Hey, Six Eyes!

There's a lot of things I like to write about on this blog – stupid news, stupid people, and stupid fashions. Like this instant classic, coming soon to a Wal-Mart near you:

("Excuse me, madam - you have a Skittle stuck to your forehead...")

But above all else, my number one topic to talk about, and the whole reason that this damn blog was born in the first place, was to whine about one thing: My Getting Old.

I started this blog shortly before my 40th birthday, and 3+ years later, here we are. Older, greyer, and hopefully a little wiser. I'm now a grandfather, which is actually pretty cool, and I haven't yet had to trade in my convertible for a Buick, so that's good.

But now I need to whine about the latest step over the hill I've taken – one I knew was coming, but one I'd rather not take.

You see, The Lovely Mrs. G. and I went to the eye doctor the other day for our annual exams, and it turns out that I need…

BIFOCALS.

Ugh. The Old Grey Gressel – he ain't what he used to be.

Truth be told, I've probably needed to have bifocals for a couple of years. I've found that reading small print – newspapers, menus, my Get Fuzzy desktop calendar – is much, much easier if I take my glasses off. (Although it doesn't help if everything beyond 5 feet away is one big blur at the time.)

I got in the habit of looking over my glasses at print, which I've gotta tell you – isn't exactly that "sexy librarian watching you over her glasses" image that you might be imagining about now. (So knock it off.) Nope, it was more of a "Geez, there's Gressel aging right in front of us" kind of pose.

The eye doc in Sioux City told me a year ago that I was "inches" away from needing bifocals, so it shouldn't have come as a shock, but last week to actually hear it come out of the eye doc's mouth – "Sorry, Tom – welcome to middle age" really did sting. Why doesn't he just go ahead and set me up with a walker and a 3:00 PM dinner reservation at Country Kitchen Buffet while he's at it?

I suppose it's inevitable, though. Bifocals are just a part of growing old. And although it did cost me another $70 out of pocket, I did spring for the ones without the line in them. You see, us old geezers can afford luxuries like that, when we're not blowing our retirement savings on Geritol and Lawrence Welk albums.

So my new glasses are on order, and should be here in a week to 10 days. I'll then need a couple of weeks to adjust to the double-vision. Hopefully I won't crash into any walls or bingo parlors while I'm getting used to them.

Oh, sure. Laugh if you must – snicker as you please. But just keep in mind that YOUR TURN IS COMING one day. And while I may be looking through bifocals from now on, at least I still have a full head of hair. So neener, neener. (And yes – it's mostly gray, but so what?)

Anyway, I'd love to stick around and whine some more about my advanced age, but it's time to go put on my cardigan and chase the neighbor kids off my lawn.

See you at Country Kitchen Buffet – dinner starts at 3:00. Don't be late, or you may not get any fruit cup.

The Three Reeled Thief

Well, duh – why do you think they call them “One Armed Bandits?”

* * * * * * *

Man tells 911 slot machine stole his money

A second Florida man has been arrested on charges of making false 911 calls in as many days. An arrest report says 47-year-old Carlos Gutierrez was at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino early Monday and called 911 to say the slot machine stole his money. The report says Gutierrez left the casino to place a second 911 call to say the same thing.

He was arrested and charged with making a false 911 call. He's being held with no bail set.

And in northern Florida last week, a Jacksonville man called 911 to complain that a Subway left the sauce off a spicy Italian sandwich.

* * * * * * *

You know, I’ve often thought the same thing – “That slot machine ate my money – it was MEAN!” But never have I been tempted to call the Po-Po and whine about it. Maybe he should try 1-800-BETS-OFF next time?

As for the guy pissed that they left the Grey Poupon off of his sammich, well....that IS criminal. He oughta sue. Right now. Get 'er done.

"Is The Contender Ready?" "Yep."

It's a big night in the Gressel household – a sporting event the likes you've never seen is set to take place this evening, and you just know that The Lovely Mrs. G. and I will be there in front of the TV, glued to every exciting moment.

No, it's not the Olympics. Those wimpy, ad-filled games start on Friday night. T onight's games are even better.

Tonight is the season finale of... American Gladiators.

Yes, my ultimate guilty pleasure is coming to an end for another season, about to go on hiatus for a few weeks until (Thank God!) the fall TV season arrives.

After tonight they'll pack away the joust sticks, sew up the holes in Justice's spandex, scrub the stink out of Hulk's combination hairpiece/bandana, and let Leila have her baby, hopefully without having to run The Gauntlet to get to the delivery room.

But first – we have to sit through two hours of tense, action-packed clashes of good and evil as the four remaining semi-finalists have to battle it out to see who can come up with the most points, the fastest Eliminator time, and (more importantly) the dumbest catchphrase.

Will they cry as they thank God and their country for the power to be there?
Will they "give it 110%"?
Will they say that they're going to just go out there and try their best, using the strength of their spouse/children/dogs as their motivator?

What do you think? (Hint: Don't wager the college fund on this bet.)

Meanwhile, it's our last chance to see Titan's Enormous Man Thighs do their patented hoochie-coochie-wiggle-jiggle for a while. We'll only have to guess from here out what Toa likes to eat on a Subway sandwich. And if things go horribly wrong, we'll never get to know if Hellga can actually smile or not.

Sniff – what am I gonna do without them?

I know I'm a sick puppy. I admit it. I'm a reasonably intelligent, highly interesting, and occasionally creative guy. (Choose your own adverb if you must.) I can watch 60 Minutes with the best of them. I appreciate PBS on occasion. And I'd rather watch a documentary more than just about any other movie genre (except for Disney animation, but that's another sickness for another day).

But put me in front of NBC on Monday nights, and I become what The Hulkster tends to call a "Gladiator Maniac." (And yes – even I shudder at the thought of that moniker.)

It's sad, isn't it? I'd much rather watch Crush than Diane Sawyer. (Hell, who wouldn't?) I'd rather spend an evening mocking a guy named Wolf than mocking a horrible president named Bush. I would rather watch two poor shlubs fall into a giant color-coordinated ball pit than watch all of the Olympic pageantry combined. And I want to know – no, I NEED to know – who will win the overpriced gas-guzzling Toyota pickup? It's keeping me up at night, people!

So if you're around tonight, please do me a favor and avoid calling our house between 7:00 PM and 9:00 PM Central. I'll be far too preoccupied to answer the phone.

And then, it'll all be over and done. The pools will be drained, the Beast will be returned to the freak show from which he came, Hulk will go back to trying to get his kid sprung from jail, and Jet, Rocket, Zen, and all of the other wussy little B-list Gladiators will start looking for work, most likely waiting tables at the nearest Denny's.

And I will be left all alone, with just my happy, joyous, silver spandex memories to keep me warm until September.

That, and my official souvenir American Gladiators Joust stick.