All umpires are God awful.

Well, much like last year, the Red Devil Gators’ season has come to an end in what you would call a “less than ideal” way. We lost our playoff game tonight, but it wasn’t all for naught.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we made it into the second round of the playoffs – having played only two games. See, two of our four regularly-scheduled games were rained out. We won one of the games we played and lost one in a very close fashion. Then, the team that we were to play in the first round of the playoffs decided not to show up for our round one game. So there we were earlier this evening, with our pride and ambition almost bubbling over. Then our season ended the same way it did last year: we lost a playoff game to a team comprised of what I can only guess are thirty year old alumni in a hotly contested match up officiated by some of the worst umpires on earth.

And I don’t mean for this to sound like sore loserdom or anything, but I swear to God: the first base umpire was watching the game on the field next to ours the entire night. I am disappointed to know that my university’s recreation department does not have higher standards for such a paid position. Of course, sucking at everything in life is sort of a prerequisite when becoming an umpire on any level.

Ah well, c’est la vie. We wouldn’t have won even if Mr. I-Could-Give-Two-Flying-Flips-About-Your-Game were paying attention.

Either way, we will be back, because Red Devil Gators Softball never sleeps.

Boat shoes look stupid, anyway

Today was the first day of classes of the fall term, and what would another milestone in my academic journey be without a list of complaints? Failure, that’s what.

Year One in Review

Yesterday, my first year of college ended unceremoniously when I handed in my last exam for my comparative politics class.

I don’t feel any different. I certainly don’t feel any smarter. I guess that when you’ve been doing the school thing year in and year out for the better portion of your life, the affects of knowledge and wisdom are lost in a flood of monotony and repetition.

Either way, though, I am looking forward to going home, eating mom’s spaghetti, and going to so many Devil Rays games it’s ridiculous.

Every Freshman’s Worst Nightmare

Today was a normal day. I got up at 10:30, watched Cold Pizza on ESPN, took my shower, and was beginning to loaf around when I got a text message from my good buddy James: “That was a hard test.” Naturally, I assumed he was talking about the morning version of the Macroeconomics final. I thought this to be rather unfortunate, because I knew I would have to take the nighttime version at 8:20 tonight. But then I thought to myself, “Gee, self: it’s 11:30. If James were to take the morning version of the final, he would have finished around 9:30. His text message is a bit late, unless…”

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

I quickly looked at the syllabus. There it was: the only version of the final offered today was scheduled to be administered at 10:00. I threw on a shirt, slapped on my flip-flops, and proceeded to find a previously unknown-to-me fifth gear in my little four cylinder Ford Focus as I raced across the city, on my way to beg someone to let me take a test for which I was sorely unprepared. I made it to school by speeding down 13th Street, going over the curb and the wrong way down a one-way street, and parking illegally in a faculty lot outside of Mallory Hall. Angus was walking to his room and greeted me. I just said “Hey!”

I took off my flip flops and ran as fast as a fat guy can run clear across the campus to where the test was being given. I couldn’t really communicate with the TAs in the room at the time – I was out of breath. They told me to go to Professor Dave Denslow’s office and wait. I did this, and as I walked into Matherly Hall, I noticed that I stunk. No, I reeked. No matter. If I didn’t get to take this exam, I fail the class. And I had only taken 12 credits this semester.

I skedaddled up the stairs to good old room 218, where I was pleasantly surprised to see more than one person in my position. I stated my case to the TA on duty, who then told me to wait. Fifteen minutes later, I was taking a rather difficult Macroeconomics final. I am going to be penalized 15 points for my inability to comprehend test times, but I guess that this story will serve as a warning to those inept fools like me who don’t care to read their syllabi.

The New Jan Brady!

For lack of one solid, lengthy, and coherent idea, here’s a bunch of little things:

So, there you have it. If you find any navigational problems with the new layout, shoot me an email.

As if I'm not creepy enough

As we speak, it appears that Ive got some new neighbors moving into the two story house across the street on the corner. It’s a really nice house; I’ve always wanted more than one story in my abode, but thus far, no luck.

From what I saw yesterday, the current residents had a few big, burly black men taking all of their stuff and putting it in some big trucks. Then drove up a woman of about 55 and what I can only assume is her daughter, who looks to be in her early to mid 20s. I could be wrong about these ages, though, as I spent the majority of the day like the neighbor who lived across the street from Sam and Darren in Bewitched – peeking out of my blinds to try to put together some idea of who these people are.

Anyhow, they’re moving in now and some bald young fellow just pulled up in a light blue old-person-sedan-type car. If he is my competition for the love of this fair maiden, I’ve totally got him beat. A Ford Focus could outsex a Mercury Grand Marquis any day.

The Saddest Story of the Spring Semester

Well, folks, the experiment is over. Until next fall, of course.

This semester was the highly anticipated inaugural season of what was supposed to be the world’s finest Slow Pitch Coed Intramural Softball team. We all had high expectations, that’s for sure. But, somehow, things went terribly, terribly wrong.

We did not win a game all year. We had been outscored by as much as 19-3. I forsook my catcherly duties by throwing the ball into right field when I was trying to throw to first base. But somehow, the Gods of intramural fate smiled down upon the disappointing Red Devil Gators by helping us to recruit some great infielders. Our luck did not end there. Despite having not won a game all season and finishing the year with four devastating losses, we were granted a playoff birth by way of the wonderful caveat that you had to literally sign up for postseason play.

There we were, without three of our best hitters in both Mikes and Stephanie. I played catcher while Angus braved the entire game, pitching the best he has ever hurled. Tim, Bonnie, Dhyana, and Heather took to the outfield. And around the horn we had Katie, Greg, James, and Bryce. It didn’t look good for our seasoned veterans, as we had to play Ad Society, a team with a heavy-hitting lineup of right handed monsters.

But we held our own. We batted first, which is likely what led to our demise; after each of our half innings, we were leading our foes. It was just that last inning when we couldn’t hold the lead. Angus pitched beautifully. The infield was a well-oiled machine that, had the umpires not been completely ridiculous in the way they called plays at first base, could chew up and spit out any opponent. The outfield played far better than I had expected, making use of the concept of a cutoff man better than they had all season. All in all, it was the greatest game we had ever played as a team; unfortunately, we were one run short of glory.

So, here’s to those warriors, those lonesome losers, those Red Devil Gators.

Just wait until next year.

Why you shouldn't drink soda before bed

The other night, I had nothing better to do with my nocturnal schedule, so I tuned into the local politics channel. They usually have replays of Alachua County commission meetings, live Florida Senate and House sessions, and the like. I kind of banked on the fact that this channel would be so boring that I would be able to fall asleep like a baby. I was wrong.

On the tube was, perhaps, the longest City Planning Commission meeting to have ever occurred. The docket was full of issues, but I happened to start watching in the middle of a proposal to rezone some rural residential land into commercial land for some utilities company, complete with a tower so that the business hub could communicate with their utility vehicles out and about in the field. Simple enough, right?

Wrong. I don’t really care to get into the specifics of the debate, since it’s pretty well boring and arguments lasted for (literally) hours. I just want to give a quick once-over of the good folks on the Alachua County City Planning Commission, who are, for all intensive purposes, as varied as the topics they discussed that evening.

First, we had Poor Statute Guy. This poor guy had to rattle off statutes and procedural rules to the otherwise uninformed members of the commission for hours. When his peers didn’t like what he said, they fought with him. But I mean, come on – Dude was just reading the rules.

Then, Hippy Environmental Activist. You know the kind: long hair, no tie, insists that society would be far better if we still traveled by horse and buggy, probably eats Hare Krishna Lunch.

Now, New Age Beatnick almost always agreed with Hippy Environmental Activist, which is convenient in that they sit next to each other. This guy reminded me of a thirty-something kind of guy who tries to be socially aware to impress college students. He probably also likes Matchbox 20.

Then, it got interesting. Presiding over the meeting was Skinny Jewish Conservative. Skinny Jewish Conservative was a curious fellow because not only did he disagree with Hippy Environmental Activist and New Age Beatnick, he fought against everyone (even Joe Redneck, who we will examine next).

Joe Redneck didn’t talk much. But when he did, he would insult Hippy Environmental Acitvist and New Age Beatnick in an effort to support his favorite utilities company; I guess he wasn’t a fan of Gainesville Regional Utilities, I’m not sure. I picture Joe walking out after the meeting to his 1989 Chevy 4×4 painted to look like the General Lee ‘69 Charger of Dukes of Hazzard fame.

Next down the line came Jose “Conflict of Interest” Perez, a Hispanic man who could barely speak English but abstained to vote on the proposal because his law firm had somehow landed the representation of one of the parties involved. Interestingly, this refusal culminated in the failure of a plurality after the voting process. This made me quite mad, as I had devoted almost three hours to watching these folks debate this proposal.

Sitting next to Jose Perez was the only Black Guy on the commission. Incidentally, he was the only cool guy on the commission. He waited until all the squabbling was over with between Hippy Environmental Activist, New Age Beatnick, Skinny Jewish Conservative, Joe Redneck, and Jose “Conflict of Interest” Perez to weigh in with a highly uninformative, unclear position. I say he was cool because he seemed to be above the commission process and it became clear to me that as the meeting proceeded, he ultimately came to the conclusion that becoming a member of this body was a mistake.

…Almost as big of a mistake as my decision to watch this meeting in the first place.

Don't be a chicken

Once upon a time, I was away from home and living with my brother, so I thought it would be a prudent idea to mosey on down to the local Publix and buy some food we could eat.

Oh, I filled my cart to the brim with all sorts of fantastic treats: Pop Tarts, Chef Boyardee, Hot Pockets, and frozen pizza.

I tried to balance that complete lack of consideration for my health with some not-so-awful things: bagels (with extra cream cheese!), bottled water, and, last but not least – the crème de la crème of my sojourn to the grocery – real honest-to-goodness chicken breast.

This was in August. All of these things have gone by the wayside (read: spoiled or into my stomach). However, to this day, if you come to my humble abode, meander into the kitchen, make your way to the icebox, yank on the freezer door, move the half-empty bag of ice towards the bottom, and rummage into our meat storage bin, you will find a couple of chicken breasts as hard as rocks and as inedible as, well, rocks.

All right. Lesson learned. Only buy food that can be cooked and done away with in 30 seconds. Thanks, college!

Teacher's Pets

Holy God. I can’t take it any more. Listen to me, political science majors. Listen well.

NOBODY CARES WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT ANYTHING.

Okay, perhaps a bit harsh. But well-founded. Let me explain.

I am, for some reason, a political science major. I hold no fervent opinions either way on the political spectrum, nor do I engage in hardcore analytical thinking outside of copying notes that some overly-paid professor puts on a PowerPoint slide during lecture. For the other 165 hours each week, I’m a normal person: I sleep, I eat, I watch cartoons. I do not care about the woeful state of international relations, and I do not care about the world around me. As long as I have my Chef Boyardee, my Cartoon Network, and no place to go, I’m content.

But political science majors, they’re a different breed. While other kids go to the movies, they stay at home and watch their Tivoed copy of the State of the Union address. While other kids eat pizza, they refuse to stoop to such a level of ignorance while they munch on their ever-delicious tofu and meatless meat loaf. And while other kids just want to leave a class that has been held over for five minutes due to a long-winded professor who just wants to enlighten folks on the troubles of the country of Latvia, they all raise their hands in unison to make a myriad of “relevant” statements that do nothing more than show all of the normal-minded folks in the world of their intellect and superiority.

Seriously. Let me leave. I have some hedonism to get to.