A Bicycle Built For "Two"

Yesterday was the last day for this year’s RAGBRAI – the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. It’s an annual get-together for bicyclists, where they spend 8 days riding from one side of Iowa to the other, just to say that they did.

Since the route across the Hawkeye State is 400-some miles long (on the winding path they take), it’s not one of those things for those of you who rent a surrey once a year while at the beach. If you decide to go next year, you’d better be ready for an average of 65 miles of pedaling per day. And no – you can’t hitchhike. (Okay, you probably *could*, but it’s frowned upon.)

They traditionally start somewhere here in Western Iowa, dipping their rear tires in the Missouri River. Then when they end up on the Iowa/Illinois state line 8 days later, they dip the front tire in the Mighty Mississippi. Odd, I know. But this is what qualifies as “entertainment” here in the corn fields. This year's ride stared in Sergeant Bluff, just south of Sioux City.

Anyway, I heard this AM that 12,000 people from all over the country and a few other countries officially showed up for this year’s ride, along with upwards of 30,000 other bicyclists who just rode along for fun. Some people went for one day or two – some people only went for a few miles.

Me? I stayed away.

It’s not that I hate bicycling. I just don’t think pedaling uphill for 30 miles is a fun way to spend an afternoon. I’d much rather drop the top on the convertible, put the gas pedal to the floor, and climb every mountain in style. Why grunt and groan and risk one helluva charley horse when you can have the stereo and A/C blasting?

When I was a kid I had a bike, which I rode until I was probably 16 or so. I used it on my paper route – it was a lot easier to throw 40 pounds of newspapers over your banana seat than your shoulders. It made getting around easier, back in the days when a car was only a pipe dream.

But I also had a 10-speed. A nice, brown, slick, ram-handle barred 10-speed. Which I never rode.

Why? Simple math. My 10-speed had a 27-inch cross bar. And I had a 25-inch inseam. So to stand on the ground, I had to stand on my toes – my feet couldn’t touch the ground without my cash & prizes meeting the bar. Which happened just about every time I fell.

And fell I did. The 10-speed was far too big for me, even with the seat lowered as far as it goes. Yet stubborn pride and the need to look cool kept me climbing back up on that ballbreaker for several months after my first crash.

I prayed every night that I would grow – please God, just 3 inches taller, and I won’t hurt myself on a daily basis any longer. But it wasn’t to be. I was short, my bike was tall, and I had two choices – ride it and risk permanent injury and/or a high-pitched voice, or ditch the 10-speed bean-masher and walk for the rest of my life.

In the end, I surrendered my 10-speed. It was just too much of a wince-worthy pain to ride. And I did grow –6 inches – the summer after high school graduation. But by that point I had access to a car, and a 10-speed wasn’t going to get me around like a ‘72 Chevy Impala would.

So that ended my bike riding days. But maybe someday I’ll hop back on one, and give it another try. They say you never forget how.

But next time I’ll take a tape measure to the bike shop with me.

Why Grow Up?

There’s yet another interesting article online today about a new book that proclaims to prove what I’ve known for years -- that it’s okay to never completely grow up.

I fully understand this concept. Why, I’m the guy who wears a Mickey Mouse tie to formal events. I’d rather go to Disneyland or WDW than just about any other place on Earth. I take great delight in new Disney DVDs and Pixar movies.

Who says that once you turn 40 you have to become an old fuddy-duddy? Life is short, baby. Enjoy it while you can. And if playing with toys or stuffing your face with s’mores or riding Pirates of the Caribbean until you puke makes you happy, then I say go for it.

As for the naysayers, well they can go put on a sweater, yell at the neighbor kids to stay off their lawn, and complain about the weather while they slowly become prunes.

Nope. Not me. I’ll keep my youth alive and well for as long as I possibly can. And with any luck, I’ll still be in line for Splash Mountain with a chocolate-dipped frozen banana in one hand and The Lovely Mrs. G’s hand in the other, smiling away when I’m 90 on the outside.

‘Cause I’ll still be 12 on the inside.

* * * * *
Rejuveniles" reinvent meaning of adulthood

Mom is at a pajama party. Dad is organizing a rock, paper, scissors tournament. Will they ever grow up and start behaving like adults or are they part of a new breed of "rejuveniles?"

Playful adults -- those who refuse to give up fun just because they have a mortgage -- are redefining what it means to be a grown-up in the 21st century, says writer Chris Noxon.

"Once upon a time boys and girls grew up and set aside childish things. Nowadays adults buy cars marketed to consumers half their age, dress in schoolyard fashions and play with their children in ways adults of previous generations would have found ridiculous.

"Most have busy lives and adult responsibilities. They are not stunted adolescents. They are something new: rejuveniles," said Noxon.

Noxon's book "Rejuvenile: Kickball, Cartoons, Cupcakes, and the Reinvention of the American Grown Up" explores a world of skateboarding moms, judges who visit Disneyland at least once a month -- without kids -- and "playalong parents" who have as much (and sometimes more) fun than their kids at watergun tournaments, tag and dodgeball.

Cars like the VW Beetle and the Lego-shaped Honda Element have gone cute, macaroni and cheese is back on the menu, and the "Hello Kitty" cartoon cat grins on everything from toasters to vibrators.

Noxon, 37, discovered his own rejuvenile tendencies a few years ago. "I had a couple of kids, a minivan, a mortgage and a pretty high-stressed job but I didn't really feel like an adult," the Los Angeles writer told Reuters.

Asking around, he found plenty of people who felt the same. "So many of the people I talked to said there were huge parts of them that felt pretty childlike, or childish. I felt I had stumbled into a fairly dramatic shift in our understanding of what adulthood is," he said.

In two years of research, Noxon found that half of the people who visit Disneyworld are adults without kids, making the theme park the most popular adult vacation destination in the world, and more 18-34-year-olds watch Cartoon Network than CNN or any other cable news channel.

Noxon says the trend is not confined to the United States. In Britain, rejuveniles are called "grups" or "kidults" and in Japan a thriving kid culture provides a stark contrast between adult playtime and the serious job of work.

Noxon attributes much of the trend to the fact that people are having children later, living longer and have more disposable income. But youth culture along with the so-called age of anxiety have also played a part.

* * * * *

This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

So it just wasn’t my weekend.

Some (insert your choice of vularities here) vandalized my car on Saturday night. I left it parked on the street, and they broke off my passenger side mirror. There was also the mark of a footprint on my passenger side window, so it looks like the scumbag tried to kick in the window, too.

Because I was parked up against the curb (where a car couldn’t get to it), and the fact that there’s a large footprint on the window where I’d just washed it hours earlier, I know it was some punk walking by who did it – it wasn’t a sideswipe from a car.

Why would someone do that? There was nothing to gain by random acts of violence against my car. The Lovely Mrs. G. suspects it was probably some meth-head who was trying to break into cars. When he couldn’t get into mine (and saw the alarm light), he took out his frustrations on my mirror.

Swell. So now I’m looking at the cost of having to repair my car, plus the inconvenience of dealing with body shops and (possibly) insurance.

I called the cops, but the Boys in Blue of Sioux City apparently blew me off, because they never showed up at my house. Finally last night at about 11:15 a dispatcher called me. “We just had a shift change, and I don’t know why they haven’t been out to see you yet. Are you still up?” Well, no – I wasn’t. I’d already waited 5 ½ hours, and I was tired. So we’ll see if they come back today.

I’m mad as hell, but most of all I’m frustrated. We’ve dealt with a lot of petty crimes since we’ve lived in this town, and although I may be unfairly blaming Sioux City as a whole for the crimes against us, it’s still infuriating. When I add it all together, we’ve been stung by criminals a lot in this city – a whole lot more than I ever experienced when living the “bad part” of Seattle.

I’ll get past this, but it won’t be easy. I’m just tried of being the victim in other people’s evil ways.

We're Going to Walt Disney World!

"Tom Gressel: You’ve worked hard, you’ve studied hard, and you & your darling wife really, really, really deserve a vacation. What are you going to do next?"

Do you really need to ask?

Yesterday I officially bought plane tickets for the Lovely Mrs. G. and I for 10 days of fun, sun, & Mickey in central Florida. We’ll spend a couple of days out at the beach, then it’s 8 days in Lake Buena Vista, baby! We’ll play in the parks, check out the community, and have one helluva ball.

So now I’ve got my air taken care of, I’ve reserved a hotel, and I’ve booked a rental car. What else? I just need to score some park tickets, and make a couple of dining reservations, and we’re set. What more could a vacation-craving couple want?

I’m a pretty lucky guy – I love spending days on end researching my Disney trips, and the Lovely Mrs. G. is a good sport and generally lets me pick out whatever I want to see/do. In return, I try to give her a magical time, and for the most part, I usually succeed. She’s a good travel partner, and a wonderful person to hang around in Fantasyland with.

It’s been almost 6 years since we last went to WDW. Far too long, in my Disney Freakish opinion, but what can you do? It’s 1700 miles away; too far for a weekend getaway. So we’ll make up for lost time with a week on the Epcot Death March™. (Although I have promised Mrs. G. that I won’t drag her around the parks from opening to close, I’ll have to work really hard at that.)

But this trip is more than just a vacation/mad dash through Mickey’s Playground. We’re also using it as a scouting mission, to check out neighborhoods where we may want to live next year. There won’t be any pressure/rush of interviewing, so we’ll be able to look around and see what we like without having to just hurry up and pick something.

I want to be able to look around Orlando and vicinity through the eyes of a local, and not just a tourist. How is the traffic? How are the houses? What neighborhoods meet our needs? Stuff like that.

So we’ll call this a vacation/precursor to moving. Either way, it’ll be a blast.

So save me a seat in the Pirates of the Caribbean, mateys, cause the Gressels will be on board here shortly. Argh!

Hotterenell

This screen shot is actually from a couple of days ago. It officially topped out at 102.

Say what you will, but I'd still much rather deal with this heat than 20 below zero freeze-your-butt cold. Wouldn't you?

Some people. I swear.

Today, let’s talk about the dark side of…adultery.

No, not mine. Definitely not mine. I’m not that kind of boy. Not now, not ever. Are we clear on that? Good.

Nope – let’s talk about this idiot named Peter Cook, and his ability to keep his toys in his own room.

You see, Peter was married to (onetime) Uptown Girl Christie Brinkley. This Christie Brinkley.

And yet despite being hitched to one of the hottest women in the past 30 years, ol' Pistol Pete has been a naughty, naughty boy, and decided to share his ‘private bidniss’ with a young lady 33 years younger than his wife.

* * * * * *
Brinkley Separation Explodes in Scandal

NEW YORK - The recent separation of Christie Brinkley and her fourth husband, Peter Cook, exploded in scandal Monday when a 19-year-old former employee of Cook's claimed he seduced her with lavish gifts while married to Brinkley.

Brinkley, the 52-year-old supermodel, last week announced through her publicist Elliot Mintz that she and Cook had separated. They married in 1996 and have a daughter.

On Monday, 19-year-old Diana Bianchi emerged in press reports as a central figure in the separation. Bianchi's attorney, Joseph Tacopina, claimed that she will be a "vital witness" should the couple pursue divorce.

Tacopina told The Associated Press that Cook "first lured this girl into his web by employing her ... and then showering her with gifts." He described their relationship as consensual, but claimed Cook's role as employer and his gifts of a car, money and jewelry could possibly constitute sexual harassment.
* * * * * *
It just seems stupid to me to go out and cheat on your spouse anyway, but when you’re married to a supermodel? That’s like having filet mignon, but running out for a Big Mac. I guess Pete can be thankful that she's already wealthy; that way she won't have to (but probably should anyway) take him to the poorhouse. But just wait until his young miss decides that she needs a multimillion dollar settlement for the pain and suffering he caused her on the job... You just know it's coming, don't you?

And yes – I’m sure that there is an excuse out there somewhere for his behavior. Every cheater has an excuse of some sort. But I didn’t say it’d be a good excuse, because I do admit that I am Mr. Tommy-High-And-Mighty-Gressel who can’t think of any legitimate reason for sneaking around on your wife/husband/life partner.

Infidelity may be one of the very few things in this world that I’m decidedly old fashioned about, but I don’t care. If you’re married, then you’re married. If you want to go play in someone else’s playground, then you’d best remember your wedding vows. So there. I’ll get off my monogomy soapbox now.

Anyway, Christie and Peter are headed to Divorce Court and 6 months of Entertainment Tonight/Access Hollywood headlines. The girl that Rotten Pete was banging is destined for the New York Post, Dr. Phil, and maybe a Playboy photo shoot (if she’s lucky and desperate for money) before her 15 minutes of fame burns completely out. Pete & Christie’s daughter is looking at years of therapy. Are there really any winners here - all for a little strange?

And as for me? Well, I’ll still me the same old Tommy G. – madly in love with Mrs. G., glad to have her as my wife. And even happier I’m not the featured story on Inside Edition.

Hell, I'd Cry, Too.

What's with this guy that he makes every child he holds burst into tears?

A couple of months ago I posted another photo of a crying toddler in the hands of the Commander in Chief. Babies must be able to sense evil - that's got to be it. Either that, or his cold, souless body was too chilly for the little's one sensitive skin.

They're Trained Professionals! Honest!

We’re now deep into the summer movie season, and from what I hear, Pirates is the place to be. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I haven’t had a chance yet to go see Captain Jack Sparrow and friends, but we will here shortly – I promise.

In the meantime, I thought I’d show you one of the more clever things I’ve seen come out of a movie studio marketing department in a long time. No, it’s not yet another “Snakes on a Plane” fan-boy tribute. There are enough of those already floating around. (Side note: This is one movie that’d better live up to the hype, isn’t it? People have been drooling over SoaP for months now.)

Anyway, I thought I’d show you the official logo for Paramount Picture’s newest “Jackass” movie:

Funny-yet-crude, no? Even if you don’t like the concept of watching 6 idiots doing disgusting/dangerous/downright gross stunts, you have to appreciate the logo. Plus, calling it “Number Two” makes it all that much more repulsive.

I actually appreciate them calling it “Number Two”, since I once wrote a first-person POV story about a guy who is trapped in a women’s restroom. (It’s a Mexican restaurant, and he didn’t know the difference between “Senors” and “Senoritas”.) The title? “Looking Out For Number Two.” Ask nicely, and maybe I’ll post it here someday.

Anyway, Miss Katie and I rented the first Jackass movie a few years back. (The Lovely Mrs. G. had the good sense to skip the viewing. I still think she’s a better person for it.) I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was offended or appalled or anything like that, but I will admit to gagging when I saw the guy eat the “yellow sno-cone”. Ick.

As a kid I was never one to do anything that would be considered “Jackass Worthy”. The kids in my neighborhood used to like to climb the elementary school’s portables, and then jump from building to building, hoping to successfully make the leap across the 6-foot without splatting on the ground below, but I never tried it. Call me chicken, but the thought of not quite jumping far enough was enough to keep my feet solidly on the ground.

Then when I was 20, I joined the guys in the ‘hood for a pretty awesome bottle rocket fight that led to enough burns and ringing ears to maybe make it in Johnny Knoxville’s circle, but it wasn’t until we ran out of fireworks and one of the (drunk) dudes broke out the next closest thing – highway safety flares – that things got really out of hand. I don’t think there was any of us who went home that night without at least a dozen holes burned in our clothes, and 21 years later, several of the guys probably still have the burn scars to help them remember that night.

But nowadays I’m grown, responsible, and have a mortgage to pay. I can’t go to work if I’m in traction from riding down the street in a dumpster, and I don’t think The Lovely Mrs. G. would be a good sport about “tidying me up” if I was in a full body cast from something so stupid. So I’ll leave the nutty stunts to the professionals.

Oh, and as far as Jackass 2 goes? I probably won’t be seeing it theatrically, either. But maybe – just maybe – if it’s on late night cable one night someday, I’ll turn it on and laugh at other people’s idiotic hobbies.

It’s safer that way.

Floors Clean Enough to Eat Off?

The men's room today at work smells like apple pie. My manager Skippy Whitebread says that they actually smell more like Sour Apple Jolly Ranchers, but take it from someone who spent 3 years working in a bakery - that scent is definitely apple pie.

They must be trying out a new & improved, 100-calorie, low carb disinfectant or something. Or it could be that a bunch of big shots from the corporate office are coming to town tomorrow, so maybe they are trying to get the usual funky scent of dirty ass/chewing tobacco out of the johns before their arrival.

It's a constant battle around here -- your bladder vs. the janitorial staff. Because they've got us all crammed into one building now, it's become necessary for the janitors to clean the potties three times a day - early in the AM, just before lunch, and again at about 2:45. So odds are fairly high that at the exact moment you need to go, the restrooms will be closed for maintenance. Murphy's Law #343 for #1 and/or #2.

It always works out that way – I secretly wonder if our bladders can sense when the bathroom is closed for cleaning, and that’s the time it decides to squeeze tight.

While it’d be fun to grouse about having to walk/waddle/squeeze your knees all the waaaaaaay down the hall to the other restrooms when you really have to go, I actually appreciate the fact that the W.C.s here get cleaned on a regular basis. Lord knows they can use them. The P-I-Gs around here usually spit their tobacco juice everywhere in there, and the floor is usually a sticky mess from mud, tobacco, and a wide variety of nasty liquids you’d rather not have me describe. So clean away, you hard working custodians! Clean away!

But for now, they smell like apple pie. And no - it's not like I want to hang around in there and enjoy the aroma all day, but it sure beats the alternative scents.

Does Size Really Matter?

That loud, heavy sighing/cooing/squeal of delight noise you hear this morning is coming from every single guy in America as he reads the following article:

* * * * * *

Matsushita to sell record 103-inch plasma TVs

TOKYO (Reuters) - Matsushita Electric Industrial Co. Ltd., the maker of Panasonic brand electronics, said on Monday it hoped to start selling the world's largest plasma television by early next year.

Measuring 2.4 meters by 1.4 meters and weighing 215 kg, the 103-inch panel is bigger than a double-sized mattress and almost as heavy as an upright piano.

The world's largest consumer electronics maker has yet to set the price but Matsushita's 65-inch plasma TVs, its largest available now, sell for about $7,500 in Japan.

The new panels will meet full high-definition specifications, meaning they can produce images at the highest standard of 1,920 by 1,080 pixels of resolution.

* * * * * *

Wow. A 103-inch television set. Makes you tingle in all sorts of places just thinking about it, doesn’t it?

I’ll admit to drooling over the thought of a TV set that is considerably taller than me. Admit it -- every red-blooded male does.

There are, however, two major obstacles to my Home Electronics Bigger is Better theory. One is the $7,500 price tag. Ouch. Even if I had $8 grand lying around to drop on home electronics, I would have a hard time spending that much cash on a TV. (Tightwad at heart, I know.)

Problem #2 is the fact that I really don’t have anywhere in my house to put a television of that size. Oh, sure – I suppose if the Lovely Mrs. G. were to somehow lose all sense of reason and allowed me to cut a hole in the wall, I may be able to slip the mega-set into our living room.

Of course, there’d be no place to sit, much less walk around the behemoth, and the 5:1 surround sound speakers would probably have to be mounted on the roof outside, but it could work. Theoretically, at least.

Still, it’d be fun to show off to your buddies. Just to watch them turn green with envy would be worth the investment.

So maybe someday I’ll find a way to get a giant television in through my front door. By then the average size plasma TV will probably be 400 inches, anyway.

A Tale of Two Mondays

So my typical Monday morning starts this way:

1 – Alarm goes off at 5:20.

2 – Drag myself down to the gym for an hour of exercise and experiences with the Naked Old Guys.

3 – Slog off to work, trying to force a smile onto my face.

4 – A couple of hours of e-mail, reports, paperwork, and pretending to be interested in being trapped in my cubicle for another 8 hours.

5 – A good hour spent daydreaming of escaping these 3 foot walls.

Ah, but this past Monday? It was different. Much different. Much better.

I spent Monday morning floating down the Blackfoot River in Western Montana, watching the world slowly go by.

There were deer walking along the shoreline, totally oblivious to the guys in the boat passing them. There was a bald eagle soaring over our heads. There were ospreys scooping fish out of the river right in front of us. There were huge trout jumping right next to us. (Unfortunately they weren’t jumping onto our fish hooks, but you can’t have everything.)

Now, which is the better way to spend a Monday morning?

Life is good sometimes…

A Wall Vacation

So how was your 4th?

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I spent 18 ½ hours in the car, driving from Sioux City to Missoula, Montana. It was an adventure, that’s for sure.

To make the drive bearable (and to avoid having to see more of boring South Dakota during the daylight), we left home at 2:30 AM, and drove practically nonstop. Gas, rest stops, a quick Arby’s sandwich in Billings, and that’s about it.

We did however make the mandatory stop at Wall Drug, though.

If you’ve never driven on I-90 through South Dakota, you’re missing out on the experience that is Wall Drug. For hundreds of miles in either direction of Wall, SD, you’ll see signs along the highway advertising this place. “Free Ice Water! Wall Drug”. “A Must See! Wall Drug”. “Kids Love It! Wall Drug.” You get the point.

There are literally hundreds, if not thousands of these signs along I-90. I’ve seen them as far East on the freeways as Albert Lea, Minnesota, and as far West as Spokane, WA.

So after the barrage of advertising at 80 MPH, it’s impossible not to stop at Wall Drug. Which is exactly what Mrs. G. and I did. I mean, how can you not?

Actually, we usually stop at Wall Drug every time we’re in the ‘hood. Why? Well, besides being an incredible tribute to tacky traveler stops everywhere, they also make the world’s best donuts. Seriously. So we stopped for breakfast, wandered through the Wall Drug backyard (where you too can meet a T-Rex, a 8-foot tall jackalope, and a plastic bison), and then were back on the road. 400 miles down, 750 to go.

There’s something special about places like Wall Drug – a pure bastion of tourist excitement. There’s no disguising why they’re there – they want you to stop, take some photos, and drop a few bucks in one of their many gift shops. T-shirts, homemade fudge, and postcards, oh my.

Some people may write it off as kitsch, and others may turn their nose up at the thought of stopping at a gauche place such as Wall, South Dakota for a free glass of ice water. But personally? I love it. Places like Wall Drug are a large part of what makes America unique. We love to pack up the family, hit the open road, drive like there’s no tomorrow, and see/taste/smell/hear new things. It’s the root of many people’s favorite childhood memories – riding in the back of the station wagon, watching the open road, reading the signs as you go by, begging Dad to pull over so you can see the mysterious wonders.

So here’s to Wall Drug, South of the Border, the Sea Lion Caves of Oregon, Reptile Gardens, Rock City, and all of the other tourist traps out there. You keep the signs on the road, and we’ll keep comin’. It’s the American way.