Shave and a Haircut - Two Minutes

One of the biggest hassles with moving is having to find all new services. New doctors, new dentists, new favorite Chinese restaurants.

But for me, the biggest hassle has always been finding a new barber.

Guys, I'm sure you'll relate. You finally find someone who knows how to cut your hair the way you like it – neatly, efficiently, and without a lot of "ooh, you need some mousse and gel and conditioner and rub-in honey based goop" sales pitch. Once you find a genuine barber, you do whatever you can to hang onto that relationship as long as you can.

Sadly, genuine barber shops are quickly becoming a thing of the past. The smoke-filled rooms, the leather chairs, the stacks of Sports Illustrated and Playboy magazines laying around, the small black & white TV in the corner, the jars of green stuff that the combs live in… they're all fading away.

In their place have popped up "men's salons", like the place I ended up at last night. And that's where this tale begins.

Desperate for a haircut and unable to find an "old-fashioned" barber shop in my new area, I ended up at the local Sports Clips "men's salon". They advertise themselves as "Haircuts for Guys", which is a fancy way of saying they're going to charge you $20 for a haircut. The place has a sports motif, ESPN plays on several TVs, and the "barbers" (I'm not sure what the correct term would be in this case) are all twentysomething gum-smacking girls who wear workout pants and striped referee shirts. It's sort of like the "Hooters of Haircuts", only with more hair gel and less hot workers.

Anyway, in I went. I waited and waited and waited some more, as they only had two ladies cutting hair, and there was a line of 9 year olds ahead of me. ESPN was on, going over the Seahawks and Cowboys losses this weekend ad nauseum, so I sat and looked at the newspaper while trying to remain patient.

Finally, it was my turn. April, my "stylist du jour", showed up and welcomed me back to a chair. Sit down, paper towel around the neck, barber apron on. So far, so good.

She then brought out the menu – literally a menu – of services offered. You can have a basic cut (the "Varsity") for $16, or the "Triple Play" for $19, which includes a post-cut shampoo and a hot towel on your face. Or, if you are really into the metrosexual routine, for $23 they'll toss in a "gentle neck and shoulder massage". (I had this once – it's one of those $10 Wal-Mart hand-held massagers ran across your back. Not worth the money.)

Anyway, I declined all of the extras – I just wanted a basic cut; that was it. April said fine, whatever – and then proceeded to start the haircut.

Only it wasn't the traditional hair cutting that we all know and love. Scissors never came into the equation. There wasn't that familiar snip-snip-snip sound, or the whirr from the hot shaving cream for finishing off my neck.

Nope – the entire haircut was done with an electric razor with a comb attached. Buzz, buzz, buzz, all done. In two minutes flat.

I didn't get a haircut – I was sheared.

Yes, in a mere 120 seconds, April was all done and was whipping the apron off of me. Never in my life had I had such a fast haircut – it was incredible. She ran that razor around my head, buzzed the back of my neck, and called it good. I was literally shocked to be done so quickly – what the hell happened? But there I was, shorn to a length that any sports-lovin' guy (or newly shaved lamb) would love.

It was incredible – Miss April needs to talk to Guinness Book or something. Either that, or she needs to go spend her summers working on a sheep ranch.

So here I am today, newly shaved, hoping to God that when it starts to grow out it doesn't stick out in every single direction. I paid $16 for my two minutes of men's salon service, plus a $3 tip. Was it worth it? We'll see.

But I think that next month I'll try a little harder to find a genuine barbershop – one that still uses silly little things like scissors. And jars of green stuff with combs in it.

Guilty (Strike Ridden) Pleasures

Have you noticed that there isn't jack squat on TV these days? Oh, sure – there's "stuff" on, but very little of it that isn't either a) a rerun or b) the equivalent of mental trans fats.

The writer's strike has me bummed out, partly because I too am a writer (although not a WGA member – har, not in the slightest), and partly because I'm left with nothing much worthwhile to watch. Everything "new" is either reality TV (which is okay on some small levels – The Amazing Race and Survivor), or pure crap (Anything starring the cast of The Hills).

So like all of us, I've had to make do without much in the way of fresh TV entertainment lately. The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have been watching a lot of Netflix movies, and we've patronized our local movie theater quite a bit, too. There are the football playoffs if you're desperate (the games really aren't that exciting until the final four or so), and I suppose you can always watch C-SPAN for riveting, ad-libbed, laugh-a-minute must see TV dialog.

But while the TiVo has been lonely, it hasn't been exactly starving. You see, the writer's strike has given the Gressel family the opportunity to delve into a couple of guilty televised pleasures.

I'll start with Mrs. G.'s guilty TV pleasure this winter, only because it's just a tad bit less embarrassing to talk about than mine. Mrs. G. has been hooked on…America's Next Top Model.

For the life of me I don't understand why she's been watching this show. For one thing, Tyra Banks should just look pretty and keep quiet. I know it's crude of me to say that, but when she's a silent Victoria Secret model, she's kind of hot. But when she opens her trap and unleashes her colossal ego on the world, it's like she slides down 5 numbers on the Sexist Pig-O-Meter. So why anyone would sit through 43 minutes of Tyra & Co. as they sift through a roomful of anorexic narcissists in the name of "fashion" is beyond me.

But never mind my testosterone-fueled loathing of ANTM – I'm a hetero All-American guy, which means I'll never understand. Mrs. G. sure likes the show – in fact, she likes it so much she TiVoed the ENTIRE recent VH1 marathon of the show. 9 seasons, about a gazillion episodes, all stored on our poor little emasculated TiVo. At one point there were 40 hours of ANTM stored on the TiVo's hard drive, a fact I'm not proud to admit to all of my macho guy buddies out there. Mrs. G. had fun with her marathon of models, but me? I'd rather poke my eyes out with a diamond-tipped emery file than watch that show. Once all of the shows are finally gone I may have to go sprinkle the TiVo with some holy water (Bud Light) to cleanse its soul.

Still, let he without television sin cast the first stone. So it's with that semi-muddled biblical quote that I have to admit to my own guilty strike-prompted TV pleasure:

American Gladiator.

Yes, the ultimate in late night drinking shows is back for the 00's, complete with new puffed-up jocks with stupid nicknames, tightly spandexed contestants who are all "giving it 110%", and goofball challenges like beating each other with giant Q-tips while standing on a 3-foot platform.

But this time around they've "kicked it up a notch", as it were, by adding water effects, a giant pool to push each other in, and quite possibly the world's worst host: Hulk Hogan.

You tell me -- is there any emcee on television worse than the Hulkster? (Even Tyra?) I doubt it. He's obviously reading cue cards for every question he asks, mixing in a chance to call everyone "brother" more times than I can count. I really thought of creating a "Hulk Hogan Brother" drinking game – small a shot every time he calls someone that – but I'm afraid we'd all be dead from alcohol poisoning before The Eliminator.

Still, it's like an auto accident or a gruesome surgery show on late night Discovery Channel – you just can't turn away. The Gladiators all throw down stupid taunts, the contestants swear they're going to win this for their kids/Mom/dead parrot, then someone gets jacked across the face with a giant swinging silver ball on a string or a pair of hand-sized marshmallows.

It's cheesy entertainment at it's finest, I'm telling you.

So before I tease Mrs. G. about her supermodel obsession, I really need to look deep into my soul and judge myself for sitting there and watching this crap-o-rama. Perhaps I'll learn that my guilty mid-season pleasure is no better – or worse – than hers. That, or I'll learn that Tyra wouldn't stand a chance in hell against "Siren", "Fury" or "Hellga".

Until then, I'll just hope & pray that the writers and producers can settle this damn thing, and bring TV back to the glorious, genteel, and elite status for which it is normally known.

And if that fails, I'm sure that Celebrity Fit Club has a marathon running on one of these channels.

What's For Lunch?

I had THE strangest sandwich for lunch today.

You know it goes sometimes – you order lunch, thinking you're getting one thing, and you end up with something 180 degrees different. You then try to make the best of it, but you're soooo a) shocked b) disgusted or c) creeped out that you end up losing your appetite entirely.

That's what happened to me.

It's totally my own fault, though. Being the lazy guy that I was, I didn't feel like making my own sandwich last night. So I ran into the store and bought a pre-made one from the neighborhood grocery store ("No Frills" – seriously, that's their name), dropped it in my lunch box, grabbed an orange, and called it good. The sandwich was labeled as a "Club Sandwich".

Okay, now when I think of a club sandwich, I usually think of it containing ham and/or turkey, bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayo, all on nicely toasted bread. Wouldn't you agree?

It's a sandwich staple served around the world. And usually when you order a club sandwich, you know what you're going to get, right? I mean, you don't order a BLT and expect to find olive paste on it. A club sandwich is a club sandwich the world around. Or at least it should be.

My sandwich, as it turned out, did contain most of the traditional club sandwich ingredients. Oh, sure -- there weren't any tomatoes on it, which is just fine with me, and there wasn't any mayo or mustard included, but it did come with two handy little packets of the condiments on the side. Convenient, no?

There was turkey. And ham. And a little chunk of semi-wilted lettuce. And even a slice of Swiss cheese.

But here's where it went wrong.

You see, technically there was also bacon. But it wasn't "bacon" as you and I would normally expect to find on a club sandwich.

IT WAS BACON BITS.

Yes, scooped in the middle of this otherwise perfectly okay lunchmeat extravaganza was a heaping glob of finely shredded, pre-cooked, overly salted itty bitty bacon bits.

So imagine my surprise when I picked my sandwich up, preparing to take my first bite, and about 4 cups of finely chopped bacon bits proceeded to fall out of it and into my lap. At first I had no idea what this brown pile of ash spewing out of my lunch could be – sawdust? Cock-a-roaches? Confetti?

Nope – it really was bacon bits.

Now, don't get me wrong – bacon bits have their place in life. They're great on salads, and if you're having a loaded baked potato, they'll work there, too.

But on a deli sandwich? Ugh.

After wiping about a pound of B.B.s off of my pants, the bread, the table top, and every surface where they'd managed to escape, I found myself craving a No Frills club sandwich less and less. So I cut it in half, folded the ham & turkey onto one half, and pitched the rest.

So let this serve as a warning to all of you creative chef types out there – the next time you think of substituting out regular bacon strips on a hoagie for a large scoop of shredded pork belly, please don't. I beg you.

The lunch you save may be your own. Or mine.

'Cause We're Classy Like That

To date I've resisted the urge to pick on my new Nebraska neighbors. I mean, it'd be a little impolite to move into town and immediately start making fun of them, right? Besides, I've got until next fall to sharpen my sarcasm pen for the upcoming madness that is the Husker football season.

But when I first drove past this lovely holiday display a couple of weeks ago, I knew that it was just begging for me to lovingly mock it.

First off, try to ignore the fact that I took this picture on January 8th – a full two weeks after Christmas. Far be it for me to gripe about my new neighbors leaving their holiday decorations up too long, after I lived across the street from Bubba Gump in Sioux City for 8 years – the guy who would leave his plastic Santa and reindeer flying in his yard until May.

Nope, it ain't the overstaying its welcome of this festive display that makes this photo blog worthy.

It's the lit deer in the tree. See him? He's the one who is hanging there like he's recently been hunted down and gutted. The one who has a string of red lights dripping out of him, like he's still bleeding out.

And a tasteful, sophisticated, and refined new year to you, too!

Now, I'll admit that part of me appreciates the joke. I mean, it seemed like everyone and their neighbor had one of those $19.99 Wal-Mart light-up animated deer in their yards this year. (The people directly across the street from us did have a light-up moose, though.) One house about a block from us even had 8 plastic 40-watt robotic reindeer parked out front, pulling Santa's sleigh across their lawn. So to see someone take a twisted approach on this fairly new holiday cliché amuses me in many ways.

But still – isn't it a little crude to celebrate a holiday best known for Peace on Earth and Goodwill Towards Men by hanging Bambi upside down from a tree and letting his little red guts spill out onto the ground? I mean, you don't see a light-up pig on a silver platter with an apple in his mouth as a part of a manger scene. (Maybe I shouldn't give them any ideas.)

Besides, the over commercialism of Christmas has always bothered me. I've always believed that Christmas should be about love and family and happy memories, and not about tons of expensive gifts or out-Griswalding the neighbors with the Christmas lights. So while it's nice and all to see people celebrating as they so choose, it's also hard to know that somewhere out there a little kid is going to ask his parents why poor Rudolph has been drawn and quartered.

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I didn't put out any outdoor Christmas decorations this year – there just wasn't any time, what with us moving in a mere 6 days before Christmas. Heck, we were fortunate enough to have our Christmas tree up and to be able to find the boxes with the ornaments. So next year we'll have to go to town with the holiday lights, but I can assure you there won't be any simulated (or real) hunting victims hanging in our yard.

And I assure you that they'll be turned off and put away before Elvis' birthday.

You Might As Well Dream Big, Right?

Ah, daydreams. Aren't they great?

Some people dream of escaping the winter and finding a warm, cozy island in the Caribbean instead of a snow-bound home. (I know that I do.) Some people daydream about doing the nasty with some super-hot model/bimbo/starlet with large knockers, zero brains, and a hefty trust fund. (Not me – that would be piggish.) Some people daydream about what they're going to have for dinner that night. (Guilty as charged.)

But most of all, I daydream about winning. I like to win things. In fact, over the years I've had pretty good luck in the "winning" category – probably more than my fair share.

Of course, that doesn't stop me from wanting MORE. Greed (as Gordon Gekko taught us years ago) Is Good.

So it's with that "Oooh, I wish I had that" attitude that I show you my latest daydream. I want THIS:

Yes, it's the HGTV Dream Home Giveaway prize for 2008. A big-ass home on Islamorada Key, Florida. Including the furnishings, the GMC Yukon, and the house, this baby totals up to $2.2 million in prizes. All of this could be yours if you beat the one-in-80 gazillion odds and they choose your entry as the winner.

This isn't a one-time daydream of mine, mind you. I've been drooling over the annual HGTV giveaway houses every year. But this time around – to win one in the Florida keys – would be even cooler.

Wouldn't it be sweet to win this place? To be able to sit outside your mega-million dollar Florida beach house, cocktail in one hand, Southern Belle fan in the other, pretending that you're king of the world? Hell, for that opportunity I'd even put up with the drove of "friends" and "close cousins" who'd naturally drop by for a visit. (Room rentals start at $500/night, double occupancy. Cash only.)

Oh, sure - I'd have to convince The Lovely Mrs. G. to move again, just a couple of months after we packed it up and moved to Omaha. But I think the warm winters and the abundant sunshine might do the trick, especially when we're experiencing "freezing drizzle" here in the Heartland.

But the sad reality is that if I did somehow win, I don't think I could afford to keep it. I can only imagine what the property taxes will be on a $2.2 million home, and if somehow I was able to scrape together the cash, I think that the insurance on such a place smack dab in the epicenter of Hurricane Alley would just about do me in.

But since we're daydreaming here, we'll just pretend that the house is built on top of a gold mine and/or oil well, so money will be no concern. Yeah, that's the ticket.

You can enter once a day on the HGTV website. But if I were you, I wouldn't waste my time. You see, I've already won this beauty. It's mine – all mine. And you can't have it. So neener, neener.

Hey, a fella can dream, can't he?

Catching Up

I haven't been very good about keeping up with my blogging lately.

Oops.

It just seems that there are a zillion and one other things to do as of late. None of which I've actually completed, of course – but still… In between the holidays and the new job and trying to figure out which light switches do what in our new house, I'm surprised I've got time to breathe.

So to catch you up on the last couple of weeks, I'll give you the "60 Second Review" summary of what's happening at the all new (& improved!) Casa De Gressel:

The New House: I mentioned above that I still don't know what all of the light switches control. It's a real pain sometimes – you flip it on, expecting to have some lovely 60-watt light flood the room, but nothing happens. Or the garage lights up. Or the ceiling fan comes on. I'll get the hang of it one of these days. Either that, or in the words of Stephen Wright, I'll get a letter from some guy in Germany telling me to "knock it off". Still, I'm loving the new house. It really feels like home.

Unpacking: I'll give her full credit - the Lovely Mrs. G. was very good about handling this. She unpacked about 90% of the stuff, leaving me a small portion to finish. Which I still haven't done yet. I have an excuse though – a lot of it is my Disney Crap, which needs a display case to go into. I've ordered a curio cabinet, and it won't arrive until the 24th. So until then all of my D.C. will remain in their semi-protective tubs. And the books? Well, it's just a matter of putting the book shelves back together first. I have 3 done, with 1 to go. But I really have no excuse for the boxes of computer cables and CDs that litter the corner of the basement. I'll have to chalk that one to laziness.

Cable TV: Our new Omaha cable system is FREAKING AWESOME. 300 channels? HBO on Demand? Get out! Of course, there's nothing good on TV, and with Mrs. G. glued to the VH1 "America's Next Top Model" marathon (gag me), there's nothing good on the TiVo, either. But one of these days the writer's strike will end and we'll all go back to being properly entertained. Or as "properly" as possible by the boob tube.

Football pick 'em: Last fall before I left my Employer Who Shall Not Be Named Because They Suck, I joined several of my co-workers in playing the ESPN "Pigskin Pickem" contest for the NFL. It was an easy contest – every week you pick with team you think would win. The person with the most correct guesses wins. Simple as that.

Well, I was on a team with my former manager Skippy Whitebread (remember him?) and about a dozen other football fanatics, who'd spend HOURS (literally) analyzing their choices for the week. Me? I'd just randomly choose a team. My only hard & fast rule was to never bet against the Seattle Seahawks. (Aside: I probably would've been better off making that rule for the Patriots instead, but it's too late now.)

Anyway, the regular season ended over the holidays, and guess who won the damn thing? That's right – your old buddy Thomas J. took home the gold, baby! Break open the Bud Light and the 2008 new flavor of Doritos – I'm going to Disneyland! Frankly, I really don't care who wins the Super Bowl, but for the chance to whomp those football freaks at their own game? It was worth it.

Iowa Caucus: We moved from Iowa to Nebraska 3 weeks ago, right before the caucuses (Cauci?). Before moving we'd get at least 5 flyers in the mail every day, and a minimum of 3 phone calls every night, either from candidates or news polls asking us who we were going to support. The airwaves were filled with nothing but political ads, and you couldn't go 24 hours without at least one candidate or their spouse/children/D-list celebrity supporters in town. It was annoying, to say the least. I knew a long time ago who I'd support (Obama!), but that didn't keep the others from hounding us. Even Mitt Romney's people called – boy, did they have the wrong number.

Anyway, Mrs. G. and I moved to a state that's pretty much a Democratic wasteland. Nebraska is as red of a state as there is, which is sad in oh so many ways, but it's nice that the pols will leave us alone for a while. I'm glad Obama won in Iowa, and I would've caucused for him if I was there, but since I now have a Nebraska driver's license I'm no longer considered an Iowan, and committing voter fraud is something I'd rather not get involved in. But go Barack anyway!

Migraines: They suck. If you've never had one, I hope and pray that you won't. If you have, you have my sympathy. I spent 6 hours in the E.R. last week dealing with one, which included the blinding headache AND half of my face going numb as a bonus. Didn't I tell you that they suck? On the bright side, the shot of morphine they gave me was…interesting. Not bad, not good. But interesting. It was like every nerve and vein in my body instantly sat up and said "hello". The good news though is that I haven't had another migraine since, and the CAT scan and MRI I sat through came back all clear, so it's good to know that your old pal Tommy won't be having a major stroke anytime soon.

Britney Spears: What a damn train wreck. Part of me wants to feel sorry for her. It's only a small part, mind you… I do feel bad for her kids, though. She's going to make Joan Crawford look like Mother of the Year.

The Melting Pot: Do you…fondue? Mrs. G. and I went to The Melting Pot restaurant last night to celebrate our new home. (We'd promised ourselves that we'd go there after moving.) The Melting Pot is a fondue restaurant, where they'll melt your choice of cheeses for bread dipping, then bring you a pot of hot oil to dip & cook meat and veggies in. It was groovy, man! Actually, The Melting Pot is a very classy joint, and is a wonderful way to spend a long dinner (2.5 hours for us) together. But the best part is the dessert – dark chocolate fondue, served with brownies, cheesecake, pound cake, strawberries, marshmallows, rice krispy treats, bananas, and cherries. It's like Heaven in a pot of bubbling hot chocolate. It's not cheap, but it's definitely worth it. Four thumbs up from Mr. & Mrs. Gressel.

So there you have it – everything you've wanted to know about my world in one mega-long post. Hopefully I'll be better about keeping up with my paperwork from here on out.

If not, then Happy Groundhog's Day! C'mon, you fuzzy rodent – no shadow! No shadow!