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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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?
Monday, June 30, 2008
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?
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?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 9, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, May 5, 2008
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!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
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!
Friday, April 25, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
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.
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.
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