It’s Snarky Friday! (Volume III)

This week, S.F. brings you the adventures of a semi-celeb who was very, very, naughty.

Did he kill someone? No.
Did he burn down an entire village? Nope.
Did he bootleg music over the Internet? Unknown.

Did he outwit, outplay, and outlast? Not this time.

Yes, our favorite reality TV personality (notice I didn’t say “star”) is about to go to the hoosegow, thanks to his conveniently forgetting to pay his income taxes. Oops.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? The IRS may be a lot of things, but lenient towards tax cheats apparently isn’t one of them. Especially when you’re also popped for stealing from a charity. Slick move there, Hatch. Real slick.

I didn’t really care for Hatch the first time I saw Survivor – I was still in that mode of seeing “the good guy” win. But he conned his way through that show, and walked away with a cool million, a ton of endorsement deals, and a reputation as one of America’s sneakiest people.

Ah, but there is one group much more conniving than Richard Hatch ever will be, and that’s the fine, dedicated, hardworking, and may I say handsome people at the Internal Revenue Service. (I say that to avoid a revenge-filled audit. Yes, sucking up to the T-Man does help.)

Right up front, can I remind the world that it’s STUPID to think the Feds are going to let you get away with not paying your fair share to the U.S. Kitty? They’ve got very little to lose by prosecuting you for tax evasion – you know the rules, you know you have to share with the government.

I pay my taxes every year, and although I don’t always enjoy doing so, I do it. Why? Because living in Camp Cupcake next to Martha Stewart and Richard Hatch isn’t my idea of a perfect holiday getaway. I prefer Disney World, thankyou. (More rides, less jail bars.)

It’s one of the two rules of life. You’ve gotta pay The Man. What’s there to argue about?

But I think the biggest blunder Hatch made though was thinking he could get away with it. Oh, sure – he may have convinced 15 other yuckleheads on Borneo that he was all that, but the Tax Man don’t play dat, homey. On April 28, he’ll be sentenced to upwards to 13 years in prison for his greed.

Was it worth it? Somehow, I seriously doubt it.

So this week, we salute Richard “I lost more than my pants!” Hatch – Nudist Survivor, Pinstriped Felon.

Idiot.

The Lullaby of Sioux City

In this blog I frequently make fun of Sioux Cityans, and their extreme lack of class and culture. But trust me - this is a community best suited for Larry the Cable Guy and Tractor Pulls and not Aida or Madame Butterfly. And last night I experienced yet another stunning example of how lowbrow one Midwest city can be.

Last evening I took The Lovely Mrs. G. and Miss Katie to see the touring version of the Broadway hit musical “42nd Street”. Good show – lots of singing, lots of tapping, lots of dames in short shorts. (This is Broadway, kids – it’s all about the LEGS!) The performance was held at Sioux City’s actually-quite-beautiful Orpheum Theater, which went through an extensive remodeling a few years ago, and is now suitable to host major touring acts. (When “Cats” came to town a few years back, they had to perform at the hockey arena.)

Anyway, 42nd Street was a great show. It was the audience that was bad.

We were seated on the aisle on the far right side of the auditorium. To the left of Miss Katie were an older lady and a teen girl. (Grandma and granddaughter?) Both sang along with the songs. Oh, and at intermission, the girl had her iPod going while Grandma checked her e-mail on her Blackberry.

Behind us were three old bats who talked through the first act, and then decided that Act 2 was a sing-along, so they at first whispered, then by the time they got to “Lullaby of Broadway”, you’d think it was karaoke night.

But in front of me was the winning couple – the old guy on the aisle watched Act 1 through binoculars. Keep in mind that we were in row “G” – only 12 rows back. (I think he was busy checking out those dame legs I mentioned earlier.) But apparently he tired of that quickly, because about halfway through Act 2 he put the binoculars away, picked up his jacket, and began elbowing his wife. “Can we go now?” “I think it’s almost over. Let’s go.” “If we go now, we can beat the traffic.” And my favorite whine from this old coot? “We should’ve left at halftime.” The cast was barely into their curtain call bows when this old crank had dragged his wife up the aisle and out of the theater to supposedly “beat the traffic”.

Yep, welcome to Sioux City, Iowa – home of class.

It’s been like this at just about every one of these shows we’ve gone to. When we saw “Rent” a couple of years ago, it finally dawned on the redneck sitting behind us who the character “Angel” was, because all of a sudden Mr. Neck yelled, “Hey, that’s a DUDE!” The old ladies behind us at “Miss Saigon” complained about the dirty language the soldiers in the musical used. It’s about war, you old hags – what’d you expect? A guy snored all the way through one show. We’ve also seen shows interrupted by cell phones ringing, even though they beg, plead, and pretty much threaten people to turn the damn things off. And yet they do it anyway.

Growing up with Seattle’s theatrical audiences, you learned how to behave at performances. You show up on time, sit down, shut up, applaud when appropriate, and let the performers do all the singing. It’s not that much to ask.

And yet Sioux Cityans just don’t seem to get it. They’ve spent too many nights at home in their recliner drinking warm Budweiser and watching Gallagher or Carrot Top on Comedy Central, then think it’s okay to go out and drop $60 a ticket to chat, sing, check your e-mail, or do other stupid-ass things in a theater where people around you are trying to watch (and enjoy) the show.

But someday Mrs. G. and I will move on to a community with a little more class, a lot more taste, and a ton and a half more etiquette. And it’s at that point I’ll buy us season tickets to the Broadway tours.

Because I love the shows – as long as they remain on stage.

Cruise Blues

Both The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have been feeling a little verklempt as of late. Why? Well, it’s like this. One year ago today we were on a Carnival cruise ship – the MS Miracle – sailing through the sparkling blue waters of the Caribbean. Today? We’re in 18-degree dirty Iowa. Instead of the blue sea, we have the half-frozen muddy Missouri river.

See why were bumming?

Ah, but what a trip it was. At this very moment one year ago today we were in Costa Maya, Mexico, laying on the beach and enjoying one of those moments you only see in Corona commercials. The day before we’d snorkeled with stingrays in the Grand Cayman Islands. The next day? We went snorkeling at a coral reef in Cozumel, then on Friday we went cave tubing in Belize.

It was one hell of a vacation, let me tell you. Mrs. G. and I had the times of our lives – 7 wonderful nights at sea. Carnival took really good care of us, the weather held out, and everything went off without a hitch.

You really couldn’t have asked for more. Okay, maybe another 7 nights, but that’d just be greedy, wouldn’t it?

So here we are, one year later, back to reality. Nobody comes in and makes our bed twice a day for us. There’s isn’t prepared food waiting for us 24 hours a day. If we go downstairs, there’s not going to be a theater of entertainers waiting to put on a show for our amusement. (Oh, sure - the cat might barf on the carpet, but that’s not quite the same.)

You know what? Reality sucks. Gimme back my life cruising the seas, and I’ll be just fine.

Oh, well. I’d better stop my trip down memory lane. It’ll only make me bitter and depressed that I’m here and not there.

Someday we’ll go back – I can promise you that. In the meantime, I’ll look at my jar of beach sand that I brought home from Costa Maya and try to look forward to the day when cold, dank Iowa is the distant memory and a lifetime of sunshine and warm beaches is reality.

See you onboard...

Depressed Press

You know, I’ve been a writer for some time now, and usually when I sit down to put my thoughts to paper (or computer) I know what it is that I need to write, and eventually I come up with the best way to do so. Sounds reasonable, no?

So it’s with a head shaking amount of disbelief that I saw this headline yesterday.

Funny how this headline came from the Associated Press. I would’ve thought this was from “No Shit, Sherlock” magazine.

Imagine that – there are actually upset workers by Ford’s layoffs. Geez, you think?

I’ve lived through 10 rounds of layoffs at my employer, and watched it go from 38,000 employees to 1,800 in less than four years. And yet in all that time, I never met anyone around here who was elated by the job cuts. Nobody has ever come up to me and said, “Hooray, Thomas! Our staff has been reduced by 95 percent! Isn’t that wonderful news?” Of course, if they had, I probably would’ve slugged them or had them locked up in the nearest padded room.

Nobody likes to see American jobs disappear, and nobody is thrilled to see workers have to start over. So why would the AP write such a boneheaded headline?

The rumor mill says that my employer is gearing up for round #11 of layoffs. At this point, I really don’t give a crap. I’m so numb from all the other job cuts that at this point, it’d almost be a blessing. Try going to work every day for a year and a half, not knowing if it would be your last day there or not. It sucks big time.

But if they do cut more jobs, I’m sure the press will be parked outside again, waiting to catch the reaction of stunned, formerly employed people. Then they’ll write something really stupid about their experience, and move on to something more pressing – a sewage spill, perhaps.

So I’m asking today that the news media as a whole take a little pity on those affected by these changes in company structure. It’s not a picnic, and the people whose lives have just been upended deserve a little bit of respect and dignity.

I’m just sayin’.

Seahawks 34, Carolina 14

Well, well, well.

The Seahawks are on their way to the Super Bowl. How cool is that???

I had a lot of fun last night watching the game and yelling at the TV, as if Shaun Alexander they can hear me from 1,800 miles away. Hey, maybe he can. Regardless, I discovered an important rule: Don’t shout at the television when a sleeping black cat with long, sharp claws is sitting on your lap. Frightening the cat awake by cheering for a touchdown can be hazardous to your junk.

All armchair quarterback pain aside, at this point it doesn’t matter to me if Seattle wins or loses SB XL – just the fact that they made it is enough for me. (Although a win would be nice.) It’s been a mighty long time since Seattle had any sort of winning sports team – the Sonics back in 1978-79 (I was 13!), a couple of U of W Huskies wins at the Rose Bowl, and that’s about it. So they were overdue, big time.

My only regret with the game yesterday? It was on FOX, aka The Commercial Network. How many advertisements can you possibly cram into a football game? Just ask FOX – there’s apparently no such thing as “too much”. A return kickoff after a touchdown doesn’t always warrant 6 minutes of Bud, Buicks, and boner pill ads...

That, and I was annoyed by the post-game interview, led by Terry “King Tool” Bradshaw. God, that guy bugs the snot out of me. Here he is, interviewing Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen, the Seattle area zillionaire who owns the Seahawks. (He also owns the Portland Trailblazers, Seattle’s EMT exhibit, most of the Jimi Hendrix museum stuff, and about half of Seattle.) Paul Allen is a good guy to Seattle, and deserves a little respect for bringing the Seahawks to a Super Bowl appearance, right? But no. Tool McBradshaw has to pipe up on national television: “I’m having an e-mail problem. Can you help me?” Geez, Terry – you’re so not funny. I kept hoping Paul would tell him, “I’ll fix your e-mail if you’ll apologize for The Cannonball Run.” (I’d e-mail Tooly Bradshaw and pass along my displeasure in him, but as we’re all aware, his e-mail is broken. Good. Ha, ha.)

Anyway, what I thought was so funny about the Seattle victory though was this e-mail I received from NFL.com: They know that I’m a Seahawks fan, and they take advantage of it. So I wasn’t surprised to have a message from them, trying to sell me a $44.98 NFC Conference Champ t-shirt and hat combo.

But what was surprising was that I got the e-mail at 8:02 PM Central time – a good 55 minutes before the game between Seattle and Carolina was over. A little optimistic, aren’t they? Just imagine if Seattle had blown it at the last minute – they’d have to either retract a zillion e-mails, or else they’d be selling those shirts for a buck apiece.

But for now, they want $44.98, plus shipping and handling. All for a shirt/hat combo that won’t be available to ship until the end of January, and you probably won’t receive until next season.

Um...no thanks.

Still, congrats to the Seahawks and the people of Seattle. You deserve a winner. Now let’s see how you do on February 5. God knows I’ll be watching (and yelling at the TV.)

And thanking the Good Lord that the game is on ABC, and not FOX.

It's Snarky Friday! (Volume II)

Leif...Leif...Lief. From Pop Candy to Prison Bitch, all in one lifetime.

I've never been a big Leif Garrett fan. Okay, I've never been a Leif Garrett fan at all. I always thought he was a no-talent punk with sissy hair. He'd smile that "gosh, aren't I cute" smile, girls would faint, and there'd be no respect for us ordinary Toms. The girls were too busy looking at this idiot to even say hello to us. (No, I'm not jealous. But thanks for asking.)

There was a time many years ago that my little sister used to swoon over this guy. (That was way back before the taste for heroin, the countless VH1 cryfest specials, the male pattern baldness, and the bloody L.A. cop beatings, let me assure you.) I, being the big brother I was in the mid-70's, teased her endlessly over Mr. Garrett and his crappy song. Dance on this, jackass.



Ah, but fame is fleeting, and before long Alie had moved on to other teen pop sensations (Shaun Cassidy), and Lief was a has-been in the Gressel household.

But look at him today, some 30 years later. Not a pretty picture, is it? And they say that a TV camera will add 10 pounds....

Part of me wants to feel sorry for the guy - he's obviously got issues - but the rest of me thinks he got what he asked for. Hopefully he'll clean up his act once and for all, and we can all go back to forgettng who he is, and Tiger Beat will find some new pipsqueak for pre-teens to drool over.

'Cause if there is still interest out there somewhere in this wasteoid, then the world is really messed up.

Go Hawks, Go!

An amazing event has recently taken place - something that many people imagined only seeing when Hell was good and frozen. The Seattle Seahawks have finally made it to the Final Four in the NFL’s playoff hunt.

Good for them! If they somehow manage to beat the Carolina Panthers this weekend, they’re off to Detroit for Super Bowl 40 (XL). So after 30 years of sucking, the Sea Monkeys are finally winners. And it’s about damn time.

I’ll admit it – I’m a fair weather football fan. I’ll watch it during the playoffs and the Super Bowl (mainly for the commercials and occasional wardrobe malfunction), and that’s about it. During the regular season I’ll turn it on if Seattle is playing, but usually I won’t go out of my way to watch pro football. And college football? Fuggedaboutit. I may be the only hetero male in the Midwest who doesn’t give a crap about college football, but that’s okay. I have better things to do with my life than to sit around and obsess over the Hawkeyes or Huskers or the Cyclones or whichever team is currently responsible for getting all the redneck’s tighty-whities all bunched up.

But I’ve always had a certain fondness for the Seattle Seahawks. Sure, just like their fellow Seattle sports bombers the Mariners, the Seahawks usually leave their fans chanting “wait until next season”. Being a Seattle sports fan though means never being disappointed, because you never allow yourself to believe that there’s a chance they’ll win in the first place. If you don’t set your expectations very high, you can’t be crushed when they inevitably fall apart.

Oh, sure – the Sonics managed to win the NBA championship back when I was 13, and the Mariners have come thisclose to actually going to the World Series a couple of times, but the Seahawks? Their last playoff win (before this season) was way back in 1984, when I was 19.

I remember the game. My friend John and I were listening to the game on the radio while we strung more Christmas lights in my parent’s cherry tree, in an ongoing effort to “out-Clark Grisswald” the guy across the street. Seattle beat the Oakland Raiders that year (we all had “Raider Buster” t-shirts), and as the Seahawks celebrated their victory, John fell out of my Mom’s cherry tree, breaking a couple of branches as he crashed to the ground. (My mother is still pissed about that, 22 years later.)

But since that time, Seattle’s had a lot of years of 8-8 records and distant hope of one day playing for the national championship. I still followed the Seahawks, mainly because they were the lovable losers from my hometown, and living here in the Land of Football, where you’re either a Vikings fan or a Packers fan (with very few other options in between), it was good to stand up for the little guy. Sure, odds are high they’d be out of the playoff picture before Halloween, but someone needed to support the cellar dwellers, right?

But this year, the story is different. Matt Hasselback has been outstanding for the Seahawks, and running back Shawn Alexander is the league’s MVP. So if they do make it to the Super Bowl, they’ll do it with their helmets held up high, and not because of a fluke.

Of course, they need to get past the Panthers this weekend first. And this being Seattle, the Choke Team of the Century, anything is possible.

But I’ll be rooting for them to pull it off, out of a sense of hometown pride and because it’ll irritate Skippy Whitebread and the rest of the football geeks that I work with that “my” team made it to the big dance, and theirs did not. (Although Skippy’s team is the Steelers, so I’m rooting for a Broncos victory in the AFC this weekend, too.)

So go, Seattle! Get out there...and win one for the Gressel.

ML King Day

Today is Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, an American holiday in honor of the civil rights pioneer.

Of course, being in Iowa, you’d never know it was a holiday. Around here it’s treated like Columbus Day or maybe Veteran’s Day – a handful of people get the day off (banks, post office), but that’s about it.

For most people, it’s business as usual today. Schools are open, my employer is fully staffed, and just about everyone is going on with their daily lives. So unless you work for the Federal government or a financial institution, odds are pretty high you’re sitting at your desk reading this today. (But hey – at least you’re goofing off instead of actually working, so maybe that counts as a “holiday” in some fashion.)

I’ve always respected Dr. King – anyone who stands up for what he believe in and makes his points known in a peaceful yet resilient manner is okay in my books. I’m too young to remember what it was like to have segregation, and growing up in such a racially diverse neighborhood in Seattle as I did (where I was a minority), I have a hard time understanding how things ever got so bad that there was segregation in the first place. I mean, c’mon – we’re all humans, we’re all people. So I for one am glad that segregation is (mostly) a thing of the past, and I still hope that some day there will be enough peace, tolerance, and acceptance to go around to everyone, regardless of who they are. (Yes, I’m speaking to you, Mr. Bush.)

But as far as Dr. King’s holiday goes, I have a theory of why more Iowans (plus Nebraskans and South Dakotans, too) don’t celebrate it. And while it’s possible I could be wrong, I really think that I’m not too far off the right path.

Why won’t Iowans celebrate Dr. King’s birthday with a day off? Simple. The holiday is in mid-January.

Think about it: It’s yet another holiday so close after dealing with several holidays right in a row (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukah, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, and the Bowl Championship Series). You just had a couple of days off of work, and odds are you took a couple of extra days here and there in between, so things are just starting to return to normal around the office. And now here’s another holiday so soon? It’s like being offered pumpkin pie five minutes after you've stuffed yourself with turkey dinner. It sounds great, but can’t we wait a little bit?

Part two of the problem is the fact that January 15 is usually bitter cold around here. There aren’t too many barbeques, picnics, or 3-day weekend camping trips going on when it’s 20 degrees outside. So what’s there to do with your long weekend? I suppose you can sit around and watch the NFL playoffs, or you can go to a movie or the mall on Monday (both open regular hours), but you’re not going to be laying outside in the sun getting a tan or planting your garden or inviting the guys over for a few burgers on the grill. It’s just too damn cold.

Deep down, I believe that the indifference to Dr. King’s holiday not racially motivated; it’s just a matter of unfortunate timing. If Dr. King’s holiday was the 2nd Monday in August, you can guarantee that everyone would beg for the day off.

But in the end, I hope everyone can take a moment today and remember what Martin Luther King tried to teach us as a nation – that we all deserve to be free, no matter what we look like, pray to, or choose to love.

Even if we’re stuck working today until 5:00 – then we’ll be free at last.

It's Snarky Friday! (Volume 1)

Since it's Friday and I have nothing better to type, I thought I'd start a new feature - publicly mocking the rich, famous, and otherwise mockable. So here's entry #1. Enjoy!


Here's a funny photograph of a great big jester. Notice his goofy expression? You just know the only thing running though his little pea-brain is "Hey, got any gum?" Those vacant pupils staring out of his blank eyes tell you everything you need to know in order to have a great laugh at his expense.

Oh, and the painting on the wall of the harlequin is pretty hilarious, too...

Rain, Rain, Go Away

There was an interesting yet dreary article online this morning about Seattle’s seasonably rainy weather. Apparently “The Emerald City” (I always hated that nickname) has experienced 22 straight days of rain now, with no signs of it stopping anytime soon. Starting on December 19, and going through today, it’s been a rainy-showery-angels-pissing-on-you kind of day, everyday. The kind of weather only ducks, banana slugs, and Seattleites with webbed feet enjoy.

From the AP article:

With more wet weather predicted over the next several days, Seattle may soon break a record set in 1953. The city saw 33 consecutive days of measurable precipitation then — the most since the National Weather Service office there started tracking rainfall in 1931.

"Usually we have a few days of rain and one or two days of cloudy and dreary days and then it rains again and that's the way it goes," weather service meteorologist Johnny Burg said Monday. "We're not getting our dry days in between — just having one system follow another."

22 days of nonstop rain. Ick. As a former Seattleite, I feel their pain, and the weather there is one of the main reasons why I won’t move back. I couldn’t take it any longer.

Now, let me say this: When the weather is nice in the Rainy City, there’s nowhere nicer. The temps rarely get above 85, and the humidity is comfortable, so the evenings cool off rather nicely.

The problem is, it’s nice about 30 days a year, max. Either the rest of the year is an overcast thrill-a-minute, or it’s drizzling on you. Take your choice, then take your Prozac, ‘cause your gonna need it to deal with the seasonal depression.

The skies over Seattle usually cloud over in early October, and you won’t see the sun again until one day (maybe two days) in early March. Then the heavens will miraculously clear up, the beaches will be packed, the drive-ins will do record business, and people will rejoice that for the first time in months you can step outside and not worry about landing in a puddle. Quick, someone release a dove, and see if it brings back an olive branch. But alas - the Big Tease will soon be over, and the April Showers will show up (early, of course), and the whole rain-turning-to-showers-turning-to-rain scenario starts all over again. Until at least the fourth of July, because there is no such thing as a holiday in Western WA without the traditional downpour. (Hot dogs, apple pie, and cloudy skies with an 80 percent chance of rain. Yep, sounds like a Seattle celebration to me!)

Now, I know people – family members, in fact – who absolutely love Seattle’s weather. They love the cool temperatures and the cozy feeling you get from sitting by the fire after yet another day of being pelted by cold, drizzly raindrops. My younger sister wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else. But me? It drove me batty. Days and days and days of nonstop rain. Constantly feeling like moss will grow on you any moment. All the stale “Seattleites don’t tan – they rust” jokes. Having to wear your winter jacket in August. Ugh. I put up with it for 30 years, which is more than enough, thank you.

So I may bitch and moan about freezing my little Gressel butt off in Iowa every December-March, but in many ways it beats the hell out of having to play Noah in Western Washington 10 months a year. I may be cold, dammit, but at least I can see the blue sky while shivering.

Of course, Florida sunshine leaves them both in the dust, but that’s a boast for another day.

Ice Cream in Paradise

Last Friday I was looking around online, and came across the following classified ad:

For Sale:
Ice Cream Shop $79,900
Gulf Boulevard
Indian Rocks Beach, Florida
Details: Your chance to have a profitable business at the beach. Ice Cream Shop with all equipment, inventory, and franchise fees. It is a franchise of Candy Kitchen. Owner will train. The owner will make all books available for inspection with an accepted offer. Shows profit of approximately $35,000. Located in busy beach shopping center with end space right on Gulf Blvd. Plenty of Parking.

Indian Rocks Beach is located just west of Tampa/St. Pete, along the Gulf coast (Just south of Clearwater Beach). I looked the shop up online, and sure enough – it’s right across the street from the Gulf of Mexico.

Ice Cream in Paradise. How friggin’ cool would THAT be?

I’ve often joked that my dream job would be selling hamburgers on the beach, but deep down I’ve always secretly hoped that one day I could open a small bakery/ice cream shop/coffee house nearby the beach, where I could be my own boss once again. Sure, it’d be hard work, but wouldn’t it worth it to have the personal satisfaction of pulling it off? You’d run your own world, and be in charge of your own financial destiny. Risky? You bet. But worth it? Absolutely.

So seeing this ad re-sparked my imagination. Could you imagine owning an ice cream shop on the beach, where by day you’d scoop up cones and sundaes for the beachgoers, and by night you’d have a sunset party as you walk along the sand? (I’d make sure to schedule my lunch break for sunset. Hey, I’m the owner; I can do what I want.) It’d be a little slice of Tommy Heaven.

Alas, I don’t have 80 grand laying around, much less the working capital it’d require to go into business quite yet. Being the Business Admin student that I am, I’m realistic enough to know what it takes, and I’m not about to jump into something without being 100 percent sure I’m ready. Which I’m not. Yet.

Ah, but you see, I am working on it. I’ll finish school in 2007, then the Lovely Mrs. G. and I will move to Florida and get settled. Then I’ll start planning. It might take a few years, but that’s okay – the ocean isn’t going anywhere. And unless new scientific research comes out that proves that ice cream on the beach causes you to spontaneously burst into flames, I suspect the demand for a double scoop of mint choocolate chip will always be there.

So the ice cream shop will have to wait for the Gressels. For a little while at least.

Still, dreams are free. And you don’t have to worry about getting sand in them.

Hu-Hot’s Revenge

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I went to a local Mongolian Grill restaurant last night – “Hu-Hot”. (They’re a chain; check your Yellow Pages.) And this morning, I’m paying the price for it. ‘Hu-Hot’s Revenge’ isn’t nearly as vengeful as 'Montezuma’s Revenge', but it’s still not something you want to discuss over high tea with polite company.

If you’ve never been to one of these Mongolian Grill places, they can be a lot of fun. (Emphasis on “can”.) The problem last night was that the background music WAS JUST TOO DAMN LOUD. Apparently in between burning and pillaging villages, the Mongolians like bad 80’s music.

All throughout our meal, all you could hear was Wham!, Air Supply, Janet Jackson, and other washed-up bands who are probably playing live in restaurants like this somewhere right now. You couldn’t hear yourself think, much less listen to your lovely spouse, who was sitting across from you, her eardrums bleeding from the volume.

Regardless, the dinner format at the Mongolian Grill is mostly a do-it-yourself stir-fry arrangement. They’ve got a long salad bar-type setup, where you take a small bowl, then fill it up with raw foodstuffs. Start with some meat, add some noodles, top it with some fresh veggies, then douse the whole thing in some sauces and oil. It’s goopy, but by golly it’s the freshest dinner this side of a dockside sushi bar.

After filling your bowl with whatever turns you on, you march the whole gloppy bowl of Hu-stuff over to the grill, where a sweaty guy takes it and throws it on the stove for a couple minutes of stir fry action. Actually, thanks to some obscure health regulation, it’s considerably longer than “a couple of minutes”. They cook the hell out of the meat, to the point that “well done” isn’t even recognizable. Ever want to see previously thin sliced frozen beef cooked to the point it looks more like Corn Flakes? Come to Hu-Hot.

When they’re finally done cooking all semblance of sin and/or texture out of your food, the happy-yet-sweaty “Hu-chef” slides it off the grill onto a (thankfully) clean plate, and you walk back over to your table, carrying your now fully cooked, totally customized dinner. Enjoy!

What’s fun is to stand at the grill while your food is being cooked and look to see what the other patrons around you are having grilled up at the same time. The raw-salad bar has probably close to 80 different items, so no two dinners are ever the same. Some people have 90 percent meat and very little in the way of vegetables, and others have a purely vegan adventure.

But the most fun to watch is the little kids and the piggy Iowa farmers.

The kids will bring up a bowl with maybe 4 or 5 things in it – one ear of baby corn, a couple of pieces of pineapple, and maybe a sliver of frozen chicken. But the piggy Iowa farmers? Apparently they don’t get the whole concept that you’re allowed to go back up for more food, because they’ll jam as much stuff into their little bowls as humanly possible. I’ve literally seen some bowls stacked a good 8 inches high with food, like a twisted version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. All of this dripping in sauce and garlic oil – as if to say, “Here, young man stuck working at the grill, fry up this bad boy! I’ve got an entire horde to feed!” But no – it’s all for one guy in dirty bib overalls and a Husker cap.

So it’s definitely dinner and a show at Hu-Hot. And with Jack Wagner’s sappy “All I Need” blaring at you at maximum volume (“the numbers all go up to eleven”), it’s even a musical. And that’s all before you get home, where Hu-Hot’s Revenge kicks in. Urp.

Still, it was a nice evening out with the Lovely Mrs. G., whose company I thoroughly enjoy, despite the tinnitus in my ears and the disturbance in the Dark Side of the Intestinal Force. And it sure beats the hell out of Mickey D’s, so bonus points to Attila the Hun and his pals at Hu-Hot.

Now I think I’d better go pillage up some Tums.

Sick of Being Sick

So here it is, January 4 – the second working day of the new year, and already one of my co-workers has called in sick.

This is the same guy who took somewhere around 60 days off in 2005 being “sick” (no kidding). It’s about time someone bought himself a large bottle of vitamins, wouldn’t you think?

60 days out sick – out of a possible 252 working days in a year. Not counting vacation time, that’s a whopping 23 percent. Yikes, huh?

You’re probably thinking, “Christ, Tommy. How does he get away with it?” Well, it’s like this. Our beloved manager Skippy Whitebread doesn’t keep track of time off like he’s supposed to (which is kind of surprising, considering he usual obsessive-compulsive ways). So “Scott” knows he can get away with it, and he does, to the tune of at least one day a week, but usually more.

I really thought about tracking his sick time for the new year, but 1) it wouldn’t do any good, since Skippy won’t ever do anything about it and risk losing another team member, and 2) it’d just piss me off even further.

I’ll be very honest: I’m not jealous of his excessive time off – I’m disgusted by it. When a company hires you to do a job for them, they expect you to show up as scheduled. It only seems natural, doesn’t it? They pay you, you work, everyone goes home happy. When you don’t show up as expected, then someone else has to cover your duties. In an emergency or a crunch situation, then it’s fine. But what if those situations happened every single week? You too would get tired of covering someone’s butt for them while they’re off goofing around.

If you’re honestly sick, then by all means call in. Please don’t spread your germs to me. And if your kids are sick, then all human compassion says you should take care of them. I did it when Miss Katie was young, and by golly I’d expect you to do the same.

But calling in “sick” because you stayed up too late last night and don’t feel like coming to work in the morning? That’s just LAME. And Scott is a 35 year old man – he knows better.

So color me thoroughly disgusted, and stuck doing his work on top of my own.

It’s now lunch time – I think I’ll go buy some plastic gloves, surgical masks, and a large bottle of disinfectant for someone’s desk. And if that doesn’t work, then maybe we can have a “Writer in a Plastic Bubble”.

What's That Smell?

As I’ve mentioned before on this here blog, the factory about a half block north of where I work is where they make Girl Scout cookies. Lots and lots and lots of G.S. cookies, 24 hours a day. So the air outside this morning smells like brownies, which is a lot better than its usual scent (cow’s ass).

Isn’t it funny how a scent can stoke your memory in ways you never thought possible? I’m sure there are about 50 zillion studies and scientific research panels out there that can tell me the reason for this, but deep down, I really don’t care *why*. I just know that certain scents will always remind me of certain events or places I've been in my life.

Like what? Oh, the smell of someone smoking a pipe reminds me of my days of working in the Variety Club haunted house building, where it was cold and drafty 365 days a year, and it always smelled like wet paint and Rick’s pipe smoke. I still think Rick only smoked the pipe because he thought it made him look intellectual, but that's okay -- when you're working with a bunch of guys who paint walls black and design latex dismembered bodies while high on whatever was available, we really could've used someone else with a logical brain on the team.

The smell of baking chocolate chip cookies is a scent that most people will associate with Mom’s kitchen, but for me it’ll always be connected with Main Street USA at Disneyland. Try it sometime – walk past those shops at the Magic Kingdom and see if you don’t immediately think about chocolate chip cookies. It was years later that I found out that the smell is artificial; it's actually pumped into the air by hidden vents. A little Disney magic, revealed.

Speaking of Disney smells, try going into Pirates of the Caribbean sometime and not getting a shiver of excitement down your spine from the scent alone. It’s a combination of moss, wet wood, and salty old pirates, I suppose, but whatever it is, it’s a great introduction to a fantastic experience, and one odor you’re not likely to forget.

On the other hand, the Mall of America in Minneapolis smells like Yucky Ride Water – that overly chlorinated, slightly perfumed smell of continuously recirculated flume ride water. We’ve been to the MOA a dozen times, and every time we go the Lovely Mrs. G. and I both think the same thing – “Ewww – Yucky Ride Water.”

The scent of leather always reminds me of my cousin Al’s Cadillac. He loved that car, and drove it really, really fast. And the leather interior? It was like buttah.

But the best smell ever? It can be had but once a year, and only if you have children. It’s quite simple – On October 31, after your little witches and ghouls come home from a busy night of Trick-Or-Treating, before the little monsters dive into their 400 mini Snickers, stick your head inside their treat bag, and take a deep whiff.

Aaaah. That’s candy nirvana, my friends. Nothing beats the aroma of a large bag of Halloween candy.

So here’s to hoping that your day today is filled with a pleasant bouquet of fragrances. Take time to stop and smell the roses – and hopefully they don’t smell like cow’s ass.

"Flava" of the Month

Instead of starting my new year off right by doing my homework, helping the Lovely Mrs. G. with the laundry, or doing just about *anything* you could call productive, I’ve spent a majority of the holiday weekend sitting around watching VH1.

Yes, I too love the 80’s. Only I don’t get paid to say snarky things about it. (So I'll do it for free, thankyouverymuch.)

Regardless, while watching the I.L.T.80s marathon this weekend, I saw a commercial over and over again for a new VH1 “Celebreality” series called “Flavor of Love.” Starring this guy.

Yes, parents everywhere, it’s your dream come true. You too can send your precious daughter out to Hollywood for a one-in-20 chance of dating none other than Flava Flav.

Forget having your little girl grow up to be successful on her own merit, and get rid of those fantasies about her marrying a doctor or lawyer. Nope, she’s gettin’ down with a washed up 90’s rap artist whose last girlfriend is the 8-foot tall, formerly hot but now frightening ex-wife of Sylvester Stallone.

Now, I don’t want to seem old fashioned – I mean, Flav and I are about the same age. But honestly – who in their right mind would want their daughters to date Mr. Clock-Around-The-Neck? I mean, if you scrape the bottom of the dating barrel, surely you can come up with someone more interesting than Flava Flav as a date. Aren’t the Two Coreys still out there and available somewhere? Isn't it time for Danny Bonaduce to come up with another wife?

For those who haven’t seen the show (and I refuse to admit to watching clips online), it’s a cross between “The Bachelor” and your worst parental nightmare. Flav invites 20 women of various sexual openness to his mansion, where one by one he eliminates those whom he’s decided not to get busy with. The last woman standing (literally and figuratively) will be declared the winner, and apparently will get the one-in-a-lifetime (or 15 minutes, whichever last longer) opportunity to be Flav’s ho du jour. Or something like that.

I really can’t imagine being that desperate for 10 minutes of basic cable TV fame that I’d be willing to date a guy who thinks wearing Viking hats and a mouthful of silver teeth makes him a fashion icon. But maybe that’s just me. I’m not a skanky girl with a bad weave, fake ta-tas, and way too much lipstick.

And perhaps they’re all so loaded up on Vicodin and cough syrup that they don’t realize what they’re doing. It’s very possible they all believe they’re dating Denzel Washington, and they can’t see the gold jewelry through their drug-induced haze. I mean, there has to be a sound reason out there somewhere, right?

But still, someone must be watching this crap, because VH1 is going to play it over and over and over and over again, until everyone on the face of the planet finally screams, “All right! I’ll watch the damn show! Now please -– for the love of God and all things non-slimy -- make it go away!”

And then, someday in the future, after all of the trashy models have gone home, and after the batteries in all of Flav’s clocks have died and gone to Timex Heaven, we’ll all sit down together, turn on our 99-inch super-high-definition plasma TVs, and watch “I Love The 00s” together.

And you just know what’ll be the first memory...