Sparkles 2 & 3

It started a few weeks ago when Ellie, my 6 year old, got a little frog habitat for her birthday. It was a great gift from good friends who really know her well. We set it up and bought a green tree frog from the pet store. She loved him (Sparkles, the given name for all her little friends) and spent hours watching the tank. About a week later, we found Sparkles in the "pond", eyes glazed over and mouth agape in a macabre permanent grin. Aw shit. I broke the news to her in the kitchen, she took it pretty well at first, less so a little later. To lessen the hurt, I promised that we would try again, this time with a toad. We could catch one around the house I told her. I had just seen one the day before at the park in our neighborhood. My thought was that a toad would be more tolerant of temperature and humidity, an overall more hardy creature that could handle all the handling it was sure to get. Most of all the promise would buy time and let her forget about Sparkles. As luck would have it, good or bad is yet uncertain, we found two toads the very next night. The toads were locked in carnal passion at the time so I hesitated to disturb them. "But you promised!" And I had. Something told me I shouldn't, but I did. I prepared the tank while she followed them around the yard. She caught them, put them in the tank, Sparkles 2 and Sparkles 3. For the next two weeks she played with them every day. She took them out and let them hop around her room. They never tried and get away from her. There was something almost stoic about them. They seemed to accept their new life, for better or worse. It soon became apparent to my wife and I that this could not be a permanent arrangement. Eventually they would suffer the same fate as their predecessor, only this time there would be two instead of one, this time they would be wild instead of store bought and bred. We dropped hints that the day would come that they would have to be released. She stonewalled us completely. Any of you reading this that know Ellie also know that she is not easily swayed. Today, for the sake of the Sparkles couple, we took a stand. We knew it would not be easy but we were resolute. We hoped to teach a lesson, to appeal to her love of animals. We bribed her, begged her, lectured her. Eventually I took her and them out in the front yard under some oaks and sat in the leaf litter. I wanted her to take them out and set them free. She would not. I made her leave the door to the tank open and tried to get her to come inside. She would not. We spent almost an hour out there under the trees. A thunderstorm was approaching and it started to rain. I psyched myself up to do it. Rip off the bandaid, jump in the cold pool. She would get over it, I would get over her hating me. Then at the 11th hour, Pam suggested I set up one of the larger tanks taking up space in the garage. It would be 4 times the size. It may even keep the little guys alive. So I did. It has leaves and gravel, sticks, a big seashell, a pond and a live fern. Ellie doesn't hate me. She has her toads. Don't know where I'm going to put the tank. Don't know if I've only postponed the inevitable. Don't know if I've taught a poor lesson or set a bad example. I don't know if I've failed Sparkles 2 and 3. Time will tell. I'll keep you posted.

Homework

So two of my kids have a habitat diorama project due next week. They can be work but it beats the hell out of fractions. I came across this photo while researching (looking for examples I could plagiarize) habitats. Poor Noah.

Bowlarama

It was not the best day in the Glas household. Family turmoil left a planned road trip untraveled. The home team hashed things out between volleys of uncomfortable phone conversation. Things will be fine eventually, time tends to do that. Suffice it to say, drinking was a necessity this evening, the only questions that remained were what and where.

The kids being sequestered during the melee, it was decided that the drinking would have to include something fun for them as well. Though Chucky Cheese serves beer and wine (both from a tap sticking out of the wall) I had long ago vowed to never again enter that establishment. Where else could a kid be a kid and a parent be drunk? Live music somewhere? Skipper’s offered gospel at $25 a head. State fair? Kinda far and sure to be filled to capacity with Hillsborough County’s finest. A movie? No these kids needed to burn some energy. Maybe the drive-in, but we’d have to prematurely introduce the kiddies to Jason Vorhees and his exploits at Camp Crystal Lake. How about, I don’t know…bowling? Wait yeah bowling! Physical activity for the kids, beer for me, food, and beer for me. A few phone calls later we were bound for Tampa Lanes.

Our local bowling alley is about 5 miles north of our neighborhood at the apex of Dale Mabry and US 41. Technically it should be called Lutz Lanes as it is located within that particular town’s city limits. It sits immediately adjacent to the Paradise Lakes nudist resort amongst the fast food joints and strip malls that dominate that part of town. Although I saw none in uniform, I couldn’t help wondering if we were bowling along side a bunch nudies. By no means do I give a shit if someone wants to be a nudist, I just don’t particularly want to watch them bowl. The only balls I was interested in watching bounce were those my kids chunked down the lane.

Shoes rented, lane assigned, food and drink ordered and we were ready to go. They put us on lane 22, down near the end where they stick people with kids to keep them from distracting the “serious” bowlers. The beer, served in a pitcher, was weak and American. The food was fried. It was the first thing in my stomach all day aside from about six cups of coffee (I am chewing a handful of Tums as I write this). The blue collar crowd was generally friendly and having a good time. We were situated between a family with kids of their own (one of which barfed 3 feet behind where we were sitting) and some teens that appeared to be on a double date. Apparently Tampa Lanes is also the preferred Saturday night hangout for the local junior high crowd. I’m pretty sure had I been alone, my jeans washed in acid and my neck washed in Drakkar, I would have landed a date for the spring formal.

The bowling was fun for the whole family. I used a green 15-pounder off the rack. As the beer poured, I imagined scenes from one of my all time favorite movies The Big Lebowski. After one of my many strikes (one), I looked back at my family and thought “Don’t fuck wit da Gessus, mang”. The wife and kids enjoyed themselves even though I wiped the floor with them (gutter bumpers up). By the end of the game, with the last pitcher drained, I had hatched a plan to steal my rented bowling shoes. I’ve always wanted a pair and the beer had emboldened my resolve. Pam and the kids would leave through the front door with the shoes I had worn into the place. They would then drive around to the side and I would bolt through the door into the waiting getaway minivan. The plan was perfect. I wish nothing more than to include a pic of the shoes along with this post. In the end however, less uninhibited (more inhibited?) minds prevailed and the caper was scrapped. Maybe next time.

Now I sit on the couch with my laptop, my belly full of beer and fried cheese, my mind full of images of my smiling kids. A day that started out a turd ended up pretty good. Now where’d I leave those Tums?

Observation

Its about 5:00 on a Wednesday. I am home alone. I can smell the rain that is falling in slow, fat drops outside. The steady thudding of the raindrops muffle most other sound. The cluttered wood deck and neglected yard look clean. Lizards hunt for bugs in the high corners of the screens and there is an enormous bee on the porch. As the rain slows from an overcast sky it is replaced by smaller drops from leaves and moss and lawn chairs. Noise from the world begins to intrude only interrupted by an occasional rumble of thunder that has moved beyond. The air is humid and still.

I wonder whats on Comedy Central?

Flags of Our Fathers?

Yet another story out of Tampa to be proud of. It seems that the local chapter of the Sons of Confederate Veterans has erected a gigantic Confederate flag right at the intersection of I-4 and I-75. For those unfamiliar with the area, that is one of the most traveled areas for locals and tourists alike. This thing is fucking huge too, larger than anything this side of a car dealership. Unsurprisingly public outcry has ensued. These folks went through all the proper channels and did it on the level. Good for them.

I understand why this pisses some people off, but I believe they have every right to do what they've done. They own the property. Presumably they paid for the flag. The way I see it, it is a good thing and I'm not talking about freedom of speech. People should know what they are in for when they come to our fair town, who lives here and how they see the rest of the world. Like a Radioactive! or Beware of Dog sign, isn't it better that it's all laid out on the table? We're here, we're racist, get used to it! Maybe we should all be required to fly a banner in front of our homes that proclaims something everyone else should know about us; "NAMBLA Founding Member", "Young Republicans for Rudy", "Vegetarian".

Now some proponents of the flag will say it symbolizes their pride in the south, or the country (the country the south fought to secede from). John Adams, commander of the organization's Florida division (commander!?) says "...it's a free country as far as I know." Did I mention the flag was made in China?

Google Maps - Street View

I love the street view option on Google Maps. I know that Google has gotten some shit over it. But w/o it, I never would have been a witness to this lovely nugget.

http://maps.google.com/maps?ie=UTF8&hl=en&ll=28.071715,-82.449657&spn=0.005074,0.011716&z=17&layer=c&cbll=28.069248,-82.45093&panoid=_1D4wsv7l9k8UFSPIZouaA&cbp=1,347.0848779829396,,0,16.070104586051787

This is located at the corner of Fletcher and Nebraska. If you know Tampa, it isn't really all that suprising.

Lee Angel

I know very little about where he came from and nothing of where he went. But in the short time I knew him, I got a glimpse into bizarro world like never before or since.

He came from North Carolina, via Jason Vuic. He knew him from school somehow and had apparently offered to drive Jason down to Tampa where I was living with my friend from high school (Derek) and my brother. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He didn't worry about money but he didn't work (at first, later we worked some telephone jobs together). He chained smoked Marlboros but shied away from weed. He talked in a slow, southern drawl. I remember something about his dad being a state level politician but I could be wrong. Some how, of which I have absolutely no recollection, he came to live with us in Tampa.

Before too long, we realized how strange this dude was and that we had made a mistake. Late one night in my room (he lived in my room) he said I was "incorrigible". He said it in a flattering sort of way. He then asked for me a hug. Not sure what to do I offered him a "mental hug", which he accepted by saying "Ready?" and then making a satisfied hugging sound. It would have been less weird if I thought he was gay and horny but I don't think that was it. I don't know what he was up to. I guess he might have just needed a hug. Another time he used money from my coin collection to buy smokes. Though I didn't really care about the collection, it was just something I brought when I moved out of my parents house, I was pissed. So I told him the coins he cashed in were given to me from a since passed godfather. I don't have a godfather much less a dead one. I could have told him that they were from a relative who kept them up his ass while in Auschwitz (also untrue) but I let him off easy.

And then he was gone.

I Hate the Ice Cream Man

I'm not talking about the song, though I do hate that song and Van Halen. I'm speaking of the actual Ice Cream Man. The driver of the Ice Cream Truck. The purveyor of overpriced, unhealthy, sugary treats. First you hear the faint yet unmistakable music. The kids and dogs have already heard (or sensed) it, charting its progress as it roams about adjacent streets searching for prey. Hunting must be good because almost every night, just before dinner, it comes. It gets louder, the kids get louder. Sometimes kids escape the confines of the backyard, oblivious to yelling parents, drawn to it like mosquitoes to a bug zapper. Alas dinner has yet to be eaten and the answer is usually no. Crying and complaining ensue. Thanks motherfucker!

Least Competant Legislature Ever

There are many good things about living in Florida. Decent weather, great outdoors, lots of good music venues. No state income tax. Florida and its residents however, have been known to shit in their collective cereal from time to time. Katherine Harris and the hanging chads (sounds like a punk band), rampant development, and the good ole' boy system (see the first two) are but a few examples. The topic of this post is the Florida State Legislature and what it felt was important to spend time debating this year.

The state of the state sucks. Huge budget deficits threaten the jobs of teachers and cops among others. The real estate market is stagnant at best. Teachers are fucking students like drunk priests at sleep away camp. We all have a lot of work to do if we care at all. Our tireless congressmen are apparently up to the challenge.

Truck Balls

You've all seen them. Look, you can even see the truck they hang from. It's a big truck with big tires. Its shiny. Probably has a Florida Terrorist Hunters License and a Gators sticker. It definitely has a trailer hitch. That's where the lifelike rubber set of nuts sways and bounces to the rhythm of the road (and Limp Bizcit if the sound system is good). Stupid?, yes. Tasteless?, of course. Illegal?, absolutely if our congress has anything to do with it. A bill banning truck balls was argued this year (thank you Sen. Carey Baker, R-Eustis). A violation would result in a $60 fine and points on your license. Are you serious? Give yourselves another raise while your at it.



Ultrasound

I believe abortion is a difficult and sad decision to have to consider. I also believe that early in the pregnancy, it's no ones business but the potential mom, dad and their doc. And it is still legal thank God (ironic use of an expression huh?). In an attempt to cause even more pain and hardship facing a couple faced with this decision, The Florida Senate narrowly defeated a bill requiring an ultrasound be conducted on any women seeking an abortion (thank you Sen. Daniel Webster, R-Winter Park). Nice.

Creationism

Believe whatever you want. I do. I respect your right to believe in talking snakes and giant boats, in booming voices from the sky. I expect the same from you. Thank you for amusing me while I cling to silly facts, and critique, and empirical evidence, and open discourse.If I'm smart at all it's because I know I don't know shit. Neither do you. The State Senate is considering a bill allowing the teaching of creationism in our schools (thanks Senator Ronda Storms, R-Valrico).I wonder whose version of creation would be taught. Maybe the Apache belief that The One Who Lives Above created first a little girl on a cloud? Perhaps the Australian Aboriginal Dreamtime version? Even better, the Norse creation belief that man and woman sprang from under the left arm of a frost ogre? Doubt it. Bravo Florida!

Charlotte Tampons

I wish I could take credit for it, but I don't remember who came up with the idea. I also don't recall the circumstances that brought that particular group of us together (me, Jason, Lad, and.....Clint Scharf). All I know is the plan was hatched at Vuic's kitchen table, sometime near the end of our senior year.

Our highschool team mascot was the Tarpons and there was a big Charlotte Tarpons sign at the top of the football stadium. We were very proud of it. So we decided to stick an "M" over the "R". We got some poster board and put an M on it. We drove up to school with the lights off. I dropped everyone off (I drove get away because I was a pussy). They climbed up on the roof and stuck the M at just the right place. I picked them up around the corner. I felt a little like Ralph Mouth.

East Elementary

When Doves Cry topped the charts and Members Only jackets were in. Parachute pants, tight Jordache (dudes too), and Velcro sneakers. The year was 1984.

After completing required course work, I graduated from Peace River Elementary School. During my time there I was elected by my peers to serve as treasurer of Mr. Clifford's class, and was the recipient of the esteemed Something or Other award. My search for new challenges brought me to East Elementary for the sixth year of my education.

The typical East Elementary student comes from a semi-depressed community and probably has a senseless yet dedicated affiliation with one of the three big auto makers. He or she rides the bus to school, walks, or if their name is Jean Bartlett, ride their motorcycle. More on Jean later. My class was a bunch of misfits. There was Michael Piner, Shawn Boyette, the Stover sisters, and of course Jean. My best friends were Rob Hussey and Davie Westbury. I also remember a giant fat girl named Darcey who I once knocked down trying to catch a football. My bean ball chops and stellar grades helped me fit in nicely. Once I barfed in the class sink during recess and noone ever found out.

The, vice-principal, (Gerb Vuic) was a nice old guy (by 6 grader standards mind you) whose son I eventually became good friends with. One time while attempting to ditch my weekly visit to the SEEP program, Gerb mistook my failure to make the bus as an accident. He drove me there himself in the Pontiac 6000. He told us for years that it was the fastest car in town. I lost my virginity in his bed. Twice.

Jean was bigger and badder than anyone else in school. He was probably 15 when the rest of us were 11 or 12. He came and went as he pleased and was often suspended. Aware of my civic nature, my teacher asked me to deliver a note to the office. Knowing that the code of note delivery forbade the reading of the note, I opened it immediately upon my leaving the room. In dramatic cursive writing, it said "Jean smells atrocious!" I think Gerb got the note. I wonder how long he laughed. The last I remember seeing Jean was in the lunch room between Christmas and summer break. The people there were making preparations for that evenings spring sock hop, including testing a PA system. Kids were taking turns saying inane pro East Elementary crap into the mic. Jean pushed his way to the front and said "I think this school really sucks." He was led away and out of my life forever. I imagine him now, still cruising the back streets of south Punta Gorda on his dirt bike. Wondering what could have been if he'd only applied himself. That or he is in Iraq.

My First Car

The is an image of a '69 Dodge Dart. My first car was the same model and year as the one in the image. Only mine was yellow, not shiny, and usually dirty.

I bought the car for $600, $300 of which my dad gave me. I was 17 and most of my friends already had cars. There was my bud Japhy's '77 Chevelle. For some reason everyone in school called it the Love Mochine. I spent a whole bunch of time in the passenger seat of that car.

My car had 4 doors, a slant-6 engine, and full time power steering. The power steering was ridiculous. You could spin the wheel and let go and it would keep spinning until you turned all the way around or crashed (depending on how fast you were going.) The radio, AM/FM, had those fat black preset buttons. The speedometer stretched from one end of the dash to the other. It wasn't cool by any standards but it sort of had character and it was mine.

The first time I took it on a road trip (Ft. Myers), Japhy, and bothers Perry and Kenny Shaw were with me. We were cruising south on US 41 (cue The Boys Are Back In Town by Thin Lizzy here) when I glanced at the dash. What I thought was the fuel gauge was pegged to the right. "Man, this car gets great mileage", I said. "That's the heat gauge dude!" Japhy said. We were overheating and limped back home without ever reaching our destination.

Another time Japhy and I were hauling ass up my road in the car. We were coming to the stop sign at the start of the street where it intersects a fairly busy road. On the other side of the road there was a significant drop off into some palmettos. I went to stop and my foot went to the floor. I had zero brakes! At first I tried to jam it in park. Needless to say this did not work at all. At the last second I swerved to the right at about 25 mph. The car bounced to a stop between a telephone pole and the pole's guy wire, with about a foot on either side to spare. We laughed our asses off.

I wish I could say I had alot of good times in that car. I don't think I ever even touched a girl in it. Truth is I still spent most of my high school nights out in the Love Mochine. Eventually the car had problems that I couldn't or wasn't interested in fixing. (I had my eye on a sweet '77 Celica.) It sat neglected on the side of the road across for my parents house for several months. The last time I saw it, it was on the back of a flatbed wrecker on its way to the dump.

Crapload of Tadpoles

I saw this weirdness at work today

Bleeding In The Meat

I should preface this story by describing what my situation was at the time. It all started when I was moving back home from college, not having the money for the next term.

I hadn't got off my ass and earned the money for tuition nor did I make much of the last semester. I was living in the dorms for the first time after a two years in various apartments. Because I was moving home I had everything I owned in my car. My car was one of the more ridiculous rides I have ever seen. I was a 77' Celica that I bought from my brother though I'm not sure I ever paid him. It had all sorts of after market body work. It had flared rear and forward fenders. It had a spoiler, a front skirt, and over-sized Perelli tires. It had a removable sunroof. It was sort of fun to drive because of the 5-speed manual. but the air didn't work. The brakes and clutch leaked. It only had a radio.

So I was driving down 1-75 a few weeks before Christmas with the heat on because the car was overheating. All my shit was in the car. My rear driver side wheel had been making a grinding sound for several weeks but I figured it could wait until I got home. I had no money for it anyway. Just south of Venice (FL), the sound got really loud and the car started to shudder violently. A few seconds later the car shifted several inches down and to the left. Looking out the window I saw my wheel, axle attached, bouncing and rolling past me and into the wooded median. I was sliding along the shoulder in the grass. My brakes went with my wheel so all I could do was wait until I stopped. Eventually I did, in the grass just off the road. I gathered myself together and got out to take a look. What I saw was my bare rear assembly (inches from my gas tank), white hot, resting on dry grass. Before my eyes a tiny flame emerged and slowly began to spread. I threw dirt on it, I dumped Gatorade on it, I spit at it. The fire was finally extinguished by the coffee of a passerby. The guy let me use his cell phone to call someone.

I couldn't reach anyone so I left messages. After throwing the street signs I had in the car as far into the palmettos as possible, I sat on the trunk and waited. A highway trooper eventually stopped. She said "Car trouble?" I said "Kinda." She left. About an hour later a friend picked me up. I had dropped out of college and was moving in with my parents. I was 21. It was not the happiest time in my life. My only positive thought was that my dad would be forced to help me buy a car so I could get a job. At least there was that.

"I think you should fix it." my dad said. "Huh?" I thought. Fix it!? WTF do I know about that kind of car repair? Seriously. But that was that and I would have to do it. I borrowed a tool from my mechanic Uncle Ed and money from my dad. I went to a junk yard and yanked some parts. I read a manual and fixed it. No shit. During the several months it took to do it, I had do drive my mom to work (at 6:30) so I would have her car to get a job. I found the job that would eventually lead to my bleeding in the meat.

The Black Forest Buffet was a dump. I killed more than one roach in full view of customers. Other than myself and the manager, it was staffed my a crew of absolute idiots. Most of them kids. There was the skinny redneck dishwasher who like to wash pots on several hits of acid. There were also two young black kids who did random jobs, sometimes. They actually brought there guns to work once to compare. They were walking stereotypes. The restaurant catered mostly to old people who ate dinner at 5:00 pm. It consisted of a full bar, a salad bar, and a meat and side bar. The latter bar was to be my domain. I was "The Meat Carver". My job was to slice off hunks of meat for the old people as they pushed their trays along the line. Some of those old-timers got pretty sassy after a couple of Manhattans. I did my best to grant their requests for a pork roast "end cut" or an extra fatty piece of lamb. By the way, lamb is fucking gross.

It was Easter Sunday at about 1:00 pm, prime eating hour for old people. We were packed. The blue hair stretched all the way down the line. Then I learned a very important lesson for a meat carver. Never try to catch a falling knife. I did try and cut the shit out of my finger. No stitches needed though I was bleeding freely. But it was Easter and people need sustenance to pray. The show must go on. So I went on carving meat and I went on bleeding. I bled in the meat.

Frialator 2900

The last two nights I fullfilled our family obligation to work the concession stand at the little league park. I didn't really know anyone I worked with but thats not the best part. My job was the fry cook! I made that grill my bitch. I was trained by a women (grown with two kids (who are brats)), who said she worked at McDonald's, so she had experience. I later learned that she works at McDonalds which is kinda different.

So I put as much shit as I could fit on the grill and in the Frialator (yes the actual name of the deepfrier is The Frialator 2900.) I was flipping patties, grilling dogs, frying chicken, french fries, and cheese sticks. I have no idea how many half raw chicken strips I served up. And lets just say no hairnets required. (Remind me to tell the story about bleeding in the meat)

Springfest 2008

We got there at about 4:00 on Friday after a shorter than expected trip. Brian, Henry, and James, Japhy, and some other folks were already set up when we arrived. Our frickin huge tent went up without a hitch. Ellie pounded the stakes. The site was wide open with lots of room to run but with enough trees to give shade and rig up a hammock. A few hours later we were at the Meadow stage for Donna the Buffalo and Scythian. Great weather and lots of friendly folks. Maddie displayed her hoopin' chops to the music.

A wander through the vendor area resulted in cheese pizza for dinner. Pizza slices where $4 a piece but a whole pie (6 slices) was a deal at only $25. Wait, WTF!

I worried that we wouldn't have enough wood but Brian came up big and we had plenty. This was Friday night's fire. It cooked good marshmellows.

Saturday was jam packed fun what with all the river swimmin' and horseback ridin'. More music on the Meadow then back to camp fer supper. Hotdogs.

After supper we all went to the Ampitheater to see Peter Rowan. The older kids passed out on a blanket while Ellie and Henry took it up a notch. Brian, Henry, Ellie and I got down to the 5th row. Holding a kid does wonders for cutting through a crowd. We saw this guy who was comically out of place. He was about 24, in shape, with a shaved head. And his shirt was too small for him. He was dancing, sort of. He was bustin out these short choreographed dance steps. All of them included a wierd motion where his hands glided over his body. After a while (it was inevitable) his shirt came off. He had a huge tattoo on his back of some kind of celtic? design. More dance moves, now bare-backed. Awesome! Then back to camp to burn some wood.

No, I did not shit the entire trip.

Funny

People:
Will Ferrel
David Cross
Tenacious D
Patton Oswald
Zach Galifianakis
Demetri Martin
George Carlin
Keith Oberman
Mitch Hedberg

Shows:
Kids in the Hall
Whitest Kids You Know
The Office
The Simpsons
The Daily Show
The Colbert Report
Reno 911

KSA's: Raising the dead, walking on water, and excellent carpentry skills

I am not a religious man, in fact I am 95% atheist, 5% agnostic. I could have however, used a little help from Jesus. I even called his name loudly several times today. You see, I am in the process of building a deck with a limited set of tools and barely amature carpentry skills. The experience garnered from his first job could have come in handy. As it is nothing is quite square, level, or even. Screw water to wine (I prefer beer) or walking on water (that's what boats are for). How about a little divine guidance on the proper way to level two perpendicular joists! Maybe I should have given up porn for lent. At least he could have stopped the rain. Shit.

Public Shitting

Does anyone else have an issue with shitting in public? I do it when necessary but I take pains (at times literally) to avoid it. I don't like the idea of someone smelling my shit anymore than me smelling someone else's. Under no circumstances will I shit if there is a line. I won't shit if anyone observed me entering the stall. If I enter the bathroom and a stall is already occupied, I leave. If I am already midshit when someone enters the bathroom, I will wait (no matter how long) until the bathroom has cleared before exiting. I despise shitting in a port-a-let. They are rarely clean and there is usually a line. Last year at a music festival I didn't shit for the first three days I was there. Only on the last day, looking at a four hour drive after a large cup of black coffee, did I shit. In the woods.

Another Bucket List

The previous Bucket List may come across kind of pussyish and pandering. Admittedly it was, so after further consideration I am posting another list.

1. Smoke weed with John Stewart, Barack Obama, and Snoop Dog.

2. Front row seats at an Uncle Tupelo reunion show

3. Back pack camp alone for a week somewhere out west

4. Travel back in time and meet Chris McCandless

5. Cage dive with Great White sharks

6. Kayak Alaska

7. Spend a month in Amsterdam

8. See the Aurora Borealis

9. Chase and film a tornado

10. Spend a month at sea