Picture of the Week

Since I was going to be out of touch for a while over the holiday, I thought I’d leave you with a lovely photo to look at for the next few days. You know, just in case you get lonely for me or something. (Hey, it could happen. Although I probably don't want to know about it.)

But the problem is…I couldn’t decide which photograph you’d like to stare at for hours on end. Would it be the Harper's Bazaar (should be "bizarre", shouldn't it?) cover shot of Miss Britney and her K-Fed-in-the-oven, all naked and airbrushed, with her Mom Boobs™ barely covered?

Nah. Too overplayed.

Perhaps instead I should post the picture of the X-ray from the actual light bulb that was in the guy’s ass earlier this week? You know, as proof that there really was a light bulb up there, where one really doesn’t belong.

Nah. You may be eating, and you definitely don’t want to see that.

So instead I decided to post this picture of dogs swimming.

Why, you ask? Well, isn't it obvious?

1 – It’s cute.
2 – It’s the perfect epitome of summertime.
3 – It’s dogs swimming!

So happy 4th to one and all. Don’t do anything too crazy – you might end up knocked up, y’all, or with a light bulb in your bum, or maybe swimming in a wading pool filled with puppies.

On second thought, doing the dog paddle with dogs actually sounds like fun…

Happy Fourth

So it’s the holiday weekend – sort of. Technically the holiday isn’t until Tuesday, but a lot of people are stretching it into a four day weekend. My employer is open regular hours on Monday (most places I know are), but a lot of us are using a vacation day to supplement the time off. No point in coming into work on Monday, pretending to be interested in working, then having another day off, is there?

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I are actually going on a road trip for the weekend – we’re leaving at 2:00 AM tonight for western Montana. 1160 miles, 19 hours. We’ll mainline it – stopping only for gas, lunch, and the occasional “rest stop”. It’s a long friggin’ drive, that’s for sure, but it was the only way I’d be able to go this weekend.

You see, I have to be back in town Tuesday for work on Wednesday AM. All three of us writers wanted this week off, and a battle went off over who’d actually get the time off. In the end I agreed to be the Nice Guy and shorten my time off, with the condition that they’d “owe me big time”. (Actually, it was okay, since I had to be back for school on Wednesday evening anyway. But they don’t need to know that.)

We’ll mad dog it to Missoula, and I’ll spend Sunday & Monday with Mrs. G’s family (it’s her parent’s 50th anniversary), then Tuesday AM I’ll be on a Northwest Airlines flight home. 19 hours by car = about 6.5 hours by plane, including a 3 hour layover in Minneapolis.

It’s a long way to go for such a short period of time, but I’m glad that I’ll be able to be there. I genuinely like Mrs. G’s family, and there will be a lot of fun to be had. Plus, they live on a river that’s teeming with fish, and I can sit out back with a fishing pole and a smile every morning at sunrise. What’s better than that?

So to everyone out there who’ll be hitting the road this weekend, please buckle up and try not to have a spaz when you see the gas prices.

We’ll be at Wall Drug at 7:00 AM if anyone wants to meet us for free ice water and a dance with the robotic T-Rex. You’ll have no trouble spotting me – I’ll be the sleepy guy who is jonesing for one of their donuts.

See you on the road.

Does A Lightbulb Shine Where The Sun Doesn't?

You know, when I get a good idea, a light bulb goes on OVER MY HEAD.

Not like this poor sucker/incredible liar. (Oh, and be sure to note the last sentence/ lousy excuse du jour. Yeah, right. And the check's in the mail. My dog ate my homework. She was already naked when I came into the room.)

* * * * *
Operation Removes Lightbulb From Anus

MULTAN, Pakistan (Reuters) - Fateh Mohammad, a prison inmate in Pakistan, says he woke up last weekend with a glass lightbulb in his anus.

Wednesday night, doctors brought Mohammad's misery to an end after a one-and-a-half hour operation to remove the object.

"Thanks Allah, now I feel comfort. Today, I had my breakfast. I was just drinking water, nothing else," Mohammad, a grey-beared man in his mid-40s, told Reuters from a hospital bed in the southern central city of Multan.

"We had to take it out intact," said Dr. Farrukh Aftab at Nishtar Hospital. "Had it been broken inside, it would be a very very complicated situation."

Mohammad, who is serving a four-year sentence for making liquor, prohibited for Muslims, said he was shocked when he was first told the cause of his discomfort. He swears he didn't know the bulb was there.

"When I woke up I felt a pain in my lower abdomen, but later in hospital, they told me this," Mohammad said.

"I don't know who did this to me. Police or other prisoners."

The doctor treating Mohammad said he'd never encountered anything like it before, and doubted the felon's story that someone had drugged him and inserted the bulb while he was comatose.

* * * * *

Wow, first he’s sentenced to four years in the joint for making moonshine, then he mysteriously wakes up one morning to find a GE 75-watt special inserted in his nether regions? Maybe he needs to quit sampling his home brew so much…

The Fourth Meal?

I saw something rather unsettling the other day. Taco Bell is now promoting something they're calling "The Fourth Meal”.

You know, that free time after dinner and before breakfast? Well, the nice people at El Bell Del Taco have apparently decided that we need to add another meal to this otherwise wasted timespace.

Now, I’m not always the most health-conscious of eaters. I pack a couple more pounds around than I probably should, and I rarely look at a nutritional label to see how bad a food product might actually be. (Out of sight = ignorance is bliss.) And yes – after a hard night of living life to the fullest, sometimes a taco or burrito at 1:00 AM is just what the doctor ordered.

But isn’t it kind of creepy to think that Taco Bell is actually promoting that we shove 25% more food down our throats every day, to a country that is already overfed and on the verge of one great big heart attack/stroke/pants splitting? We’re the fattest nation on Earth, and already there are far too many people fighting obesity related diabetes or heart disease. So why is Taco Bell pushing the concept of eating even more on us? If they kill off their customer base, there won't be anyone left to buy their "food".

So why Taco Bell thinks it’s a good idea to promote eating MORE to a nation of pigs is a mystery to me.

And in case you’re wondering, I went to Yo Quiero You-Know-What’s homepage and used their magical nutritional information tab to look up exactly what their “4th Meal” food has in it.

½ Pound Combo Burrito (Regular style)
Calories – 470
Fat – 19 grams (29 percent of the U.S. R.D.A.)
Saturated Fat – 7 grams (36% RDA)
Cholesterol – 45 milligrams (15% RDA)
Sodium – 1,620 milligrams (a whopping 67% RDA)

Nachos BellGrande
Calories – 730
Fat – 41 grams (63 percent of the U.S. R.D.A.)
Saturated Fat – 19 grams (58% RDA)
Cholesterol – 35 milligrams (12% RDA)
Sodium – 1,500 milligrams (an amazing 63% RDA)

So let’s say that you’re driving past Taco Clogged Arteries at 1:30 AM and find yourself jonesing for a fourth meal. If you were to order this delicious yet risky combo, and just happened to wash it down with a Diet Pepsi (God forbid you add sugar to this diet!), you’re looking at 1,190 calories, 91% of your daily fat intake, 94% of your saturated fat, and a “Good Lord, Why Haven’t I Had A Stroke Yet” 130% of your daily salt intake. Bon appetit!

Ugh. No thanks, Taco Bell. I think I’ll skip the fourth meal. And maybe consider adding a salad for the second and third.

It's a Country & Western Chinese Christmas!

As I’ve pointed out numerous times here, there’s few things in this world that Sioux Cityans love more than a buffet. All that you can possibly shovel down your pie hole for one low price? It’s a dream come true!

Buffets are a big business here in the Midwest, and no other genre of all-you-care-to-eat-(and-then-some) is more popular than the Chinese buffet. In the last 3 – 4 years, at least 6 new Chinese buffet places have opened around town, and it seems that just about every place that can possibly serve you re-warmed chow mien or sweet & sour something is now doing it.

With that, let me tell you about the China Star buffet, where the Lovely Mrs. G. and I dined last night.

But first, let me tell you about the building the China Star is in. It’s a typical square box-shaped stand-alone restaurant in the far end of a typical strip mall parking lot. The building was first home to a restaurant called “G. Ruby’s”, which had a train theme and served some pretty good steak sandwiches, bacon cheeseburgers, and the ilk. The walls were decorated with train crap, the waitresses wore bib overalls and train conductor caps, and a toy train ran around the entire restaurant along a track that hung from the ceiling.

After about a year, the people at G. Ruby’s renamed the place “Grubby’s”, and went with a combination train/hobo theme. Apparently the locals were too dumb to include the appropriate punctuation when reading the “G. Ruby’s” sign, and had been calling it “Grubby’s” for a long time anyway, so the owners decided that they couldn’t fight city hall or poor reading skills, and changed the name. They kept the train set, the crap on the walls, and ordered new menus with a hobo/wino enjoying a hamburger on them. ("Burgers and Night Train -- that's good eatin'!")

Grubby’s lasted for about 6 months. The hobo theme apparently carried over to their wait staff, and the service sucked big time. We went once, and never again. The place was boarded up, and that was that.

Or was it? About 3 months later a third new restaurant came in. This time it was “Whiskey Creek Barbecue & Steakhouse". They covered the outside of the building with logs to make it look like a giant log cabin, removed the train crap from the walls and added wagon wheels, cowboy hats, and lassos. (The train track remained, but alas – no more train.) They started every meal with a large metal bucket of peanuts, and customers were encouraged to throw the shells on the floor.

The food was okay – overly salty, but bearable. But the atmosphere? Let’s put it this way – annoying loud country music, cranked up to 11 on the amp and 12 on the Twang-O-Meter. They also had TV sets that hung around the place, showing matching music videos of the loud annoying country music. It was a hick bar in every term, with the only two things missing were the multiple stuffed & mounted animal heads on the wall and the endless river of Busch Light.

The curse continued, and Whiskey Creek lasted for about a year, tops. Salty food, obnoxiously loud Shania Twain, and the joy of sitting in a pile of peanut shells apparently doesn’t equate to “Good Eats”. So the building went into mothballs yet again, and the good people of Sioux City began to wonder what could possibly come next.

Which brings us to today’s feature, the China Star.

China Star moved in about two months ago, leaving the faux log-cabin exterior in place, along with the giant wagon wheels that are bolted to the back of the booths. (Chinese Cowboys?) The train track is still there, but sorry – no Orient Express. They’ve sprinkled a few Buddha statues around the place, and there are a couple of Asian fans tacked to the walls, but other than that it still pretty much resembles a hick bar, only with a Chinese buffet in the middle.

The good news though is that Shania and all of her heartbroken, twangy loud friends from Nashville are gone. But what they’ve put in it’s place is almost as evil.

For last night, as I’m scooping up some Mongolian Beef and orange chicken, the background music is playing. It’s strangely familiar. I’m humming along, because I know the tune, but I can’t quite place it.

Then it hits me. It’s Christmas Music. Shania has been replaced with “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

Yes, on June 26, 2006, the China Star restaurant of Sioux City, Iowa is playing a bad Chinese Muzak version of Christmas carols.

I look across the lo mien at the Lovely Mrs. G., and ask her if she recognizes the song. “Yeah,” she says. “You’d better watch out, you’d better not cry.”

It was just too surreal. Sitting in a Country & Western themed, train track embedded, Chinese buffet restaurant, listing to tidings of Christmas joy. On the 5th day of summer.

Sure enough, the next song was “Jingle Bells”. This was followed by “What Child is This”, and Wham’s “Last Christmas”. It was odd, I’m telling you. Just odd.

Now, I didn’t hear this conversation – Mrs. G. did. So I give her full credit and all the props in the world for passing it along to me. It seems that she overheard an older couple commenting about the unique choice of music.

Older Man: “Hey, isn’t that Christmas music?”
Older Woman: “Yeah, it is.”
Older Man: “I wonder why they’re playing Christmas music now?”
Older Woman: “Who knows why they do things? They’re Asian.”

So I guess we weren’t the only ones a little bit confused by the musical background choice.

It’s fairly common for the local Chinese buffets to also offer American dishes for those who’d prefer Midwest meat & potatoes over Mu Shu Pork. The other buffet down the street regularly serves mini corn dogs, French fries, ham slices, and chicken nuggets. But as far as I know, they’ve never played holiday music six months before the holiday.

So if you happen to find yourself in Sioux City, and are looking for a whole new meaning for the term “Asian Fusion Cuisine”, by all means stop by the Cowboy Chinese Railroad Hobo themed buffet that is the China Star on Gordon Drive. You'll want to give it two thumbs up, a great big "yee-haw!", and a partridge in a pear tree. Just be sure to tell them Seasons Greetings, from the Gressel household.

"I'm not anorexic - I'm protesting!"

I’m not sure how true this story is – I mean, the word “disinformation” is practically synonymous with the word “Iraq”. Still, it was kind of funny to see, especially if it is legit.

* * * * *
Saddam ends hunger strike after missing one meal

BAGHDAD (Reuters) - Saddam Hussein ended a brief hunger strike after missing just one meal in his U.S.-run prison, a U.S. military spokesman said Friday.

The former Iraqi leader had refused lunch Thursday in protest at the killing of one of his lawyers by gunmen, but the spokesman said he ate his evening meal.

Former Saddam aides being held in the same prison had refused to eat three meals since Wednesday evening but ended their fast with the ex-president.

"They all took their dinner meal," the spokesman told Reuters.

* * * * *

A hunger strike that lasts ONE MEAL? Saddam, buddy – that’s not a hunger strike. That’s skipping lunch. Hell, the Olsen Twins “strike” more than that every day!

How’s that for showing dedication to your cause? “I will not eat at all, to protest the deplorable conditions at the hands of my captors." Sniff, sniff. "Oh, hey – is someone making lasagna? That smells mighty tasty!” Not a whole lot of credibility in that one, is there?

Poor dumb Saddam. First he’s deposed, then he’s locked in a spider hole, then he’s shown all over the planet getting the 20-point inspection by the doctor, then he goes through a trial where all of the witnesses seem to end up with a mysterious illness (bullet holes), and now his hunger strike lasts all of one afternoon. You’d think that for someone of his former stature, he’d be able to at least demand a low carb or kosher version of a hunger strike. (Okay, maybe not the kosher one.)

Maybe if they want to really send him on a hunger strike, they’d feed him nothing but Freedom Fries and W-brand ketchup. See if he can keep those down.

A Birthday Winner!

Despite the fact that most of my side of the family either ignored it or pissed me off about it, I still managed to have a pretty good 41st birthday on Saturday. (The Lovely Mrs. G. took good care of me, so that’s all that really matters. The rest of my family? They can bite off, for all I care.)

Anyway, Mrs. G. and I had a good night at the dog track/casino, and since I was actually *winning*, that makes it even nicer. I’m one of those gamblers who either wins (and wins a lot) or loses everything in a matter of seconds. Usually it’s the latter; I tend to put my money in the slot machine and wave goodbye to it in about 30 seconds flat. The one-armed bandit doesn’t even bother belching out a “thank you”.

I like going to the casino, and the casinos generally love to see me coming. “Oh, goodie – here comes Tommy. Smile pretty, and we’ll have his money before his slot machine seat gets warm.” It’s because of this reason (primarily) that I don’t go that often, and I never go expecting to win. It just doesn’t work that way for me. Usually, I’ll just go feed the machines, watch the pretty reels go around, and go home with nothing more than smoke-scented clothes and maybe a complimentary Diet Pepsi for my efforts.

But not Saturday. The birthday Gods must’ve been smiling on me – either that or the spirit of Jack Binion was in a good mood – because Mrs. G. and I took on the Horseshoe Casino & Resort in Council Bluffs, IA, and came away winners. I had the “magic touch” and hit several jackpots on the slots, and I even somehow managed to pick a winning greyhound in one of the races. (We won’t mention my trifecta ticket where my dogs came in dead last – all three of them, in order – dead last.)

In the end, we played for close to 7 hours on our good fortune, and still managed to come home with a few bucks in our pockets. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. I probably should’ve stopped for a Powerball ticket on the way home, but alas – midnight was soon upon us, and I’m sure that my winning ways had turned back into a pumpkin by then.

So thanks to Mrs. G. and the nice people at the Horseshoe, my 41st birthday was pretty good after all. I also got a new Mickey Mouse watch from Mrs. G., so double bonus points for an excellent day all around.

And here’s to #42 next June – my Elvis Birthday. If I make it past that one, I’ll officially have lived longer than The King. Hey, when it’s not a typically monumental birthday, you have to take your victories where you can get them.

Maybe we’ll have to go play the Viva Las Vegas slots next year, and see if Mr. Presley will smile on me again.

Gressel Knows Best

The lovely Mrs. G and I dream of living near the beach someday. And lookie here – our opportunity may be just around the corner!

* * * * *
Hulk Hogan's house for sale for $25M

BELLEAIR, Fla. - Hulk Hogan has moved his family to Miami Beach and put his mansion near Tampa on the market for a whopping $25 million.

The pro wrestler-actor, aka Terry Bollea, and his wife, Linda, moved last month to a new $12 million bayfront estate on Miami Beach so their children, Brooke, 18, and Nick, 15, could pursue singing and acting careers.

Now the 17,000-square-foot French-style Belleair mansion, familiar to fans of the family's VH1 reality TV series, "Hogan Knows Best," is on the market.

The home has seven fireplaces, 2.3-acre grounds overlooking the Intercoastal Waterway and Gulf of Mexico, a guesthouse, swimming pool, waterfall and four-car garage.

"You can get lost in it," said Marcia Ellis of Coldwell Banker, who sold the Belleair property to the family 14 years ago and has listed it again.

Hogan still owns a more modest place on Clearwater Beach and a home in Los Angeles that is on the market for $5.9 million.

"I've got to downscale," he told The Miami Herald recently. "We'll head toward Miami like the Beverly Hillbillies."

* * * * *
So out of morbid curiosity, I went online to find the Hulkster’s real estate listing. Sure enough, you too can to fork over TWENTY FIVE MILLION BUCKS for the honor of crapping where Hulk crapped.

The photos online of the joint are actually quite impressive. I mean, the place ain’t no little grass shack. 11 bathrooms? 17,000 square feet of living space? Your very own Hulk-a-Mania sweat stains on the imported wool carpets? What more could you ask for?

Of course, there are the inevitable downsides. You know – drunken wrestlers who don’t know that Hulk has moved will come pounding on your front door at 3:00 AM, looking to settle that 30 year old cage grudge match right there and then. Then there’s a broken satellite TV setup that only plays Rocky III and Suburban Commando over and over again. Or the workout room that smells like a combination of protein shakes and Jesse “The Body” Ventura’s cheap cologne. And all those Peroxide hair dye stains in the sink? Puh-leeze. I wouldn’t offer a penny over $23,500,000 for this place in such deplorable condition. Not one cent more.

But since I felt it was important to know for sure, I used the Caldwell Banker’s online mortgage calculator to see what this dump would run me. You know, in case the Gressel family somehow wins the lottery and/or receives a huge cash settlement from a yet unknown pharmaceutical company.

Anyway, at $25,000,000 up front for the house & property, with 10 percent down, a semi-reasonable 6% interest rate (damn you, Federal Reserve Board!), appropriate Bellaire, FL property taxes ($16.93 per $1,000 of home value – ain’t it amazing what you can find on the net?). and my very best guesstimate of homeowners insurance rates of $24K a year (you don’t want any hurricanes or thieves taking your 400-inch plasma TV away from you, now do you?), here’s what the Hulkster’s house would cost you:

See? A mere $140,426 and some change. Phhhhffft. Piece of cake. So start packing your bags, honey – ‘cause we’re moving on up into the Hulkster’s house!

But the first thing we’ll do to the place? We’ll change out all of the toilet seats in the 11 bathrooms. Trust me – it’ll be a small investment that will prevent many nightmares.

Happy Birthday, Mrs. G.

Today is the lovely & talented Mrs. G's birthday. I'll be polite and not mention how old she is, but since she's just two days older than I am, I think we can all put two and two together and come up with the right answer, can't we? So for the next two days Mrs. G. gets to be "The Older Woman". It's not quite at "Mrs. Robinson" levels, but it's still fun to be a "kept man" with a Sugar Mama, even if it only lasts for 48 hours.

Every year for the past 18 or so I've spent the day in between our two birthdays reminding her that she's old and I'm still young. Then the 24th rolls around, and I officially join her in the next age bracket. It's fun while it lasts, or until Mrs. G. gets tired of being teased about it - whichever comes first.

Mrs. G. was actually a really good sport last year when she turned 40, despite her fears that she wasn't going to take it gracefully. But she did, I think the maturity that comes with age only makes her that much more loveable. Or at least that's what I hope it's doing to me...

Regardless, I wish my darling wife the happiest of birthdays. And if she asks really nice, perhaps later I'll do my annual Thomas J. Gressel Birthday Dance(r) for her. It's quite the sight to behold, believe you me. (I've yet to try it while jumping out of a cake, but maybe one of these years...) I'm just thankful it hasn't turned up on YouTube yet.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Mrs. G. Here's to another year down.

P.S. I'm still younger than you! :)

Cats, Dogs, and Other Small Mammals

We had a flash flood in our neighborhood on Friday night. No there weren’t any animals walking two by two, but it was touch-and-go there for a while. I did happen to spot a pair of water-logged squirrels packing their suitcases.

Anyway, the rain, rain, rain, came down, down, down, to the tune of about 4 inches of wet stuff in about 45 minutes. The problem is that my house is in the middle of the street, where all of the rain water for about 3 blocks around convenes and (supposedly) goes down the storm drain. When the drains can’t keep up, you get the following scene:

Yep, whitecaps in the middle of the street.

Fortunately, the Lovely Mrs. G and I live on the “uphill” side of the street. It’d take about 3 feet of water in the street before anything would come into our house, and by that point it’d all push to the other side of the street and down the hill. (The people across the street? They got hosed by this storm big time.)

It’s quite the sight to watch that much water accumulate so fast. It starts as rain, turns to streams, then a river on the street, forming a fast moving whirlpool. It usually doesn’t last for long – usually the water recedes in about 20 minutes or so – but the damage is done.

This is the fourth time I’ve seen the street flood this badly here – the last time was on the 4th of July about 3 years ago. The storm drains can only do so much, and water refuses to be denied its intended path. So the people across the street then spend the next few days drying out their house – you’d think by now they’d have invested in some sandbags, wouldn’t you?

I made it home shortly before the water got too deep, but as you can see from this picture below, not everyone was so lucky. Yes, this lady got stuck in the water as her car flooded. This despite the fact that the lady from across the street was out in the rain, waving at her, telling her not to come down the street because (duh) it was flooded. But Miss Thing was apparently in a hurry – plus she was on her cell phone AND smoking a cigarette – so she thought her Pontiac was apparently invincible.

Oops. Guess GMs don’t float after all.

A couple of the neighbor guys were nice enough to push Miss Dumbass’ car out of the now knee-deep water (I decided she was dumb enough to get stuck, she could get out and push her own car). As of this AM, it’s still parked about a quarter block up the street, filled with muddy water and not much driving joy. She tried starting it over the weekend, but it just spewed white smoke and oily goop from the tailpipe. I keep expecting to see a tow truck come haul it away, but for now, there it is – a vivid reminder that when machine meets water, water usually wins.

The storm passed by 6:00 PM, and by 6:15 the street was back to normal – wet, filled with dirt, but otherwise intact. Life is returning to normal for most people around town (some places had the manhole covers literally float away), but for a few unlucky souls who don’t have the sense to not drive through deep water, there’s an expensive lesson to be learned.

Maybe she’ll go buy a Bayliner next time.

Truly - No Original Ideas Left in Hollywood.

What's with all these dumbass celebrities -- isn't it bad enough that they've already taken over Malibu, The Palms in Vegas, and most of South Beach Miami... now they have to invade a third world country, too?

* * * * *

Britney Spears may have second baby in Namibia

WINDHOEK, United States (AFP) - Pregnant pop diva Britney Spears may follow in the steps of Hollywood couple Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie and have her baby in Namibia.

"Deputy Tourism Minister Leon Jooste confirmed that he received a telephonic enquiry from Spears' office to have her second baby born in Namibia," the Namibian Broadcasting Corporation (NBC) said Friday.

A tourism ministry official told AFP: "Our office received an enquiry from the staff of Britney Spears," but did not elaborate.

The 24-year-old star is six months pregnant with her second child with husband Kevin Federline, although entertainment tabloids have been hawking reports of an imminent split. The baby is due in September.

* * * * *

Can you see the posters now? "Come to Namibia! Land of desert, land of diamond mines, land of convenient A-list celebrity birthing! Sure, we'll let you visit! We let any wealthy American visit! Why, we even let Kevin Federline in!" (Here's to hoping they feed him to the hyenas.)

See, here's what really disturbs me about Miss Spears taking her Pop Diva Show to Namibia. It's this line that I found in an online encyclopedia about the country:

Although per capita GDP is five times the per capita GDP of Africa's poorest countries, the majority of Namibia's people live in pronounced poverty because of large-scale unemployment, the great inequality of income distribution, and the large amount of wealth going to foreigners.

So to see Brit & Federwang adding to the local's misery, just so they can copycat Bradgelina? Poor taste, y'all! Poor taste!

Take my advice, Brit. (She always listens to me.) Go to Cedars-Sinai like everyone else. Squeeze out baby #2 in the States, and leave those poor people alone. Then, be sure to hold on tight to both of your kids, and perhaps a couple of appropriate car seats would be a good idea, too.

But if you still want to send Federwang over for a date with the hyenas, then go for it.

Number 8!

It’s been the week of anniversaries – first it was the Lovely Mrs. G and my 9th wedding anniversary (awwww), and then yesterday was my 8th anniversary with my employer.

To mark this monumentous occasion, yesterday someone in HR sent around a huge 99-font sized e-mail around to the entire floor: “CONGRATULATIONS TOM GRESSEL ON HIS 8TH ANNIVERSARY!” Which is a little odd, considering this is the same company that gave me my 5-year certificate about two weeks after my 6th anniversary date. I guess it’s a pretty big deal though when someone around here hits an anniversary date over two years anymore – there aren’t too many of us left with that kind of seniority.

I remember the day I started here, back in 1998 – there were about 80 of us who started on that first day (orientation, badges, and paperwork). I think I’m the only one left from that group. But back then the world was your oyster – work hard, learn a lot, and contribute to the success of the company, and in return you’d be pleasantly rewarded for it. Boy, have times changed.

Things have become rather…bizarre around here in the past month. They’re reshuffling departments (again), and everyone seems to be in a major “measuring” contest. Everyone is jockeying for a position in some kind of imaginary “Lord of the Flies” type scenario, and quite frankly, it’s become quite tiresome. I just wish they could just get back to work and stop peeing on all the cubicles to mark their territory.

Still, I suppose it’s okay that I made it to the 8 year mark. A lot of my co-workers never got this far. (With 92% of the staff laid off in the last 5 years, it’s no wonder why.) And with a little luck and some “being in the right place at the right time”, I’ll make it until next June for Anniversary Number Nine.

Beyond that? Don’t hold your breath. For I have a mere 13 months left until I finish school, then the world will once again be my oyster.

Then we’ll go elsewhere and start our countdown over again at one.

Happy Anniversary To Us

Today is the Lovely Mrs. G. and my 9th wedding anniversary. Sort of.

You see, we were married in Montana, where once you sign the paperwork, you’re technically legally married. No ceremony needed – sign your name, and you’re hitched.

So we went to the courthouse on Thursday, June 12, 1997, dropped off our official paperwork and $35 licensing fee, and were legally married by the stroke of a pen. Of course, our actual wedding ceremony wasn’t until two days later, on June 14, so that’s the day we call our “real” anniversary date. Nobody (i.e. banks, the IRS) ever seems to mind when we were married, so June 14 it is.

Regardless, it’s been 9 years already, which in some ways feels like an incredibly short time, but in other ways feels like a lifetime. Mrs. G. is truly my best friend, and there’s no-one else out there that I’d rather refer to as “The Lovely Mrs. G.” than her. She’s my world, and I’m a damn lucky guy to have her.

So happy anniversary, Mrs. G. You make my day.

Klaus Encounters

Over the past year The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have belonged to the local Siouxland YMCA. Mrs. G. really enjoys going – she takes several classes there, and she can whip my butt any day of the week in elliptical machine endurance.

The Y has been good for us – it’s made Mrs. G. feel really good, and for me…well, it’s given me great material to blog about. Such as this story.

Now, in the past I’ve told you about the N.O.G.s in the Y’s Athletic Club – The Naked Old Guys. You know - the older gentlemen who come into the YAC, immediately remove all of their clothing, and then stand around in their birthday suits and chat. It’s an amazing phenomena – seeing (whether you want to or not) upwards of two dozen Naked Old Guys at a time wandering around the locker room, looking for someone to discuss news, weather, sports, politics, or their latest illness/ailment with. It’s like a social club for wrinkled up and/or extremely hairy nudists, only without the tea and the little watercress sandwiches.

I’ve never understood the appeal of the N.O.G. Club – I mean, can’t these guys put on some pants and go hang around a coffee shop somewhere? I’m the kind of guy who prefers to shower, get dressed, and get the heck out of Dodge. I have no real desire to stand around in my all-togethers and discuss farming, the Today Show, or my sore back with the N.O.G.s.

But sometimes you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you’re somehow unwittingly dragged into a conversation that you can’t get out of. That’s what happened yesterday.

One of the biggest, baddest, hairiest, nakedest N.O.G.s is a fellow named Klaus. Klaus usually shows up at about 7:00 AM, about the time I’m heading to the showers. As is tradition with the N.O.G. club, Klaus immediately buys a one-way ticket to Nakedtown, then strolls around the YAC, looking for someone to talk to.

Or, in Klaus’ case, he usually ends up sitting on the bench outside the shower, waiting for people to come to him to chat.

Now, there are two HUGE problems with this scenario:

#1 – Klaus has manners that are…how shall we say… piggish at best. He likes to park his naked hairy ass on the shower bench, and then proceeds to belch and/or break wind for a good ten minutes. He then describes out loud what the experience was like for him:

“BUUUUURRRRPP! Oh, excuse me, but I feel much better now!”
“BRRRRRRAAACCK! Whew – excuse me! Too much broccoli!”

You get the picture.

Problem #2 with Burping/Farting/Naked Klaus on the Bench is this:

#2 – He likes to sit spread eagle.

Memo to self: I DON’T need to see that!

Now, I’m sure that in the outside world (where he is fully clothed, his knees are firmly together, and his bodily emissions are in check), Klaus is a nice guy. He speaks three languages fluently, and he’s always been nice to me. I mean, it’d be much worse if naked-hairy-farting-burping-spread eagle Klaus was also a jerk. So I have to give the man some benefit of the doubt. It’s just that…I don’t have any real desire to look at his nakedness and beyond every morning as I get out of the shower. I’m much prefer to just towel off, get dressed, then get the hell out of there.

But not yesterday.

I got out of the shower, and there was Klaus, naked on his bench, his knees pointing towards polar opposites, burping away. (I actually already knew he was there, because you can hear his burping from a city block away. He’d make any good frat boy weep with pride, I’m telling you.)

Anyway, Klaus was there, waiting for someone to chat with. And since I was the only one within a 10 yard radius at the time, I was the one.

As I said, if it were up to me I’d just as soon get dressed and be on my merry little way. So I tried to keep the pleasantries to a minimum, and without being overly rude to the hairy naked man who was now showing me parts of his anatomy best reserved for his proctologist's point of view, I made my best attempt to get away.

But no. Klaus would have none of that. He wanted to chat, and he was not going to be ignored, you know. Turns out he’s an instructor at the same college I attend, and last week he happened to spot me in the halls. Conveniently, we had an outside common bond that was perfect fodder for a N.O.G. conversation! So he wanted to talk about my classes. Then he wanted to talk about some of the other instructors I have had. He then wanted to discuss my future education plans.

It was 10 minutes of this – Me, Naked Klaus, and his Full Southern Exposure.

I tried getting away – I really did. There I was, half wet and not really enjoying my nudist game of 20 Questions, yet I just couldn’t seem to escape. Every time I moved closer to the doorway, Klaus would ask something else.

I had three real choices – I could be an inconsiderate shmuck and run away, I could feign illness and/or tardiness and quickly slip out and hope that I wasn’t overly rude, or I could stand there and take one for the N.O.G. team. You see, I knew that there were other N.O.G.s wandering around behind me, yet none of them offered to tag-team with me and take my place at the Alter of Klaus. Bastards – all of ‘em.

Anyway, after about 10 minutes of talk with the naked man, I was finally able to escape when someone else came out of the steam room and made the mistake of asking Klaus about what he’d been eating lately, because as he said, “the steam room smells like sauerkraut farts.” Klaus’ attention was immediately diverted to the thought of new, interesting aromas wafting from down the hall, and I was able to back out slowly. I was then able to get dressed and get the heck out of there, before anyone else was able to nominate ol’ Tommy as the perfect inductee to the N.O.G. society.

Long story short, I got there this A.M., and there was Klaus’ swimsuit and towel on his bench, waiting for him. (Old King Cole called for his pipe and fiddlers three; Old King Klaus called for his towel and a glass of Alka-Seltzer.) But Klaus was nowhere to be seen – was he in the steam room, adding to the noxious aromas?

I didn’t stick around to find out. A 30 second shower, and I was a goner. Bing, Bang, Bye. No Naked Klaus tales (or tails) today.

So let this serve as a warning to all you guys out there – athletic clubs aren’t always what they seem. If you join one, make sure you have plenty of stories ready to tell. Oh, and please bring a towel. Please.

Goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaalll!

Whoo-hoo! Aren’t you excited?

It’s World Cup soccer, man! It’s the U.S. versus the Czech Republic! Australia faces Japan! Italy takes on Ghana! Yeah!

Uh…no. You see, I’m a typical American, which means that Football Americano rules – Futbol Soccer is dull. And no matter how much FIFA and Nike try to shove soccer down our sports throats, I. Just. Don’t. Care.

What is it about us here in the States that we refuse to play along with international ways? First it was the metric system, then it was driving on the right, now it’s the World Cup soccer tournament. I can’t name a single Yankee that I know who is excited about watching soccer, yet there are people sitting not 10 feet away from me who’ll spend all afternoon watching golf (talk about your boring sports to watch!) or plan their weekend around the NFL draft. Go figure.

Personally, I have nothing against soccer. It’s just that…to me, it’s like watching paint dry. Run up the field, kick the ball. Run down the field, kick the ball. Get called for some silly penalty, have a yellow card waved in your face. Kick, kick, maybe a goal. Yawn, yawn, nighty-night.

I know that there are those out there who live, breathe, and drink (excessively, I’m sure) at the thought of World Cup soccer. It’s an excuse to party hearty with your mates, show your team spirit, and beat the living crap out of anyone who dares express an opinion other than yours. Why, that sounds like a banner way to spend a Saturday afternoon, doesn’t it?

And no – I’m not making fun of those who find soccer to be enjoyable. You probably think NASCAR is dumb. (Truth be told, so do I. I’m just not crazy enough to say that out loud around here.) Everyone has their favorite leisure time activity, whether it’s watching guys run up and down a grassy field kicking a little black and white ball or smacking a little rubber puck across the ice with sticks or lobbing a tennis ball back and forth on a clay court until someone misses and grunts. To each his own – God bless America and the rest of the world.

Still, I won’t be watching any of the World Cup this year. Or probably any year. I’ve got better things to do with my time.

Besides, this weekend it’s Tarver vs. Hopkins in a 12 round battle for the light-heavyweight boxing championship of the world. Now, THAT’S a sport.

Disney Dreams

It’s no secret that my two favorite places in the world are Disneyland and Walt Disney World. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a Disney junkie, and have been since age 4.

So it was stunning delight that I saw this new promotion that Uncle Walt’s company is going to start on Oct 1 to promote their theme parks:

* * * * *

During 'Year of a Million Dreams' Celebration Disney Cast Members to Award a Million Magical Dreams

From an overnight stay inside Cinderella Castle to a Golden FASTPASS, dreams big and small will come true at Disneyland and Walt Disney World resorts during Disney's "Year of a Million Dreams," a first-of-its-kind celebration of the individual dreams of Disney Parks guests.

The year-long celebration, beginning Oct. 1, 2006, at Disneyland Resort in California and Walt Disney World Resort in Florida, will feature the debut of an incredible lineup of new attractions and entertainment at both Disneyland and Walt Disney World resorts, plus new technologies that allow guests to customize their Disney park experience.

And, for the first time, during the "Year of a Million Dreams" celebration, Disney cast members will award a million dreams -- both large and small, including many "money-can't-buy" experiences -- to guests selected through a random process as part of a unique "Disney Dreams Giveaway" promotion.

The "impossible" includes the creation of over-the-top, overnight experiences for winning guests at both East and West Coast resorts: a royal bedchamber inside Cinderella Castle at Walt Disney World Resort and a Mickey Mouse Penthouse at Disneyland Resort, both expected to be complete by January 2007.

A day of royal treatment will end with a night of enchantment inside Cinderella Castle for a different lucky guest each night. Cinderella's royal bedchamber, now under construction at Magic Kingdom, will allow Disney guests to stay overnight inside the park and enjoy a view shared only by Tinker Bell. The lavishly decorated bedroom will be located in a space originally planned as an in-park apartment for the use of the Disney family.

And for a lucky Disneyland guest, each night, the all-new Mickey Mouse Penthouse at Disneyland Hotel will pour on the Mickey charm and include magical views overlooking both Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure parks. The extraordinary penthouse will be decorated in all things Mickey, with finishing touches by none other than Minnie Mouse herself.

* * * * *

Wow, pretty freaking cool, no? But wait – it gets even better.

* * * * *

In addition, during the year-long celebration, other Disney dreams both large and small will be awarded in the "Disney Dreams Giveaway" promotion, such as:

* Traveling to each Disney resort around the world to serve as grand marshal in a Disney parade.
* A variety of unique Disney vacation experiences.
* Admission to special parties and other extraordinary experiences in the Disneyland and Walt Disney World parks.
* Private meetings with favorite Disney characters.
* Or, a Golden FASTPASS ticket with unique access entitlements to some of Disney's most popular attractions.

* * * * * *

I probably don’t have to tell you that my arm just about went numb when I read that. One million giveaways? One million exclusive Disney dreams? One million ways to have fun with Mickey & Pals that you’ll never, ever forget?

Excuse me for a minute while I breathe into a paper bag.

Okay, okay, I’m calm now. My pulse is back down to semi-normal, and the tidal wave of adrenaline is slowly ebbing. (You may think I’m kidding about my excitement, but just ask The Lovely Mrs. G. – she knows differently.)

Regardless of how this all plays out, it looks like it’ll be a really incredibly cool promotion. Who wouldn’t want to spend the night in Cinderella’s castle? Oh, sure – I suspect there’s some sourpuss out there who’d bitch about all the noise from the fireworks ruining their night’s sleep, but I know I’d trade a kidney for the honor. (Although I probably wouldn’t sleep at all – I’d spend my time on the balcony looking out and smiling all night.)

So I’ve entered the official sweepstakes, and will continue to do so once a day, per the rules. Because as my dear mother always says, “Someone has to win”. Plus, my odds have to be slightly better than Powerball, don’t you think?

Yes, it’s a tragic curse to be (almost) 41 years old yet still get giddy at the thought of a Disney vacation. But it’s a curse I’m willing to live with until I’m 101.

But I wonder (as I often do when I really should be working): If I won, and if I had my choice, what would my Ultimate Dream Disney Experience be? I mean, I’ve already had a lot of amazing and rare Disney moments. I’ve had a Disneyland parade in my honor. I’ve eaten at Disneyland’s exclusive Club 33 restaurant – twice, in fact. I’ve toured the Disney archives, I’ve got to hold one of Walt Disney’s Academy awards, I got to visit Walt’s Main Street apartment.

So I’ve been incredibly fortunate so far – what could possibly top all of that?

Here’s what I came up with – my Top 3 Disney Dream Wishes. Keep in mind that these are Blue Sky dreams – if anything and everything was mine – all I had to do was ask the Genie.

1 – Grand Marshal in Disney Parades in Every Disney Park – This is actually one of the prizes they’re giving away. There’s 2 parks in California, 4 in Florida, 2 in France, 2 in Japan, and 1 in Hong Kong. I’d be a lot of traveling, but it’d be worth it.

2 – A private party at the Magic Kingdom for me and 1,000 of my closest friends. We’d have the entire park to ourselves – food, attractions, you name it. (Of course, I’d invite all of you – it’s only polite.) The only caveat would be that all of my Disney trivia buddies would also be there, so you’d probably have to put up with an endless stream of trivial babbling from a couple hundred Disney fanatics, but I still think it’d be fun. Besides, I’d probably be the one doing most of the babbling, so there.

3 – I’d like to go back to 1972, to my first visit to Disneyland when I was 7. (Hey, you said I could ask for anything.) I’d like to go on Peter Pan’s flight with my Dad again. I’d like experience that thrill of meeting Mickey for the first time again. (See the above photo – I’d probably wear cooler pants this time.) I’d like to be able to sit next to my parents, have a Pepsi and a bag of Fritos, and watch Wally Boag and Slue Foot Sue at the Golden Horseshoe Saloon again. I’d like to ride through Pirates of the Caribbean with my sisters and brother once more. I’d like to see the 999 happy haunts in the Haunted Mansion through fresh, awed eyes. I’d like to ride through the painted desert with my Mom, and have her point out the painted pots and tumbling rocks and you-can-barely-see-him rattlesnake. Yep, that’s what I’d want.

Of course, I’d somehow have to figure out how to take The Lovely Mrs. G. and Miss Katie in the Wayback Machine with me, because it wouldn’t be a vacation without them.

So there you go – Disney Dreams a-plenty. I’ll keep on dreaming – and entering the contest. And who knows – with a little luck and some pixie dust, maybe I can say “I’m going to Disneyland/Walt Disney World/Disneyland Paris/Tokyo Disneyland/Hong Kong Disneyland!” on Super Bowl Sunday.

"Crappucino", Anyone?

It’s blasted hot here in the Heartland (mid 90’s), and they’ve cranked the air conditioning up to “teeth chattering” today. Hey, I’m not really complaining – usually it’s set just a notch above “sweltering”. There must be some V.I.P.s in town – normally they don’t turn on all the hall lights and splurge on luxuries such as A.C. for us commoners.

Isn’t it funny the things companies will do as “cost savings measures”? I suppose I should be thankful that we don’t have to bring our own T.P. from home as some people do, but c’mon – reusing the coffee grounds twice is beyond “cost saving” – that just reeks of “cheap”.

Speaking of coffee, let me tell you what the Lovely Mrs. G. and her office staff has been drinking lately. She works in a small office, where the owner/boss found online a special blend of Indonesian coffee beans. But these beans aren’t harvested in the traditional manner – no sirree, they come out of a cat’s ass.

Now, the following tale is going to get somewhat…gross. So I apologize now, and hope that you won’t read this right before lunch. Or coffee break.

Anyway, her office has been enjoying something called Kopi Luwak coffee, which is supposedly a “gourmet delight”. It seems that there’s this Asian feline called the “palm civet” (paradoxurus hermaphroditus) that enjoys eating coffee beans right off the bush. Sounds okay so far, right? But that’s when the magic begins.

For you see, when nature does it’s trick, and Mr. Kitty has to use the “facilities”, the coffee beans don’t digest, so they come out and fall to the earth. Yes, just like peanuts, corn, and stolen diamonds do. So when the Big Kitty uses it’s jungle-based litter box equivalent, voila -- out comes the miracle product -- cat crap coffee.

Oh, sure – they wash off the “waste materials”, leaving just the undigested coffee beans behind. And some say that it provides a unique flavor that can be described as “earthy, musty, syrupy, and smooth with rich, jungle undertones with hints of chocolate and caramel.” Well, I’m fairly sure the “unique” part of that statement is accurate.

Funny how you don’t find that listed on your local Starbucks menu, isn’t it?

Now, I have a million questions about this culinarily odd beverage. First, who the hell was the first person who thought it would be a good idea to consume a product that comes out of a cat’s rectum? I mean, I see my cat’s litter box every morning, and never once has it crossed my mind to scoop up a big chunk of his post-dinner #2 and brew it into a hot cup of joe.

Next, I have to wonder who came up with the brilliant idea to market cat crap coffee to the masses? This stuff apparently sells all over the world, for prices upwards of $300 a pound or more.

Hey, perhaps P.T. Barnum was right! I could open a large can of Folgers, give Jack and Tasha an extra can of 9-Lives “Super Supper”, and go into business! If they’re willing to pay $300 a pound for imported cat crap coffee, maybe they’ll give me $150 a pound for some locally grown, totally organic C.C. java? (And – if Jack happens to catch a mole and/or mouse, we’ll call that the “special roast” and charge another $20.)

As you can probably assume, there’s no way I’m ever going to drink cat crap coffee. Never. I don’t care if I’m dying of thirst in the desert, and the only two beverages available are gushing oil from an oasis or a gallon of iced kitty poo mochas – I’m choosing the Texas Tea. Yes, I know that honey is basically bee puke, but that’s different. Don’t ask me how exactly, but it is.

But The Lovely Mrs. G. and her co-workers had the pleasure of trying the Kopi Luwak coffee, thanks to her generous/semi-wicked boss. And she says she didn’t seem to mind it. She says the flavor is actually weaker than the dark roasts she’s used to, but overall it was pretty good.

I’ll take her word for it and stick with Diet Pepsi, if it's all the same to you.

Road Rage: The Newest Illness?

From the front page of today’s “No Shit, Sherlock” magazine:

* * * * * *

Study: 16 million might have road rage disorder
Doctors say condition is far more common than they thought

CHICAGO, Illinois (AP) -- To you, that angry, horn-blasting tailgater is suffering from road rage. But doctors have another name for it -- intermittent explosive disorder -- and a new study suggests it is far more common than they realized, affecting up to 16 million Americans.

"People think it's bad behavior and that you just need an attitude adjustment, but what they don't know ... is that there's a biology and cognitive science to this," said Dr. Emil Coccaro, chairman of psychiatry at the University of Chicago's medical school.

Road rage, temper outbursts that involve throwing or breaking objects and even spousal abuse can sometimes be attributed to the disorder, though not everyone who does those things is afflicted.

By definition, intermittent explosive disorder involves multiple outbursts that are way out of proportion to the situation. These angry outbursts often include threats or aggressive actions and property damage. The disorder typically first appears in adolescence; in the study, the average age of onset was 14.

* * * * * * *

Swell. Next thing you know, some jackass who was late for his tee time is going to plead mental illness in court as the reason he mowed down that entire family in the crosswalk. “But your honor, you can’t throw me in prison for 20 years. I have intermittent explosive disorder!”

Here’s to hoping that our judicial system decides to treat “intermittent explosive disorder” with “extended solitary incarceration therapy.”

Happy Bloggerversary!

Besides being a day of perceived evil, June 6, 2006 is also the first anniversary for this blog. Wow, can you believe it? A year of my rants. Time flies when you’re having a snarky good time, doesn’t it?

In the past 365 days, I’ve somehow managed to squeeze in time to write 230 blog entries (counting this one). Some would call that “prolific” – others would call it “a great big waste of time”. History will decide.

I started this blog a year ago to express my own personal dismay at the prospects of turning 40 (which I did with an admirable job, I must say), but over time it evolved into more than just some Midwesterner bitching about getting old. I’ve used it as a forum to mock celebrities (and those who mistakenly think that they’re “celebrities”), and it’s given me a chance to express some of my thoughts on the world around us – both serious (war, international relations) and seriously messed up (Bush, Cheney). I’ve written about my current hometown, my life as a young smart-aleck on the West coast, and my dreams of packing it in and moving East here in the near future. My 25 month “escape plan” is down to only 13 months to go, and I’m starting to see that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

Regular readers (and you know who you are!) now know about my jobs, my quest for higher education, my lovely bride, my cranky old cat, and my love of writing. Oh, sure – I may embellished a bit here and there, but what’s the fun of writing if you can’t make the story come out the way you want it to?

Good or bad days, amusing or solemn, deep or fluffy – it’s all been here for the world to see. Which still surprises me, since in real life I’m a pretty shy person who rarely spills his guts to anyone. Maybe this is my form of therapy, only without the ink blots and $300 an hour fees? Either way, it’s been good to me.

So what does the next year include? Well, more than likely you’ll find more of the same jovial/occasionally bitchy commentary about life and its ups and downs from yours truly. In the next year I intend on finishing and graduating from college, traveling a bit, and making final preparations to pack up my family and move them out of Iowa. Will I hit all of my goals as planned? That’s to be determined. But with a little luck and the occasional smile, the ride should at least be fun.

So happy bloggerversary to you – thanks for coming along for the ride.

Now…what’s there to comment on next?

The Dark Side of June 6

So tomorrow is June 6, 2006, and it seems that half the world is freaking out about it.

Don’t believe me? Well, then – check out these headlines:

06-06-06 - Number of the Beast?

6/6/06: A Date with the Devil?

June 6 Causes a Stir Among Superstitious

Curiosity, Humor Surround June 6, 2006

June 6, 2006 stirs superstitions

Yes, it’s June 6, 2006. Whereas under normal circumstances, it’d be just another Tuesday filled with pot roast leftovers, warm weather, lawns to be mowed, and a TV set crammed with reruns. But this year? Everyone is taking it as a sign of the apocalypse, despite the fact that it was scheduled on the calendar…oh, thousands of years ago. Do you suppose people freaked out this badly on June 6, 1966? Or June 6, 1906? Probably.

There has always been such a bad connection in people’s minds with the numbers 6 – 6 – 6. I knew a guy in Seattle who traded in his license plates because they had those numbers. The Reagans had the Post Office change their California house numbers changed from 666 to 668. When I worked for the pager service, we couldn’t give away pager numbers that ended with x666. Hell, even Intel marketed their Pentium 666 MHz processor as 667 MHz, to avoid any association to your PC having demonic possession. (Nowadays they'll blame it on Spyware and/or viruses, which we all know are programmed in Satan's dominion.)

But even if you’re not overly cautious, superstitious, worried, and/or religious, I suspect there’s probably a bit of karma risk involved here. Sure, you may scoff at the negative thoughts of living at 666 Main Street USA, but you’ll probably think twice about wanting to have a black cat for a pet. (And yes -- I’m sure there are people out there who are looking forward to celebrating this date for its purpose and intent – there’s always someone somewhere, right?)

And you really have to hand it to the people at 20th Century Fox – they’re using the date to their advantage – they’re releasing their remake of “The Omen” tomorrow. (The original was pretty scary, but add 10 points for the fact that I was about 11 when I first saw it.) One of the articles I read summed it up nicely:

“…Instead of dire warnings, a wave of skepticism is mounting over the other-worldly date that laymen and churchmen say has been hijacked by movie producers, book publishers and rock music promoters."It's marketing, marketing, marketing," said Bob Thompson, professor of pop culture at Syracuse University.”

So what was once considered “wicked” is now being used to push Hollywood’s merchandise. “Evil” does indeed come in many forms, doesn’t it? Regardless, I have to wonder how many pregnant women will keep their legs crossed extra hard tomorrow to keep their babies from being born on June 6.

So for those of us who fully expect to see the sun rise and set tomorrow as usual, I wish you a happy Tuesday. Because like my buddy Chernabog (pictured above), I think the morning light will make everything all right once again. Still, I’d suggest that you not walk underneath any ladders, and certainly don’t wear any pentagram-embossed t-shirts or black mass robes when crossing the street tomorrow.

For the rest of you who’ll be hiding in the basement…well then I’ll see you Wednesday.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, fear of the number sequence 666 is known as hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia. So now you know.

I’d Walk a Mile For a Camel Burger

I’m back on my diet again now, thanks to my bad habit of confusing chocolate cake & ice cream as two of the four basic food groups. I did a really good job of sticking to my diet for a long time, but the past year? Let’s just say that I “fell off the wagon” more times than Lindsay Lohan over a holiday weekend in Vegas...

Anyway, I’m trying the whole low carb thing again, since it worked pretty well before. But that means your primary source of all things edible is MEAT. Burgers and chicken and pork chops, oh my! It gets old after a while, but I suppose it’s better than trying to convince yourself that Snickers and Doritos makes for a balanced meal.

So with that in mind, let me share this article I saw online yesterday about a different type of meat product that may soon be coming to your grocer’s freezer:

* * * * *

Steak Desert Style: Camel Kebabs

DAMASCUS, Syria: There's no question about the type of meat served at the Camel Gathering Place restaurant.

Camels — stuffed and in pictures — are everywhere. Half a dozen men wait to order camel at the popular little neighborhood restaurant; the line stretches out the door. Behind the counter a man works feverishly, squeezing ground meat onto skewers. Waiters glide by carrying plates of grilled camel, bread and roasted vegetables.

The Camel Gathering Place is so popular that the manager says it sells meat from one camel a week. That's a lot of meat, considering the desert animals weigh up to 1,000 pounds.

Camel is beloved in many Persian Gulf countries for the same reason Americans love hamburgers — it's cheap and tasty.

The kebabs served at the Camel Gathering Place have all the consistency and juiciness of a medium-rare steak. The meat's mild flavor resembles that of filet mignon, and camel is lower in fat than other types of meat; many locals opt for camel over the favored lamb.

The camel's most distinctive feature doesn't get cast into a sand dune, either. Some say the hump — which is made up of fatty tissue, not water — is the most flavorful part. It's so delicious that some people prefer to eat it raw.

* * * * * * *

So there you have it – we’ve graduated from Ground Round to buffalo to ostrich to camel. Mmmm, mmmm, that’s fine cookin'.

Now, I can’t say that I’m thrilled at the prospects to sitting down to a lovely meal of Camel Hump Pot Roast or Camel Nose Flambe’. (And we’ll leave the “camel toe” jokes out of this, thankyouverymuch.) For some odd reason – and it may just be me – a Camel and Swiss on Rye doesn’t exactly whet my appetite.

Besides, when you think “Camel”, doesn’t this guy come to mind?

So a camel steak with a side of tar & nicotine just doesn’t strike me as being “Good Eats”.

But who knows – it was probably not that long ago that people scoffed at the thought of eating “gator bites” or artificially colored/flavored/dyed “krab”. So it’s quite possible that camel will be the next big thing in the culinary world. If you happen to see Emeril dousing a big filet-o’-camel with garlic, you know that a trend is on it’s way.

…And here’s to hoping that the next big meat-du-jour isn’t penguin.

Landin' a Whopper

Quote of the day:

"I once told a lie...THIS...BIG!"