Play ball!

Hey, dude. Seriously, what’s your problem?

You know I’m talking to you, Fellow who Starts Applauding and Yelling before the National Anthem is Over. Honestly, does that last “and the home of the brave” really seem that insignificant to you?

Perhaps the whole situation is proof of the lack of American fortitude. People are expected to stop talking about how horrendous the Yankees’ record is while chugging down their Budweisers for _a whole song?_ Impossible. There’s always that one guy who starts having boisterous conniptions after “O’er the la-aand of the free,” and then, like within a giant herd of sheep the identical actions spread throughout a ballpark like plight through a corn field. Before you know it, the performer of the National Anthem is drowned out by the spectators of the national past time and the patriotic flare of the events before a game is snuffed out by the drunken ravings of a bunch of overweight and balding men.

Perhaps we Americans need to work on our collective stamina.

Thor is dead

About “eight months ago”:http://sociallyconsciousbird.com/wordpress/?p=81, I outlined the reasons for my faltering loyalty to 107.3 FM and took up my cross to go hang out with the folks at Thunder 103.5. I can honestly attest to its superiority in every facet: talent, programming, promotions, and commercial placement.

However, it seems that now I’ve upset the Gods that have been sending their rays of love down in the form of megahertz waves for the larger part of a year. Without warning and without any consideration of the devastation to which a large portion of us classic hit aficionados would succumb, the bigwigs down at Clear Channel Communications took away the compromise between The Bone’s hard rock and The Eagle’s mindless droning of softer stuff by Elton John and Jim Croche. My friends, the worst thing happened Thursday morning that I can possibly even consider: I woke up to a country station.

And so, that leaves to those of us who appreciate the music that shaped society as we know it roughly three stations. We’ve got The Bone (102.5 FM), which, in my humble opinion, has some sort of bass and screaming fetish. We still have The Eagle (107.3 FM), which has been far less impressive since the name change from The Bay on 1 January 2004. Nowadays, its play list is tiny and repetitive, sort of like Ross Perot. I reckon that leaves us with The Point (101.5 FM), whose inclusion in this list is debatable because I’m not sure the eighties can be considered a markedly impressive era for rock and roll.

That’s it, folks. This kind of thing happens with no warning, either. I think had Ledge called my house and let me down easy like a fat Prom date, it would have been okay.

“Hey, uh, Casey? Yeah, hi. This is Ledge, you know – that DJ from Thunder? Yeah, well, I just wanted you to have a heads up on this. Starting next Thursday, we’re going to be a country station. Just wanted to let you know. Bye.”

That’s all I would have needed. Then, I could have weaned myself off of the addicting drug known as Thunder 103.5 by going back to The Eagle or The Bone for a certain allocation of time daily. But as it stands now, I am very, very shell-shocked. And mad.

The lowest possible point

Since they moved Oak Grove Middle School into a little city of a hundred portables in the field at Clearwater High last year, we’ve had to have crossing guards next to my house come dismissal time. This year, the guard has been driving a white minivan and parking in my front yard.

Recently, though, the vehicle has moved across the street to my drunken neighbor Steve’s house. Interestingly enough, that same van was over at the house on Saturday night. Late Saturday night.

It turns out Steve has a new girlfriend. My brother and I agreed (in all our bitter loneliness) that this mere notion is about the most depressing thing ever.

Groundination

My report card being what it is at the end of these six weeks has acted as a catalyst for my inevitable restriction. This year has been the first time in my life during which I have been granted the opportunity to do normal teenage things. Some of which I’ve taken advantage, some of which I wish never to experience, and some of which I have lacked the gusto to actually pursue.

However, for an indefinite amount of time, I will lack the freedoms that I have enjoyed so thoroughly this year. Perhaps, though, this will pass soon so I can muster up the confidence to lead a normal, Kevin Arnold-like childhood filled with all the items that put the “wonder” in The Wonder Years.

So for the time being, I’ll just hope unceasingly that this, too, shall pass; there are so many things to do before it’s too late.

Annual Self Pity

I decided that this Valentine’s day, instead of feeling sorry for my lone self, I would bring the rest of single society down with me.

I am of the opinion that the majority of those folks who regard Valentine’s day as a commercial institution that is wholly unnecessary are in the same boat as me: HMS Lonely And Bitter. So, if you’re one of my fellow passengers, I’m just here to give you a friendly reminder regarding the origin of your defensive sentiment regarding February 14.

Have a nice day, fellow lonesome losers.

Healthy Criticism

Lately, I was conversing with my brother Ian, one of the few people in my life who bothers to challenge me with important and intellectual thought, and we noticed a phenomenon that sneaked up on the mindless sheep of American society seemingly overnight. You’d have to be blind to not see it, but at the same time, you’d have to be painstakingly cynical to let it bother you. Ladies and gentlemen, a cynic has entered the building.

Of course, it’s the sudden fad to put those silly little magnetic ribbons on the back of your car. I don’t intend to challenge the messages conveyed by such magnets, though I would like to point out that when you slap one of those babies on the back of your automobile, you look like a mindless dolt of a follower of pop culture. Furthermore, if you have more than one on your trunk, you look even sillier. But perhaps the most self-degrading aspect of these Liberty and Freedom Magnets is the fact that a good percentage of persons who dare to muck up their otherwise perfectly good cars by putting these absurd things on sideways. Honestly, how educated do you come off if you cannot simply align your ribbon correctly?

Sigh. Way to go, general public. Glad to know they gave you licenses.

Beads!

Last night I walked alongside a float full of kids from my church in the Clearwater Fun n Sun Holiday Parade. As we trudged through downtown among the bourgeois huddled alongside Cleveland Avenue, I realized that I never again want to be a spectator at a parade.

Starting at Crest Lake Park and moving west toward the heart of Downtown, the types of people along the parade route were clearly discernible. First we started with a high population of Mexicans to either side. This minority gradient soon developed into a large African-American crowd screaming for the candies and beads we were so graciously tossing to the side. When our float approached the true bounds of downtown, most people were Caucasians who had reached their Mecca of candy and plastic jewelry from the ground following their long pilgrimage from the local trailer park. Please make note that I’ve nothing major against any of the aforementioned minorities, it’s just that their division clearly denotes the division in the parade route.

One aspect of parading that is a commonality between all areas of Clearwater is the hostility that everyone holds for stupid strings with little plastic balls on them. After greeting ninety-nine percent of the folks whom we passed with a holly jolly “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays,” we were assaulted with the same rude, one-word response: “Beads!”

I don’t fault most kids for this; they’re young and don’t know better. But when 30 year old Juanita or Shaprice can only eek out one word in response to our generosity, I take it personally. You’re not getting my beads.

That is, of course, unless you’re a hot chick.

Repetitive inanity

Sure, it was funny the first time. But if I see that silly thing about the Republicans changing their symbol to the condom one more time, I’m liable to scream a shrill shriek so loud that every eardrum on God’s green earth will shatter in its wake.

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.

Radio Rant

For the past three years, I have been a loyal listener to 107.3 FM, casting aside all the talk radio and low quality Mexican fiesta hour on AM radio along with the newer styles of the 9X.X stations and the deep, philosophical reasoning on the 8X.X waves. It used to be 107.3: The Bay. Back when The Bay was in business, they promised to name every song and artist of the greatest hits of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, never mind the fact that their repetitive playlists sometimes gave me a desire to switch it on over to WDUV, The Dove, if only for a mere change of tune. But I stuck with my good friends at 107.3 because on rare occasions, I would hear something totally new to me that I really, truly liked.

But the first of this year, as I woke up from a night of blissful slumber following my annual revelry with Dick Clark, I turned on the radio to something I did not recognize: 107.3 The Eagle.

The Eagle!? How? Why? 107.3 has had many names in the past, from the Coast to the Bay. But never something so influenced by the trendy patriotism that has enveloped our country in the past few years. But it’s okay – different name, same music. I can deal with that. Alas, I was mistaken.

There are now only two radio personalities, Nick Van Cleve, who works the morning shift, and John Moore, who takes care of the ride home from 3:00-7:00. This leaves sixteen hours of abandoned radio, time when there is not a soul around to tell me what song I just heard and who sang it to me; time when not a soul is around to play disc jockey, leaving all the grease work to a computer that randomly selects the song.

I’m sorry, HAL, but you are a sucky DJ. Within a 24 hour time frame, it is quite possible that you hear the same song at least twice, if not three times. And for some reason, the AI in the studio has an Elton John fetish. Don’t get me wrong, I like Elton John’s music as much as the next guy. But when I’m driving to the store and I’m pelted with the same old wails of “Tiny Dancer,” the broken-record sounding “Bennie and the Jets,” and Elton’s homoerotic recollections of the “Crocodile Rock,” I become utterly disappointed in the musical variety down on the end of the radio dial.

So, after three years of loyal listening, The Bay and I have gone our separate ways. We were just too incompatible, one of us wanting to pursue his professional career, and the other wanting to live in the past, when four vinyl albums and plenty of drugs would keep the crowd unaware of the fact that the same music is filling their ears and draining their souls. So to you, 107.3, I say, “Adieu, adieu; parting is such sweet sorrow.”