A New Reality TV Low?

There’s a new reality series coming out soon – on the FOX Reality Channel, nonetheless – that may make me want to rush right out, call up my local cable operator, scream “I want my Fox Reality TV!” Okay, I honestly doubt it – FOX and I usually don’t see eye-to-eye when it comes to their biased news channel, and their regular programming? Well, let’s just say that I’ve got better things to do than to watch American Idol 16 hours a week.

But this show is of a different genre – it’s called “My Bare Lady” – which will feature four young American actresses who are trained, rehearsed, and prepared to star in a London West End stage production. It’s a take on “My Fair Lady” – turning a commoner (in this case, a Yankee actress) into a refined British stage actress. Laughs galore, right?

The hook? The actresses are all adult film entertainers. You know…porn stars.

See? You just knew that FOX would find a way to sensationalize it in that semi-sleazy way that only the people who brought you celebrity ice skating and “Who Wants To Marry My Daughter” could do…

And I have to give full credit to the copywriter who came up with this gem. Here’s the actual headline of this news release, as it appeared online this AM:

First, they need to learn to act standing up...

Hardy har har! Ten points to the writer of that one! Why, that’s right up there with “Take my wife, please!” on the originality laugh-o-meter.

Now, I have to admit that I watch my fair share of so-called reality TV. Survivor? Sure. Amazing Race? Absolutely. Flava of Love? Not on your life. But I’m thinking an entire series of porn stars trying to recite Jane Austen’s finest is something I can live without.

And for heaven’s sake, I hope FOX doesn’t get the wise idea to try to reverse the genre. Nobody wants to see today’s equivalent of Sir Lawrence Olivier and Helen Hayes in “Curtain Call IX: The Naughty 4th Act.”

Yep – maybe it’s time I go ahead and turn off the TV for a while and go get some fresh air… and hope FOX’s cameras aren’t following me.

9/11 Revisited? No Thanks

Yesterday I had some fun at the expense of X-Men: The Last Stand and their smurfette/Cookie Monster love child (We hear that furry-ol-lovable-Grover is asking for a DNA paternity test). But today let’s look at the new movie actually opening today – one I can’t see. I won’t see.

It’s called “United 93” – a supposedly real life dramatization of what happened to United Airlines flight 93 on September 11, 2001.

We all know exactly what happened that day – it’s been burned into our memories forever. Horrible, horrible shit went down that morning. It’s something I know that I’ll never forget. So why Hollywood thinks we need a movie to “dramatically recreate what may have happened” is beyond me.

I’m sure that there those of you out there who don’t see anything wrong with this movie, but I’m willing to bet that a lot of people are bothered as I am – turning a horrific tragedy into box office bucks. Does anyone really want to relive it? I sure don’t.

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I won a trip to New York City on August 30, 2001. Airfare, hotel, tickets to a Broadway show, $500 spending money, you name it. Our exact travel dates hadn’t yet been set, but we were excited to finally be able to see the Big Apple.

Then September 11 happened.

A couple of months later the trip sponsor called us and asked if we were still interested in coming to Manhattan. Mayor Giuliani had officially declared “New York is open for business!”, and even though his city was down, it definitely wasn’t out.

So in early December 2001, Mrs. G. and I made our way to NYC, courtesy of the nice people at American Movie Classics. And we had a fantastic time in the big city – things couldn’t have been any better for us. We saw the Rockettes Christmas show, went to a musical, walked down 5th Ave and Central Park, and had monstrous pastrami sandwiches in Times Square.

Then, early on Sunday AM, we went down to Ground Zero.

I’ll let these photos that I took that morning explain how I felt that day – and why I won’t be paying Hollywood $8.50 to relive that day.

There are some things in this world that are entertaining – hopefully this blog is occasionally one of them – but 9/11? I’m just not ready to sit down with a large bag of salty popcorn and a box of Ju-Ju-Bees and call it “entertainment”.

But perhaps that's just me.

It's Not Easy Bein' Blue

The new X-Men movie is coming out in a couple of weeks, and one of the starring mutants this time around is Beast, played by Dr. Frasier Crane.

Now, I never really imagined Kelsey Grammer as an action hero, but stranger things have happened. But I have to wonder about his lovely indigo fur costume. Doesn’t he remind you of…someone? Or maybe a combination of a couple of well-known celebrities?

So I did a little investigation, and found the missing pages from the movie script that explain Beast’s origins. And just because I like y’all, I thought I’d share this hidden treasure with the world. Enjoy!


X-MEN: THE LAST STAND

FADE IN

EXT:

Night. Raining hard. A small mushroom-shaped tavern in the woods. There is only one car in the parking lot.

INT:

A mostly empty bar. All tables are empty, and there is only one patron sitting at the bar. The lights are dimmed low, but you can still tell that this is a fairly shabby establishment. The kind of place where “regulars” are the only patrons. A sad song plays on the jukebox. The remnants of earlier partying remain – empty beer mugs, peanut shells – but that’s about it.

CUT TO:

BARTENDER, washing a glass with a dirty towel.

Do you want me to get you another Smurftini, honey?

CUT TO:

SMURFETTE, sitting at the bar, slumped over in her barstool. It’s apparent that she’s had far too much to drink tonight. Her dress is rumpled, and her hair is now matted. Her head is hung low, and there are several empty martini glasses in her vicinity.

He promised he’d be here.

CUT TO:

BARTENDER

I know he did, honey. Maybe he was just held up. You know how it goes with blind dates. Maybe he just got lost on his way here.

CUT TO:

SURFETTE slowly lifts her head. She’s obviously in no mood for a pep talk, and she gives the BARTENDER a dirty sneer.

Oh, cut the crap, Whiskey Smurf. Let’s just face it – I’ve been stood up.

CUT TO:

BARTENDER removes a couple of the empty glasses from in front of her.

I’ve got to lock up now, honey. But if you want a ride home, I’ll be glad to drop you off on the way back to my mushroom.

CUT TO:

SMURFETTE, tears and mascara running down her cheek.

Thanks.

WIDE ANGLE:

SMURFETTE, loudly blowing her nose on a bar napkin as the BARTENDER walks towards the back room.

SMURFETTE, yelling/slurring to BARTENDER

I swear to Smurf – I’m going to sleep with the next Smurf who walks through that door, just to get even with the no-good son of a Smurf. Nobody stands up Mrs. Smurf's little girl.

CUT TO:

WIDE ANGLE

SMURFETTE all alone in front of bar. She sighs heavily.

CUT TO:

The TAVERN DOOR blows open, and in comes a tall, blue STRANGER. He is wet from the rain. The STRANGER shakes himself off like a dog, then looks around the room.

CUT TO:

SMURFETTE, turning to see who it is. Her eyes light up as she sees the tall blue figure standing in the doorway.

Uh…Hi. Are you my date?

CUT TO:

The STRANGER slowly approaches her, but says nothing.

CUT TO:

SMURFETTE, trying to stand up and straighten her hair at the same time. It's not going so well, but she tries her best.

Hey...I’m Smurfette. Are…are you from Sesame Street?

CUT TO:

STRANGER, now smiling wide. He wraps his large blue arms around her and gives her the biggest hug.

COOKIE!!!

FADE TO BLACK

CUT TO MARQUEE

9 Months Later

I Want My All TV

This week is National TV-Turnoff week. Between April 24th – 30th you are supposed to leave the boob tube turned off and go find something better to do with your time.

Imagine – 7 whole days without television. 7 days without an endless supply of reality TV, insipid sitcoms, blathering talk shows, semi-smutty dramas, endless reruns, and a whole plethora of disgusting medicinal remedy commercials.

7 days of peace and quiet.

Could I make it for the entire week without my beloved TiVo? I bet I could. Why I could survive seven nights without high-quality prime time programming on 99 channels of pure cable love.

Yeah, right. Fat chance that’s going to happen anytime soon in the Gressel household.

What – they really expect me to miss The Amazing Race this week? Ha, ha, double ha! The Hippies are in last place, man! If they were Philiminated this week and I happened to miss it, I don’t know what I’d do!

And what about Lost? Sure, this week’s episode may be a mere clip show, but they might show something I haven’t seen before! And what about the previews for next week, when the final four eps before the Shocking Two Hour Season Finale That Will Have Us All Talking For Months airs? I can’t risk missing that!

There’s all my other usual nasty habits this week, too – Survivor, CSIs Vegas and Miami, The Donald, Anthony Bourdain’s snarkfest/travelogue, Saturday night boxing on HBO, Taste of America, Iron Chef... The list goes on and on.

Do you really expect me to blow off all of my friends for an entire week? That’d just be rude! What if they never spoke to me again? Or what if they did something sneaky behind my back, formed an alliance, and voted me off the cable box? That’s a rejection I don’t think I could stand.

Deep down, I do see the point of recommending a TV Turnoff Week. According to the TV-Turnoff Week Web site (where apparently the Internet is still okay to use...), kids watch an average of 1,023 hours of TV every year. That’s 42 days nonstop. They also say that 40 percent of all dinners are eaten in front of the set. (Guilty as charged – plus some breakfasts, too!) So maybe there is something good to come out of promoting escaping the grip of the broadcast world for a while.

Still, I do find it ironic that TV-Turnoff Week at least has the common courtesy to fall outside of the May sweeps month. It’s probably the least they could do. I mean, there’s being noble and honorable for a week, and then there’s the fear of missing the latest trappings on Desperate Housewives.

So I’m afraid that your friend Tommy won’t be boycotting TV this week. I know that I’ll be tsk-tsk-tsk’ed by the TV-Turnoff people, but my true colleagues – Horatio Caine, Phil Koegan, Iron Chef Morimoto, Larry Merchant – will be waiting for me, ready to entertain me at the push of a well-used TiVo button.

And with friends like that...

Cordon Bleu? Sacre Bleu!

Our daughter Miss Katie is about to graduate from high school, which means that every college recruiter worth his or her salt has been calling our house on a regular basis for the past 8 months.

We’ve heard from them all – big universities, small private colleges, local schools, art design institutes, even a place called “Brown College” that really does try hard to pass itself off in the same vein as their similarly named Ivy-league brethren. All of whom seem to think that our lovely Miss Katie would be perfect fodder for their fall enrollment.

But the recruiting phone call we got the other night absolutely floored us.

It was from Le Condon Bleu College of Culinary Arts.

Now, I absolutely love my daughter. She’s a wonderful person, a kind soul, and (usually) an all around nice person to be around. But a culinary expert she’s not. This is the kid who eats her Eggos while they’re still frozen. She wouldn’t touch a truffle, caviar, or foie gras for all the money in the world, much less something as simple as peas, broccoli, carrots, or even mushrooms.

She’s also one of the most picky eaters you’ll ever meet (surprise, surprise). The Lovely Mrs. G. and I used to joke that some day we’d end up having to serve chicken nuggets and Spaghetti-os at her wedding banquet because that was all the bride would eat. She’s a semi-vegetarian, and will turn her nose up to anything beef or pork-related, and she also won’t eat fish, game, escargot, or God forbid you should even suggest it - cute little fuzzy bunny rabbit.

So why in the world Le Cordon Bleu thinks she’d be the ideal chef candidate is beyond me.

I went to baking school fresh out of college, but I liked to bake. I loved developing formulas, getting to know the feel of a perfect batch of bread dough, and being able to tell just from looking at the pastries that they were perfectly done inside.

Miss Katie on the other hand? Well, let’s just say that if McDonalds wasn’t so close by, she’d probably starve. Although I know she could if she really had to, she won’t cook anything harder than Easy-Mac or Top Ramen. The thought of my precious little angel preparing duck confit or lobster Newberg makes me giggle like Emeril in a garlic patch.

But that’s okay – food is a necessary evil in her mindset; not something you get excited or passionate about. She eats because she has to, not because she necessarily enjoys the experience or looks forward to it. As long as she has something healthy on a regular basis, I suppose I can’t argue with that.

So I’m sorry to tell you that my child, as wonderful as she is, won’t be attending Le Cordon Bleu anytime soon. You won’t be seeing her taking on Bobby Flay on Iron Chef America. She won’t be one of those pompous people you see on magazine covers in their tall white hats and starched chefs top with a dozen culinary medals around their necks. She won’t come home and discuss the fine points of a woodsy California chardonnay with me anytime soon.

But I’ll love her anyway – because she’s my daughter, and because I know that she’ll never try to serve me herb-encrusted calves liver with béarnaise sauce.

Open Wide and Say...Huh?

We’ve talked before on this forum about Sioux City’s ability to attract quality name-brand entertainment. Sometimes the magic works (i.e. this week’s James Taylor concert), and sometimes the magic does not (Ashlee Simpson).

But sometimes you have to take what you can get. For example, there’s this concert:

Appearing tonight at Sioux City’s Argosy riverboat casino is none other than John “Bowzer” Baumann, formerly of doo-wop diddy diddy do wop supergroup Sha Na Na, with his touring rendition of "Bowzer's Rock n' Roll Party!" (Exclamation point theirs; not mine.)

John who? You know -– this guy.

Oh. Him. All I had to do was show you this picture of Bowzer with his muscle flex, his hair greased back, and his mouth hanging open like some poor lockjaw victim, and you knew exactly who I was referring to, didn’t you?

So Bowzer is in town, doing his shtick for of us lucky Sioux Cityans who are into hearing 50+ year old doo-wop songs for the zillionth time. That’s nostalgia for ya.

Now, I’m sure that John is quite the talent – and according to his promoter (whose Web site I "borrowed" the above graphic from) Bowzer is nothing short of a Rock & Roll God. “...His unique reminiscences about everything from cafeteria ladies to air raid drills leave ‘em, young and old, rolling in the aisles!” (How many “young” people even know what an air raid drill is? That’s a question I suppose only Bowzer can answer.)

But I have to wonder if he ever gets tired of having to pose in a muscle t-shirt and with his lower jaw hanging down to the floor, looking like a boa constrictor trying to swallow a deer. I mean, the guy is 58 years old. Is this his destiny – to be remembered as the greaser with the biggest mouth this side of Martha Raye? All of the billboards around town for this show have him in this exact same pose. It’s the image I remember of him from the Saturday AM TV version of Sha Na Na that aired when I was a kid. They played Woodstock, for God’s sake, and that was almost 40 years ago.

But I suspect that Bowzer is happy with his career choice; otherwise he'd probably be selling insurance like a lot of the other old 50's musical acts are now doing. He’s obviously a huge fan favorite, and he makes a good living singing moldy-oldie songs to the casino crowds. And according to his bio, he loves to meet his fans, staying for photos and autographs well into the night after his show. Bonus points to Bowzer for at least being a good sport about it.

So instead of mocking Bowzer, I salute the guy. He’s making a lot of people happy, he’s got an honest job, and he can definitely belt out “Blue Moon” or “Tutti Fruity” better than I ever could.

As for any chance in hell of my attending Bowser’s Rock ‘n Roll Party! tonight? Um, sorry – I can’t make it. I have to...go home and practice my Ashlee Simpson karaoke.

It's A Girl! Quick - Get Her Autograph!

Well, it’s finally happened. Mr. Cruise and Miss Too-Young-For-Him have managed to successfully reproduce. (Or, at least that’s what they’d like us to all believe. With Tom pulling a perfect “he doth brag too much” whirlwind publicity tour and Katie looking like she’s shoplifting a bowling ball under her maternity top, it’d be a wonder if they didn’t give birth to a 7–pound Cabbage Patch doll.)

But according to every important news report in the past 12 hours, they really have a healthy, hopefully happy baby girl, named Suri of all things. Congrats, I suppose.

So now that this unpleasantness is over, can we all please get on with our lives? I know I’m asking for a lot, especially since Brad and Angelina haven’t popped yet, and there’s speculation that Britney and Federwang are at it again. But isn’t it time we find something else to talk about instead of A-list ovaries?

No? Are you sure?

Well, okay. Just this once I’ll throw more fuel on the parental fire. But just this once, I assure you.

Yes, Maverick and his couch-bounce worthy girlfriend are now the proud parents of a baby girl – a kid I feel really sorry for already. Really, now. How’d you like to be less than 24 hours old and already have a bounty on your head for your picture from every paparazzi photographer out there? There you are, fresh from the womb, saddled with a Typical Hollywood Dumb Baby Name, getting your first taste of celebrity life, but unable to even speak to your Mom for the first 5 days. And now you have to deal with overly zealous press? Quick, someone get that girl a press agent – stat!

So yeah – I do feel a little bad for little Suri. Especially when she discovers that her Dad is a world class doofus/crappy actor. You just know the old man is already itching to take her on a press junket, and is working on finding a way to make sure Mommy is knocked up again before the opening weekend of MI:3. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time…

But what I found most ironic is that Tom & Kate’s offspring was born on the same day as Tommy’s favorite celeb sparring partner Brooke Shields had a baby girl. Do you suppose they’ll be billed in the tabloids as enemies from birth? I can just see the two little babies side by side in the nursery.

“My Dad was in Top Gun. Your mom could only star in Blue Lagoon!”
“So what? My Mom was a Calvin Klein model AND starred on Broadway. Your Dad can only dance in his tighty-whities and has to lip sync!”
“Well, at least my Mom didn’t need an epidural!”
“Oh yeah? Well, at least my Dad doesn’t worship space aliens!”
“Thetan!”
“Bitch!”

Then the catfight would be on, and Entertainment Tonight would have something to talk about for the next week.

So here’s to hoping we have the gumption to find something new to talk about, and let those poor little babes have some rest for a while. Because it won’t be long before they’re 6 months old, and they’re out on the streets of L.A., hoping to score some black market Botox to regain that youthful appearance.

Ah, the pressures of youth…

Insert Token

There are some jobs in this world that just amaze me. Jobs that just make you want to scream “Good Lord! People actually get paid good money for doing that???” And no, I’m not just talking about “acting” on The O.C.

It’s “jobs” like professional skateboarding that impress me. Professional poker player is a good one, too. Or what about a professional BBQ rib-cookoff contestant? These vocational choices all have one thing in common: some lucky bastard was able to successfully turn their weekend hobby into a paying career.

And now there’s another one to add to this list. The following was posted this morning on EOnline’s news page:

GOT GAME: Professional video gaming coming to cable later this year, with USA Network planning to air seven one-hour episodes featuring the pro gamer circuit and its star competitors.

Professional video game players. Dammit – where were these jobs when I was 12? I would’ve so totally ruled!

(Side note: Can you imagine the look on a career counselor’s face when he/she finds out that playing Sega is now a paying job; one that probably pays considerably more than what junior high career counselors make? The bars will be packed this afternoon at about 3:15, that’s for sure.)

I actually knew a guy years ago who was a pro game player for Nintendo in Redmond, WA. I’m not sure if it still works this way, but it was his job to sit around and master all of the new Nintendo games, inside and out, and look for any possible glitches or bugs. His “on the job training” consisted of 40 hours a week of non-stop Super Mario Brothers. I’m not sure if the perks of the job included Twinkies and Jolt Cola or not, but I’m hoping they at least gave him adequate breaks for re-adjusting his eyes to daylight.

I don’t play many video games anymore, but there was a time in my life when my Atari 2600 was my greatest friend. Who needed human interaction when your buddies Defender and Asteroids were waiting for you? We used to proudly go around school showing off the huge blisters on the side of our thumbs from holding the joystick too hard. It was a scar of pride – a battle wound, of sorts. Kids bragged about their high score in Pitfall as if it was the same as winning an Olympic medal. They couldn’t tell you who the President of the United States was, or what the correct change from a $5 bill for a $3.65 purchase would be, but by God they could tell you the exact jump sequence in Frogger for maximum points on level 4. It was Heaven for the 4-foot 6-inch crowd, let me tell you.

But like I said, I’ve given up my video games -- mostly. Oh, I do still have a couple on the computer I play every now and then. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I like to play this dumb game called “Luxor”, which we’ve nicknamed “Balls”, and given the opportunity, I’d be more than happy to kill several hundred mutant Doom monsters if called upon to save the universe.

But now that I know that there’s actual prize money on the line for playing games, perhaps I should head back to “the gym” (i.e. basement) and reinvent my skillz? All it’d take is isolating myself from civilization for a month or two, about $10,000 worth of gaming equipment, and a two-liter bottle of Dew and regular deliveries from Dominos to put me back in the game…

…or perhaps instead I should just suck it up, admit that I’m 40 years old, and remember that I have a mortgage and car payment to make. Because as much fun as video games are, having to live in a cardboard box (alone, I’m sure) because I’ve neglected my husbandly/fatherly/working stiff duties to play Donkey Kong 24/7 would suck. Tremendously suck.

So game over for Thomas - but that’s okay. Because somewhere out there in this big, bad, cruel world, there’s some poor kid who needs to have a mystical Dig-Dug tutor to help him pick up his life and make something of himself. And I’ll be there, ready to dole out useful hints, tips, and the occasional Hostess snack cake.

It’s the least I can do for $.25 cents.

A James By Any Other Name...

Sometimes we here in Sioux City are actually fortunate enough to have decent, genuinely talented musicians come through town. (Yes, we all survived the Ashlee Simpson Experience. Now, let's not mention it again, shall we?)

But tonight is one of those lucky nights - James Taylor is coming to play at the Orpheum theater. Cool, no?

Anyway, a bunch of us from work are all going together, but my deal, sweet, naive-as-hell manager Skippy Whitebread won't be there. Why not, you ask? Well, the following verbatim conversation should explain everything you need to know about Skippy's range of musical knowledge:

The following conversation took place, word for word, about 20 minutes ago:

Employee #1 (to Skippy): "We’re all going to the James Taylor concert tonight."

Skippy: "Who’s that?"

Employee #2: "James Taylor? He’s a famous folk singer. He’s really popular – had a lot of top songs over the years."

Skippy (whispering to Employee #2): "Is he that black guy?"

Uh....no. Big difference between James Taylor and James Brown. Huge difference.

No "Name That Tune" points for you, Mr. Whitebread.

What's Cooking = Who's Cleaning?

I thought I’d show you this little cartoon as an easy way to explain the love/hate relationship the Lovely Mrs. G. and I have with my cooking abilities. Yep, this just about sums it up:

It’s the rule in the Gressel household – one cooks, the other cleans up. Sounds fair, doesn’t it? Well, in theory, at least...

Ah, you haven’t seen me at work in the kitchen. The problem is that my culinary skills usually run into the “Emeril Overkill” category -- not the 5-star cooking part – the part where he dirties every dish in the household. (Fortunately, I don't like to fondle the garlic in borderline-obscene ways. But I do like to yell "BAM!" at inappropriate moments.)

I’m a big boy – I can publicly admit that I’m somewhat of a Cooking Slob. I don’t intentionally set out to make the biggest mess mankind has ever seen, but it always seems to work out that way. And even when I try to “clean as I go” (an oxymoron if there ever was one), the mess still seems to come out of the woodwork and all over the counters.

I like to think I’m a halfway decent cook, and I’m a trained baker, so I do know my way around a kitchen. I can make croissants that would make the Pope weep with joy, and my smothered chicken is a perfect knockoff of Applebee’s version, only without the sassy wait staff and tacky decor.

But the high price you’ll pay for it? Well, that’d be the goop I inevitably slop all over the burners, which will then smoke and stink up the house for the next month. Or maybe it’s the spillover in the oven, which will char and burn like one of those cheap-o 4th of July snakes. And for the love of God – whatever you do, do not look in the microwave. Trust me; it’s for your own safety.

Now, I have to hand it to Mrs. G – she’s usually a good sport about hosing down the kitchen after Hurricane Tommy has blown through. And I really do appreciate her helping out, even after my annual Cooking Catastrophe: Thanksgiving. (I have pumpkin pie for dessert – she has Tylenol.) Yes, your old pal Tommy can put on quite the spread for Turkey Day, and I truly enjoy doing so. But there always seems to be enough dishes to wash to last until Sunday. Our usual post-Thanksgiving dinner conversations go like this:

Yours truly: “Honey, Survivor is on.”
Mrs. G.: “I can’t watch it now – I’m up to my elbows in your kitchen mess. Why don’t you get off your butt and come help me clean up this disaster?”
Me (with the post-turkey sleepiness in high gear): “Zzzzzz….”

So here’s to the Lovely Mrs. G. and all the wives out there who are willing to pick up after us Slopaholic husbands. May you never get dish pan hands. And to show my eternal appreciation, I’ll even pick up my shoes from the middle of the floor every now and then.

Hey, if I’m nothing else, at least I’m considerate.

Irony in Action

My friend John sent me this newspaper photo - be sure to read the caption, then check out what Miss Mellisa has in her right hand...

Yep - she's worried about the sound of jackhammers on her unborn child while clutching a Camel. Now that's CLASS.

Get Movin', Grandma!

I saw this online this AM, and was absolutely shocked. Not because the poor old dear didn't have enough time to cross the busy highway, or that the cop in question had the audacity to ticket her, but because this is L.A., baby - aren't the police there supposed to beat her senseless with their nightsticks? C'mon, L.A.P.D.! You have a reputation to maintain!

* * * * * * *

Woman, 82, Gets Ticket for Slow Crossing

An 82-year-old woman received a $114 ticket for taking too long to cross a street. Mayvis Coyle said she began shuffling with her cane across Foothill Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley when the light was green, but was unable to make it to the other side before it turned red.

She said the motorcycle officer who ticketed her on Feb. 15 told her she was obstructing traffic.
"I think it's completely outrageous," said Coyle, who described herself as a Cherokee medicine woman. "He treated me like a 6-year-old, like I don't know what I'm doing."

Los Angeles police Sgt. Mike Zaboski of the Valley Traffic Division said police are cracking down on people who improperly cross streets because pedestrian accidents are above normal. He said he could not comment on Coyle's ticket other than to say that it is her word against that of the citing officer, identified only as Officer Kelly.

"I'd rather not have angry pedestrians," Zaboski said. "But I'd rather have them be alive."

Others, however, supported Coyle's contention that the light in question doesn't give people enough time to cross the busy, five-lane boulevard.

"I can go halfway, then the light changes," said Edith Krause, 78, who uses an electric cart because she has difficulty walking.

On Friday, the light changed too quickly even for high school students to make it across without running. It went from green to red in 20 seconds.

Councilwoman Wendy Greuel said she has asked transportation officials to figure out how to accommodate elderly people.

"We should look at those areas with predominantly seniors and accommodate their needs in intersections" she said.

* * * * * * *

The Best Places to Live...Includes HERE???

A nice company (that I dare quote without their express written permission) named Mercer Human Resource Consulting recently put out a survey of the best and worst places to live in the world, based upon quality of life.

Hmmm….I wonder where Sioux City ranks on this list?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

But there are some high points to live here in Sioux City. Like what, you ask? Well, we are the 198th largest TV market – out of the top 200. We’re known worldwide as a leading agricenter in the slaughter and butchering of all sorts of animals (pigs and cows in particular). Our fields are full of corn and soybeans. We're also home to the original Iowa loosemeat sandwich (disgusting as they may be), and there are enough Chinese buffets in this town to satisfy everyone’s craving for General Tso’s chicken and deep-fried anything. We’ve got enough stubborn, narrow minded, eccentric, stuck-in-the-50’s idiots available locally to fill a thousand villages. And hey – both Lewis AND Clark passed through here 200 years ago, and even buried one of their cohorts in our very own backyard. So there’s a lot going for us, right?

Alas, not according to the Mercer list. Their top three cities are:

* Zurich, Switzerland
* Geneva, Switzerland
* Vancouver B.C. Canada

Now, given that list, I can understand why Sioux City isn’t up quite that high. We don’t have those Alps to give us spectacular views, fresh water, or outstanding skiing. We don’t have local access to Swiss chocolate, watches, bank accounts, or army knives. (Sioux City honey and popcorn just isn’t the same.) They have cuckoo clocks; we have cuckoo people.

So Switzerland is apparently the place to be. And Sioux City? Well, I guess that we’ll just have to keep working on that. But hopefully we’re better off than the bottom three:

* Bangui in the Central African Republic
* Brazzaville, Congo Republic,
* Baghdad, Iraq

I can’t say that I’m surprised to see Baghdad on the bottom of the stack, but still -- I think it goes without saying that I’d rather be here than there. I mean, it may smell like the occasional cow’s ass here, but it’s better than stinking of a pointless war.

So here's to my hometown - with a little luck, a little clean-up, and an occasional genuine smile or two from the locals, maybe next year we'll be right up there with Zurich and Geneva. Or at least Detroit.

Booger.

It started so innocently last Monday, with this comic strip:

And many things in life, it all snowballed from there.

Now, I probably should tell you that the Lovely Mrs. G. and I are huge fans of Darby Conley’s comic, “Get Fuzzy”. Bucky Katt and Satchel Pooch are a huge part of our combined senses of humor (especially Bucky), to the point where our refrigerator is dotted with about a dozen of our favorite strips, and we even own two large matted and framed comics, which proudly hang on our bedroom wall.

So in last Monday’s episode, Bucky walked up to Satchel, said “Booger”, then walked away.

Then on Tuesday, he did it again.

Both Mrs. G. and I were curious about what was up – and how far Darby would carry this bizarre-yet-funny joke. So when we spoke on Tuesday afternoon, as we were hanging up, Mrs. G. said to me, “Oh, by the way…booger.” She then slammed the phone down, getting the last laugh.

Wednesday morning’s strip looked like this:

So the Booger Game was now on. I had Miss Katie call her to tell her “booger” and hang up. Mrs. G. then got me again later that evening with another “booger” message.

By Thursday AM, Bucky was still at it, and our game had really escalated.

I sent Mrs. G. an online greeting card that said “booger” at the end of the dancing animation. Later I sent her this grocery list:

Bananas
Oranges
Oatmeal
Grapes
Eggs
Radishes

She admitted that it took her a while to figure out to read down the first letters. (She was all set to chew her dimwitted husband out for asking for oatmeal and eggs, when she’d just bought some earlier that week.)

So heh, heh, I was having a great booger-ific laugh.

But then Mrs. G. struck back.

She sent an e-mail to my co-workers, asking that they all walk over to me and say “booger.” And they did. Each and every one of them. They then forwarded it to other people we work with in other departments, who joined in. Casual acquaintences - people I barely know - have come up to me in the past two days to mention mucus. Hell, even Skippy Whitebread – a guy with absolutely no pop culture knowledge – walked up to me and said, “Hey, Tommy – BOOGER!” (I then had to spend 10 minutes explaining to him why this is funny.)

Yes, the Lovely Mrs. G. got the best of me. For now, at least.

But the game continues this AM.

How long will we keep this up? Who knows. She says I’m a grudge bearing animal who never forgets anything (which is semi-true), and I know she hates to lose these type of contests, so it’s quite possible we’ll both be in our 80’s and saying “booger” to each other.

In the meantime, I just sent her a fax with a certain 6-letter “B” word on it, printed in size 99 font.

Game on!

No more p/t conferences...ever!

Last night was a monumental occasion in our lives – one that brought great joy to the Lovely Mrs. G. and I. (And Miss Katie, too – I’m sure.)

It was our very last parent/teacher conference. EVER.

Yes, our delightful little girl is now a high school senior, and in about 6 ½ weeks from this moment she will be (knock on wood) a graduate of the Sioux City Public School System. Hoo-frickin-ray!

So last night the Lovely Mrs. G. and I trogged into the high school and sat down for our semi-annual conference/scolding for the very last time. 13 years of having to smile through conferences. 13 years of report cards. 13 years of my getting mad because my little angel wasn’t turning in her homework on time or paying attention in class. We’re done, we’re done, we’re done. Hallelujah and saints be praised!

Truth be told, I didn’t particularly enjoy p/t conferences much when I was a kid, either. Back then, it was only our cranky old teachers and our mother, and us kids weren’t invited to be there to witness the pain and/or humiliation. For me, every year, it was the same damn comment: “Tommy has a tendency to show off for the other kids.” My mother would just roll her eyes and beg forgiveness for her “diamond-in-the-rough” little boy with the overwhelming need to be the center of attention 24/7.

True celebrity is never recognized. Or celebrated.

Anyway, I have to wonder: Does anyone actually enjoy the whole parent/teacher confab thing? I highly doubt it. I know as a father my stomach knots up every single time I have to go to one, the teachers always seem like they’d rather be somewhere – anywhere – else, and Miss Katie loves to point out that I always scowl during them. But I smiled wide last night – it was the look of a guy who is free at last. Heh, heh, you poor suckers with more school aged kids – come closer let your jealousy shine!

This is actually the second major celebration we’ve had in regards to Miss Katie’s schooling – at the end of 8th grade, when Miss Katie decided to give up the clarinet to focus on show choir and drama instead, Mrs. G. and I danced the victory dance of never having to sit through another junior high band concert/torture session again. Believe me - after 3 hours of offkey screeching of violins and trumpets, you would be willing to confess to just about any atrocity if it meant being able to get up off those awful wooden middle school seats.

So there’s no more "band ass", and no more parent/teacher conference ulcers. Could it be any better? I don’t think so.

Still, a (very small) part of me will miss squeezing my butt into a little chair and trying to pull myself up closer to a table that’s only 2 feet off the ground to admire a stack of glitter and crayon-filled pages created by my child. "Look, honey – our little girl made that!" And yes – I’d love Miss Katie no matter what type of student she was – straight A, or somewhere further down the “room for improvement” road. But knowing that I’ve been paroled from p/t conference prison? That makes it all the more brighter.

Graduation is May 23. I’m hoping the junior high band won’t play.

It's a good thing I kept the receipt for Eminem's crock pot...

Poor Shim Shady. His days must just be PACKED!

Marry da bitch.
Divorce da bitch.
Write songs about killin’ da bitch.
Marry da bitch.
Divorce da bitch.

Geez, some guys have hobbies that don’t include a lawyer and court proceedings…. Try golf, perhaps. Have you read “The Color Purple” yet? If not, perhaps you just need a comfy couch and a warm cat to get started! Maybe you could take cooking lessons with Fiddy or Dre. Heck, I bet Martha Stewart might even invite you over for a lovely game of Scrabble, if you ask nicely and refrain from cussing in her presence.

See, Em? There are tons of fun things to do that don’t involve marrying and then divorcing Kim over and over again. It’s just a suggestion.

And hey -- at least call Angelina Jolie first next time…

Say CHEESE!

Here's a current fashion trend that I've found to be both curious and a little bizarre: Dental Jewelry. You know - grills. Oh, excuse my lack-of-ghetto-boy-coolness: GRILLZ.

Maybe it's because I'm a middle aged white guy from B.F. Iowa, but I don't get the point of blinging your teeth up with extensive diamonds and gold. Wouldn't it taste like you were chewing on tin foil all day? Just give me a Mercedes hood ornament and some brass knuckles that say "LOVE" and "HATE", and I'll be set.

The Lovely Mrs. G. however is down on getting herself a bitchin grill ASAP. Her theory? (and I quote:) "My lack of a grill is holding me back from reaching my full hip hop potential." Word, baby. Word to yo mutha.

So apparently I'm alone in my disinterest in all things orally blingable... Check out this article online today:

Mouth Grills Become Flashy Fashion Trend

CLEVELAND - The hip-hop culture is sinking its teeth into a new fashion trend. Individual gold-capped teeth have given way to grills and fronts — removable mouthpieces made of gold, platinum or silver and sometimes studded with jewels.

The trend has been boosted by hip-hop icons such as Nelly and rappers like Paul Wall. After Nelly's 2005 hit "Grillz," which glorifies the trend, young people all over scrambled to wrap their chops around a shiny grill.

The mouthpieces are made from dental imprints and many are purchased online. But they are sold at local outlets too, like Wired Up at Tower City.

Generally, tooth imprints are made and sent to a jeweler who fashions the fronts and returns them to the client or retailer where the items were purchased.

Now, of course you know that someone out there has to be a spoilsport about this, right? I mean, four out of five dentists already insist that we chew sugarless gum. So it's no wonder that the A.D.A. is hopping mad at a money-making opportunity that they're not in on. Read on:

"The flashy mouth jewelry has caught the attention and concern of the American Dental Association. Matthew Messina, a Fairview Park dentist and ADA spokesman, said improper use and care of fronts can result in serious gum disease or cavities.

Messina has no problem with the aesthetic aspect of a grill, but he warns of problems down the road if they are not kept clean or if they are bonded to natural teeth. Snap-on grills do not fit particularly well in and around the teeth, he said, allowing food and bacteria to get trapped underneath, which can cause cavities or other problems like gum disease or gum recession. Other dangers include allergic reactions to cheap metals and adverse reactions to jewelry cleaners, which can burn gums, Messina said."

* * * * * * *
Now, when I was a kid, when we wanted to dress up our teeth, we didn't go out and drop our limited allowance on flashy diamond encrusted mouthpieces. Heck, the kids who had to wear something like that were already referred to as "Silver Spit" or "Metal Mouth" anyway. ("Tinsel Teeth" was my personal favorite.) There was already a stigma for having something silvery in your mouth, and God forbid you were sentenced to Headgear Hell. So why voluntarily continue that endless torture beyond 11th grade?

But the boyz in my hood found an easier, more affordable way to make our choppers look damn fine...

That's right - plastic vampire fangs. $.59 cents at your neighborhood Pay 'N Save store, and best of all, they GLOWED IN THE DARK. Stylin’, aren’t they? And hey - once you became slick enough, you could slip them in and out of your mouth at a moments notice, without your teachers, minister, and/or Mom ever being the wiser.

So I say to all of you kids of America -- quit wasting your hard earned Burger King Bucks on overpriced dentures. Just run down to Walgreens and pick up a pair of sensible, affordable plastic teeth. You'll save a bundle, and hey - perhaps you'll start a new chic trend that all your favorite rap artists can pick up on and exploit to the fullest.

And best of all? No garlic required.

The Return of Skippy Whitebread

My manager Skippy Whitebread is back to work today, after spending the last 7 weeks in Texas at Military Janitor School. He recently transferred from the Army National Guard, where he had to serve a year and a half in Iraq, to the relatively cozier (and Iraqi-free) Air National Guard.

As his new assignment requires him to climb into the cockpits of military aircrafts and clean them out after the pilots have made a mess of them, the U.S. government paid to send Skippy to some Air Force base in Texas for 7 weeks of intense training on how to throw garbage away and how to properly dust an F-18. And you wonder why our military spending is so high?

So Skippy is back from Janitor School, where hopefully Mr. Clean was there on the last day to present him with the Golden Mop Award. But is he thrilled to be back at work?

Not a chance.

You see, he's been here exactly 2.5 hours now (he never comes to work on time), and already he's sitting at his desk with his head down on the table. We secretly suspect he's sobbing over there, but we're all too chicken to go see if a grown man is crying.

It's quite pathetic to watch - our manager with his head down, like a naughty 5 year old in kindergarten.

Only Skippy hasn't been bad - he's just defeated. The overwhelming piles of crap he has to slog through on a daily basis is bad enough, but now he's come back to 7 weeks worth, all waiting for him. Things change mighty fast around here, and with a gazillion vice presidents and directors to appease, it's amazing we ever get anything done at all.

Skippy left here 7 weeks ago with a schedule that included 30 hours a week of meetings - no exaggeration - and I'm sure a couple more were added to his plate while he was gone. Most of those meetings he could drop out of; they really don't affect our department, but he refuses to let go of anything. He's a nice guy, but delegation and not putting his nose in the middle of areas he doesn't belong aren't exactly his strong suits. So he's a bureaucrat, trapped in his own little OCD world. Sad, really.

His OCD-fueled mind hasn't started in on us yet, but I know it's coming. We can see it all over his face. Obsessive Compulsives have that constant jittery look -- about ready to burst if they don't see everything happen to their pleasure NOW NOW NOW. So it's coming - it's just a matter of him picking his head up off his desk before he'll be back to his usual self.

And that is why my headphones are on extra loud today.

Skippy talks all the time about how much he hates it here, and how he wishes he was back in Iraq. You know your job sucks when you find yourself wishing to be in the middle of a firefight in the Arab desert...

So I hope Skippy is okay. For all our sakes. Otherwise, it's going to be a long, long week around here.

Looking Out For Number Two

So here’s something you don’t see everyday…

* * * * * *

Late Grateful Dead Leader's Toilet Stolen

The long, strange trip continues for Jerry Garcia's toilet. Police say the Grateful Dead leader's commode was stolen recently from a driveway along with three other toilets and a bidet, The Press Democrat newspaper reported Saturday.

Garcia's salmon-colored toilet was the subject of a legal battle before it was finally moved to Sonoma, to await shipment to a Canadian casino.

It's unclear if the toilet was swiped by a wayward Deadhead or a thief remodeling a bathroom. Police have no suspects or leads.

Last month, Henry Koltys sold the Grateful Dead singer's toilet for $2,550 to online casino Goldenpalace.com, which planned to use it as part of a traveling marketing exhibit. The casino is offering a $250 reward for its return.

Koltys said Friday that the toilet once stood in the master bathroom of Garcia, who died in 1995 at age 53. "It would have been his personal head," he said.

* * * * *

And that – ladies and gentlemen – is why you just can’t have nice things anymore.

What’s with the world today when everyone wants to crap where a celebrity crapped? I know I certainly wouldn’t pay $2,500 bucks for Jerry Garcia’s used toidy. Maybe the buyer thought he’d check the plumbing to see if there was a stash still half-flushed down there? I mean, it’s not like ol’ Jer is going to need his W.C. again anytime soon – the dude’s been worm chow for 10 years now. But still – to swipe a dead guy’s potty, just to say you have it? That's not nice.

And why Golden Palace thinks anyone would want to come see a tour of Jerry Garcia’s throne…oh, wait. There probably is some very lonely fan out there who’d think it was the greatest exhibit ever. “Look, honey – see that little stain? That’s where Jerry puked after eating too much ice cream and hash brownies in '75!”

So please – if you’re the despicable thief who walked away with Jerry Garcia’s john, for the love of all things sanitized for your protection, please bring it back. Someone is waiting to go, and they probably can’t hold out much longer.

Big Oil Wins Again

Fortune Magazine’s annual list of the 500 hundred biggest companies in the U.S. came out today, and I’m sure right now there are 1,000 CEOs and Presidents searching through the pages, trying to figure out where they are. It’s measuring without a ruler.

Being on the Fortune 500 is a big deal to a business, though. Now guys can run around and say, “We’re a Fortune 500 Company!” while dropping $200 on a round of golf that us consumers will ultimately pay for. (Because God knows very few Fortune 500 executive ever pays for his or her own tee times!) My employer not-so-coincidentally fell off the Fortune 500 today - we were #232 at one time, back in the "good old days". Now we're on the outside, looking in. Oops.

Regardless, here’s this year’s top 10, and my opinion of them. My opinion is free, and won’t be jammed full of ads and subscription cards. So enjoy it while you lunch at Mortons, will you?

10 – IBM. I had an IBM computer once. A PC Jr. It cost $2,999 new. It had no hard drive, 256K memory, 16 color video display, a 3.5-inch low density floppy disk drive, and a 300 baud modem. I paid $100 for it, used, about 2 years old. Today? It’s probably a doorstep.

9 – AIG – My sister’s life insurance was though them. Just try getting your money straight through them – no wonder they’re on this list. They don’t like to let go it once they get it.

8 – Citigroup – There’s a reason why they’re #8 and your credit card charges 20.99% APR.

7 – GE – General Electric makes good money, good light bulbs, good toasters, and mediocre TV (NBC).

6 – ConocoPhillips – see my comments about #1.

5 – Ford – My Dad hated Ford cars with a passion. Personally, if they’d bring back the 1965 Mustang convertible, I’d probably own one. (I’m sure my Dad is spinning in his grave over that one.)

4 – Chevron – see my comments about #1.

3 – GM – General Motors has had a difficult year. Still, I’ve had two GM cars (both Buicks) that nickel and dimed me to death, so I can’t say that I’m exactly a fan of their autos.

2 – Wal-Mart – I have nothing nice to say, so I’ll follow Thumper’s father’s advice and not say anything at all.

1 – Exxon-Mobil - Okay, first things first. I’m still mighty pissed at Exxon about the Valdez oil spill 17 years ago. So I avoid Exxon stations at all cost. I know, I know – I’m probably hurting the small business owner with my personal boycott, but that’s just the way it goes. Why would I intentionally give money to people who so blatantly care so little about their pollution?

But my main comments about #1, #4, and #6 – these are the same three companies that were screaming last summer how poor they were, and how they had “no choice” but to jack gas prices up to over $3.00 a gallon. Nowadays we pay $2.50 or so a gallon, and thank God that’s all they’re screwing us. But yet here they are, with record profits out the wazoo, all thanks to us poor saps who have little choice but to pay their prices.

I took an Economics class last fall (both Micro and Macro), and know all too well about elastic and inelastic goods. We need to get from here to there, so what choice do we have? Walk 10 miles each way to work, or suck it up and take one for the team. Ding – ding – ding – that tank of gas? It’ll cost you your first born, buster. And if gas went up to...oh, say $9 a gallon, what would you do about it? You’d bitch and moan, and then pay it. They know it, you know it. Sucker.

Perhaps I’m just bitter – it cost me $30 to fill my car this AM, which with a little luck will last me about 10 days.

But perhaps I’m ready for Americans to get a little bit pissed about the high prices, and start working on some sort of replacement for oil. One that Exxon and their greedy bastard brothers won’t have any part of.

Because it’d be cool to see an environmentally friendly, oil dependent free car manufacturer at #1 and Exxon down to #499. I know it won’t happen anytime soon, but why not get the ball rolling now? The sooner we start, the sooner we can escape their highway robbery.

Okay, off my soapbox now. You may now return to your regularly scheduled highways and byways. But just think about it while you’re stuck in traffic, okay?

Thanks.