Moving down the dial

I know I don’t usually venture outside of my thirty year old box when it comes to music, but I recently acquired the “Bishop Allen”:http://www.bishopallen.com/ _Charm School_ release, and believe me when I say that this little indie band is going to be big one day. Very big.

The lonesome loser

This is not interesting to anyone but me, but I thought I’d mention it because It feels good to see it in print.

At the beginning of last summer, I weighed about 175 pounds.
At the commencement of school in August, I weighed about 155 pounds.
At the beginning of Lent, I weighed about 149 pounds.
At the present moment, I weigh 143 pounds.

Life is good.

Ode to Gravity

Just when you think nothing can look up, things fall down. Perhaps I’m being a bit too cryptic.

Today, as I took a jolly jaunt around the neighborhood with the dog, I got to thinking as each of my feet hit the ground. I thought about lots of stuff, but mostly how thankful I am for gravity’s perfect attendance record.

Sure, you can overlook it as easily as one takes breathing or meiosis for granted. But once you take into consideration the fact that in billions of years, gravity hasn’t taken one sick day, governmental holiday, or weekend in its timeshare in Southern San Bernardino. Gravity doesn’t even go home: it spends day after day cooped up in its little office, ordering in Chinese food on the company’s budget.

And how are we beneficiaries of gravity’s undaunted work ethic? Everything we hold dear, gravity, too, holds near. However, gravity is not so developed as a workaholic tot he point of overbearing dominance upon the surface of the earth. That is, gravity is like a cool babysitter that holds its children close but allows a certain degree of independence. While we are held to the globe like a fly on spherical sticky paper, gravity allows us to lift our feet to move.

For its unceasing respect for the terrestrial responsibility to which it has been ascribed, for the dominant execution of its duty, and for its flexibility that correlates with our human desire for controlled independence, I commend Gravity and owe to her much of my good fortune.

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.

NYC in a Nutshell

I’ll spare you every last detail of my voyage to the Big Apple by including a brief recap of everything I can remember:

Tampa. La Guardia. Super Shuttle. Milford Plaza Hotel. Carmines. Hotel. Subway. No one smiled. CSPA at Columbia University. Nacho Grill. Guggenheim. Contemplated killing self. Escaped. Hotel. Smiles remain nonexistent. Some deli with big pastrami sandwiches. Hotel. Shower broken. Columbia. Skipped class. Starbucks. Some Asian deli. Times Square. Virgin Records. Saw Whoopie Goldberg. Some pizza joint. Empire State Building. Cold. No smiles. Hotel. Shower still broken. Starbucks. Columbia. Skipped class. Starbucks. Carnegie Deli. Western Omelet. Rockefeller Center. Hotel. Lost on Subway, ended up in Brooklyn. Late for show. Saw 30 minutes of Blue Man Group. Stardust Diner. Sang Hopelessly Devoted to You. Hotel. Shower never to be fixed again. Starbucks. Subway. Smiles? Staten Island Ferry. Thought up theme. Ground Zero. Chinatown. Haggle. Had to pee. Hotel. The Producers. Richard Kind. Alan Ruck. Euro Diner. Western Omelet. Hotel. Euro Pan. Subway. Museum of Natural History. Dinosaurs. Planets. Subway. La Guardia. Tampa. End.

All in all, it was a good trip. I can take or leave New York City, though. It’s such a desolate and lonesome place: 17 million people and not one person has it in them to smile in the subway or talk to one another. That ambiance, my friends, is not the sort I would like to immerse myself in.

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.

Baby, you're a rich man

Wonderful news! Today, I officially qualified myself as a citizen when I received my first ever income tax return. I had to tax the little bit of cash I made this summer, but as a reward for taking a giant hunk of my money, Uncle Sam gave one third of it back!

That’s right, my friends, in my possession is a handy check signed by my regional disbursing officer in the amount of $50.34.

I’m now a man of means; now all I need is a girl on whom to spend it.

Billy likes to drink soda

So, I had originally planned on giving up soda pop for Lent. And yeah, I’m going over three weeks strong.

Soda’s bad effects on weight, dental hygiene, and “all that jazz”:http://www.agd.org/media/2004/june/drinks.html have officially persuaded me. Therefore, I think I’ve decided to give it up for good. For nearly a month, I’ve been solely dependent on water and milk, and to be frank, I really don’t miss soda (or pop, if you’re one of my comrades from the Midwest) all that much.

Call me crazy.

Epiphany

I know things now that I didn’t know before, and quite honestly, I liked it better that way.