Roper v. Furley

In the seventies, America was posed with a conflict of interests. There was Mister Roper: married to Helen, typically sad, and outrageously whipped. Then there was Mister Furley: single, whimsical, and outfitted with the typical Barney Fife voice cracks and squeals.

This problem arose in the 1970s, but after Three’s Company went off the air and the nation was thrust into the mondo-rad world of the roaring eighties, the public sort of let it go. They had no need to play favorites – the ordeal was over.

But then, after I had lived out a healthy portion of my life, Three’s Company made its way onto the Nick at Nite lineup and into my heart. There was, however, a noticeable rift in character between the two landlords of Jack, Janet, and Chrissy. I knew in my heart that I had to choose between one of them. I had to make the hardest decision of my days up until that point.

Sure, Mr. Roper was funny in the passive, aloof sense. But Don Knotts’ characteristic active comedy contributed to Furley’s character in a way that catches the spirit of humor by the toe and swings it around in the air before slamming it onto the pavement of Slapstick Avenue. Roper’s interaction (or lack thereof) with his wife, though, puts a tally in his column of hilarity; jokes about husbands not wanting to be intimate with their wives are outstandingly funny and, like a fine wine, are even better when aged about thirty years.

Upon culmination of my analysis of these two television giants, I came to the conclusion that these two fellows are like apples and oranges. Their stylistic approach to comedy is determined by their overall characters, which are as different as the comedic environments in which they were taught their trade. Therefore, I cannot compare these two men. I cannot identify one as greater. I cannot, by the same token, name one as inferior.

Thus, I applaud the characters of Mr. Roper and Mr. Furley for developing their characters in ways very different from each other. God bless you both.

Clap on…

Dear Santa,

You’ve given me some awesome presents in the past. Though I really am not into the whole idea of gift giving at Christmastide, after the fact I am pretty content. This is especially true this year, because this was the year that you gave me the best present ever.

Santa, my good friend, my new Clapper is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given to me. I think it suffices to say that I have been more occupied with it than any other gift you’ve ever given me – even my little red and yellow Flintstones-style car back when I was knee high to a grasshopper. All day today, I have been questioning the amount of light in my room and altering the state of my lamp with two swift and consecutive smacks of my hands.

Originally, I had my doubts. But now you’ve proven yourself to me, Santa, and I believe in you.

Yours,
Casey Peterson

When the moon hits your eye

Why is it that cold pizza is so much better than the warm stuff? It’s the same pizza; nothing has been added or taken away from the pie.

I imagine it could be because you don’t have to deal with the hot pizza predicament. You know: when the pizza is just served and is so hot that the mouth naturally puckers and you scour the tabletop for a beverage to calm the raging inferno within your pallet. With a few hours of refrigerating time under the proverbial pepperoni belt, such situations are successfully evaded and the pizza can be enjoyed with no fear of burnination.

Some may say that cold pizza is the nuts because of the solidifying of the cheese. Sure, it sucks when you’re faced with the problem of stretchy, warm cheese that continually slips off of the slice. So perhaps by slowing down some molecular, gooey movement in the chilly recesses of the fridge, the problem is avoided, and the avoidance of such a problem serves as another tally in the plus column of cold pizza’s plus and delta chart.

But while these aforementioned reasons are quintessential in considering cold pizza’s dominance over its warmer counterpart, there is one reason that trumps them all. I don’t have to do any work to eat cold pizza, whereas obtaining a piping hot pie would necessitate ample work on my part. I’d have to find a place to get some pizza, order it, wait for it, eat it, and pay for it. Just walking to the icebox and yanking out a slice thats been chilling for some time, however, calls for just a few steps in the right direction and a quick yank of the arm.

All in all, I’m pretty sure that it’s the lack of work necessary to obtain a piece of cold pizza that makes eating it so appealing. Because, after all, everything tastes better if it’s free.

Tubular, dude

People give hot dogs a bad rap. I mean, they can’t help what they are; tubes of assorted meaty goodness are by their nature unable to alter their state of being.

Sure, they’re made of a bunch of different animals and wrapped into a tubular shape with some sort of edible and fleshy material. And some people may find fault in this scheme. Not I, however. I view the hot dog as one of God’s gifts to man: an unrelenting source of nourishment and disposal in one compact, easy to handle package of delight.

In thinking about it, the hot dog is actually an efficient form of disposal. What should we do with excess animal parts? If not pack them into commercially marketed tubes for public consumption, what other alternative is there? If anything, the Oscar Meyers and Hebrew Nationals of the world are saving the world from the sticky situation of not having anywhere to put its excess cow tongues.

Plus, hot dogs are really, really tasty. I feel bad for the two poor birds that were hit by the deli folk’s rock.

Homecoming Huzzahs

Homecoming week is insanely overrated. Girls pacing in the hallways talking to other girls about “him,” everyone dressing up for exceedingly lame theme days in the week leading up to the dance, and, yes, even the dance itself.

There are only three aspects of this week that have me somewhat excited:

First, there is a general lack of schoolwork. Teachers, for some reason, see what I do not in regards to this occasion and, as such, they aren’t assigning much work. Huzzah for controlled apathy!

Second, Wednesday is the only good theme day, especially for the Juniors this year. We are dressing in the garb of the 1970s: the decade of Welcome Back Kotter, Richard Milhouse, and the later years of the unwarranted military action in Viet Nam. In fact, I just went to the local Salvation Army to find pants that complement my and white leather shoes. Huzzah for the attire of the poor people who saw the last of the Volkswagen Beetles roll off the line in 1974 to make way for the ever-lame Superbeetles!

P.S. I will, however, be going to dinner on Friday night at Angellino’s. What can I say, I’m a sucker for buffets.

That's a spicy meat-a-ball!

I know that many folks are finicky about what they eat. You could classify me like this too, but I try to keep an open mind about what goes into my mouth; I’ll try anything once.

Way back when we were wee tots, most of our parents fed us things like Spaghettios. And now I’m giving the well-earned props to Mr. Chef Boyardee.

Today I discovered that euphoria can be achieved with a microwave. Today I discovered that heaven really is on earth. Today I discovered Mini Bites Mini Ravioli with Mini Meatballs.

So here’s to you, Mr. Messiah of the Microwave, and thank you for the delicious distraction from my mundane life.

Farewell, Hesh; my Salisbury steak awaits!

My late-night TV watching used to just consist of hours of local programming on Access Pinellas or independent films on IFC. Occasionally I’d flip to Adult Swim on Cartoon Network to tune into Family Guy or Futurama, both shows that I miss nowadays since Fox gave them the boot.

But after watching more and more Adult Swim-exclusive shows, I realize that I love it. My new favorite program is Sealab 2021, a remixed version of the 1972 original. I now have incentive to continue with my daily naps so I can stay up late and watch cartoons.

gmail

You may have heard about it. And let me assure you that everything they’re saying about it is true.

I got my gmail account about a week ago from the wonderful Katie and, though I don’t intend on using it as my primary email address, caseypeterson (at) gmail (dot) com has assured me that the new wave of nifty internet conveniences is just around the corner.

A gigabyte of space? I’ll never use it. But if, somehow, I become insanely popular while in Indochina and I can’t access my Outlook Express, I can store loads of emails on Google’s servers.

It’s got a super-awesome layout, too.

You can only get an account via invitation and as of now, I haven’t received any. If I do, I’ll post here and the first posters who I know don’t have accounts already will get them.

A Late One

This past week I went with my youth group to tour colleges around America’s eastern states. Soon into the trip, we found ourselves at Transylvania University in Lexington, Kentucky. Those kind folks let us eat in their cafeteria, and yes: it was typical college food.

Or so I thought, until I stepped up to the soda fountain. Coke? No. Sprite? No. But then, like a glimmering beacon in the Midwestern sky that illuminated my meal and, inevitably, my life, shone the logo of a soft drink called Ale-8-1. Now, a plain white background with a red ALE81 on the back would normally dissuade me from partaking in such a beverage, but just before I stepped away from the fountain to fill up my cup with another cola, I saw the subtitle on the label for Ale-8-1: “Kentucky’s Soft Drink.”

“Kentucky’s soft drink?! A whole state of refined citizens such as the loyal Kentuckians can’t be wrong!”

So with that, a beautiful relationship began. Before the end of the meal consisting of one grilled cheese sandwich and an entire plate full of creamed corn, I had downed 4 glasses of the most glorious ale and, like a child at the end of Frosty the Snowman where Frosty melts, lowered my head into a weep knowing that I would never see my beloved Ale-8-1 again – it being Kentucky’s Soft Drink and all. I doubt Kentucky would want to share such a blessing with dirty old Florida.

As I walked out of the college and to the van which was about to depart for Nashville, Tennessee, I saw it. Just like the beacon that shone so brightly in the soft drinks line minutes before, the machine emitted sort of a glow; not a light that would catch the normal person by surprise, but a certain difference was noticeable between the Ale-8-1 and the other dim and uninviting machines. Sure, it looked like it was 40 years old. Sure, most of the buttons didn’t work. And sure, 60 cents is an odd price for a soda. But there it stood, coaxing the dimes from my pocket and filling my stomach with liquid sunshine.

I bought two cans that day, and all the convenience stores around were closed. Two cans were all I could afford, and one actually made it home with me tonight. It stood in the fridge and, as it became cold, I’m pretty sure I could hear faint cries from the insulated realm of frigid consumables crying for the mercy of this newcomer: “Don’t hurt me, Ale-8-1! We do respect you, master! You are our king!” Never heard another beverage cry for mercy? Believe me, the orange juice can act like a little schoolgirl.

As I sit back and drink it now, I can’t tell why I like it. It’s sort of like ginger ale, but without the ginger. A watered down cream soda and a less-carbonated Sprite, so to speak.

It could be the fact that there is a mere 37mg of caffeine within it’s delightful splendor. But I’ve never really been a stickler for health content; that must not be it.

Maybe it’s the name. Sure, “Ale Eighty-one,” You say. And that’s what I thought until I saw the vending machine. The soda fountain read Ale81, but the machine read Ale-8-One. So, for about two days I supposed it to be pronounced “Ale Eight One.” Until, of course I read upon the can that I purchased for sixty cents, “A late one.” You would think that a person such as I, one who can spot a lousy pun from a mile away, would be able to decipher such a name in a speedier time than that. Nevertheless, it is indeed “a late one,” a name that boggles my mind further and increases my love for the beverage.

I still don’t know what it’s all about. Nor do I care. As I sit here and drink the last of the perfection that was successfully canned back in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, I can’t help but mourn the fact that unless I obtain a credit card and order some from the internet or move to beautiful Appalachia, I will never again taste the glory that has grazed my taste buds for the past week.

I salute you, Ale-8-1.

What a time to live.

What a time to live.

You flip a switch and there, the room is lit.
You turn a knob and water flows into your sink.
You sit down at your computer and are able to communicate with someone from the other side of the world.
You can send a letter from Florida to Alaska for 37 cents.
If you’re hot, you can pull a cord from the ceiling and blades will circulate the air to cool you.
You can let your fingers do the walking and call across the planet through wires and satellites.
People come and take your trash from you every week.
Toilet paper is quilted for our comfort.
Invisible waves travel through the air constantly and are made into sounds and pictures by our radios and television sets, respectively.
Although we may not realize it, air, the one substance that keeps us alive is all around us at any given moment.

So when you think you have it bad, take a look at all the things you have and try not to take them for granted.