere close enough that we can go to the beach after work and walk along the sand. What better way to de-stress after the end of a long day than watching the sun go down over the water. I can’t think of one – well, not one that doesn’t involve a pint of Old Crow, anyway.

Most of the houses I’ve been looking at are what you’d call a Pool Home – yes, I want a house with a swimming pool. Always have. It’d be impractical here in Iowa, where it’d have to be drained, covered, and hopefully intact for 8 months out of the year, but in sunny Florida? It’s swimming season year round! So with a little luck, a decent job, and some hot properties, one of these days you may just find your old pal Tommy floating in his very own pool (hopefully face up and not face down).

But during my search for sunny Florida pool homes, I stumbled across this place in Palm Beach:

http://floridamoves.com/property/propertydetails.aspx?show=1&sid=917&agent=72886&propertyguid=6dfa4464-26c6-472c-9116-ec64180d0c13

Wow, that’s right up our alley. 8 bedrooms, 9 full bathrooms, 19,491 square feet. Hell, I could park a 747 inside there, and still have room for a foosball table. It’s got a pool, walk-in closets (naturally!), a wetbar, an elevator (for those evening where too much time is spent beside that wetbar, I suppose), and even marble floors. From the picture on the site, it looks like you couldn’t be any closer to the Gulf unless you lived in a yellow submarine. And this being Palm Beach, odds are pretty high you’d have neighbors The Donald and Melania knocking on your door hoping to borrow a cup of diamonds on a regular basis.

So let’s go buy it, shall we? I mean, the price tag is only a mere $42 million dollars.

Hell – is that all? Why not buy two of them? At those prices, we should ALL live there.

I played with the little mortgage calculator on the real estate page – if you put 20 percent down ($8.4 million – pocket change!), your payments for a 30 year mortgage would only be $180,372 a month, before taxes and insurance, of course.

You know, there are a lot of us technical writers who pull down $200K a month, so it should be no sweat for the Gressel family to live in the lap of luxury that we’ve always dreamed of. Oh, sure – we’d probably have to scrimp and save in order to pay for the butler, the maid, the cook, the gardener, and the security staff to keep those bratty Trump kids off our lawn, but hey – it’d be worth it.

We’d be socially desirable, and not in one of those “Oh, God – Paris Hilton’s here again. Quick - hide the booze” ways. We’d have all sorts of important and influential friends, who’d come over for a ball or royal gala or even a night at the opera. (No more boxing or football or other “dirty” activities allowed – you might soil the marble floor.) Every move we made would be photographed, and everything I say would be stored in a book of witty rich-people sayings. Our smiles would be Crest white, our clothes wrinkle free, our skin a perfectly golden bronze, and my hair wouldn’t turn any more gray, unless I asked it to.

Alas, while this house is indeed spectacular, it’s probably not for us. We’d probably never be able to afford to furnish a place like this, and I know that I certainly don’t want to spend my weekends cleaning 9 johns. That, and I have enough trouble remembering where I left my junk in my current 1,400 sq. ft. place – how would I ever find where I left my shoes in a home 14 times as large? I’d probably be barefoot and whining to the Lovely Mrs. G. all day long, provided I could ever find her, too.

So I’ll just keep looking for semi-affordable houses in the area, and keep my dreams realistic. Because as a wise man once said, it’s good to hope and dream for a million dollars, but it’s better to wish for a sandwich, because odds are you’re going to get one of those first.

The Pen Is Mightier...

As I’ve mentioned before, I used to write a column for the local newspaper, the Sioux City Journal. (Or, as some of the trying-to-be-funny locals call it, the “Sioux City Urinal”. Yuk, yuk.)

Anyway, I wrote a weekly column from February 2003 until December 2004. I walked away on my own accord (and what I thought were friendly terms), and that was that. I was never technically an employee of the Journal; I was a freelance writer who they paid $20 a column to via a monthly check and an annual 1099 form to the IRS. I never kept the money; instead I gave it to charity every month. What the heck – it was only $80 a month, and I was doing it for the writing experience, not the big bucks.

So here we are, October 2005. Nearly a year has passed since I retired from the weekly column. And in my mail yesterday, I get a huge nastygram from some bitch in their payroll department.

Miss Snotty McBitch sends me this letter about their 2003 tax filing for my payment was rejected by the IRS, and I must’ve done something wrong when filling out my tax paperwork. (Truth be told, I never did fill out tax forms for them. I was a contractor, not an employee. Duh.) So would I fill out a new W9 form and send it back.

But here’s the kicker. Are you ready for it? The next line of the letter said (and I quote):

“If you do not return this by October 27 you will be fined $50.”

WTF??? I don’t work for Snotty McBitch. I technically never have. And yet here she is threatening to fine me 50 clams for their fuck-up.

Ah, but it gets better. You see, Snotty McBitch had the balls to spell my name wrong on her nastygram and envelope. HA! And you wonder where their IRS mixup occurred?

So being the kind, gentle, forgiving guy that I am, I immediately sat down at my computer and wrote a sensible, polite reply.

You know what they say about the pen being mightier than the sword...

Here’s part of the response I mailed to Ms. McBitch last night:

Enclosed as requested you will find a copy of the W-9 form for the 2003 tax filing. As you will surely notice, I have spelled my name correctly, as I have done for the past 40 years.

It’s funny, [Snotty]. Your envelope and cover letter are the only correspondence I have ever received from the Sioux City Journal or Lee Publications with the incorrect spelling of my last name. My byline was spelled correctly in your newspaper every Monday morning for almost two years, and the remittance checks I received were also spelled correctly. In fact, my 2003 AND 2004 W-1099 receipts are also spelled correctly. So I really think you ought to point the blame elsewhere.

Then here comes my favorite line…

By the way, I’d LOVE to see you try to fine me $50. Perhaps they’d let you use the windfall to attend a business etiquette class.

Heh, heh. NEVER piss off a writer.

Oh, and I CC:ed in the publisher as well. He’s a helluva guy, with a great sense of humor. Hopefully he’ll appreciate my snarkyness as much as I did.

‘Cause Snotty McBitch sure won’t.

I’ll let you know if she decides to pursue this any further. For her sake, I hope she knows what she’s been licked.

And if all else fails, I’ll fine her $100 for wasting my time.

Overheard in Sioux City

Normally I don’t go around plugging other people’s Web sites on here (except that I do enjoy that Beans Around The World site that I have linked), but today I’ll make an exception.

Have you ever seen “Overheard in New York"? It’s where you can submit interesting things you’ve heard people say in the Big Apple. They’re usually quite funny – mostly heard on trains, in Times Square (touristas!), and from winos. Check it out: http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/

I mention this because I overheard something yesterday in the hallway of my primary employer that makes me wish there was an "Overheard in Cowtown" site, too.

I was walking to break, and there were two ladies walking behind me, talking. And Lady #1 said the following to her friend - in this order, as all one sentence:

"God, I'm horny. I shouldn't have worn these tennis shoes."

Wow – talk about your run-on sentences/interesting conversation starters.

I really have to wonder what one thing has to do with the other. I mean, does that mean she should have worn 5-inch stilettos instead, to hopefully attract a suitable mate? Or perhaps she should have gone barefoot to make it less...complicated later on? (You’d hate to have your Levi’s get snagged on your Reeboks at an inopportune time, I suppose.) Or maybe her man has himself a bizarre foot fetish, and her current footwear wasn’t to his...liking. Who knows?

And as tempting as it was, I didn’t turn around and look at her, mainly because I was laughing at her by this point, and I didn’t want it to be *too* obvious that I was eavesdropping in on her dirty talk. But I'm still dying to know more about these sex-drive deflating sneakers.

Very strange indeed.

So now I’m off – time to go hit up the local Payless Shoe Store and pick up something nice for the Lovely Mrs. G. Who knows – it could be the start of something special...

So long, R.W.B.A.N.

Well, I did it. I gave Rhymes with Quarnes and Joble my two weeks notice last night. I hated to do it, but I’m just so swamped in my life lately that I can’t do everything else I have to do and give them 17 hours a week, too. My full-time employer is working us like mad, I’m 3 chapters behind on my homework, I’m still playing Mr. Executor for my sister’s estate, and my house needs stuff done. So where exactly am I supposed to squeeze in time for selling books?

As I said, I really hated to quit. They’ve been good to me there, for the most part, and I really enjoyed what I did. But in the end, they only pay me half of what I make in the real world, and something had to give.

So my last day will be November 5. If you’re in the area, be sure to stop in and say goodbye. We’ll shed a tear together; how’s that? (Just don’t spill them on the merchandise.) I’ll go back to doing my homework on time, and they’ll keep on selling books and coffee. The world revolves no matter what, right?

Time to get back to “other” duties as assigned. Man, I’m tired.

The Joys of Home Ownership

My shoulders are killing me this morning – at first I couldn’t figure out why, then it dawned on me – oh, yeah. I spent my weekend steam cleaning the basement carpets. Yep, that’d do it, all right.

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I finally broke down and bought a steam cleaner – we’d talked about it for years, but we finally got off our butts and bought one. The way we figured it, the cost of buying one vs. renting was negligible, and after four uses we’d break even. Plus, owning one means we won’t have to deal with the dumb high school kids behind the customer service counter at Hy-Vee to rent one. Their little minds are already maxed out trying to return pop cans for the nickel deposit and selling Powerball tickets – why tax them any more than that?

So I spent my Saturday and Sunday afternoons shampooing the basement carpet, and this weekend I’ll get to do the upstairs living room. Fortunately the rest of the house is hardwood, so that’ll be that. I figured it was the least I could do to pitch in and help out around the house, since I tend to ignore the dust and clutter until Mrs. G. has a fit about it. And in the end, I’d much rather steam clean carpets instead of dust.

Owning a home means that you’re always doing *something* to maintain it. Whether it’s raking the yard, fixing a leaky faucet, pulling monster cobwebs down from the laundry room, or yes – cleaning carpets – there’s always something to do. And I suppose that the bigger your house is, the more there is to do. Maybe I should be thankful that Casa De Gressel is only 1400 square feet – it may be small, but that means much less to dust. Mrs. G. spent her weekend dismantling the last of her garden, tilling the soil again, planting spring bulbs, and putting her brand new leaf blower to good use (another weekend purchase – we’re apparently moneybags now!). Hopefully we’ll have the outside cleaned up and ready to go before the first snowflakes show up, which could be just about any day now, knowing Iowa’s goofy weather.

Still, despite all the work owning a home requires, I wouldn’t go back to apartment life for anything. My last apartment was on the second floor of a business – a huge warehouse-style place that was cool in theory, but was really a dump. The roof leaked, the air conditioner barely worked, the furnace never got very hot, and the neighbors – a bar with karaoke – drove me nuts. Trust me – as obnoxious as your neighbors may be, it’s nothing compared to having to listen to drunk rednecks sing “Sweet Home Alabama” every Friday and Saturday night until 2:00 AM.

So I’ll be happy with our little slice of residential heaven, for now. Until we can pack it up and move to Florida in a couple of years, it’ll work. I’ll trade in the large yard for a swimming pool, if it’s all the same to you, and then I’ll *really* learn the meaning of household chores.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I charge $55 an hour (plus materials) to clean carpets. Tommy G – at your service.

10 Years in Iowa - How'd THAT Happen???

It was 10 years ago today that I loaded up my belongings (well, half of them, anyway), my child, three cats, and a dog into a Ryder rental truck and moved 1,600 miles away. Seattle to Sioux City in four days.

My, how time flies. It’d be fun if we could hop into Peabody’s WayBack Machine for a moment and stop in June, 1995. I’d love to see the reaction on my then 29-year-old face when I told myself, “Hey, guess what, Tommy – in 10 years from now you’ll be divorced from the X, married to the Lovely Mrs. G., and living in Sioux City, Iowa!” I probably would’ve either a) fainted or b) thrown my future self out of my house for being a huge-ass liar.

But as trippy as that may seem, that’s exactly what happened. On Friday morning, October 13, 1995, Miss Katie and I pulled out of the driveway in Seattle and never looked back. 10 years later, here we are. I’m 40 (ugh), Miss Katie is now 18, the Lovely Mrs. G. and I have been hitched for 8 wonderful years, and I own a home in (of all places) Sioux City, Iowa. Gee, imagine that.

As a kid – and even as a 20-something - I never thought I’d live here. The thought of being a Midwestern boy never crossed my mind. But strange things happen. I also never thought that once I got here, I’d actually stay for 10 whole years. Shows what I know.

I’ve always said that Iowa wasn’t my final destination – I’ve always dreamed of living in Florida, and I’ve told people that so far I’m only halfway there. And this may very well be true – it’s our plan to pack it up, sell the house, and move to Sunny FL in the summer of 2007. Probably to the Tampa area somewhere, or maybe Orlando if The Mouse offers me a dream job. (Mrs. G. would prefer the Gulf Coast over the hustle that is Kissimmee, and I can’t say that I blame her, but for an opportunity to have a career with The Mouse, it may be worth it.)

So that’s why I’m busting my butt working full time and going back to college – to make my Florida dream a reality. ‘Cause God knows I don’t want to be celebrating my 20th anniversary of living in Iowa. It’s nice and all, but it sure ain’t warm and sunny 12 months a year.

We’ll have to let this Blog entry serve as my 2005 – 2015 Wayback Machine entry. If the Internet is still standing in 2015 (by then it’ll probably just be a microchip embedded in our brain stem), I’ll come back and look at this prediction, and hopefully find that I was right – a Florida boy is what I’ve become.

But for now, I’ll be glad that I’ve escaped Seattle, and that I’m taking the right steps to escape Sioux City in a mere 21 months from now.

See you then...

Shut Up and Write

I’m flying solo today – there are only three tech writers left in our group, and the other two are out today. So it’s a party for one, Tommy style. It’s okay, other than I have to cover some of their duties in their absence, and Skippy won’t have anyone else to spread his obsessive/compulsive love on today, so I’ll have to deal with the brunt of his OCD ways. Oh, joy.

But it should be fine – writing is a fairly solitary job, anyway. Sure, you have to interact with others to get the information you need, but when it comes to it, sitting down in front of the computer and banging out technical specs or installation instructions is pretty much a one-person job. I know people who like to write in tandem with others, but not me. I’d rather just put on my headphones, crank up the Talking Heads or Green Day or whatever strikes my fancy at the moment, and get down to it.

I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid – it was something that struck me when I was 25. When I was young (5 to 10, probably), I wanted to be a STAR – put me on stage, give me something funny to say, and I’ll make the world laugh. That was the showoff in me, I suppose. Then I went through a phase where I wanted to be a disk jockey, and play me favorite music nonstop. “Hello, caller? You’ve got a request? Why sure, as long as your request is one of my songs.” It could have been great. Of course, I never did luck out and develop one of those perfect deep D.J. voices, so scratch that idea. All the music running through my head wouldn’t make a lick of difference if I got on the air and still sounded like a chipmunk that’d been kicked in the nads.

Then in high school I thought I’d be a baker, and for a while, sure enough I was. It was fun, but not quite the experience I thought it’d be. It came as a huge surprise to me to discover that 90% of what was coming out of your modern grocery store bakeshop was pre-made and thawed out, frozen from a box. Scratch baking? That’s for wussies. We’re into FBO – Frozen Bake Off. Any monkey can go to the freezer and get the box. So I was discouraged, and walked away from the baking world. (But have no fear – I can still whip up a pretty mean batch of cinnamon rolls.)

But I was 25 when it hit me that I should be a writer. I always liked writing fun stuff, but never had it dawned on me that maybe I could do this for a living. So I started slowly, won a few writing contests, and finally landed a job at a magazine, where even though I was just their customer service/data processing guy, I was able to talk them into printing a couple of my articles. See what insider information will get you?

Then when I came to work here at my primary employer, I talked them into hiring me as a sort-of writer: I answered their company e-mail. I did that for two years, then transferred to my current team, where I sit and write all day long. Of course, it’s not the most exciting stuff in the world – having to explain the intricacies of a new 22-inch monitor ad nauseum, but it’s okay – and it’s good practice.

I wrote a weekly newspaper column for almost two years, taking on a political slant that led me into the wonderful world of hate mail. (My favorite hate letter started “Dear Double-chinned Bozo:”) It was a point/counterpoint type of political column, where I wrote from the liberal point of view to an audience that was 80% conservative, and of those, probably at least half are hardcore ultra-cons. But it was worth it – I got to publicly insult W. on a weekly basis, and I had a lot of people come up to me and tell me how much they appreciated my speaking up.

Nowadays I write plenty – essays, term papers, and maybe another book. I wrote my first book a couple of years ago (Sell it? Hell – I couldn’t give it away!), and now I’ve got a fresh idea running through my head. Of course, I write in this blog, too, primarily for my amusement. And if you enjoy it, too, well then that’s a bonus.

The words are the easy part – it’s putting them together that’s the hard part. But a wise man once told me to “shut up and write” – don’t talk about it, don’t make excuses – just do it. And so I shall.

But first, I need some caffeine. Writers do not live on syllables alone, you know.

Styx Fix Complete!

Well, we made it through the Styx/REO Speedwagon show last night with our eardrums (mostly) intact. It was a night of fantastic music, and wondering exactly how the hell Rock & Roll got so damn old? I mean, there were a lot of second generation rock fans there – kids of original Styx fans – but overall the audience was well into it’s 40s and 50s. And I know, I know – I’m included in that demographic, but jeez – it made me feel ancient to see a rock concert packed with people who could very well be grandparents.

Still, it was a great night for loud music. Styx was actually the "opening act" to REO Speedwagon, but they both played full sets. They played four new songs from their new Big Bang Theory album, then their usual classics (Blue Collar Man, Miss America, Snowblind, wrapped with Come Sail Away, encore of Renegade), but they also did a cool medley in the middle of really old classic stuff - Man in the Wilderness, Borrowed Time, and...Heavy Metal Poisoning. I never thought I'd hear that one live.

Lawrence Gowan is improving, but he's still no Dennis. The new guy (Ricky Phillips) seemed to fit in real well. JY shaved his mustache and got rid of the mullet, which makes him look much younger. Their drummer Todd is excellent. And Tommy Shaw still plays like a wildman. And REO was really good, too - they put on a helluva good live show for their fans.

So what can I say? It was a blast, and I’m glad they had a chance to swing through town again. Two thumbs up, and a couple of still ringing ears. Rock & Roll may be old, but it’s certainly not dead yet.

Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my “Kilroy Was Here” CD and a Geritol...

Happy Birthday Miss Katie!

Today is Miss Katie’s 18th birthday. Man, talk about feeling old...

I remember the night she was born so well – I couldn’t stop laughing. It was the most wonderful night ever. There she was, all purple and new, and I just held her and laughed and sang. “Singing in the Rain”, for some reason. I loved her from the moment I first saw her.

And now she’s grown. The last 18 years have flown by mighty fast – from the days of midnight feedings to having her wake me when she gets home at midnight to let me know she’s here. I’m mighty proud of the kid – oops, grownup – she’s a good person, a kind soul, and a wonderful child. Now, if she’d only clean her bedroom every once in a while...

So Happy Birthday, Miss Katie. Glad you’re part of my life.

Styx Tix and the Old Cold

My head cold is really sinking me today – I feel like hell, and I’m pretty sure I look like it, too. See? You don’t need to waste your time telling me, “Hey, Tom – you look like crap.” I’ve already said it for you! So if I tend to ramble today and my spelling sucks more than usual, you'll know why.

Regardless, I’m supposed to go to a concert tonight, and even though it’s my favorite band of all time (Styx!), I’m not really feeling up to it. Hopefully my Day-Quil pills will kick in here shortly, and I’ll be ready to rock out.

I’ve been a Styx fan since I was a kid – they were the first band I ever really connected with their music. Their first tour through Seattle that I remember was in January 1980, in promotion for the newly released Paradise Theater album. Alas – I was a child of 14, and try as I might, I couldn’t convince my Mom to let me go to a rock concert. No fair, is it? C'mon, Mom - it'll just be me and 15,000 of my closest friends. What could possibly go wrong?

Ah, but I’d get my chance three years later, when Styx was booked for a July tour date at the Seattle Center Coliseum for the Kilroy Was Here tour. Tickets went on sale in May 1983 on a Friday AM.

Now, to understand ticket sales in the pre-Internet days, there was only one place in Seattle where you could buy concert tickets in 1983 – Fidelity Lane. It was a little ticket shop in Downtown Seattle, where you’d have to camp out all night in line to buy tickets for the big shows. Sometimes the lines for tickets would go for blocks – I remember watching the lines for the Rolling Stones concert in the Kingdome go for at least 6, 7 blocks. People used to tell stories about waiting in line 8 – 10 hours just to buy tickets from Fidelity Lane. Sounds nuts in this automated day & age, but that's how it was done.

For the really big concert tours, the thing to do was to grab your sleeping bag and camp out all night in line in front of Fidelity Lane, waiting to buy. Sure, you were in the heart of Downtown Seattle, and odds are high you’d wake up to find a wino sleeping on top of you, but hey – it was considered “fun” and “an honor” to sleep on a cold, dirty, gum-filled sidewalk to buy concert tickets.

So this is where I was on a Friday morning in May 1983, waiting to buy Styx tickets. I officially didn’t camp out overnight, but I did show up in line at about 6:00 AM. There were a couple of hundred people in line in front of me, but I knew it’d be okay – the show was supposed to be General Admission anyway, so we’d just have to be sure to be there early for the concert. So in line I stood.

And oh, yeah. Have I mentioned yet that I was supposed to be in school that morning? Taking final exams? Well, that’s the price I paid for my devotion to seeing Styx live. I skipped school – skipped my final Senior exams – for a chance to see my favorite band play live. I hope they at least have the courtesy to acknowledge this someday with some backstage passes or something...

Well, I got my tickets, hopped Joe Metro for a ride back to school, took what remained of my tests, and the rest is rock & roll history, right?

Not so fast.

You see, the band members of Styx had themselves a bit of a falling out during the tour, and they never made it to the West Coast portion of their tour. They at first postponed the concert from July to November, then in October they up and cancelled the rest of their tour entirely, including the date in Seattle.

At first they tried to blame it on an injury on one of the band members – Tommy Shaw had cut his hand on a broken window – but then the truth had come out – the whole “Kilroy” and “Dr. Righteous” aspect of the rock spectacle that was the Kilroy Was Here tour had bombed big time, and the band had literally fallen apart.

So Styx was now “broken up” – Dennis, Tommy, and JY were putting out solo albums – and I’d never had a chance to see them play together. Shit.

But fast forward to 1991 – Styx had sort-of regrouped, and were touring once again. So I bought tickets again (this time for Seattle’s Paramount theater), and somehow scored row 1 seats without having to camp out all night for them. And sure enough, the concert did go off without a hitch. While I can’t exactly say “it was worth the wait”, it was a great show.

I saw them play again in 1996 in Omaha, Nebraska, then again in 1999 in Sioux City and again in 2002. So this will be my fifth Styx show, Lord willing and my cold meds don’t knock me out before showtime.

Now I’m off -- I’ll go crank up their newest CD, try to pretend that I’m working, and then hopefully have a great time with Mr. Roboto and friends.

And at least I don’t have to skip school this time...

Sick and Tired...and Sick.

I’m fighting a nasty head cold today – stupid Skippy Whitebread has been sick all week, but he’s not smart enough to stay home and get over it – no, he has to bring all of his germs to work and share them with us. Gee, thanks. Apparently misery DOES love company.

Skippy is one of those managers who seems to think that the world will totally collapse if he isn’t here. Last week he took a day off to attend his brother’s wedding, and he called each of us individually to give us his cell phone number (which we all already had, thanks to his obsessive/compulsive ways); then he e-mailed us from home and called at the end of the day to make sure “everything was okay.” We were tempted to tell him that Armageddon had started in his absence, but we knew he’d probably show up here in his tuxedo in a panic.

We’re a smart enough group, and if push comes to shove, I have no doubts in my mind that we could come up with a plan to get us through any bad situations. But poor old Skippy – he just doesn’t trust us. I’m sure a lot of it is indeed his OCD problem, but he refuses to take his meds any longer, so he gets nuttier by the day.

Oh, well.

Anyway, back to this head cold. I haven’t been sick in a long time – almost a year, in fact, since I was floored with the flu. I was a nice guy last year and gave up my annual flu shot, and then I paid the price big time. I was down & out for a solid week with the flu bug. So this year once they start offering the vaccinations, I’m getting one, no matter what. Screw being “nice”; I was sick as a dog! Since it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a flu shot shortage again this year, at least I won’t have to trample any old ladies to get one.

So now I’m full of Day-Quil caplets and water, and I’m about to go sit in a two-hour town hall meeting led by our President & CEO. God, I hope my pills last that long – otherwise it’ll be an ugly sneezing session.

So drink your O.J., kids, and get plenty of rest. And stay away from germ-infested managers, if you know what’s good for you.

They Sold Our Souls to Bill Gates!

In honor of my primary employer’s 20th anniversary, they’re passing out t-shirts today. Ooooh! Aaaaahhh! Say it with me, boys and girls – T-S-H-I-R-T-S!!!

But not just any old t-shirts – no sirree, these are special. Because on the front there’s imprinted the company logo, along with a small 20 year logo.

So far so good, right? Well, then there’s the back of the shirt. On the back, silk-screened in large black letters, it says “Microsoft”.

Now, keep in mind that we don’t work for Microsoft. We’re not a division of Microsoft. We do sell their products (Windows, Office), but we’re not associated with Bill Gates & friends in any employee/megacorp kind of way. But there it is – emblazoned for all the world to see, is Microsoft’s name on the back of our shirts.

Which leads me to only one possible conclusion: MY EMPLOYER SOLD THE ADVERTISING RIGHTS TO MICROSQUISH. Yep, we’re just like NASCAR – only without the cool wheels to go underneath all the product placement. Jeff Gordon gets $10 million dollars and a leather Pepsi jacket – we get a white t-shirt with Microsoft’s name across the back.

I remember being a kid and going to Mariner games in Seattle, where the first 10,000 fans through the door would receive a free gift – a baseball, a t-shirt, a Mariner’s cap – and they’d always be littered with sponsor’s logos. If you wanted just a plain Mariner shirt or a baseball with room enough for autographs, you’d have to pay through the nose for it at one of the many Kingdome souvenir stands. But for the freebies? It was just assumed that they’d be slathered in logos for McDonalds, Union 76 gasoline, Safeco Insurance, or some other local sponsor. Of course, you were instantly too embarrassed to ever actually use the freebie gift publicly, and risk having your friends see you in your Mariner hat with the sponsored logo attached. “Hey, Gressel – nice hat, man. How much did you not pay for that?”

So here we are, 25 years later, having the marketing rights sold out on my employer’s one and only gift to us to mark the 20th anniversary of their existence. What – did Microsoft pay for all the shirts in return for the free advertising? Cheap, cheap. And yes – this sounds mighty hypocritical coming from a guy with about 40 Mickey Mouse t-shirts. But hey – I like the mouse. Something I can’t say about this place all that often.

At least they could’ve done was be like the boxers and have “Golden Palace.com” printed on the back... At least that way we might have received some free casino chips or maybe a 2 for 1 buffet coupon with it.

So – let it be known: I have no intention of ever publicly wearing my Microsoft-billboard complimentary 20th anniversary t-shirt. If I wanted to be a public shill for Bill Gates, I’d go back and work for him again. At least Bill gave out *real* awards every now and then.

And here’s to hoping for the 25th anniversary they suck up the $4.00 each and pass out advertising-free t-shirts. And maybe a baseball bat.

Reading Is Fundamental, You Idiot...

A guy I work with in my full time world asked me this morning about how working part time at Rhymes with Garnes and Soble is. Apparently he’s looking for a PT job to pad his income, so he and Skippy Whitebread came up and questioned me left and right about what I do there, how much money I make, how hard it is to sell books, etc.

So I was honest – it’s not that difficult, but it’s fast faced, and you have to use your brain. Shelving, cashiering, and finding the one book being requested in a store with 65,000 different titles takes a little brain power. I also told him that he’d have to know his authors inside out, and what the latest bestselling books are and who the most popular writers are, in every genre.

And that’s when he dropped this line: “I probably haven’t read a book in 10 years.”

Well. You can just about forget about having old Tommy put in a recommendation for you. Imagine if I was to refer a non-reader there? My manager at Rhymes with Tarnes and Zoble would laugh in my face, then she’d chew me out for wasting her time.

Wouldn’t you think that actually reading a book every now and then would be a precursor to working in a bookstore? I mean, you ought to at least know *something* about what you’re selling. Why don’t I just recommend someone who doesn’t know the first thing about cars to a job in a NASCAR pit crew? Or how about someone whose culinary skills stop at Top Ramen and Rice Krispy Treats as a sous chef? Fuggeddaboutit.

When I joined the crew at Rhymes with Larnes and Boble, I didn’t know the first thing about some genres – Romance, Manga, New Age – but I at least read enough other stuff that I was able to quickly learn and adapt. I knew who authors such as James Patterson, J.K. Rowling, Patricia Cornwell, Clive Cussler, J.A. Jance, and Janet Evonovich are. I understood why it was a big deal when Harry Potter 6 came out, and why any book that Oprah deemed worthy would be an instant bestseller. As far as the rest of it, I learned. I can now tell you the difference between Nora Roberts and J.D. Robb (same author; different genres), what “Fruits Basket” is (Japanese anime), and the difference between Wicca and Magical Arts (two shelves). It’s been a fun – and educational – experience. One I couldn’t do if I never picked up a book.

So, sorry, pal. I can’t put in a good word for you at Rhymes with Darnes and Yoble. But I now know what to get you for Christmas.

School Daze

Final grades were posted last night; I officially blazed through my Macroeconomics class – I got 482 points out of 500 – 96.4%. Sweet. I really thought I’d dig the class more than I have; economics always seemed to be right up my alley, but for some reason or another, I’m having a hard time caring at all about aggregate supply curves and multipliers. I’m sure it’s important, but overall it’s pretty dull.

Tonight we start part two of our economics life – Microeconomics. I have yet another term paper to write, but I’ve already got most of the research I’m going to use for it, so I’m on top of this puppy.

Overall, I now have 5 classes down – 16 to go. And I’m still sporting a 4.0 GPA. Double sweet. We’ll get through this yet.

I’ll be glad to finally have my college degree, after all this time. Back 21 years ago (during the ancient 80’s), I walked away from college 5 classes short of finishing my degree. I needed two math courses, an accounting class, an English class, and a psychology class. That’s it. It’d have taken me two quarters, and I would’ve been done.

Ah, but I was young and stupid. While still in school, I was recruited for a job – start right away, make $11.83 an hour. For a kid who’d just turned 19 the week before, it sounded like a screaming deal. Who needs college – I’d be making twice as much money as my buddies! So I walked away and chased the dollar signs.

Well. Sometimes FATE comes along and smacks you upside the head. I was laid off from this “fantastic” job three months later. Too embarrassed to admit that I wasn’t able to make it on my own in the free world, I didn’t go back to school.

I’m not whining – I did it to myself, and I’ve done pretty well for myself for someone without a college degree. But it’s always bugged me – having not finished it. So here I am, at age 40, finally getting around to finishing what I started oh so long ago. Of course, all of my old credits expired years ago, so I had to start from scratch, but I did manage to test out of the English classes – gee, being a technical writer for the last 7 years paid off.

So after I finish the thrills that is Economics, it’ll be time for two classes of accounting, followed by History, Ethics, and Comparative Religion. After that, we’ll dive into my least favorite world, math. But I’ll worry about that next summer.

So if you ever put off finishing school, take it from an old man who is playing co-ed again – it’s never too late. Your brain is still ticking, so you might as well feed it.

Besides, wouldn’t it be fun to wear a college sweatshirt again after all these years that wasn’t just on your back because it’s the football team you root for?

Thanks, BillG!

Let's go waaaaay back in history, to February 1992, in fact. That's when your pal Tommy went to work for Microsoft.

Now, let's be really clear - I worked AT Microsoft - not FOR Microsoft. I was what you'd call a "non-contract onsite temporary worker". A temp. But hey - I was okay with that. Mr. Gates paid us really well, and I was there for almost 9 months all together. But still - I was a temp.

I was actually one of 350 temps hired for the release of Windows 3.1 -- ooh, remember what a technology gangbuster that was? We worked on the Windows 3.1 hotline, taking orders by phone for the brand new Windows OS. I worked in a building Microsoft owned in Belleuve - nowhere near their main campus in Redmond - with about 150 other people. (The others were spread out around the area.) Because there was no Internet yet (remember: 1992!), you could only order by telephone, by fax, or mail. Hence, it was us you spoke with. Remember me?

So there we were, taking orders for Win 3.1, along with Windows Resource Kits for an additional $59.00. It was fairly easy work, and I was really good at it. I sat down on my first day and added tags to my price binder pages, so if someone asked an out of the ordinary question I could flip right to it, instead of searching. So by the time March rolled around and the orders were really coming in, I was taking almost twice as many as most of my co-workers. The product shipped on April 6, via 6 Federal Express 747's (you wouldn't believe how many people called us at 10:31 that morning to complain that FedEx hadn't been there yet), and as the need for phone help fell off, they started ending our temp status. Out of the 350 people, I was one of the last 30 to go - but they called me back two weeks later and asked me to work on some of their other phone lines. So I was in for the long haul, baby!

I really liked working for Bill Gates & friends. Microsoft took very good care of us - we had access to all the free beverages you wanted - free pop, milk, juice, flavored waters, hot chocolate, you name it. (No booze, but they did have champagne one time.) The employee lunchroom was subsidized, so most food items never cost more than $1.00. (Trust me; you ate VERY well for $3.00.) They gave us Microsoft swag on a regular basis - t-shirts were the most common - and they were incredibly nice to us, even though we were a room filled with "just temps".

It was a fun time - I worked 6:00 AM - 2:30 PM, with a lot of overtime available if desired. (I was flat broke - heck yeah it was desired.) I met a lot of really nice people, talked to a lot of interesting folks (I spoke to Klansman/politician David Duke), told a lot of people "No, Bill Gates is not in this building - sorry, you can't talk to him", and really enjoyed the Microsoft lifestyle, until September 1992 when I sadly left to go work for the Japanese.

I would've stayed with Microsoft, but the big boys at Seiko offered me the one thing Microsoft wasn't about to -- a permanent position. We were temps, and that's all we'd ever be. No benefits, no stock options, no permanent sense of belonging. Most of us were accepting of our fate - we knew that there was no way in the world we'd ever be given a permanent job - but a few people were mad. They'd been "temping" for a year or two - one guy I knew had been a "temp" for 3 years" - and he was about to do something about it, by golly. It wasn't fair that Microsoft left so many people in the lurch for so long, and he was going to sue them. Harumph.

Well, okay. Good luck to you, pal.

So fast forward to December 2000, when I get this letter at my Iowa home about a class action suit against Microsoft. It seems a settlement had been reached in a suit over long-term temporary employees, and I was listed as one of the payees in the settlement plan. Whoo-hoo! Free Microsoft Money! I never had a grudge with Billy Boy, and I left on good terms with everyone. But apparently all 350 of us who took orders on the Windows 3.1 hotline had been screwed out of permanent status, and Microsoft was going to pay us off. Cool!

I filed the letter from the court and promptly forgot about it. No checks ever arrived. No further notices ever came my way.

Now -- here we are, October 3, 2005 - almost 5 years after that class action lawsuit letter arrives, and 13 1/2 years after I left Microsquish. And what do I see online today?

http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/ap/20051002/ap_on_bi_ge/microsoft_temp_workers_1

Microsoft to Begin Paying Ex-'permatemps'

SEATTLE - Microsoft Corp. this month is expected to begin paying $72 million to nearly 8,600 former contract workers who were part of a 1992 class-action lawsuit claiming they were denied benefits.

The workers, "permatemps" who were hired during Microsoft's early growth spurt, won a $97 million settlement in 2001 after a court found they were improperly restricted from the company stock-purchase plan. The ruling forced Microsoft to change its temporary-worker policies and limit contract lengths.

There have been years of delays and procedural haggling since the verdict, and several of the original plaintiffs sued because they thought their lawyers' $27 million share was too much. Then the courts had to review the cases of individual plaintiffs who felt shorted. The IRS also had to determine how much to tax the payouts.

But on Friday, a federal judge overseeing the case approved a payout plan. Checks are expected to be mailed Oct. 17, said Judith Bendich, one of the plaintiffs' lawyers.

After legal fees, processing costs and early payouts to a small group of plaintiffs — along with interest the money earned since 2001 — there's $72 million left to distribute to the remaining class members. That is $8,429 each, on average, before payroll taxes.

Holy cow - they didn't forget us after all! So I'll have to start watching my mailbox about the 18th or so. I'm not expecting to receive 8 grand -- I didn't work there that long - but 20 bucks is 20 bucks, right? With my luck lately, it'll probably be a check for 59 cents, but it's still better than nothing.

So I'll be surprised to see what I get. Like I said, I wasn't expecting anything at all, so it'll all be
good.

Well, as long as it's not a free copy of Microsoft Bob....