Please Pass The Gravy

“Please pass the gravy, and good lord are those marbles or lumps in the mashed potatoes?”
Ray Burns, as usual, was not the least bit happy about his meal. For forty years Ray and Twila Burns had been married. Nightly for forty years Twila lovingly prepared Ray a delicious home made supper. For forty years Ray whined about supper.
“This roast is tougher than the skin on my heels, these beans taste like they were soaked in a tub of smelly socks, I’ve had better salad in an elementary school cafeteria!”
Ray continued without taking a breath. The truly amazing thing about Ray, the art of his rant, is the more he complains, the faster he consumes the dish he is so brazenly bashing. . If he really hates something, if he finds something truly disgusting, if the recipe occupying his plate bumps Ray to the edge of nausea he shovels it in like a farmer pitching hay.
“This tepid tar you call coffee tastes like ughhhh ughhhhhh aaa.”
Ray’s eyes began to seemingly bulge out of his head as the color of his skin made a progression from a light crimson to a very disturbing shade of blue. Dropping to his knees he fixed his distended eyes on the back of his wife who was just finishing frosting a lovely German Chocolate cake, a recipe she’d seen on Regis.. His hands flew to his throat and a made a wheezing sound that resembled that chuff created by the last few pitful pounds of air escaping from a bicycle tire.
Ray’s face hit the freshly mopped linoleum floor with a dense clunk. Twyla slowly spun on her heel with a chocolate encrusted spatula in her hand and announced “Yes Ray, they are marbles.”

Educational Consultants-Don't you just love them!

Education is a fickle field my friend. We love consultants, experts, and speakers to come in and tell us how to do our job. I mean, no matter how long you have teaching, no matter how successful you have been in your field there is some expert out there by god who can make you a better teacher. The ironic part about the whole process is-these experts, for the most part, have not done what they are experts at in years. So, I ask, how do you become an expert? There are several criteria.
1. Experts have to live at least 50 miles away from you. No matter how much incredible talent and expertise you have in your district, they are not an expert. They just live too damn close.
2. They have not been a classroom teacher since the Ford Administration. Current practinoners “don’t know shit!” Look around it’s a fact. To be an expert in the field you have to have been out of the field for at least 30 years.
3. Experts have never actually done what they are experts at. Again, a fact. Have someone come in to teach you how to use technology in the classroom. They are great at whistles and bells, they’ve just never used them in the classroom. Experts at goal-setting can spend days telling you how to do it with students, they just never have.
4. You must have an acronym. The more acronyms you have, the bigger an expert. PSDA, HEAT, LOTI, LMNOP. There is no way in hell you can be an expert at anything without an acronym. Can’t happen.
5. You must have a website. Hell, enough said there.

So my friends, to wrap it all up .Here is how to become an expert in education. Move 50 miles away from anywhere, quit teaching for a few decades, come up with a catchy acronym, design a web-site. You will be revered by all, in great demand, and acquire more wealth than you ever imagined.

Question Talkers

“He’s a Question Talker”

You’ve heard them. You may even be one. It’s one of those things, those personality traits, or quirks, or inclinations; or whatever you want to call it that people either have or they don’t have. They either are one or they aren’t one. No, in the realm of question talker there is no gray area. Just like Kevin Cronin warbled in “157 Riverside Avenue” let me give you an example; let me give you an example.
Mike Golic is pissed off and letting the world know about it on Mike and Mike in the morning. Now if you are watching the show on TV you may very well think he’s pissed because of the way he looks in that hideous short-sleeved mock turtleneck. I know, I know. The previous evening in a heated NBA playoff game the Pistons in bounded the ball after either a time-out or a courtside tattoo break. “Hurry up dude, hit me with the ink, just make up some deep shit and script me man, do it!”
Anyway, the Pistons have the ball and for some reason the clock doesn’t start. Chauncey Billups hits a three pointer and the Pistons take the lead at the end of the third quarter. When this miscarriage of justice is brought to the attention of the referee’s they look at each other, scratch their Asses and say, “Yeah, uh, that play took about 4.6 seconds so yeah, the shot counts.”
That stellar little spot of officiating is why Golic is torqued, though the god-awful shirt should at least irritate him. Now comes in the question talking, “Do I think they should have taken the points off the board? Yes. Do I think they should have gone back to the end of the court and replayed that little bit of action? Yes.”
You see. Question talking, I myself call it the self-interview. Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer however, called it question talking, and who the hell am I to thumb my nose at cultural icons.
“Hey Golic, listen.”
“I think they should have taken the points off the board and replayed that little bit of action.”
Nice. Articulate. Intelligent. Is it just me? No I’m not question talking here I want to know. Is it just me? Has the frequency of the self-interview, sorry Elaine, increased or am I hyper vigilant. It’s not only sportscasters, common people do it too. Let me give you an example; let me give you an example.
“Hey John Your new shingles look nice.”
“Thanks!” John yells back at his neighbor Smiling Bob. Yeah that one. “Do I think it looks nice? Yes. Would I do it again naked in the heat of the day? No.”
See what I mean. “Hey John listen.”
“Yeah, it does look nice, but I wouldn’t do it again naked in the heat of the day.”
Nice and neighborly, and you sound so much more intelligent.

Poetry of the Seasons

In class we have been writing poetry about the seasons here in Casper. The whole thrust of the poems is for people from different parts of the world to be able to experience our seasons through poetry. For each season we used a different type of poem.
For Spring we used a quatern. This is simply four quatrains of poetry using an AABB rhyming pattern. The tricky part is the repetion we employed. The first line in the first quatrain is the second line in the second, third line in the third and fourth line in the fourth quatrain.
For summer we chose the Nonet. A nonet begins with a nine syllable line, the second line is 8 syllables, third is 7 etc. on down to a one syllable final line.
The Autumn poem was a Richtometer. This poem starts with a 2 syllable word. The next line is 4 syllables, the third line is 6 syllables. Next is an 8, then 10. The poem now goes back down 8, 6, 4, 2.
For winter we wrote free verse. I attached my movie to this blog. Check it out I hope you enjoy it./Users/theobaldt/Desktop/four seasons poetry.mov

You'll never go back!

Sometimes the worst thing that can happen to you is to be very good at something. From the time I was a little Johnny anything athletic came pretty easily to me. Swimming and baseball were the sports that occupied those pre-teen years and I did well in them. When Junior High came storming into my life football and basketball became my passion. The skills required for these sports came effortlessly to me, and I enjoyed everything associated with both.
I loved football, The whole ball of wax, practice, drills, getting yelled at by the coach. By the time I was a senior in high school I was getting some ink in the papers and some college coaches were calling and knocking on my door. If you have never played football it is hard to describe the buzz I got during games. In the huddle when the play was called, and I knew I was getting the ball it was magical. Taking the handoff or the pitch and turning up field, stiff-arming some lowly safety or running over a linebacker, dragging some poor sucker for a few yards, even getting creamed were all huge rushes. Hauling myself off the ground and trotting back to the huddle I couldn’t wait to get the ball again.
Once the comfort zone we all know as High School was over I went on to college to play football. That is where the fun left the game. Everything was too serious, the coaches were too picky, and above all I partied way too much. Way too much. That whole “you have to go to class” just didn’t stick with me. Nobody gave a crap if I slept in, or skipped class, or didn’t do my assignments. No one cared, especially me. Before I knew it my grades sucked, my parents were pissed, and I dropped out of college. My Dad, never the great communicator, told me, “You’ll never go back, You’ll never graduate. The glove had been dropped, the line had been drawn, the challenge had been… You get the picture.
I didn’t go back for a while, and more than once I started to believe the old man. Maybe I wouldn’t go back, maybe I wouldn’t get that degree. There was months and even years that I didn’t think about college. I had a pretty good job. The paycheck wasn’t huge, but it was a living. Life could be worse. Sure enough, the idea started creeping back in my mind. Get that degree, get that degree. Slow was the way to go, I knew that much. I took a class here and a class there, then declared education as my major and started taking it seriously. Not one to ask for a lot of help I wanted to do this on my own. I continued working full-time and started taking 2 or 3 three classes a semester. I had a wife, two beautiful baby girls, a full-time job, and was taking as many classes as I could afford. No school loans for me, no sir, I was paying my own way.
Thirteen years after I graduated from High school, I got my Bachelor’s degree, and I did not owe one penny in student loans. I did all the work and I paid for it myself. I will never forget the look on my Dad’s face when I showed him that diploma. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many smart-ass, in-your-face little snippets I wanted to yell at him. I didn’t. Later I went on to get my Master’s Degree, and I am very proud of that, but not as proud as I am of that Bachelor’s Degree, not as proud as I am of being able to look at my old man and just shaking my head, knowing he was wrong.