Amazing Junk! (Part 1)

Were y'all well aware that there are only 118 more shopping days until Christmas? True dat! So what are you waiting for? Now’s the time to buy, buy, buy your summer away!

I write this mainly because of an e-mail I received from one of those “cool crap” catalog places. You know the ones – page after page filled with embroidered kitten sweatshirts, handy-dandy kitchen gadgets, plastic fish that sing, t-shirts about being an old fart, that sort of stuff. And being a man of ample creativity (i.e. bored to tears), I spent a few quality minutes looking at their latest & greatest gift ideas for 2007.

And what I found astonished me. Why, what do you get this holiday season for your kind-hearted grandmother who already has everything? Certainly not another bathrobe or some smelly cheap perfume. Nope – you get her one of these:

Because nothing says “Love ya, Grams!” better than a great big oversized bib. It’s perfect for showing the gals at the AARP meeting what a slob you’ve become in your golden years.

And what about for Aunt Petunia, the animal lover? Surely there must be something special for her in this catalog, too. And why by golly, there is!

It seems that ol’ Fido needs his daily meds, too, and what better way to keep from mixing up your Vicodin with Rover’s heart worm treatments? (This reminds me of the joke about the old man who accidentally took his dog’s pills. The meds didn’t kill him, but he broke his neck trying to lick himself...)

And what about for that “overly sensitive” cousin of yours -– you know, the one nobody has ever seen with a date? There’s this perfect gift:

My first thought when I saw this thing was “Who is so much of a pansy that they won’t put their hand in a cooler?” I mean, if I was hot & thirsty enough I’d shove my hand into a cooler filled with fire ants if it meant retrieving the frosty beverage inside.

My second thought was “Doesn’t this thing look a lot like a cat poop scooper?” If that’s the case, then I think you have a lot more to worry about than unsanitary fingers in your ice water.

And we mustn’t forget Dear Old Dad – the man who clothes us, feeds us, and can’t seem to aim very well in the middle of the night. This present will take care of that problem for sure!

It may not keep the toilet seat dry, but it’ll sure as hell make lining up the stream a whole lot more fun. Besides, you just know that Richard Simmons has one of these in his estate...

And while we’re discussing bathroom entertainment, let’s try this amazing gadget out for size:

That’s right – the musical toilet paper tube. For less than the price of a pack of Newport Menthol 100's, your teenage sister can sing along to her favorite Christmas carols while she tinkles ever so gently. “Oh, Christmas pee! Oh, Christmas pee!” It’ll be just like American Idol, only without anyone calling you “dawg” and no tripped-out spacey 80’s singers telling you how special you are.

Finally, we’ll wash our hands and leave the W.C. with one last gift – the one every pre-teen boy must have at least once in his lifetime. It fits right up there in the Bratty Brother Hall of Fame, right next to the whoopee cushion, the peanut can of jumping snakes, and the giant pile of rubber vomit:

Now, I realize that in some households it’s not necessary to have a “toilet monster” to make Grandma freak out and run screaming from the potty – sometimes nature (and too many burritos) does the trick on its own. But since that’d be both gross and immature to discuss, we’ll just skip past that topic. You can thank me later.

Instead, we’ll gladly compliment the creative geniuses who came up with these (and other) fantastic gifts – items that are sure to be treasured until about noon on Christmas day, and then will proudly collect dust in the back of the closet for the next 5 years or so, until they make their way to either Goodwill or the nearest landfill.

Because it’s the thought that counts, right? Right?

Flown the Coop

Miss Katie and Baby Emmy moved out of the Gressel household last week. Sadly, it wasn’t the “Goodbye, take care, I’ll miss you, sniff, sniff” kind of send-off that parents hope to have when their children strike out on their own for the first time. It was more of a “Screw you guys – I’m moving out” kind of situation. “Nasty” doesn’t begin to describe how things were left.

We knew that the time for her to move on with her life was coming soon – if fact, we’d begun to encourage her to start thinking that way. She’s definitely old enough to be out on her own, and it was coming to the place where our tiny little house was getting just too small for all of our independent spirits. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have our norms and mores about life and responsibilities and family, and Miss Katie had hers. As time moved in, they divide between the two became increasingly wide. So the split was probably inevitable. Ugly, but inevitable.

I’m sorry that things ended up so bitter and nasty, but I’m really not sorry that she’s gone. I had literally spent years trying to forgive Miss Katie over and over again for her indiscretions – primarily lying to my face, – but I’d finally reached the end of that road. I sometimes wonder if she just isn’t physically capable to telling the truth. She would lie to us about almost everything – her friends, her responsibilities, her whereabouts, her job, her school, her financial situation... the lies went on and on. So last week when we caught her in yet another major lie, I had enough. It was time for her to move on. When she yelled, “Fine – maybe I’ll just move out now,” I said “Okay. Please do.” She can spread her deceptions onto someone else from now on, because I’m officially done.

Whether or not Miss Katie, Mrs. G., and I will ever be able to reconcile is yet to be seen. We haven’t spoken since. I hope that we’ll at least be able to come to a general consensus and at least be friendly again. Maybe with time (and honesty) that can be possible. I’d like to think so.

But what has been hardest for Mrs. G. and I has been the separation from our granddaughter, Baby Emmy. We’d grown mighty attached to that little bundle-o-joy, and not having her around the house on a regular basis hurts like hell. Mrs. G. is especially brokenhearted about the whole situation – she misses that baby like you wouldn’t believe. I hope the day will come soon when we’ll all be able to work out an agreement where we can spend some more time with Baby Emmy; we sure liked having her in our world.

So now Mrs. G. and I are empty nesters. It’s kind of strange to think that it’s just us there now – our family size was cut in half in a matter of minutes. Of course the cats still think they rule the house, and in many ways they do. Jack has called “dibs” on Miss Katie’s old room, and Tasha the Drooling Cat has permanently parked herself in the old recliner that Miss Katie liked to sit in. Mrs. G. and I are slowly getting used to having it quiet at night around the place, and we find that not tripping over all the extra furniture at 4:30 in the morning is kind of a bonus.

Some day we’ll get used to the notion that our family will never be the same again. We’re already enjoying each other’s company, which is a good thing. But for now it’s just going to take some time.

So parents – be sure to hug your kids and tell them that you love them. Tolerate them for as long as you can, then count to ten and tolerate them some more. And kids – please be honest with your parents. They’re really on your side, no matter what, and lying to them will never improve your situation at all. Believe me – your folks would much rather hear a “bad truth” than a “good lie”.

I’ll close this with an old Chinese proverb. Keep this in mind as you think of your family, will you?

“One has to have run a household before one can know the price of rice and firewood, and one has to have raised children before one can understand a parent’s love.”

I'm Stumped! (Volume I)

Will someone please answer these three questions for me?

1) How in the HELL does two DUIs equal 82 minutes in jail?

An hour and a half in the pokey isn’t punishment – it’s a long lunch date at Spago. Nicole was in there for the same amount of time it takes to sit through Shrek VI: Electric Boogaloo, if you remove the trailers beforehand, and leave before the credits finish.

The girl was popped for drunk driving. Twice. She drove the wrong way down the freeway, endangering lives. Yet the L.A. sheriff seems to think 82 minutes in the slammer is appropriate punishment? Well, since this is from the from who thought Rodney King was “resisting arrest” and couldn’t close the door on O.J., Robert Blake, or Michael Jackson, I suppose anything is possible.

And speaking of anything being possible...

2) How many people popped for coke possession and DUI will be given such a soft slap on the wrist as Miss Lohan?

They dropped all felony charges, will make her serve one day (which will probably end up being 81 minutes or less), and then she’ll go make a Nancy Reagan-approved PSA about the dangers of being 21, rich, and stoned out of your gourd.

After less than a day of incarceration for her legal sins, Lindsay will go back to her life, begging anyone to hire her again after her past. The paparazzi will stalk her, Barbara Walters will beg her to cry on cue, and odds are high that nobody will have really learned anything from it. Sad, really.

Finally, let me ask this unanswerable question:

3) Why the hell can’t this woman keep her skivvies on?

Poor, poor, nutcase Brit. I’d make a crude remark about her underwear instantly dissolving, but that’d just be gross, wouldn’t it? Seeing what white trash she’s become, I bet she had to use them as an impromptu hankie or to wipe the orange Cheet-o dust off her fingers; that’s why they’re gone. At least she hasn’t been arrested yet...

These – and other great mysteries of Hollywood – are all good reasons why I don’t live in Los Angeles. I think my head would explode from all the contemplation.

The Joys of Reading

This article just appalled me. Read on, and then I’ll explain:

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One in four read no books last year

One in four adults say they read no books at all in the past year, according to an Associated Press-Ipsos poll released Tuesday. Of those who did read, women and seniors were most avid, and religious works and popular fiction were the top choices.

The survey reveals a nation whose book readers, on the whole, can hardly be called ravenous. The typical person claimed to have read four books in the last year — half read more and half read fewer. Excluding those who hadn't read any, the usual number read was seven.

In 2004, a National Endowment for the Arts report titled "Reading at Risk" found only 57 percent of American adults had read a book in 2002, a four percentage point drop in a decade. The study faulted television, movies and the Internet.

Who are the 27 percent of people the AP-Ipsos poll found hadn't read a single book this year? Nearly a third of men and a quarter of women fit that category. They tend to be older, less educated, lower income, minorities, from rural areas and less religious.

At the same time, book enthusiasts abound. Many in the survey reported reading dozens of books and said they couldn't do without them.

Among those who said they had read books, the median figure — with half reading more, half fewer — was nine books for women and five for men. The figures also indicated that those with college degrees read the most, and people aged 50 and up read more than those who are younger.

People from the South read a bit more than those from other regions, mostly religious books and romance novels. Whites read more than blacks and Hispanics, and those who said they never attend religious services read nearly twice as many as those who attend frequently.

There was even some political variety evident, with Democrats and liberals typically reading slightly more books than Republicans and conservatives.

The Bible and religious works were read by two-thirds in the survey, more than all other categories. Popular fiction, histories, biographies and mysteries were all cited by about half, while one in five read romance novels. Every other genre — including politics, poetry and classical literature — were named by fewer than five percent of readers.

More women than men read every major category of books except for history and biography. Industry experts said that confirms their observation that men tend to prefer nonfiction.

The AP-Ipsos poll was conducted from August 6 to 8 and involved telephone interviews with 1,003 adults. It had a margin of sampling error of plus or minus 3 percentage points.

* * * * * *

I honestly can’t imagine going a whole year – much less a day – without reading something. But I know people who wouldn’t pick up a book if there was a $20 taped to every other page. One fat ass in particular used to tell me, “If the book is any good, then they’ll make a movie out of it.” Puh-lease. Can you honestly say you’ve ever seen a movie that was just as good – or better – than the book?

Books have been a major part of my life since I was a kid – I read them, I write them, I enjoy having them around. And I think my life has been better for it.

From the time I was very little I’ve always loved to read. I was 5 or 6 when I learned all of the words to “Mickey Mouse’s Picnic”. I loved the imagination that came from fantastic stories like Uncle Wiggley or the Chronicles of Narnia or even the Encyclopedia Brown books. It was great fun to escape into a book, and then make up my own stories afterwards.

I used to write short stories by myself or with my friends. We’d let our imaginations run and the creativity flow. Sometimes it was good thing – I would write my own short mystery stories, just for fun. And yes – sometimes my inspired creativity came out a little...off. “The Lady Who Peed on the Coffee Table” really wasn’t the masterpiece my friend Charles and I intended it to be.

As a teenager I discovered the joys of war books – Mack Bolan, Phoenix Force, Mercenary for Hire, you name it. They were simple three act novellas at best – very little plot, lots of guns, lots of violence, lots of jingoistic prose. You could burn through one of them in an afternoon, then be ready to go watch Rambo for the 30th time.

Of course, my politics changed as I matured, and the pacifist inside of me finally decided that reading about 3 cigar-chomping soldiers of fortune mowing down 100 Vietnamese with Uzi 9 millimeters and M-203 grenade launchers probably wasn’t such a proud moment after all. So I traded in all of my war books at the used book store, and moved on to my adult craze...

Non fiction. Yes, now that I’m “old and mature” (har, har), most of the books I read these days are from historical, travel, reference, or cultural affairs genres. I really like reading about past events (mostly from the 20th century), historical landmarks (especially anything Disney related – I must have 80 different Disney books), or liberally minded politics (Al Franken, et al.). I also read a lot about other countries, their people and culture, and what makes them special. It’s given me a better perspective on my life in America, and on what the world is like for others.

Oh, sure – I still enjoy novels. I’ll always read the newest Tim Dorsey or Carl Hiassen books, and I enjoy Stephen King, Michael Creighton, David Sedaris, and Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt books as well. And who can resist the Harry Potter epics? Not I. But my current phase has really been focused on the non-fic. Maybe when I’m old I’ll sit down and read more fiction, when I’m ready for something to take my mind away from the real world, but for now I like being in the heat of the moment.

So do yourself a favor and listen to your old buddy Tommy. Go pick up a damn book. It won’t kill you, and maybe you’ll learn something new. It’ll do your soul good, even if they never make a movie out of it.

If You Film It, They Will Come

In yesterday’s post I wrote about it being “World Series Week” at work. The event scheduled for today was “Movie Time”: Come watch 15 minutes of a baseball-themed film at break time. And in my post I predicted that the film shown would be “Field of Dreams”.

Sure enough, it was.

I also predicted that there’d be a bunch of guys sitting around weeping. Well, I counted, and there were 9 dudes sitting there, all shoveling (free) popcorn down their gullets like they’d never eaten before. And while none of them were openly sobbing, several did look a little misty-eyed.

While I’m duly impressed with my amazing prediction skills, in all honesty Field of Dreams wasn’t that hard of a guess. They certainly weren’t going to show anything “R” rated, and I doubt the Iowa farmboys wouldn’t get the gist of classics like Damn Yankees.

But the main reason behind my picking Field of Dreams as the cinema choice du jour was that it was filmed right here in the Hawkeye State. “Is this Heaven? No, it’s Iowa.” Remember?

I’ve actually been to the Field of Dreams filming locale in Dyersville, Iowa – it’s been preserved by the two families that own the land/ballfield/house, and has become a fairly large Midwest tourist attraction. It’s free to get in, and they’ll even let you play on the same ballfield where Kevin Costner dared to hit pop flies, provided you bring your own mitt, bat, and ball. (No loansies!)

It was actually kind of cool to visit there – I sat on the bleachers for quite a while watching the kids play ball. And while I didn’t see any ghosts materialize out of the fields (the corn was only about 12 inches high at the time – maybe that had something to do with it), I did see the spirit of good times on a lot of faces. Everyone seemed to be at peace and to really enjoy their time with their friends and families. There was no bickering, no kicking dirt in the face of the umpire, and no drunken heckles from the bleachers. (I was perfectly sober, thankyouverymuch.)

True story: When I was thinking of moving to Iowa in 1995 I decided to watch Field of Dreams again, just to get a feel of the state. So when I called my friends out here and told them what I’d done, this was the reply:

“You watched Field of Dreams to see what life in Iowa was like? Huh. (Long pause.) You know, you’d been better off watching Green Acres instead.”

You know what? She was right.

Still, Field of Dreams is a good flick – one I’ve seen probably a dozen times, including once or twice since I moved here. But not once has it turned me into a great big wussy crybaby. No sirree.

Just don’t ask me about Robert Redford’s The Natural. I may get a little verklempt.

Elvis Has Left The Building

It was 30 years ago today that Elvis Presley went to that Great Big Pharmacy in the sky – or, was beamed away by E.T. and his pals, depending on your own personal beliefs.

All day long today people have been asking me “Do you remember where you were when you heard that The King was dead?” Gruesome as it may seem, Elvis’ leaving his Earthly vessel via his bathroom floor is one of those events that people will always look back and remember exactly where they were when the heard the news. It’s right up there with Pearl Harbor, JFK being shot, and Sept 11, I suppose.

But to answer your question (c’mon – admit it. You wanna know, don’t you?): Yes, I do remember where I was when I found out that The King was no more.

It was about 10:15 AM on August 16, 1977. I was 12 years old; just about to enter 7th grade. And being a typical summer vacation, I was deep into my usual morning routine – laying on the couch, watching Match Game. (Brett Somers + Charles Nelson Reilly = FUNNY!) I had just learned that Dumb Dora was so dumb (“How dumb was she?”) that something or another happened to her blank. Hardy har har – double entendres flew left and right, and Gene Rayburn and his mile-long microphone went to a commercial break.

The commercial was for an Elvis Presley Greatest Hits album. All of The King's greatest hits on one album or two 8-track tapes. No big deal.

Then my Mom came into the living room and said the fateful words. “You know he’s dead, don’t you?”

Wha???

I literally fell off the couch. “Elvis is dead? When?”

“This morning. They found him dead inside his house.”

My reaction was pure and honest. “No waaaaaaaaay.” (Keep in mind that Fonzie was also big at the time. Every sentence ended with “aaaaaaay.”

I couldn’t believe it – Elvis can’t be dead, can he? I mean, when you’re 12 years old, a 42 year old rock & roll singer seems ancient to you, but The King? There’s no reason why he should be a goner. (I was hopelessly naïve about things such as drug overdoses at the time – which may not have been such a bad thing after all.)

I remember spending the rest of the morning trying to figure out what could have possibly happened to someone who had seemed to be so full of life – or at least he was in the movies and TV shows I’d seem him on. Maybe it was my youthful ignorance that kept the truth from me, and maybe it’s because most of my Elvis moments involved seeing him as the young, hip, always smiling version of The King, and not the fat, bloated, sweating profusely man he became.

It was unbelievable to think: Elvis was Worm Chow.

That afternoon I went to deliver my paper route. The headline on the front page of the Seattle Times summed it up pretty well: “Suddenly a Generation Feels Old.” I hand-delivered a lot of newspapers that day, stopping to talk to customers about the tragedy in Graceland. A few people didn’t care at all, but most were visibly shaken by it. Was their generation really feeling old and vulnerable? If so, where did that leave me?

Over the next few months (and years) the truth of Elvis’ demise came out, but somehow the legend lived on. And on. And on. He’s more famous now than he ever was when he was alive and kicking, and as anyone who has ever been to Vegas or Memphis can tell you, his spirit is very much still with us.

Now here we are 30 years later. I’m still an Elvis fan of sorts – I don’t own all of his albums, but I do enjoy playing my copy of “Viva Las Vegas” really loud every now and then. I’ve thrown plenty of money into the Elvis slot machine at the casino. And I do have an Elvis clock hanging in my basement – his swinging hips serve as the pendulum.

But most of all I have my memories – of the guy who came to the World’s Fair in Seattle in 1962, and of the guy who could make women scream just by sneering his lip. The guy who had it all, and then lost it to a huge monkey on his back.

I turned 42 years old this summer– the same age Elvis was when he croaked. And while I’ve never played a sold out concert or had flocks of groupies chasing me down the street, I can proudly say that I’m still breathing, and hopefully will continue to do so for a long, long time. There’s just some things that money can’t buy, and another day is definitely one of them.

Still, I will always associate “Elvis” with “cool” (except for the pill popping part – that we’ll just write off as “dumbass”.) He’s a legend who has continued to shine three decades after biting the dust.

So thank you, thank you very much, King. We all miss you in our own special way. And while fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches aren’t exactly on my cholesterol-friendly diet, I will tip my iced tea to your memory, and maybe I’ll have to watch “Girls, Girls, Girls” or “Clambake” tonight in your honor.

Hopefully you have wanted it that way.

Play Ball?

This week is “World Series Week” at work. Never mind that the actual World Series won’t take place until October; this is an opportunity for “cost effective team building” and/or a way to distract the herded masses from the forthcoming layoffs. Your choice.

So yesterday was “World Series Word Search” day. Find the 20 hidden baseball-themed words and enter to win a prize! It took me about 3 minutes flat to find them – it wasn’t exactly a Mensa test. It had the usual suspects hidden in the grid – hit, ball, bat... but then it had nontraditional baseball terms, too: Hot dog? Beer? I know that they go hand-in-hand, but that’d be like having a Halloween themed puzzle and searching for “cavities”.

Today is “World Series Trivia Day”. I guess they’re going to ask baseball trivia, although based on that word search yesterday, they may ask “What beer is best to drink after the seventh inning stretch?”

But tomorrow and Friday are when the Real Fun begins.

Thursday’s event is “Enjoy a Baseball Movie on your Break!” They’re going to pop Major League or Bull Durham in an old VCR somewhere, and everyone is welcome to come watch 15 minutes of it. Ah, good times. What would be fun though is to go see if they show Field of Dreams, and see how many of these he-man macho sales dudes are crying like babies.

Friday is Baseball Jersey & Cap Day. They’re breaking from their traditional dress code for one day and are letting us wear hats and non-collared shirts. (It’s one notch above Wacky Tacky Tie Day, isn’t it?)

But I’m prepared. You see, I don’t own a baseball jersey, and my one baseball cap is for a AA farm team in Dunedin, Florida.

But I do have a Mickey Mouse baseball jersey that the Lovely Mrs. G. bought me for Christmas. And I have 3 different Mickey caps to choose from. So I’m all set. And if I happen to strike out that day and receive a pink slip as a consolation prize (layoffs are now rumored to be this Friday), then at least I’ll go out with a smile.

But maybe I’ll hit a home run instead. You never know until you step up to the plate. (Today's businesses just love sports analogies!!!)

Batter up!

Zero Miles Per Gallon, But Great Reception?

Wouldn’t you think that after 7 years of camping out in his Buick in all kinds of weather, this dude would finally get fed up and either a) apologize or b) file for divorce? I mean, I’m a stubborn guy, but there’s a point when you just have to throw in the towel...

Oh, and I love that he listens to Rush every afternoon. Says a lot right there, doesn’t it?

* * * * * * * * *

Man Living in Car Since '00 Upsets City

PITTSBURG, Kan. - Steve Graham might not be in the doghouse over a dispute with his wife, but as far as his neighbors are concerned, he's not far from it. For the past seven years, Graham, 55, has been living in his car parked in the backyard of a house he and his wife, La Donna Graham, own.

Graham said the two have "been having troubles" since 1999 and that he's been out of the house since about 2000. His wife still lives in the home.

"She's not going to support me not having a job and bumming around," Graham said. "I'm trying my best to get a job and get up out of this rut."

But his neighbors, who say Graham plays loud music, often spouts obsenity-laced tirades and uses his yard as a toilet, aren't amused. They have asked the city to prohibit such living arrangements.

"You can't enjoy your backyard," said Linda Sanders, whose backyard is across the alley from Graham's property.

"Every day he's out there. He never goes into the house," Kenny Waring said. "He sleeps out there, he eats out there, he watches TV, he plays guitar. ... Everything that you do in your house, he does out there."

Graham acknowledged that he watches TV, listens to music and sometimes sleeps in his blue, 1989 Buick Century. The car is parked on a concrete slab, mostly covered by a large, blue tarp that is secured with bricks and cinder blocks.

An extension cord from the house to the car provides power for a 13-inch TV, an oscillating fan and a radio.
"I get better reception there than I do in there," he said, pointing at the house. "I listen to Rush (Limbaugh) every day, just about."

Graham denied that he used the yard for a toilet.

"No, I go elsewhere," he said. "I don't expose myself to people."


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RAID!!!

One of the “problems” facing Iowa is that we’re suffering through a nasty infestation of creepy crawlies.

No, it’s not locusts or grasshoppers or anything like that. Those we know will go away. In many ways it’s much, much worse than that.

It’s the Attack of the Presidential Politicians.

Welcome to the joys of being an early primary state, where you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a presidential candidate or two these days. And it’s twice as bad this time around, since there’s no incumbent candidate to eliminate one party from the get-go.

Seriously: not a day goes by when someone with a phony smile and a blue suit comes to town, waving red, white, and blue signs and trying to convince you that they’re The One.

And if it’s not them personally, then it’s someone stumping for them. Their wives. Their friends. Their colleagues in Congress. People who seem to think that the favor will be returned with a cushy cabinet post.

Yesterday in Sioux City there was Barak Obama for the Democrats, and Mike Huckabee for the GOP. I know this because the Lovely Mrs. G. went to see Barak in person, and I just about met Huckabee in the intersection of Gordon Drive and Nebraska St., where his big black tour bus just about hit my car while he ran the red light. Bastard.

Plus, Bill Richardson was down the road in Council Bluffs (where the local radio station is reporting that he stiffed the waitress out of her tip at a local restaurant), Rudy Giuliani is in Davenport, John Edwards is in Cedar Rapids, and 9 Republican candidates invaded Des Moines all at once. Talk about an infestation – someone call the Orkin Man!

It’s overwhelming, all this attention this state of high school educated corn farmers and hog sloppers gets from the candidates. They call us, they mail us, they show up at our parades or schools or VFW luncheons, as if the opinions and feelings of Iowans really matter once they’re elected.

Being the good registered voters that we are, not a day goes by where Mrs. G and I don’t get at least one phone call from a politician’s office, wanting something from us (read: money). Chris Dodd has our number on speed dial. I spent 40 minutes on the phone last week doing a “survey” about Democratic candidates that was really a campaign call for Hillary Clinton. Edwards and Obama have both recently mailed us DVDs. TV ads for Dimwit Romney have been running for months.

But the worst was when Bushie and Six Shooter Cheney came stumping through here for the 2004 election – four times in 10 days – and they shut down the freeway in both directions during their visit. In a town where there are very few back roads available between here and there, it made me despise them even more than usual.

It makes you want to scream – “Geez, when does it all end??? But then you find out the answer: Not for another 14 freaking months. AAAAAHHHH!

It’s really quit annoying, if you must know. (As if you couldn’t tell from my rant above.)

I really wish sometimes they’d limit presidential campaigns to 60 days for primaries, 60 days for the two suckers who end up as the final candidates. Maybe then they won’t need to spend millions and millions of dollars on TV ads and flyers that are just going to be thrown away.
And maybe then we won’t all be so damn sick and tired of the whole thing, a full year before it happens.

I’ve always said that I won’t turn this blog into my own political rant station – there are already too many of those out there – but they’re pushing me, man – they’re really pushing me. I want Bush sent into retirement more than just about anyone else – hell, I’d buy him a gold watch if he and Cheney would walk away today – but do we really need to hear their possible replacements on both sides blather nonstop for the next year and a half?

Break out the mosquito netting and fly swatter, kids – the bugs are getting thick.

At Last - Pomp and Circumstance!

Well, the magical day is finally here. I’m graduating from college tomorrow night, by golly. Somewhere out there, there’s some little demons that are mighty chilly...

Can you believe I’m actually through, after all this time and talking about it? My graduation party announcements said “He’s Finally Done!” If it wouldn’t have insulted and/or offended half of my family, I probably would have made them say “It’s About Fucking Time!”

You see, I started college way back in September 1981, as a high school junior. Half a day of high school, an hour and a half bus ride, followed by 3 hours of college. I did that for my junior and senior years, then went for a full year after that.

Then I was recruited for a job, only 5 classes shy from my degree.

Now, the sensible thing to do would’ve been to say “Screw you guys and your overly generous paycheck! I’m finishing school!” Oops. Instead, I jumped at the opportunity, burning my academic bridges on the way out the door. The job paid $11.86 an hour to start, with full benefits, paid vacations, bonuses every quarter, you name it. Meanwhile, all of my buddies were slaving away for minimum wage ($3.35 at the time). I was going to be RICH. I was in like Flynn, man.

The job lasted three months, until I was unceremoniously laid off. Last hired = first fired, that sort of thing. Sucks, doesn’t it?

Fast forward ahead 23 years – to today. I’m now finishing what I started all those years ago, because of two reasons: One, it’s always bugged the snot out of me that I never finished my degree, even though I’ve been fairly successful with my meager education. And two, it’s my golden ticket out of this joint and onto the next big adventure.

Oh, sure – I’ll probably be one of the oldest people in cap and gown to walk across the stage tomorrow evening, but that’s okay. “Better late than never” has been my mantra since I started classes all over again two years ago, and it’s good to know that I’m done, and I’ve actually accomplished something this major.

I’ll walk away with a nice Business Admin degree, sporting a 4.0 GPA, something I haven’t done since my senior year of high school. Alas, my 4 point in the 1982-83 school year didn’t make up for my less than admirable point grades in 1979-1982, so there was no honor cord for me back then. But this time around I’ll proudly sport the gold cord and the Phi Theta Kappa stole – ‘cause I earned ‘em, baby. I earned ‘em.

So for those of you out there who’ve put off completing a project for half of your lifetime, now’s the time to get off your butt and finish it up. You never know – you may find that procrastination isn’t all that it was cut out to be in the first place.

As for me, I may find another class or two to sign up for... one of these days.

The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

The Angel of Death (and Pink Slips) hasn't dropped in on my employer yet. The rumor mill originally said that the layoffs would be yesterday, but now we're hearing tomorrow morning. It's like waiting for the shoe to drop. Everyone is pissy, and everyone is backstabbing each other, as if throwing your co-workers under the bus at the last minute is somehow going to save your ass from being laid off. Ha.

I'm sick of waiting for them to decide our fate. Either shitcan us, or knock it off and let us get back to work. Okay? I've got better things to do with my time.

Truth is, at this point I really don't care anymore. What gets me though is that I want to be the one to say "goodbye" on my terms, not the other way around. "You can't fire me - I quit!"

Maybe I'll live through this round of job cuts - I've survived 11 rounds so far - but maybe I won't. Either way it won't matter much. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I are just about ready to move on with our lives, with or without this place.

So we'll see what's still standing on Monday when I get back. Should make for an interesting weekend, if nothing else...

The Future's So Bright....Maybe.

Today is Black Wednesday...again. My employer is once again laying people off, according to the rumors/speculation/grapevine/people freaking out around here. We’re down to 1,600 employees these days, despite the hiring of 400 in the last few months. Let’s face it – longevity is rare around this joint.

I’m not sure where I’ll stand at the end of the day – when you’ve already lost 92 percent of your workers, there’s not that many people left to pick off. I suspect I’ll be okay for now, but stranger things have happened. Meanwhile, there will be a whole lot more available parking in the lot tomorrow AM...

I’m tired of worry about pink slips, ya know? For 6.5 of my 9 years here I’ve lived under the specter of getting the tap on your shoulder from H.R. I’ve survived 11 rounds of job cuts through my division, and I’ve watched a lot of good people be escorted to the door.

When I started college in March 2005 it was with the goal of preparing myself for my future. Nobody is going to save old Tommy’s butt except for me, so I wanted to get the upperhand – and be prepared for whatever the world tosses me. A lot of my co-workers will be totally devastated if they’re the next to go. I’ve seen a lot of previously “right-sized” co-workers working these days at Wal-Mart or Target, because that’s all that they can find with their education and job skills. It’s sad, but it’s a big cruel world sometimes. I swore to myself years ago that I would never allow myself to be caught in that quagmire again – and that’s when I enrolled for college.

And so here I am – ready to graduate with honors with my Business Administration degree in about 48 hours from now. I’ve got a 4.0 GPA, a fresh degree, 9 years of high-rated experience, a killer resume, and the world ahead of me.

So I’m ready for anything. Whatever happens today will not destroy me. I’m prepared, and I will survive.

And I will win – no matter what.