Mardi Gras Strikes Again

Today is Carnival - Mardi Gras – Fat Tuesday – National “Drunken Show Us Your Cans in Exchange of Cheap Trinkets” day.

I’ve quite honestly never celebrated Mardi Gras. Partially it’s because I’m not in New Orleans or Rio (it wouldn't be the same in frosty Iowa), and I'm not Catholic, so I don’t have to worry about surrendering my lustful and wanton ways for the next month and a half of Lent. What’s the point of having one last night of drunken debauchery if you know that if you really want, you can have another one tomorrow night without any fears of eternal damnation?

But a whole lot of non-Catholic party boys and girls are deep into the Mardi Gras tradition, too, which is fine, I suppose. I’m just not one of them. Getting rip-roaring snockered on a work night isn’t a good idea at my age (Geez - wasn't that an old coot thing to say?), and being such a lightweight drinker, it wouldn’t take much to put me under the table and into the gutter. I’d rather not wake up and find myself covered in empty beer cups and with other people’s underwear on my head. There’d be a whole lot of ‘splaining to do for that one, Lucy.

Oh, and just for the record, I’m not about to flash my pale 40-year-old man cans to anyone for plastic beads. Puh-leeze. A fella has to have at least a little bit of pride. Besides, you don’t want to go there. Trust me; you’ll have nightmares for weeks afterwards. But if you ask really nice, I might be willing sing a verse or two of “It’s Hard Out Here Bein’ A Pimp” for some swag… (Just ask the Lovely Mrs. G: It’s still musically painful, but not nearly as impairing as Tommy's Topless Dance.)

Regardless, Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) is a wild time in many parts of the world, and as long as the revelers clean up after themselves and go home with at least a little bit of their dignity intact, then I say let them party ‘til they puke rainbows. From a distance it always looks like a good time, as long as you keep an eye on your wallet, your car keys, and your teenage daughter.

I know the nice people of New Orleans have had a pretty crappy year all around, so if a week’s worth of celebration helps them forget their problems for a little while, then it’s a good thing. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the money they blew on it could’ve gone to better use. What’s more important – a parade or a roof over someone’s head?

But I don’t want to be a party pooper, so I hope everyone has a good (and safe) time tonight. Because tomorrow you’ll need to repent for your past. Or at least have to take a couple of extra-strength asprin.

Either way, live it up while you can. Then get back to work, you lazy animals.

Santa is Gone!

Yes, friends -- miracles DO happen.

Our neighbor across the street finally took his plastic Santa Claus down yesterday - February 28. (65 days after Christmas, for those of you keeping track.) It'd hung in his yard since early November, and been an eyesore since about January 2.

So goodbye, Saint Nick. See you in about 6 months, if Bubba keeps up with the current pace.

Let The Games...End!

Well, the winter Olympics ended yesterday – with a whimper instead of a bang, at least here in the U.S. Oh, sure – us Yanks ended up with 25 medals, but who really cares? Other than the winners of said prizes and the fine folks at NBC Sports, that is. The games didn’t seem to make much of an impact this time around, and they barely registered on my radar at all.

I’m sure there are some of you out there who do care a great deal about these Olympiad games. Sorry, I’m just not one of them. Over the two weeks of the games I probably watched all of 30 minutes of the televised fun, not counting the 700 bazillion commercial breaks. I caught part of the skiing, a few minutes of the luge, the speed skating, and a little bit of the snowboarding, which still looks to me like a pretty gnarly way to hang ten, dude!

But other than that, I didn’t watch much. I’m not a fan of ice dancing, curling baffles the hell out of me, and I really don’t care about figure skating -- triple back spins, quadruple lutzs, and flaming toe spindles be damned. I know somewhere out there Red Buttons and Scott Hamilton just felt an enormous shift in the Dark Side of the Olympic Force, but I’m afraid that’s how it is, fellas.

Still, you have to admit that this is a pretty impressive move. There’s no way I could raise my leg this high, even if I was standing on cement and not a sheet of ice while balancing on a thin blade. So bonus points have to go out to this young lady for her flexibility.

It’s just too bad that it’s an impressive skill that’s marred by a rather unflattering angle, ain’t it? I mean, goodness gracious. You’ve worked for 20 years to achieve this moment in history, and you’ll go down in the annals of Olympic history as the girl in the crotch shot.

So now the Oly Bowl is over, and bored guys will have very little sports-wise to waste a Saturday on now until March Madness starts (another sport I could care less about – college basketball), then baseball’s Spring training gets underway (which only matters if you happen to be somewhere nearby to catch a preseason game.) NBC will go back to airing crappy pre-recorded shows, and Bob Costas will go have himself a well deserved vacation.

As for me, I’ll start looking forward to the 2010 winter games. And finding a way avoid the devil of a cramp from trying this skating move.

It's Snarky Friday Once Again!

In today’s Snarky Friday exhibit, we’re going to start out by begging God for forgiveness. Because obviously He is punishing us for something.

Oh Heavenly Father, whatever it is that we’ve done to offend you, we’re terribly, terribly sorry. We won’t do it again, whatever it might have been. Amen.

You see, the nice people of my hometown of Sioux City are about to be chastised in ways that can only be called “cruel and unusual”. No, I’m not talking about hail or raining frogs or rivers turning to blood – it’s much worse than that.

Ashlee Simpson is coming to town.

All things considered, I’d have preferred the boils and locusts, but what can you do?

Yes, Miss Lip Sync herself is coming to Sioux City’s Tyson Event Center in a “headlining” performance on Friday, March 31. And hey – tickets are only $35 clams apiece! Why, it’s practically a bargain!

Dontcha wanna go? Dontcha? Dontcha? Dontcha?

Um…no. Not on your life. No freaking way.

As you may have presumed by my sheer and utter disgust (and the fact I just threw up in my mouth a little bit at the mere mention of her name), I’m not a member of the Ashlee Simpson Fan Club. And while I’m at it, let me add that I’m also not so wild about her sister, either. If Jessica would just keep her mouth shut she’d go up a few points in my book. But every time she speaks, angels weep. They’re both manufactured pop junk food – 100 percent fluff, zero percent nutritional value.

Part of the reason that I despise Ashlee and her ilk may be that I’m a cynical 40 year old guy, and not a 12 year old giggly girl. Another huge part is that Sioux City radio is practically held hostage by Clear Channel, aka Satan’s Little Helper. I’m fairly sure that they’re the evil bastards behind befouling my fair community with this atrocity.

But a large part of my recoiling in pain may be my vast knowledge of all things musically good. (Well, at least I think my music is good. The Lovely Mrs. G. doesn’t always think so, but at least she’s not listening to Ashlee, either, so bonus points to my lovely wife!) Oh, sure – I listen to crap music from time to time. I’ll admit to having a couple of old Wham UK cassettes. I may have even bought “Mr. Roboto” on both tape and CD at various points of my life.

But Ashlee Simpson? Ugh. I’d sooner poke my eardrums out with chopsticks than have to sit through two hours of her screeching. Worse yet, dropping $35 to watch someone pretend to sing (an sing badly at that) is just a stupid waste of money. Why, I can go down the street and watch the local Iowa drunks belt out crappy karaoke versions of “Sweet Home Alabama” for free. Why pay to be tortured?

As I’ve so clearly demonstrated before, Sioux City is pretty much a culturally dead town. And the fact that one of the only “bands” we can attract to play around here is Ashlee Talentless Simpson is proof of that pudding. There’s a reason why U2 and the Rolling Stones played in Omaha, 90 miles to the South, and we can only get Ashlee Simpson to visit Sewer City. It’s because we’re evil, evil sinners, and the Good Lord is showing his displeasure in us by sending us The Worst. Singer. Ever. The show is March 31; I promise you that on the morning of April 1 the churches will be jam packed with people confessing their sins and begging for mercy.

So visitors to the Midwest, enjoy your time in Sioux City. Just be sure to back it up and head to the hills before the evening of March 31, unless you want to risk God’s wrath as He unleashes it on Sodom, Gomorrah, and Sioux City. Because Hell on Earth will be located exactly on the corner of Gordon Drive and Pierce Street.

Oh, and keep a close eye on your first born, too, if you know what’s good for you.

The Billionaire Catfight

One of the biggest problems of getting older is having to watch your good friends split up. They were once a perfectly happy and loving couple, but now your friends can’t stand the sight of each other. An ugly separation is imminent, and eventually you’ll be forced to…

Choose sides.

Yes, friendship is part of every nasty custody battle. Some people argue over who gets the kids or the dog or Grandma’s heirloom antique toilet seat, but it really sucks when the fight becomes over your friendship, and whose side you’ll be on when the judge’s gavel declares the relationship kaput

I mean, you like both of them – equally. Yet you risk alienating one or both by choosing sides.

So whom do you remain friends with? Which person do you still see on a regular basis? Will you listen when that person bitches about the other? Will they be jealous if you’re still nice to the other?

It’s a goddamn dilemma, that’s for sure. And one that I’m going through right now.

You see, my good friends Donald and Martha are going through a very painful, very public breakup. And I’m still not sure whose side I need to be on.

It all started when Martha (“M Diddy”, to those of us in her inner circle) landed herself a TV series in the same vein as Donald (“The Donald”, to those of us lucky enough to have dirt on him – otherwise it’s “His Royal Exalted Majesty Mr. Trump” to the peons of the world). At first, they were all huggy and kissy about it – Donald would host his TV show on Thursday nights, where he’d been comfortably resting on his laurels for the past three seasons. Martha would then join the network on Wednesday evenings, plus would milk her 15 minutes of post-incarceration fame into a daytime chat fest, too.

It all sounded like Heaven on Fifth Avenue. Donny and Marty, sittin’ in a (money) tree… What could go wrong?

But then things began to sour between the two. Suddenly Donny’s show wasn’t pulling the numbers it used to (some mean kids named Simon, Randy, and Paula showed up and spoiled his fun) , and with Martha out there doing practically the same shtick as he was every week, what was once unique had become blasé and ordinary. Martha’s show quietly sank into the quicksand that is primetime TV, and before her 13 weeks of Scrabble-induced fun were officially over, her series was already smelling like a cat turd on a hot sidewalk. Put a silver-plated fork in it – she’s done.

Now, the socially polite thing would’ve been for His Royal Highness to let Martha just fade away into her gazillion dollar retail empire, and forget that she’d ever attempted to encroach on his television territory.

But no. DoTru had to prove he had the bigger set of brass monkeys, and he proceeded to bash poor Miss Martha all over Manhattan -- and the rest of the caring world.

Aw, but don’t think that M Diddy rolled over and took his public dissin’ of her – no freakin’ way, man. After all, she’s a baroness AND a convicted felon! She’ll cut you, mofo – don’t think she doesn’t know how! She’ll serve up your organs on fine imported silk table linens before you can say, “George! Caroline! Save me!”

But instead of shivving the tycoon, Miss Martha took out her watermarked stationary, and wrote her now ex-TV friend one of her trademark letters.

Dear Donald,

As you know, in business it is all about love and war. And in our business, it’s all about ratings. So while you may have won on the primetime front, just keep in mind that I still have a show of my own. With my name in it. And I have a better hair stylist than your ugly ass ever will.

Cordially Fuck You,

M.

P.S. Nice trophy wife. Where’d she get those lips – from the Incredible Mr. Limpet? I hope she dumps you for Kevin Federline one day.

Well.

As you can imagine, The Donald wasn’t about to take this lying down. No sirree – why, he was so mad he almost made a non-pouting facial expression.

Sir Don fired back with all the ammo his public relations team could muster up. Here’s his actual quote to Newsweek magazine just yesterday:

"It's about time you started taking responsibility for your failed version of 'The Apprentice.' Your performance was terrible in that the show lacked mood, temperament and just about everything a show needs for success," he wrote. "I knew it would fail as soon as I first saw it — and your low ratings bore me out. Between your daughter, with her one-word statements, your letter writing and, most importantly, your totally unconvincing demeanor, it never had a chance — much as your daytime show is not exactly setting records."

Jeez, Donny. Didn’t you listen to the counselors when they recommended that you keep the personal attacks out of it? Apparently not. And bringing the kids into the fray? I mean, Martha didn’t say anything about your Bill Ransic whipping boy, now did she?

Anyway, Martha fired back in the way that only she could – by yet another press release.

“"Having two `Apprentices' was as unfair to him as it was unfair to me," she told Newsweek. "But Donald really wanted to stay on." In a statement she declared, "The letter is so mean-spirited and reckless that I almost can't believe my longtime friend Donald Trump wrote it. I am very proud of the work we did."

So there we have it – two good friends, divided by power, greed, and the overwhelming need to be the biggest famewhores on the face of this otherwise great planet.

But, my dilemma remains. Whose side will I be on?

On one hand, Martha’s primetime experience is toast – history – long gone. So watching The Donald’s now-on-Monday snarkfest won’t be that difficult of a choice.

But what if Martha finds out? Will she never invite me over for horseback riding and Scrabble again? Will she send me some chocolate muffins with “unusually disturbing ingredients” included in the mix? Will I be banished forever from her handmade Christmas card list?

Or, I suppose I can sneak around behind The Donald’s back and catch the occasional glimpse of M. Diddy’s syndicated daytime show. If I just keep it really quiet, and not try to sew identical curtains or make the same 4-ingredient or less egg white omelets, maybe Sir Donny will never suspect a thing. Right?

But the thing to remember is that D.T. has minions everywhere – why, he’s fired 4 seasons worth of washed-up Apprenti by now – these are people who’d do anything he asked. So if I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m being followed, then odds are pretty high that I am.

So for now, I think I’ll stay out of the middle of their practically-marital tiff. And when the eventual day comes that they kiss and make up, then I can say that I still love them both. I’ll remain the bigger person – and probably the happiest of the three.

Until then, I wonder what’s happening on Desperate Housewives. Because as far as I know, those ladies still love each other.

Whose Got Gum?

You know, sometimes you see a headline that’s so strange you have no choice but to blog about it. Here’s just such an example:

Gum chewing helps bowels after surgery: study
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060220/us_nm/gum_dc_2

My first thought? If your bowels feel better from chewing gum, then brother you’re probably chewing it incorrectly. Do we need to start putting warning labels “This End Up” on the wrappers? I suppose if there’s a enough of a reason to have suppositories come with a “Do Not Eat” warning on them, then why shouldn’t your pack of Double Bubble be subjected to the same?

But when you read the article, it sounds like it makes perfect sense, in a slightly nauseating way.

“Seventeen of 34 patients who chewed gum beginning a few hours after surgery passed gas several hours sooner than the half who did not chew, and they had their first bowel movements an average of 63 hours after surgery compared with 89 hours for non-chewers.”

Mmm, mmm! Enjoy your breakfast, America!

But the moral of this story? If you really need to go, break out a pack of Wrigleys, grab the Enquirer, and have a good time.

Just don’t blow any bubbles, okay?

Happy Birthday, Cindy

Yesterday was a special holiday – a day when we should all stop and reflect and pay tribute. No, not to America’s Presidents. They get enough press as is. It was a bigger day than that.

You see, yesterday was Cindy Crawford’s 40th birthday.

Yes, America’s premier Supermodel turned the big 4-0 on Monday the 20th. Happy Birthday, dear Cindy – Happy Birthday to you.

I’ll admit that many, many years ago (back in the days when BIG HAIR like this was considered “in”), I had an early 90’s mini-crush on Miss Crawford and her pouty smile; Heck, find a red-blooded All American hetero male who didn’t – I dare ya.

We shared so much in common – we both drank Diet Pepsi (only I wasn’t paid to do so), we both liked to watch MTV (although I always preferred videos over House of Style), and we both liked to watch her parade around in the latest swim fashions (okay, maybe that was just me.)

But back in the day, when Miss Crawford and I were both still in our mid-20’s, it was great fun to drool over Cindy.

Why? Well, aside from the obvious (duh), my main motivation was that it drove my ex-wife nuts. And that right there was enough justification on its own.

You see, The X used to spend copious amounts of time telling everyone about Richard Gere’s shower scene in a crappy movie “Breathless”. So when Richard started dating Cindy, I decided that turnabout was more than fair play. The time came along for me to adopt a celebrity pet, too – and who better than the woman who had won the Pretty Man’s heart (at least temporarily)?

So anyway, from that point on I made a point of pointing out every one of her TV appearances to The X – which, this being 1992 was just about every 10 seconds. “Oooh, look X,” I’d say. “Cindy Crawford! Whoo-hoo!” Cindy was omnipresent – and so was the irritation I gave The X about her. I even had Miss Katie (who was all of 5 years old at the time) running around saying “Whoo hoo – Cindy Crawford” every time Miss Crawford was on the set. Amazing fun, I tell you. Amazing fun.

But my biggest stunt happened on February 20, 1994 – Cindy’s 28th birthday. By some strange coincidence I happened to have made a cake that day. No particular reason; it was just a cake. But when I saw on TV that afternoon that it was Cindy’s birthday I decided that my otherwise plain chocolate cake suddenly became a Cindy Crawford Birthday Cake.

So that night we put candles on it, and my 6 year old daughter climbed up to the table, sang Happy Birthday, Cindy, and blew out the candles in a long-distance dedication to the fabulously moled supermodel.

Well, that was just about enough to set The X off big time – but the literal icing on the cake came a little while later, when my precious daughter went up to The X and asked her the fateful question:

“Mommy, is Daddy going to divorce you for Cindy Crawford?”

Well, that did it. Game over. Joke no longer funny. The X was seriously pissed at this point.

Although, I can’t really understand why. I mean, Cindy Crawford was a world famous supermodel/millionaire/TV celebrity/expert spokesmodel/fabulous babe. What on earth would she ever want with a 28 year old washed up customer support rep with a bitchy mean spouse? I mean, I wasn't even in the same barrel to be scraped from the bottom of. It’d never happen – not in a million years and 10 million recycled Diet Pepsi cans.

But that didn’t matter. The bug of jealousy had officially chewed clean through The X, and apparently had hit a mighty raw nerve.

Heh, heh, I was in HUGE trouble, but it was still pretty damn funny.

So here we are, 12 years later. The X is long gone from my life (thank God), I’m happily remarried to the Lovely Mrs. G., and Cindy has gone onto bigger and better things.

As for my Dream Model, my crush officially dissolved the day I sat down and watched her crap-fest movie “Fair Game”. Phew! Have you ever seen that celluloid dog food? Poor Cindy may be hot on the outside, but damn – the girl can’t act her way out of the thinnest of paper bags. Sometimes the phrase “just keep your mouth shut and stand there looking pretty” really does apply.

Miss Katie is now 18, and just this morning I asked her if she remembered it was Cindy Crawford’s birthday yesterday. She just smiled and asked if she needed to call her mother and point it out. I passed on the opportunity – why rub salt in 12 year old wounds?

Still, Happy Birthday wishes go out to Cindy Crawford. Sorry it never worked out between the two of us – you know how it goes, right? But if we’re ever in the same neighborhood, I promise I’ll buy you a Diet Pepsi and a big slice of birthday cake. For old times sake.

SI Swimsuit Issue (For The Over 40 Crowd)

Want a sure sign that I’m getting old? Either that, or I’m insane? Well, today’s entry will prove it.

Today’s photo comes to us courtesy of Sports Illustrated’s annual Swimsuit Issue. You know the one, where super-hot supermodels don massively expensive “bathing suits” that nobody in their right mind could ever afford to wear into the ocean? That’s the one. Oh, sure they’re pretty to look at. But planning on doing a triple-spin off the diving board? Impractical. But if your goal is looking good while pretending not to notice that your very-much-exposed skin is being attacked by UV rays? That’s the ticket.

Anyway, back to the photo. This picture first turned up online on Tuesday, and when I first saw it, my second thought was, “Wow, this will be the Most Popular Photo on Yahoo’s page before the day is out.” (My actual first thought is listed below.)

Sure to God – it was. By Wednesday AM this pic was solidly in the number one position online – both a Most Viewed and Most E-mailed. It was leading by THOUSANDS of views – even more than the one-eyed kitten that had previously claimed the top spot for weeks on end.

It was destiny – this Sports Illustrated swimsuit photo was going to lead the ranks well into early summer. But then something happened... I’ll explain more later.

Anyway, here’s the photo – and the proof that I’m now over the hill is this comment that sprang to mind when I first saw it:

My initial thought? “Geez, the poor girl must be cold.”

See? I AM old. No dirty, lustful thoughts. Just concern that poor Molly might catch a virus.

Now, according to the accompanying article, Miss Molly here is (barely) wearing a $30 million dollar diamond bikini, which was made by the fine master jewelers at blah, blah, blah... If you are really reading the rest of the article, there’s something seriously wrong with you.

Trust me: Nobody (with a pulse and an XY chromosome, that is) cares about how many facets the diamonds may have, or how many carats are strung together to make this thing. The only thing old guys like me really care about is 1) the whole “is it drafty in there?” scenario, 2) who has to wash/sterilize the gems when she’s done? 3) I bet she’s not doing the backstroke down in the YMCA’s pool wearing this, and (probably most importantly), 4) Holy Crap, girlfriend! – that’s some incredible bikini wax! I mean, when you cover your cookie, you really ought to do it with something bigger than an Oreo, you think?

Oh, and one more thought, if you can tear your eyes away for a second – who do we blame for the fact that her “left” is several inches higher than her “right” – bad posture or bad augmentation?

There was a time in my life when a photo like this would have really impressed me. But now I’m officially Over 40, and feel like a dirty old man for even writing about this. I mean, thank God that I’m still alive to appreciate “art for art’s sake”, but what does it say about you when you’re thinking more about chances of pneumonia than you are about diamond-studded ta-tas?

So in the end, I’m still madly in love with the Lovely Mrs. G., even though she’s not draped in $30 million worth of gemstones. She’s real, she’s funny, she takes good care of me, and she doesn’t cost THAT much to insure. Plus, when Mrs. G. and I go to the beach, I fully expect her to actually join me in the surf. If you try snorkeling in a diamond bikini, you might as well hang a sign on you saying “HEY, LOOK AT ME, SHARKS! FREE LUNCH!”

But back to this being Yahoo’s. Most. Popular. Photo. Ever. It disappeared off Yahoo’s site at about Noon Thursday. Just totally vanished. Not even the return of the one-eyed kitten could have pushed it off the list, so obviously someone out there yanked it off the Web. I guess she must have a jealous boyfriend or an agent who doesn’t like people looking for free. Ah, but thanks to the power of the Blogosphere and the lack of a cease and desist letter (yet), Miss Molly and her interesting choice of swimwear will live on for all eternity.

And years from now, when I’m even older than I am now, I can look back on this page and think, “Good Lord – she’s young enough to be my granddaughter!” That, and “For Heaven’s sake – put on a sweater before you catch your death of cold.”

Yes, I am old. And probably insane, too.

Thank You For Not Smoking

Owing to the facts that it’s 3 degrees below zero outside and that I’m one heckuva nice guy, I went out to start my teenage daughter’s car for her this AM. Aw, ain’t I nice?

So while I’m in her car, what do I happen to find sitting in the front console? Half of a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights. Swell.

Now, technically Miss Katie is 18, so if she wants to smoke, she’s perfectly entitled to. God Bless America, Praise the Lord and pass the Camels. But smoking? That’s one habit she doesn’t need in her life right now.

I’m really not a militant non-smoker – I don’t carry a little portable fan with me to blow the smoke away and back towards the offending person in restaurants, and I won’t fake-cough whenever someone lights up in my presence. But I do draw the line at smoking when I can. I don’t frequent businesses that reek of tobacco, and I won’t stay in a hotel room that’s designated for smokers. And I won’t let anyone smoke in my car or home. So don’t ask, because the answer is no.

I briefly smoked when I was 18. Very briefly. I bought one pack, smoked about 6 of them, though “Ugh, what the hell am I doing this for?”, and threw the rest away. They were nasty, and I wasn’t enjoying it, so my “habit” lasted for all of two days. Then when I was 20 I briefly dated a girl who smoked, and as much as I liked her personally, all I could think was that I was hanging out with a stinky, dirty ashtray. It killed all chance of romance, that’s for sure, and our relationship soon soured. Gee, imagine that.

So here I am, 20 years later. Why am I so against smoking? Well, for one thing, let me tell you about a guy I knew named Al. Al was my father, and had a 40-year friendship with the people at Pall-Mall. He tried quitting time and time again, but the addiction was just too much. But Al did finally quit – the day that his emphysema got so bad that the doctors had to put him on oxygen therapy for the rest of his life.

Imagine – being a normally strong, independent guy, now living with an oxygen tube up your nose, 24 hours a day, for the rest of your life. Imagine having to go through medicated nebulizer treatments every four hours, around the clock, every day, for the rest of your life. Imagine not being able to climb a flight of stairs without having to stop to rest and catch your breath. This was Al Gressel’s life for his final 10 years on Planet Earth. All thanks to an unbreakable habit he picked up as a teenager.

I have to hand it to my father, though – he never once bitched or moaned or complained about having to be attached to an oxygen tank. He knew that he’d done it to himself, and he took full responsibility for the smoking habit that landed him in that position. But he also made it a point to show his grandkids on a regular basis (including a very young Miss Katie) what might happen to those who choose to smoke. Oh, sure – you may luck out and miss having throat polyps or lung cancer or making your kids sick from second-hand smoke, but why risk it? Cigs aren’t that much fun, are they?

Smoking ended my father’s life in the summer of 1997, at age 74. Death from emphysema, induced by 40 years of Pall-Malls. But while he was alive he told me time and time again how much he wished he’d never started. And what I’d give to be able to have him here to give me the speech once again, for old times sake.

So my speech to Miss Katie this morning was simple and direct: One, a girl with asthma really shouldn’t be smoking in the first place, and two – please never forget the image of your grandfather walking around with a hose up his nose, because that’s not what you want.

Fortunately, Miss Katie said she doesn’t smoke – which I already knew up front, mainly from the lack of stale smoke smell on her, but I wanted to hear it out of her mouth. She said they belonged to a friend of hers who left them in her car, which is a sincere possibility. But hopefully Grandpa Gressel made enough of an impression on her that she won’t ever start.

So there’s my speech for the day, kids. Don’t smoke. Your lungs – and your kids - will thank you someday.

Is it cold in here, or just me?

Old man winter is back in Iowa, and he brought some of his rotten bastard cousins with him – wind chill, blowing snow, and the worst of them: sub-zero temperatures. What – just because we really didn’t have much winter to speak of over the last 60 days we have to have it all now??? I mean, seriously - let's spread some of that love around, okay?

I know that I really shouldn’t bitch too much. We got hammered at the end of November, but ever since it’s been pretty mellow around here. Temps have even reached the upper 50’s a couple of times – not that impressive if you’re living in Key West, but here in Sewer City in January? That rocks, man. So complaining about a couple of days of frosty weather when we could’ve had 5 months of this crap would just be nit-picking. But 15 below zero tomorrow won't be a picnic, that's for sure.

So winter is back, reminding us that we’re in the Land of Four Seasons. And when I get home this afternoon, I’ll have to pay homage to the Weather demons by shoveling their little minions out of my driveway. Take that, suckers.

In another 6 weeks winter will be a distant memory, for the most part, and who knows – by early April we may actually have some leaves on the trees and the lawn will once again be green.
But for now, it’s time to bundle up, put on your thermal Spider-man underoos, and hope to God that the idiot drivers went home an hour before you have to go drive in it.

As for me, I’m seriously considering hibernation. Go to bed and nap the rest of this cold snap away. Hey, it works for Yogi and Boo-Boo, maybe it’ll work for Tom.

Cupid should shoot dollars, not arrows.

Well, it’s Saint Valentines Day – a day based on crass commercialism, greed, the goal of out-doing the Joneses, dead flowers, overpriced jewelry, and rotten teeth from too much candy. Oh, yeah -- and love.

I’m really not all that cynical about Valentines Day, and I’m not some unromantic shmuck. Honestly. It’s just that I think they put far too much emphasis on buying crap to say “I love you” on one day a year, when if you had even half a heart inside that cold body of yours, you’d be able to say it every day of the year. But perhaps that’s just me.

Every year on Valentines Day one of my co-workers gets a massive bouquet from her husband that comes with flowers, candy, and a helium balloon big enough to use as a blimp if you really want to float away to somewhere warm. The candy is usually gone before 5:00 and the flowers slowly suffer a painful death in the fluorescent lighting, but the mondo-sized balloon? They always seem to be able to float in the office for months. Seriously – last year’s balloon made it airborne right up until December.

And even better – this year’s gigantic Valentines balloon is MUSICAL – it plays the Partridge Family’s “I Think I Love You”. It’s like a plastic singing bass, only with love thrown in. Funny the first time, annoying as hell the next 4 gazillion times. Ugh.

It’s a nice gesture – but what happens in 3 days from now when she’s back to sniping about her husband’s bad habits? It’s a temporary gesture that temporarily gets him out of the doghouse for 72 hours; that’s all.

Me? I went simple this year and bought something for The Lovely Mrs. G. that is both useful and practical. And it’s something that won’t die, pop, or give you cavities. (I have to keep it a secret for now, so shhhh...) And as for Miss Katie? Well, we just gave her some dinero. What else could a cash-strapped teenager use? It was just her size, too!

So although I’m not so wild about Valentine’s Day, I do try to be at least a little romantic every now and then. I’m a lucky guy – I’ll proudly admit it. The Lovely Mrs. G. takes good care of me, and we’re the perfect pair. Do I really need to “dazzle her with a stunning diamond pendant starting at only $699.00” to show her that? Fortunately, no. Actions speak louder than baubles.

I try to remember to tell Mrs. G. every night that I love her, and if I don’t it’s only because one of us (or quite possibly both of us) are already dead asleep by 9:30, and the only thing I’m saying sounds a lot like loud snoring. But deep down, she knows that ol’ Tommy loves her very much, even though he doesn’t say it with tennis bracelets made of cubic zirconium.

What I really suspect is that if I really wanted to make Mrs. G.’s day, I’d pick up some of my crap that’s laying around the house. Or maybe she’d be thrilled if I cleaned up the cat food off the kitchen floor or if I didn’t leave a post-cooking mess the size of Hurricane Tommy all over the kitchen.

And if she wanted to make my day? Well, a nice day at Disneyland would always do the trick. But since that really isn’t feasible when you live 2,000 miles away from Anaheim, I’ll go the simple route and ask that she continue to tolerate my eccentricities for another 50 years or so. It’s a lot to ask, but hey – you might as well shoot for the stars, right?

So for all of you out there today celebrating the love in your life, a very happy V-Day. And for everyone else who is bitter and angry about today, just remember that tomorrow is another day. And all that leftover chocolate will be half-off by this time tomorrow.

Aaaah! Run for your lives!

Everybody run -
The Vice President's got a gun...

You know, if there ever was going to be a guy I'd give a loaded weapon to, it certainly wouldn't be a crotchety old coot whose been itching to blow away the Middle East for 6 years. I'm surprised that ol' Dickey "Oops"Cheney is even allowed to carry a shotgun, given his history of heart attacks and bad temper flareups.

Now, let's all speculate what could've possibly made Mr. Cheney think that his hunting partner was a quail. Was the guy chirping like one? Did he smell like poultry? Did he perhaps make a snide comment about finding no quails in the bushes, but tons of weapons of mass destruction? Did Dick tell the guy to go fuck himself right before he squeezed the trigger?

It's not nice to make fun of the poor bastard who caught a face full of the Vice President's buckshot, so we won't. The shooting victum is a lawyer, though, and if he's got any bit of that legal evil left in his body, he'll sue the hell out of Dickie, then beat him over the head with his Remington, just for good measure.

But Dick Cheney? The guy deserves all the flack he gets about this. Including the snarky comments from yours truly.

So somebody out there, please do the right thing. Take away the gun from Little Dickie, before he shoots someone's eye out. Give him a nice pea shooter or a box of rubber bands to play with, like his boss likes to play with.

And remember, boys and girls. Guns don't kill people. Politicians kill people.

Change of Command

My manager Skippy Whitebread left this morning for 7 weeks of military leave. He’s in the Air National Guard, and has to go to Fort B.F.E. Texas for 44 days of janitor training or some crap like that (his Air Guard job is cleaning up after pilots). While normally I’d be thrilled to have him gone and out of my hair for so long, it’s with kind of mixed feelings that I said goodbye this morning.

You see, my employer is in a bit of a turmoil. Again. Chaos was fairly constant here for a long time, but up until recently things had been pretty calm. There hadn’t been any major layoffs in a while, and everything seemed to be chugging along about as normally as it could.

Then last Wednesday night our CEO up and walked off the job. Quit. Bailed. Ran away. Nobody is really saying why, although as you can imagine there are zillions of rumors floating around. So we’ve got an interim leader who says he’s going to restore the “fun” around the company, but when people are freaking out about losing their jobs, what kind of fun is that? The stock is tanking as investors lose confidence, and everyone suspects we'll be sold to another company within the next 90 days.

When this last CEO came in, there were still 7,500 employees here. Today there are just over 1,800. He cut costs, fired a whole lot of honest working people, brought in a bunch more high-paid lazy-ass “directors”, and changed the company around, almost 180 degrees. True, some of the changes he made probably had to be done. We had 38,000 people working here worldwide in 2000; now that we’re 95 percent smaller, they’ve saved a ton on payroll, but the cost has been high. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone around here who didn’t have their resume typed and ready to go. And if you don’t have one, then you’re either really naïve or really foolish.

But back to Skippy. His leaving our little department means that someone has to cover his responsibilities while he’s gone. And that duty falls to Chuck, our former supervisor/team drunk. Chuck has a nasty habit of calling in majorly late for work at least 3 days a week (minimum 2 hours late), and then takes “sick days” probably at least once a week. We're all salaried, so there's nobody to really keep track of his attendance, and he conveniently "forgets" to add his time off to his own reports. Since the first of the year he’s missed 6 days so far, plus taken a lot of half-days off being “sick”.

Chuck is a classic alcoholic who is a good guy when he’s sober, but isn’t worth shit when he’s not. Currently, we all suspect he’s deep into one of those “not” phases. Chuck isn’t reliable in the least, and yet he’s in charge. But when he’s not here, someone has to make sure Skippy’s reports are submitted and his spreadsheets are filled out. Guess who gets that fun, on top of his own work? That's right, Sir Tommy - the guy who dares show up on time every day. What's the expression about no good deed going unpunished?

So Skippy is gone, and our team is now down to 5 people. Okay, maybe 4 ¼, if you count Chuck’s infrequent contributions to the team. And with the company going all topsy-turvy again, who knows where we’ll end up in the mix.

But for now I’m trying to keep my head down low, my mind on the writing, and my headphones cranked up real loud. It’s easier that way.

And Skippy will be back April 3, to hopefully pick up where he left off. Except without all that obsessive-compulsive shit, I hope…

A Post-Christmas Contest!

Calling all you Amazing Kreskins and fortune tellers out there – let’s see how good your predictions really are!

Today is Wednesday, February 08, 2006. Christmas, as we all know, was 6 ½ weeks ago. We’ve all long since turned off the Nat King Cole songs, (hopefully) sweated off those extra pounds from Grandma’s pumpkin pie, and said, “Holy crap – I spent that much?” every time another credit card bill arrives.

Yep, the holidays are over. Well, for most people they are.

For as you’ll see, some people tend to cling to their holiday traditions, long after they are appropriate. (This being Sioux City, where rationality and sanity are often outweighed by apathy and stupidity, anything is possible.)

This is a photo of the house across the street from us, taken yesterday morning. Notice anything...unseasonably out of place...about their yard decorations?

Yes, by Frosty -- Santa and his little minions are still soaring high in the sky over Sioux City, as they have since old Bubba the Grunting Neighbor hung them up there in early November. Even though Christmas is long gone, Santa remains.

Why won’t he take his Christmas decorations down? He took some of the lights off the bushes, but plastic Santa remains strung to a wire across his yard, where I have to look out and see him every friggin' day. It's getting a little old, people. That's all I'm sayin'.

What gives? It’s not like it’s been 30 below zero around here for the last month – in fact, Sioux City had it’s third warmest January ever. So Bubba has had plenty of nice weather to go out there and take ol’ Saint Nick down. But no. The lazy shmuck seems to think we should all enjoy the Christmas Spirit for as long as humanly possible. It’s Ho Ho Ho – 365 days a year!!!

So here’s my challenge to you: Using the Comments field below, submit your guess of when Jolly Old Saint Nicholas will finally come down. Pick a day, click Submit, and then sit back and enjoy the game.

Now, I will give you a hint: One year Santa was up there UNTIL MAY 1. Seriously. So don’t think this is a contest that is likely to end before Valentines Day. 'Cause it won't.

I promise to keep you regularly informed of the status of Overstaying His Welcome Claus. And if he’s still there when the temps hit 90, I’ll be sure to let you know if there’s been any melting or spontaneous fires that start from the sun reflecting off Rudolph’s nose.

There are no prizes to be awarded to the lucky person whose guess is the closest, but you’ll have the personal satisfaction and pride that comes from being the cleverest kid on the block.

And as for me? I’ll just be thrilled to see the damn thing go away. For at least 6 months.

So bet early, bet often, and have fun.

Oh, and Seasons Greetings.

Oh, The Horror! The Horror!

So the Seahawks blew it Sunday. Blew it big time. I needed 48 hours before I could write about it; it was that bad.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that tragic. The fact that they got to play in the Superbowl at all (after waiting 30 years for a chance) was enough to make me happy. Sure, they didn’t win, but worse things have happened. Like a 3-13 season.

Life will be a little odd around work for a while, though. The boys here live, breathe, and die for football. That’s all they talk about – seriously. Skippy Whitebread and his farm boy cronies love to talk high school football, college football, pro football, even games and plays that took place 20 years ago. What will they have to talk about now? World politics? Famous French literature? The mysteries of the universe?

Nope. Their chat well has officially gone dry. Well, at least until the Huskers Spring scrimmage sometime in April.

But football for me is done until next September, when I’ll pretend to care again. I may play fantasy football with them again next fall, just so the non-football fan can beat all the die-hards again. (I play on hunches, names, and favorite teams – not endless hours of studying stats.)

So enjoy your victory parade, Pittsburgh. Us Seattle fans will drown our sorrows in a lovely microbrew or a double shot espresso.

Because baseball’s spring training begins in just a few days, and you know what that means. Go Mariners.

False Start, Offense. 10 Yard Penalty, Still First Down.

I laughed a couple of weeks ago when the Seahawks beat the Carolina Panthers for a Superbowl berth – the NFL.com sent me an offer to buy an NFC Champion t-shirt an hour before the end of the game. “Don’t count your touchdowns before they hatch” apparently isn’t an NFL motto.

But this offer? This one tops them all. I received this e-mail Monday, 6 DAYS before the Superbowl:

Avoid the post-game rush - buy a Seahawks Superbowl Champion box o' crap for only $69.99 today!!!

Wow – talk about preselling the future. I love how it says in tiny print on the bottom: “if your team happens to take a huge dive and has to go home crying like little girls, don’t worry – we’ll cancel your order for you.” Gee, thanks.

It's remarkable that they're already selling Superbowl winning stuff, days before the game is even played. Do they know something I don't know? Is the fix in? Somebody had better call 60 Minutes or Dateline, that's all I'm saying.

But the real question raised is this: Can you imagine if other industries tried selling merchandise geared to future events they haven’t necessarily earned yet?

Front cover of Time Magazine: “Enron: Ethically Serving the Public for 50 Years.”

On a DVD package: “Deuce Bigalow: European Gigalo – Winner of 10 Academy Awards!”

On a Franklin Mint collector’s plate: “Congratulations to Britney & Kevin Federline on their 10th wedding anniversary!”

Along those same lines: A K-Tel record offer: “Kevin Federline – 10X platinum album + multi Grammy winner = international superstar!”

American History books: “George W. Bush – America’s Greatest President!”

Travel Brochure: “Visit Sunny New Orleans!”

TV Commercial: “FOX – A Lifetime of High-Quality, Educational Programming”

Revlon Billboard: “Paris Hilton – Lookin’ Good at 80!”

So as you can see, jumping the gun can lead to jumping the shark in mere moments. As for the NFL’s “generous” offer to let me drop $70 clams (plus shipping) for their swag, I’ll Just Say No. But I will watch their game (and commercials) on Sunday. It's the least I can do.

Let the games begin!