Boom! Oooh! Aaah!

Tomorrow is June 1, a big day in nearby South Dakota.

It’s the day that fireworks go on sale.

South Dakota is one of the few places left in this country where you can still legally buy high-quality, big booming class-C fireworks. And it’s not just “Piccolo Petes” or those stupid “bloomin’ chicken” things. We’re talking about bottle rockets, aerial projectiles with multiple reports, and 5,000 firecrackers on a roll big enough to thoroughly piss the neighbors off with 20 minutes of nonstop BANG!, followed by a huge paper mess left in their front yard.

You know – the good stuff.

Just across the Iowa/South Dakota state line (about 5 minutes from here in Sioux City) are about a dozen firework warehouses – not just wooden temporary stands, mind you – but actual SUPERSTORES that will sell you just about anything noisy and/or explosive. If you have the money and the willingness to risk losing a finger and/or your hearing in the name of fun, this is the place to go.

Ah, but there’s a catch. What’s good (and legal) in SD is bad (and highly illegal) in nearby Iowa and Nebraska. We're allowed to have snakes, sparklers, and (ho, hum) "Pop-its", and that's all. So don’t get caught trying to bring a gross of bottle rockets or a carton of lady fingers back across the state line – or else the cops will nab ya for sure.

Now, I know. “Oh, pshaw – Tommy,” you’re probably thinking. (Aside: “pshaw” – that’s an old man term if there ever was one, ain’t it Mrs. G.?) The cops have better things to do with their time, right?

Um, not always. You see, this is Iowa, where a low crime rate = bored cops with lots of free time to enforce petty laws that are usually ignored in bigger cities.

Example? You can double park in Manhattan for an hour and be perfectly fine, or double park in Sioux City and have a ticket and a tow truck waiting for you in 30 seconds flat. Or you can drive 85 MPH on the Jersey turnpike without blinking an eye, but get a speeding ticket for 60 in a 55 zone here.

Two years ago they put undercover cops in the parking lot of the SD firework shops, who called their buddies across the state line with license plate numbers of shoppers from Iowa or Nebraska. Before you could get home with your newly purchased explosive loot, there’d be a John Bull waiting outside your house for you, ready to confiscate your goodies and to write you a citation. Gee, thanks a lot.

But that’s how it works around here. Not that I’m hoping for more murders or armed robberies to keep the local police from having so much idle time, but c’mon…

Anyway, tomorrow is fireworks day #1. And before you know it, little boys and girls around Siouxland (who were successful in their interstate smuggling endeavors) will be setting their sister’s hair on fire or filling their lungs with sulfur smoke or finding out why the dumb kid up the block is now called “stubby”. Good, clean, all-American fun.

In the next day or so I’ll confess why it is that I don’t partake in the fireworks game any longer. Let’s just say that I’m mighty grateful that the statute of limitations for my “fireworks gone awry” incident expired about 30 years ago…

But until then, cover your ears and count your fingers!

Music To Your Ears?

From Eonline this AM:

IRIE HEIRESS: Paris Hilton telling Hong Kong magazine Prestige that her upcoming album will be a mixture of reggae, hip-hop and pop, with the goal of having "something for everybody."

Something for everybody, eh? How about 30 minutes of silence?

Having a Good Time – Wish I Was There

It’s Memorial Day, and I’m having a bad case of...Travel Envy. It seems that everyone I talk to is in the process of traveling to or from somewhere this holiday weekend.

Examples? My friend Chris called me yesterday from (sniff!) the Disney Studios at Walt Disney World. My friend Bill e-mailed me this weekend, and said that they were headed to the Gulf. A guy I work with just came back from a road trip to the West coast. My in-laws will soon be on their way to the Oregon coast. Lucky bums – all of ‘em.

Me? I’m stuck at home with an algebra textbook and a bad case of Travel Fever.

I love to visit new places and see new things. I just haven’t had a chance to do so for a while. Our vacation time last July turned out to be a funeral for my sister, which wasn’t exactly what you’d call “a relaxing getaway”.

Then I had “time off” last week when my house was filled with relatives for Miss Katie’s graduation, but ask anyone who has hosted guests for a solid week – there’s a huge difference between “time off” and “holiday”.

So I’m dying to go somewhere, but I can’t swing it right now. Sad, ain’t it? It’s gotten so bad that if it wasn’t for the Travel Channel, I’d have little idea of what’s happening outside of Sioux City – a pathetic thought, if there ever was one.

With that in mind, my wandering spirit presents the top 10 places I’d like to visit ASAP. Quick – someone send me a week of vacation time and a couple thou, okay? Help a brother out.

10 – Australia. Might as well start the list with something big, right?

9 – NYC. We’ve been there twice, but always in the dead of winter. Let’s try it with a little warm weather next time, okay?

8 – L.A. What’s not to love? Besides, I know what’s waiting for me nearby at 1313 Harbor Blvd. in Anaheim.

7 – Venice. I’d really like to see it before it sinks next to Atlantis.

6 – Rome. If we’re going to go all the way to Italy to see Venice, why shouldn’t we stop in to see Rome while we’re in the neighborhood?

5 – Vegas. What happens in Vegas had best happen with my lovely bride at my side. For both of our sakes. Right, honey?

4 – Aruba. Do I really need to offer an explanation? I think not.

3 – England/Ireland/Scotland. Gotta have me a deep-fried Mars bar to wash down those fish & chips!

2 – The Gulf coast beaches in FL. Sunsets. ‘nuff said.

And of course that leaves the obvious...

1 – Walt Disney World. Duh.

Still, this weekend stuck at home hasn’t been a complete bust. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have found time to watch several movies, and once I finish my stupid algebra homework, maybe we’ll watch another. It seems that we only have time to catch up with movies 6 months after their original release, so there’s always plenty to choose from.

So I’ll make the best of my “vacation at home” that I can. Lord willing, if it’s less than 99 degrees outside (like it was yesterday) maybe I’ll fire up the BBQ.

It’s not the same as steaks on the beach, but it’ll do. For now.

Tool Poop

My father-in-law Dick is a nice man. We don’t have a whole lot in common, but we get along fine. But what I like best about him is that he likes to fix things. Things that I’d probably have to call an electrician/plumber/carpenter to fix, he seems to be able to knock them out without hardly blinking an eye.

In the past week that my in-laws were at our house, Dick had a field day fixing things. He put a new light fixture in the laundry room, wired up an outside electrical junction, fixed a broken pipe, repaired the basement bathroom drywall, and put on a new screen door. He was happy to have something to do, and the Lovely Mrs. G. and I were thrilled to have all those “little things” knocked off our need-to-do list.

There was only one small…uh…problem. And while on the grand scale of things it’s kind of petty, it is the one thing that really drove me nuts. I call it TOOL POOP.

Tool Poop. It’s the little piles of tools that were left all over our house. It seemed that by the end of the week, everywhere you went -- on every counter, surface, or anything flat – you’d find a little stack of tools, screws, nails, etc. waiting for you. If a tornado hits the neighborhood Home Depot and tools fall from the sky and land in random places around your house, you’d probably have the same Tool Poop experience as we did.

It’s like a twisted Easter egg hunt – “Oh, look, honey – I found a copper fitting!”

Examples: The cabinet in the bathroom had a sander, a saw, a putty knife, and a handful of drywall screws. The bar in the basement has a screwdriver, a tape measure, and some nails. The back porch had some sandpaper, a drill bit, and a saw. The washing machine had a 12V power pack for a cordless drill on top of it. The kitchen table was covered in screen door pieces and electrical junction boxes.

It was like one of Santa’s elves had swallowed his favorite implements, and was now passing them in a very painful way. Tool Poop.

Dick admitted to the Lovely Mrs. G. that he wasn’t so sure where things were supposed to go to return them, and we’re not exactly the “we’re so anal that everything has it’s assigned place in the garage tool bench and you’d better not move it” kind of people, so it does make some sense that he not try to put tools away in the refrigerator. (Or, at least I hope not – I haven’t looked there yet.)

But it was just sort of…odd to find little deposits of tools laying in increasingly strange places. For 5 nights I checked underneath my pillow before laying down, just to make sure there wasn’t a reciprocal saw waiting for me there.

Regardless, it’s nice to have our house fixed up, and once we find all of the hidden surprises, we’ll have our tools back in once place.

And the next time Dick comes to town, I’ll be glad to take him up on his offer to repair anything that needs it. I’ll just have to put all the screwdrivers and hammers on a retractable cord beforehand.

Graduation Night

Well, tonight is the Big Night – the night my little Miss Katie graduates from high school. All together now... Awwww. Wasn't it just yesterday I was packing her onto a school bus for the first time?

Anyway, it’s the day that the Lovely Mrs. G. and I weren’t so sure we were ever going to see – in between all the fights over homework, the begging that assignments actually be turned in on time (a novel idea, ain’t it?), and the running back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth to play practice, choir practice, band concerts, parent/teacher meetings, shows, musicals, and God knows what else, it seems that the last four years have been incredibly long, and would never end.

But that’s not the case any longer. Tonight, she’ll be officially diploma’ed, and ready for whatever the world tosses her way next. We hope.

I remember my high school graduation way back in 1983 – Seattle used the old Seattle Center arena for all of the cities graduation ceremonies, but because there were so many schools in town that needed to push their students out that week, they stacked up the ceremonies on top of each other.

The night we graduated, we were the first of 3 high schools to go. The Big Show started promptly at 5:30, and we were out of there by 7:00. No time to stop and chat – hurry, hurry, read the names, play Pomp & Circumstance really quickly, then move on out – Cleveland High is waiting to come in.

I don’t remember much about the keynote speech or the other speeches, other than due to the lack of time they had to be mighty short. A few people were wiseasses when accepting their faux diploma (a rolled up piece of paper that said “Class of '84 rules, suckers!”, made by some jealous junior), but I was a good boy – I was more worried about falling off the stage and landing on our crappy 6-piece orchestra.

But that night we all went out and had pizza, then shot off some highly illegal fireworks we’d scored somewhere, which was fun until the neighbors called the cops.

But tonight is in honor of Miss Katie – a young woman whom I’m mighty proud of. She’s achieved a lot in these past four years, and has grown tremendously as a person. I love that kid a lot, and I’m glad to see her accept her accolades.

Oh, and I thought I’d also show this picture, of a certain black cat that hates not being the center of attention. Maybe he’s graduating to the next level of crankiness. (Not like Jack doesn't already have a PHD in being pissy...)

Congrats, Katie. You’re a SUPERSTAR.

Reading the Fine Print Matters!

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I are looking forward to house shopping in a year or so. We know exactly what we want in a new home. (Her: a fenced yard for a dog, enough room so that we can’t touch the neighbor’s house from inside ours. Me? An in-ground swimming pool. That’s all I need.)

Anyway, we watch House Hunters on TLC faithfully every week (shut up – I am NOT a nerd!), trying to decide if we were in the wide-eyed buyer’s position, would we buy that unique fixer-upper, or drop the dough on the nice place with modern amenities? We know all about a house having “good bones”, and what wonderful things 5 gallons of paint will do to a place.

But here’s a house ad that I saw featured on The Tonight Show's Web site of a place where I couldn’t live, based solely on the street name.

I’m hoping that it’s just a typo. Otherwise, it’d be a good idea if the guys just remain indoors at all times.

Full House

Miss Katie graduates from high school next Tuesday (hooray!), and since we live so blasted far away from our nearest relatives, the Lovely Mrs. G. and I are hosting a bevy of out-of-town visitors in our tiny little house this weekend. Tonight Mrs. G’s parents and niece arrive, followed tomorrow by Mrs. G’s aunt, my sister Alie, and Alie’s daughter Chrissy. So counting the three of us, that makes 9 people in a 3 bedroom house. Most prisoners get more square footage per capital that we do.

So if you happen to pass by my place this weekend and find me standing on the front lawn stretching my arms and legs like I've been trapped in a 3 square foot box, you’ll know why.

Actually, it won't be that bad. I genuinely like having Mrs. G's family visit, and with the exception of my father-in-law and my cat Jack, we all get along swimmingly. My FIL is not a cat person in the slightest, yet Mr. Bad Attitude Jack seems to think that he’ll somehow charm him over with his cranky-yet-loveable feline ways. So far it hasn’t worked. They keep a professional distance from each other, until FIL tries to sit in Jack’s favorite chair. Then all hell breaks loose, and Grampy had better start checking his shoes before he puts them on, lest Jack strike revenge a cat-puke-in-the-loafers way.

So it’ll be a tight squeeze in the Gressel household, but it’ll be fun. And in honor of the Lovely Mrs. G., who claims that I steal all of her best jokes, we’ll have plenty of free Band-aids available for any cat vs. man “hugs gone wrong”.

Otherwise, it’ll be nice to play host to our families. My sister has never been to the Midwest before, so I’m going to have to take her around and show her all the wonderful “tourist attractions” we have to offer – the smells from the slaughterhouses, the “strip” of cheap casinos and mostly-legal firework shops just across the state line in South Dakota (legal in SD, highly illegal 5 miles to the south in Iowa or Nebraska), the “birthplace” of the loosemeat sandwich (aka “taverns” – disgusting sauce-less sloppy Joes. Ick.), and maybe a tour of the many Lewis & Clark exhibits that dot the community. Because nothing says “vacation” like a historic tour of landmarks. Or at least it didn’t when we were kids, and our mother made us pull over and stop at every roadside marker.

I’ll BBQ a couple of times for the family (cooking outdoors = not crammed in our small kitchen with 8 other hungry people!), we’ll have a nice little (150 people or so) graduation party for Miss Katie on Sunday, then the Big Night is Tuesday – a little Pomp & Circumstance, a ton of photos, cheer, cheer, hooray, congrats, and it’ll be over. By Wednesday night everyone will be on their way home, and that’ll be that. We’ll have a ton of happy memories, a stack of dishes to wash, and our bathrooms back to ourselves.

But for now I’m going to try to relax and remain calm, and remember that it’s family that really matters. But please – don’t tick off the cat. The shoes you save could be your own.

Honk Twice For Safety

This article that I saw online this week kind of surprised me.

* * * * * *

Miami Tops Auto Club List for Rude Drivers

Stressed Miami drivers speed, tailgate and cut off other drivers so frequently that the city earned the title of worst road rage in a survey released Tuesday.

AutoVantage, an automobile membership club offering travel services and roadside assistance, also listed Phoenix, New York, Los Angeles and Boston among the top five cities for rude driving.

Minneapolis, Nashville, St. Louis, Seattle and Atlanta were rated as the cities with the most courteous drivers, who were less likely to change lanes without signaling or swear at other motorists.

Young drivers and people with long commutes were found to be the most likely to react to an aggressive or rude driver. The top reactions included honking the horn, cursing or making an obscene gesture.

* * * * * *

Funny, I always assumed that the rudest drivers anywhere were right here in beautiful downtown Sioux City, Iowa.

Sioux City has the highest auto insurance rates in the state of Iowa, for a very justifiable reason: We (as a city) suck as drivers. When I wrote for the newspaper a few years back I recommended that locals be forced to take remedial driver’s ed. every four years, and deep down I still wish they would.

The locals drive like absolute idiots around here, and God forbid you ever have to try to get around in this town and you foolishly expect to get to your destination with your sanity intact.

There are five main problems with local Sioux City mouth breathers behind the wheel –

1 – They hardly ever signal. The main theory behind their inability to use their turn signals is that “it’s none of your damn business which way I’m going”. But secretly I suspect they’ve broken off their turn signals while reaching for the hidden pack of Marlboros underneath the dash. Either that, or their finger is planted so far up their nose they can’t get it out in time to flash their signals.

2 – They don’t like to share. If you find yourself in the incorrect lane and try to get over, you might as well forget about it. People won’t let anyone in around here – ever. When they tore up the interstate last summer (for reasons nobody could really explain – it just looked like they’d dug a hole in the road, then filled it back in three days later), the right lane was closed, and God help you if you accidentally got caught over there, because nobody was going to let you into the left lane anytime soon. Common courtesy or a little compassion for your fellow man? Ha. Screw you, buddy. No cuts.

3 – Red lights are for wimps. The locals run lights all the time here. Seriously – if the light turns green, you’d better count to three before proceeding into the intersection. It’s to the point that the city is going to start putting cameras on intersections and mailing tickets to offenders. The locals are bitching up a storm about this, but I say RIGHT ON. The idiots “may” learn a lesson, and the city will make a FORTUNE.

4 – Everyone thinks they’re invincible. They drive 70 MPH in the snow. They don’t wear their seatbelts. They drive with their left foot hanging out the car window. I’ve never seen a place where people take bigger risks behind the wheel, which leads me to my next point…

5 – “I can’t be courteous right now – I’m ON THE PHONE!” Have you ever watched a driver with a phone on their ear, a taco in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other hand, and a beverage between their knees? Well, come to Sioux City, Iowa – home of the Multitasking Driver. If I was in charge I’d ban cell phone use while driving entirely – if you have an emergency, then pull the hell over. But the yuckleheads love their cells, and chat on them nonstop. And the people you usually see running lights or blowing past pedestrians in a crosswalk or giving you the finger for not passing on the right are usually chatting away, oblivious to the fact that they are driving like assholes.

So maybe the nice people at AutoVantage need to reconsider their survey results, and include some of the smaller market cities in their findings. Like a certain small Midwestern town where driving is competitive, not courteous.

Just be careful out there.

Bird Flu Strikes Florida?

My sister-in-law Lynne (who knows of our desire to pack it in and move to either Tampa or Orlando next summer) sent me this photo of the dreaded bird flu attacking Florida. I'm hopeful it'll all be gone before we get there - God knows I don't need to go out in the morning to retrieve the newspaper from my front lawn and find this:

Shocking, ain't it? Let's just all bow our heads and pray that this doesn't happen to the little birdies in your neighborhood.

Love Me Don't

You know, I feel bad for Paul McCartney and his soon-to-be-ex Heather. Divorce is never fun, especially when it’s in the public eye. But c’mon, Sir Paul – can’t you think of a better, legitimate, and certainly more plausible excuse for dumping you wife than this?

Paul McCartney, Wife Blame Media for Split

LONDON - Former Beatle Paul McCartney and his second wife, Heather Mills McCartney, said Wednesday that they are separating after nearly four years of marriage, blaming intrusion from the media and insisting their split is amicable.

Blaming the media for the dissolution of your marriage is like blaming Ronald McDonald when you get a bad cheeseburger. I mean, if you two were truly in love, why on Earth would you let a paparazzi’s camera break up your marriage? I mean, the dude’s got something like $1,500,000,000 U.S. in the bank, plus tons more coming in every month. I bet if you really did fancy the girl enough to keep that “’til death do us part” promise, you’d find a way to escape the prying eye of the camera. A couple of big guard dogs, a private Lost-esque island, your own Howitzer...

Besides, you married Heather Mills, not Paris Hilton, so it can’t be that every single camera on the face of the planet is following you, Pauly. You're a rock legend, but you ain't no dippy starlet.

But then in their PRESS RELEASE (ironically passed out to that very same awful media that destroyed the happy couple), Paul & Heather begged for some alone time.

"Separation for any couple is difficult enough, but to have to go through this so publicly, especially with a small daughter, is immensely stressful," it added. "We hope, for the sake of our baby daughter, that we will be given some space and time to get through this difficult period."

Sniff, sniff…smell that? That’s a load of crap there, Sergeant Pepper. If you were really that concerned, you wouldn’t have turned your breakup into front page news. Divorces need time and understanding - not publicists.

Here’s what I suspect is the real reason… Paul is 63. Heather is 38. She wants to go out and play. He wants to sit around and listen to old Wings albums. She wants to save the world from land mines. He wants to go have some more bad plastic surgery.

But like I said, it’s a shame when a happy couple becomes an unhappy couple. And my heart does go out to their daughter, who will have to witness all of Mom & Dad’s fights over his $1.5 billion on the front page of the tabloids for years to come.

But here’s my point: Even though I don’t have a castle or a “Sir Tommy” title from the queen or the world’s most envied record collection, I do have a backbone. I love my wife with all my heart, and there is no friggin’ way I’d ever let anyone come between us, especially not a tabloid or the BBC. So if Paul really wanted to make his union with Heather work, he would have.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Another Graduate of Joan Crawford's School of Childcare

Britney, Britney, Britney. When will you learn, girlfriend?

This morning the New York tabloids printed this AM a lovely telephoto picture of the Soon-To-Be-Ex-Mrs.-Federline driving around in her convertible Mini Cooper with her baby, Accident Prone Federline. Yet said child is not properly seated in his car seat - he should be facing backwards, not forwards. Just in case Brit runs into a tree or a pack of wild paparazzi.

Three thoughts:

1 - I suppose we should be thankful that he's at least in a car seat this time. And that he's not strapped to the hood like a deer.

2 - You just know that this kid ain't wearing sunscreen, either, don't you? A mean mommy who won't properly buckle up her precious bundle o' joy certainly isn't going to take the 30 seconds needed to pour on the SPF45 anytime soon.

3 - Do you suppose Federline is locked in the trunk?

What's In A Name?

There have been some really clever business names over the years (the hair salon “Turn Your Head and Coif” has always amused me), but this one? This one made me laugh out loud. I suppose the next time I’m in Arizona I’ll have to go have lunch – provided that the Lovely Mrs. G. doesn’t object.

* * * * * *

Pink Taco Restaurant Name Causes Stir

SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. - The name of a new restaurant in Scottsdale is stirring up some trouble. The Las Vegas-based Pink Taco Mexican Restaurant is scheduled to open its second location in downtown Scottsdale in June.

Nearly half a dozen people in the upscale city recently expressed their objection to the name, claiming it's a derogatory slang term for a portion of the female anatomy.

In late April, the city received four e-mails, three of which bore no names, objecting to the restaurant's name. One of those e-mails stated: "The City of Scottsdale has a very fine reputation around the world. Let's keep the standards high. Let's let what plays in Vegas stay in Vegas."

Scottsdale Mayor Mary Manross has said she is offended by the name and went so far as to ask the owner to change it, although he refused.

Restaurant spokeswoman Lisa Perez said the company's name comes from one of its menu items.

Perez said the company has not received any complaints or objections about its name.

The original Pink Taco is inside the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas.

* * * * * *

Sure enough, the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino’s Pink Taco restaurant is alive in well in Sin City, where Pink Tacos are a dime a dozen. (Actually, they’re $8.50, according to the menu I found online. But you get my gist, don’t you?)

I really have to wonder why Scottsdale is so up in arms about this restaurant’s name, though. According to a quick Web search, there are three “Hooters” locations in the Scottsdale area. And from what I can tell from my online look, all of the waitstaff is properly clothed. So what’s one more bar/pub/grill with a semi-dirty name?

Besides, it could’ve been worse. Why, I can think of at least 20 other double entendre-filled names right off the top of my head, but I’ll spare you my crude thoughts and save them, in case I need to register a trademark for a fine dining establishment called "Junk in a Box."

So relax, Scottsdale – a restaurant by any other name will still charge $9 for a bowl of guacamole and some chips. Now, that’s offensive.

It's A Hard Knock Life For Paris

Poor, poor, Paris. The wretched heiress just can’t seem to catch a break, can she?

It seems that Miss Hilton showed up at the Electronic Entertainment Expo (E3) yesterday to promote "Paris Hilton's Jewel Jam," a...videogame about her. (I really have to wonder who’d buy a game about Paris’ life, unless at the end you get to lock her in rehab without any makeup or publicists, but perhaps that’s just me.)

But then there’s this quote from Miss Punctuality/Sobriety:

Sorry I'm late," the heiress said. "I'm really excited to have my new video game, 'Diamondquest.' Thank you all for coming, and you can download the game," she said.

Uh – wasn’t her game called ‘Paris Hilton’s Jewel Jam”, not “Diamonquest”? You know, honey, if you’re going to sign autographs on a product with your likeness on it, you ought to at least take 30 seconds and figure out what the hell it’s called. You don’t see George Forman pushing the “Something or Another Grilling Thingy”, do you?

Anyway, here’s what I found out about the “game”.

Her game, which can be played on a cell phone, will be available this summer.

Great. So it’s a cell game. Perfect for playing while driving down the 405 on your way to your lawyer’s office or the bar. Get 10,000 points, win a free high colonic and a chihuahua.

Anyhow, the best part of this “interesting” story was the accompanying photo. The headline said that she was “blowing a kiss to fans”.

Yet I really suspect that she’d just cut one, and was sniffing the “fumes”. “Mmmm, it smells like cheap perfume and Absolute poured over a pile of doggie doo!”

Anyway, here’s to hoping that Paris finds something else to put her name in the papers this weekend – otherwise, what’s a girl to do with all that free time?

Friendship is Thicker Than Water, Too.

There’s a dark cloud forming over work – a ghost of employee past is starting to haunt us, and it could be really bad if this person re-joined our little team.

First, a little backstory. My manager, the beloved Skippy Whitebread, used to have a team of 24 employees. Included in this team were “Skippy’s Boys”, a group of four guys that he hung around with on a regular basis. These weren’t just co-worker buddies; these were his NFL-on-Sunday-at-Skippy’s-house-bring-your-own-beer type of friends. It was Skippy, Jim, Chuck, Roger, and Larry.

Ah, Larry. Skippy’s bestest friend over. They’d been good pals for many years, even though Skippy was technically his manager. When Skippy was away playing soldier, Larry would come over and mow his lawn or shovel the sidewalks. They’d go to high school football games together, and spend hours drinking beer over the fence, ala Hank Hill and Boomhauer. I never saw them skipping hand-in-hand through the poppies, but I suppose it was possible.

The problem however lies in the fact that Larry was a nice guy – but a damn lousy employee. He really didn’t do much around here, and when he and Skippy and “his boys” would get together, their combined productivity level would bottom out at about 5%. Seriously.

Example? Larry and Skippy would come into work at about 8:30 or 8:45 or so (they often carpooled), then they’d go get coffee and stand around and chat for a good half hour. Larry would then surf the Web until break time (10:00 AM, on the dot), then Skippy’s Boys would all meet up in the lunchroom for a 30-40 minute long “break”. They’d all go to lunch for an hour and half at noon, take another 30-40 minute “break” at 3:00, then they spend the final hour of the day standing around talking about football, shooting baskets, or finding other ways to avoid doing anything you'd describe as "work".

So Larry stank on ice as a worker, and Skippy let him get away with it. Gee, what are friends for?

In November 2001, our team of 24 was reduced to 16, thanks to the Layoff Wagon rolling through town. 3 excellent workers lost their job that day, along with 5 so-so people. But not any of Skippy’s Boys – he managed to save them all.

9 months later the Layoff Wagon swung through again, and took us from 16 to 10. Once again, all of Craig’s Boys survived, despite their mediocre performances. Three months later, we went from 10 to 9, once again with good people being walked out and Skippy's Boys remaining behind.

But then in March 2003 Bush decided it was time to invade Iraq (for reasons only he can fully explain), and Skippy, being the Army National Guard guy he was, was mobilized and sent to the desert for a year and a half. With Skippy out of the country for military service, the pro-tem managers actually took a close look at our team’s performance levels the next time the Layoff Wagon tooted its happy little horn, in November 2003.

It was then that our team went from 9 people to 5, and without their buddy here to protect them from the axe, all of Skippy’s Boys (except Roger) were gone. Including Lazy Larry.

Flash forward 2.5 years. Our happy little team of 24 is down to 3 writers, one photographer, and our illustrious leader, Skippy. But the company is finally thinking it’s time to start expanding the payroll again a little bit. A lot of former employees are starting to appear again in the hallways – back for another round of fun, I suppose.

So yesterday Skippy pops it on us: “If they do let us hire someone for the team, I was thinking about seeing if Larry was available. What do you guys think?” Uh, NO!!!

The guy was worthless 3 years ago, and he’d be worthless now. Our jobs are no longer simple single-function duties; we’re huge multitaskers with a zillion plates in the air to juggle. Larry would be like the proverbial deer in the headlights – when he actually chose to work, that is – and he’d take Skippy down with him. It was amazing the amount of the day Skippy’s Boys would spend goofing off when they were all together – we can’t afford to have a repeat of that.

So I’ll be fighting to bring in some fresh blood – someone who is not bosom buddies with Skippy, and someone who is willing to give it their all.

Friends shouldn’t hire friends. Especially when the rest of us have to work with them, too…

Yeah, Kid -- I know EXACTLY how you feel.

Talk About Getting "Ripped!"

Last night I had to hike my tired old (i.e. lazy) self out to the store to buy some new pants. I had much better things to do with my time (The Amazing Race, and of course Lost), but there really wasn’t much choice in my decision.

You see, I had a rather unfortunate incident happen sometime Tuesday night with my pants – one that the Lovely Mrs. G. is still giggling about.

It seems that at some point in my extremely hectic Tuesday schedule I accidentally snagged the back of my pants on something – a nail, a door, who knows – and somehow managed to rip a considerably large hole in them…

…and I never knew about it.

Now, I’m praying to God and every other non-offensive deity out there that this didn’t happen when I left the house at 7:20 AM, and I really didn’t spend the next 14 hours walking around with a huge gaping hole in the rear of my jeans. I mean, there are sights that people ought to see – the Grand Canyon or the Statue of Liberty, for example – but my ass ain’t one of them.

Still, there I was at 9:30 PM, after a full day of work, followed by four hours of school, standing in my kitchen when Mrs. G. pointed out the large gap in the seat of my pants where denim had previously been. And then she laughed at my misfortune. Loudly.

I’m still left really wondering: why didn’t anyone say anything? It’s not like I’m a sissy Emo boy who digs showing off my skivvies to the world in purposely ripped-up trousers. If you saw one of your co-workers or classmates walking around with his or her BVDs sticking out of a large hole in the butt of their Levis, wouldn’t you say anything? I mean, I think you’d want to know. And if you worded it correctly, nobody could ever accuse you sexual harassment. “Hey, buddy – nice tattoo” would probably work. Or maybe “Is it a little breezy down there?” C’mon - it’s common courtesy, people!

Anyway, I guess our mothers were always right about making sure you have on clean underwear…just in case. Thanks, Mom.

This wasn’t the first time I had a Bad Pants Experience – I split my pants end to end once when I was 19. I was working at a crappy pizza parlor, and when I bent over to pick up a case of lettuce, rrrrrrrip – that was that. The cheap seam in my cheap black work pants totally disintegrated, and I then had the great joy of working for the rest of the day with two plastic aprons wrapped around my midsection. (It was also one of the busiest days ever there, so I couldn’t leave to go home and change.)

I should’ve just quit on the spot, gone home, changed my pants, then got rip-roaring drunk to forget it ever happened, but I was a good boy who didn’t walk off on jobs (no matter how crappy they were) or go get underage-snockered. Boy, what a dumbass was I.

But from that day on, I did carry an extra pair of pants in the trunk of my car.

Maybe I should pick up that habit up again.

Stick Me Baby One More Time

So I guess the rumors are true - Britney Spears is expecting another little bundle of protective-services approved joy.

So in honor of these two...um...stars and their baby-making ways, I did some searching on the Web today, and found this - the official (your mileage may vary) transcript of the conversation between Miss Pop Star and Mr. Worthless Shlub, when they cooked up this fantastic idea. Enjoy!

* * * * * * *

Brit: "Ah, Feddie Baby - I'm going to pout!"

K-Fed: "Aw, c'mon, honey britches. I promise - I haven't sung around little Sean Preston again - I swear!"

Brit: "No, no, no, dumbbell. It ain't nothing like that, y'all. It's just... Well, my name hasn't been in the newspaper or online in at least 3 days! That wacko Tom Cruise is hoggin' all the reporters!"

K-Fed: "Yeah. Stupid hoggin' Tom."

Brit: "So - what'd y'all think I should do about it?"

K-Fed: "Well, you could always rob a bank."

Brit: "Too dramatic."

K-Fed: "You could take one of those 'Baby Proof Your Home' classes."

Brit: "Too expected."

K-Fed: "Well then, you could always crash a few parties and drink from the dirty ashtrays."

Brit: "Nah. Too Paris."

K-Fed: "Well then, I'm all out of ideas for today. Maybe I'll go rap for a while, and inspiration will strike me before your bodyguards do."

Brit (light bulb goes off): "Hey! I got it! Let's spawn!"

* * * * * *

And with that, the deed was done. (Yes, apparently there IS one thing that Kevin Federline is good at.) So come October, there will be yet another mouth to feed in Britney's life.

I hope she starts shopping for high-quality car seats and high chairs now...

Painted Into A Corner

The lovely Mrs. G. and I spent all weekend painting, in preparation of Miss Katie’s upcoming high school graduation/gala/spectacular. Yes, Mrs. G. and I have worked much harder than she has these last few months ("senioritis" – big time) – someone ought throw a party for us when we’re through, too, don't you think?

Regardless, Mrs. G. spent Saturday & Sunday painting the basement W.C. while I spent my time outdoors painting the deck and window trim. I bought paint that I thought would match the current color perfectly – or, at least that was my goal. Turns out the little 2-inch cardboard card in the paint dept. at Lowes looks nothing like the real thing once it’s applied to the deck, but what the hell – it works, and it’s painted. Close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and paint tints.

I really don’t mind painting. Mrs. G. hates it and calls it a necessary evil, but it doesn’t bother me that badly. Oh, don’t get me wrong – I can paint a deck or hallway with the greatest of ease, but please, please, please don’t ever ask me to paint a landscape or a bowl of fruit or a velvet impression of Elvis. Sherwin Williams I am; Salvador Dali I’m not.

But in my younger days, painting things got me in trouble more times that I care to remember – usually with my mother. No, I wasn’t one of those juvenile delinquents who went around tagging everything in sight with spray paint – I was more of a “scratch your name in wet cement” kind of vandal. But I did have two unfortunate issues in my life with brown paint.

The first one was way back in the summer of 1970 – age 5. Our house was being painted a lovely chocolate brown shade, and some careless painter foolishly made the mistake of leaving an open can of brown paint and a brush laying around where an otherwise sweet, innocent, and totally naïve youngster could get his angelic little hands on it. (See how I’m making this out like it’s not my fault?)

So what’s a Junior Picasso going to do? He picks up the brush and paint can, and decides to help out. But since the outside walls were already painted, and he couldn’t reach the higher spots, he turns to the next closest blank canvas: Dad’s aluminum boat.

My brother now owns the boat, and 35 years later it’s still patchy brown across most of the bow. See? Good artwork is indeed timeless. I spent years trying to convince my father that the brown paint actually lured rainbow trout to his boat, but I still don’t think he ever bought it.

My second Bad Paint Incident happened when I was 13. I had a paper route, and for an extra $5 from the district manager I was given the opportunity to paint the paper shack from the forest green shade it was to a lovely shade of…chocolate brown. That should’ve been my first tip that something was bound to go wrong: brown paint and I obviously didn’t get along.

So while I was waiting for a ride up the hill to the paper shack, I sat in the living room with my can of chocolate brown exterior latex paint sitting on the ottoman, which was also over Mom’s Prized Carpet.

Now, you have to understand that this was 1978, and Mom’s Prized Carpet in our living was definitely a child of the 70’s. It was shag (of course), and was called “Hawaiian Sunset” – mostly orange, with flecks of green, brown, and red mixed in. It looked like a loud Hawaiian shirt, stretched across 100 square yards. I wish I could adequately describe how tacky this rug was, but my folks absolutely loved it.

But back to the paint, which was perilously sitting on the ottoman. Mom was upstairs, Dad was downstairs, and I was sitting…waiting…waiting…kicking the ottoman.

And that’s when it happened. The can tipped over, hit the floor, and the lid popped off. And with that, one gallon of chocolate brown met the Hawaiian Sunset. And let me tell you kids – it wasn’t pretty. Imagine a brown oil slick all over Maui - it was that bad.

Now, what exactly are you supposed to do when a gallon of brown paint is pouring all over Mom’s Prized Carpet? I grabbed some paper towels and started wiping, as if that was going to do any good. Paint was everywhere – it’s not like I could cover it with a rug and pretend it didn’t happen.

But the worst part? I could hear Mom coming down the stairs. She came into the living room, where her precious little boy was busily and frantically trying to sop up chocolate brown paint off her Prized Carpet with a roll of Rosie the Waitress' finest paper towels... “Uh - hi, Mom.”

If you heard something that afternoon in the summer of 1978 that sounded like a cross between a sonic boom and someone’s head exploding, I’m pretty certain it was coming from our house. There it was – Mom’s Prized Carpet, now drenched in a 10-foot puddle of brown ick.

Long story short (too late): Professional carpet cleaners came in and got the paint out. The Hawaiian Sunset was saved, and that carpet went on to greater tacky fame until well into the early 90’s, when they mercifully replaced it with new carpet that is…light brown. (I guess I was just an artist ahead of my time.) I was busted in horrible, nasty, indescribable ways for my spilling sins. Okay, maybe I wasn’t strung up to a rack or beaten with a paint roller, but I was made to feel guilty about ruining the Hawaiian Sunset for several months afterwards. (I deserved it, I know.)

So let this serve as a lesson to all of you kids out there – gallons of brown paint and Mom’s Prized Carpet don’t mix.

Anyway, I’m thrilled to have the painting in my house done for now, although this summer I may try to tackle painting the living room.

But two huge caveats – one, I will be sure to use twice as many drop cloths as necessary, and two – our walls will definitely not be chocolate brown.

TomKat: Hollywood Strikes Back?

Being someone who enjoys studying pop culture, I’ve learned one important fact: Monday morning quarterbacks have nothing on Monday morning box office “experts”. The jocks may have playbooks and stats and criticism of the referees, but it’s nothing when compared to the absolute joy and cattiness that some take when a movie and/or it’s star falls flat on his or her face.

Take today’s perfect example: Here are some of the headlines following the opening weekend of Bouncy Tom’s new movie, Mission: Impossible III.

AP: 'M:I3' Earnings Disappoint on 1st Weekend

Another AP: 'M:I3' Can't Accomplish Expected Earnings

Entertainment Weekly: Cruisenfreude: Did Tom really bomb?

EOnline: "M:I:III": Cruise Hits; TomKat Sinks?

Somewhere deep in the Hollywood Hills, I suspect that more than one group of execs is cracking open the Cristal to celebrate Ethan Hunt’s fizzle at the box office.

But did he really bomb? According to the “trusted” reliable news sources out there this AM, you’d think that Mission Impossible III opened at the box office this weekend and earned about $1.50. In reality, it actually did manage to sell $48 million worth of tickets. (Which sounds like a lot of cash to me. I know I’d be ecstatic if I made $48 million in three days -- and legally, at that!).

But does anyone care? Hollywood predicted MI: III would make $60 - $65 million this weekend, not a mere $48 mil. What could have possibly happened? I mean, this mega-movie opened in over 4,000 theaters in the U.S. alone. How could what should be a blockbuster end up declared “disappointing”?

Here’s my theory: It’s because this guy is the star, and he can’t keep his damn mouth shut. And that, my A-list friend, will eventually make America sick of you and your ass face.

He dances on couches, bitches at Brooke Shields, gets snarly with Matt Lauer, knocks up a girl (supposedly) half his age, professes his pseudo-religion at every opportunity, goes on every single talk show imaginable to turn his newborn child (supposedly) into a public spectacle, graces every magazine cover this side of Dog Fancy (which may be next – supposedly), and makes it his true “Mission” in life to annoy the shit out of the American public at every turn.

In return, we’re supposed to go drop $9 at the theater and watch more of him? Fuggeddaboutit. I can turn on any one of 99 channels and see TomKat any time of the day. Why would I want to pay for the “privilege”? I’ve seen enough of Mr. Cruise lately for free.

It’ll be interesting to see how this movie plays out over the next few weeks. Will it hang in there and win Tom his fans back, or will it tank into obscurity? As long as it means I can turn on the TV or radio or Internet and not have to see his mug smiling back at me ad nauseum, then I can live with it. Or without it.

Snakes For Nothing

One of the ten bazillion things I love about the Lovely Mrs. G. is her kindness to animals. We've got two cats right now, and we constantly talk about getting a puppy (once we move, of course).

In the time we've been together, our house and yard have been blessed with cats, loaner dogs (dog-sitting), stray kittens, hamsters, hermit crabs, big fat squirrels, baby bunnies and the occasional unfortunate bird that our cat Jack brings home to show off. (He also went through a phase of bringing home bats and/or assorted bat parts, but he seems to have moved on from that bad habit.)

Yes, Mrs. G. is a regular animal lover...

...Except for when it comes to snakes.

Mrs. G. is not a snake fan - not in the slightest. Now, I'm not exactly wild about them, but snakes don't make me run shrieking from the room like they do her.

So I'm sure that my lovely bride can totally relate with this news story I saw online today:

* * * * * *

Fla. Woman Sets Snake, Apartment On Fire

JACKSONVILLE, Fla. -- After being told by her apartment complex that it was not management's responsibility to remove a snake from her porch, a Jacksonville woman set the reptile -- and her apartment on fire.

Shatavia Kearney called the Charter Landing Apartments office Sunday afternoon and asked someone to remove a snake for her porch.

The 19-year-old told police she was told do deal with the situation herself.

So Kearney doused the snake with a flammable liquid and set it on fire.
In the process, the vinyl siding caught fire and was charred and melted in two places. The total damage was about $1,000.

No one was charged and the snake got away.

* * * * * *

Mrs. G. approves, I'm sure. (Although she probably would've beat it with a baseball bat before adding the lighter fluid.)

But for now, the snake lives. Just as long as he stays away from our neighborhood, we'll all get along just fine. Right, hon?

May 3

Today would've been my sister Paula's 55th birthday. Happy Birthday, Sis. I'll always keep alive the memories of the lady with the big smile, the mind filled with bad puns, and the love for all things feline. She introduced me to the Beatles and Elton John, and went with me to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show for the first time. And the second. And the third. Paula was a good spirit, and the world is a better place because of her far-too-brief time in it.

Ironically, the final court documents showed up yesterday, showing that her estate is now officially closed. The probate papers have been filed, the creditors have been paid, and that's it. What was a human being 9 months ago is now just a record in a court file. Ashes to ashes, dust to digital ones and zeros.

I was Paula's chosen executor for her estate, a task I thought I wouldn't need to perform for another 25 years or so. Shows you what curveballs life can throw at you, doesn't it? Being executor wasn't so bad - it took a lot of coordination and some really good legal help, but otherwise it was mostly a matter of filing papers, signing checks, and putting all of her final wishes in a row. Bing - bang - done.

But today I'll try to remember Paula the person. That's what really matters.

Til Death Do They Part?

They say that love is blind - but does it also have an expiration date for freshness? I mean, new love is always exciting, but what if that love spanned...four generations?

Check out the headline topping the news today:

* * * * * *

Couple, 33 and 104, Reportedly Marry

Now, from the headline alone, I know what you're probably thinking: What, is that trampy Anna Nicole at it again? Ah, but this time it's a little different. It seems that this go-around, it's a 33 year old guy marrying a woman 71 years his senior.

Let's keep delving into this oddity, shall we?

KUALA LUMPUR, Malaysia - A 33-year-old man in northern Malaysia has married a 104-year-old woman, saying mutual respect and friendship had turned to love, a news report said Tuesday.

It was Muhamad Noor Che Musa's first marriage and his wife's 21st, according to The Star newspaper which cited a report in the Malay-language Harian Metro tabloid.

Okay - let's hold up here for a moment. She's 104 years old, and has been married 21 times. Memo to Liz Taylor - you'd better get moving, honey.

Anyway, back to our tale:

Muhamad, an ex-army serviceman said he found peace and a sense of belonging after meeting Wook Kundor, whom he said he initially sympathized with because she was childless, old and alone, the report said.

"I am not after her money, as she is poor," Muhamad reportedly said. "Before meeting Wook, I never stayed in one place for long."

He said he hoped to help his new bride to master Roman script while she taught him Islamic religious knowledge.

The report did not say if any of Wook's previous 20 husbands are still alive.

* * * * * *

(Editor's note: They all drank the elderberry wine, and are now safely buried in the Brewster sister's basement.)

Wow. Being the gentleman that I am, I'm not going to hypothesize on any possibility of their love life, because ew...she’s 104 years old. Plus, If I do happen to live to be that old (fat chance, I’m sure), I sure as hell don’t want some blogger in 2069 talking about my junk’s functionality, so I’ll cut them a break and consider it good karma for my own future.

But really now – what could this newlywed couple do for excitement on their honeymoon? It’s not like they’ll be running down the beach holding hands while the surf gently sprays. They probably won’t be skydiving or snorkeling in Aruba. And I really doubt they’ll be dancing in a conga line around the bar in Vegas.

But maybe love does indeed conquer all, and the groom is truly excited to be married to someone old enough to be his great-grandmother.

And if for some tragic reason it doesn’t work out, then I suppose that the bride can always audition for Hubby #22. In fact, I’m willing to bet that Kevin Federline will be back on the market by then.

Now, that would be headline worthy.

Art...Imitating Life?

Munch called this "The Scream". It's always reminded me more of "Monday Morning", but I can go with Edvard's title, I suppose.

The original 'Scream' painting was stolen from an Oslo museum at gunpoint in August 2004 - a gutsy move, if you ask me. Sounds more like a movie plot than a heist. They still haven't found the painting, even though several guys are on trial for stealing it. I suspect it's probably in someone's safe, locked away where only they look at it when they feel the time is right.

I read a cool book a few years back - can't remember what it was called, but it really was good - about a master thief who goes around offering wealthy art collectors the chance to buy the absolute rarest of paintings, sight unseen. He won't tell them the title or any details, but he promises them that they'll know which painting it is the moment he takes it.

The price? $25 million. The painting? The Mona Lisa.

The catch is (SPOILER ALERT - if you happen to stumble across this gem) is that he's got an accomplice who is a master forger, and they've got a half dozen Mona Lisas in their basement. He swipes the real one, then sells the fakes to all the art collectors, who naturally hide it away in their private safes.

It really was a good book.

I wonder if that's what the thieves have done with the Scream. I wonder if there are a dozen or so rich snobs sitting behind 6 feet of cement and steel staring at their original Munch painting, thinking they've made the buy of a lifetime - one that they can't ever show anyone, can't brag about, and can't tell a soul about.

Hmmm...Maybe the novel needs a sequel.