Rays lose, but I've won big time

Trust me when I say that I hate getting like this. Tonight, I got into sort of a pensive mood; a thoughtful funk, if you will. Between watching the Rays get slaughtered, feeling badly for some friends who are pretty blue, and this pounding headache, one of my best pals gave me this fantastic tidbit of wisdom.

Cherish your friends.

And I do.

I'll be glad to tender my services when we make the playoffs, too

Well, after 10 years of Devil Rays fandom, my allegiance was rewarded the other night, as I ventured out to the Trop with James, Angus, and Mikey to watch my beloved team fall to the Mariners of Seattle by four runs. The game itself was no picnic, though. The St. Petersburg Nine (as my least favorite post game announcer Rich Herrera so affectionately calls them) were able to squeak by with a B.J. Upton leadoff homer and eight subsequent innings of baseball rape. However, I’ve come to expect this from my team. At this point, going to the game is more for the experience. After all, where else can you go and enjoy a professional sporting event so cheap and close to home?

Anyhow, thank you kindly to the Rays employee who approached James on the main concourse prior to game time and offered to upgrade our seats in row X of section 133 (mediocre outfield seats at best) to suite 23 in exchange for our services as professional survey filler-outers. While the game was not great, sitting in cushioned seats in the front row of our well-stocked suite was most excellent.

I’m just throwing this out there: I am officially offering my services for every game for the remainder of the season. Except now I demand seats in the Kanes Club for my most comprehensive questionnaire-taking skills.

Seat Belts

I don’t get it. I see all these commercials on late night ESPN about cops cracking down on folks who don’t buckle up when they drive. I say this, perhaps as a recent victim of the fuzz on the prowl, but it really baffles me that people don’t put on their seatbelts.

I’m not writing this as a sermon in vehicular safety; I think that wearing a seat belt is a choice and that people should be able to logically decide what’s best for them, but why not put on a seat belt? Whenever I drive, I make sure everyone in my car is buckled up. This isn’t because of my fear of getting tickets or being fined, but rather because I legitimately care about the safety of my friends.

Anyhow, they treat this like an epidemic. It’s as if the police and media think that people don’t put on their seat belts habitually, but I can’t recall a single person I know who never wears a seat belt. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I only associate with quasi smart and responsible people.

I guess my point here is that if you don’t wear a seat belt when you ride or dive a car, you are a fool. Thus ends my profound (yet obvious) observation of the evening.

Not meant to be funny, this is my gripe of the day

The Devil Rays, in an attempt to expand their regional fan base, relocated their series this week with the Rangers of Texas to Disney’s Wide World of Sports in Orlando. This distresses me, partly because I likely would have been in attendance to at least one of these games had they taken place at the Trop in St. Pete. But this isn’t really what annoys me about this series.

The front office says they want to increase their fan base across the state by bringing in the Rays, in sort of a traveling circus type atmosphere, to everywhere they need some television viewers, merchandise buyers, and bad bullpen lovers. This is all well and good, since I’d love to see more and more people live and die with this team like I do, but I think a rational move before actually temporarily relocating the team would be o give fans across the state access to TV broadcasts of every game.

In Gainesville, for example, I get to see about a third of all the games. Luckily for me, I’ve come home to eat my parents’ food for the summer, but had I stayed in Gainesville, I would be up the creek without a paddle. Or a bullpen.

Mother's Day Showdown 2007

Every Mother’s Day, Mom annoys us and annoys us until we take part in her little game. See, a few years ago we all decided for some odd reason to make our own cards. Little did we know, this action set an unfortunate precedent. Now, we are required to make our own cards, year in and year out. Ideally, upon reception of these cards Mother would immediately choose a favorite, thereby signifying the favorite of her children, at least for the next year. Unfortunately, she has yet to actually pick a card.

So, I bring it to the Internet to find out who wins. (Note that I am including my card and Ian’s card; Dad forgot that we play this game, so he went to the nearest Walgreen’s and bought one. Talk about taking the coward’s way out.)

Ian’s Card: Marker on white computer paper. Reads “To the bestest Mom in the world,” with the “o” in “world” being a blue and green circle, with what appears to be two continents that don’t actually exist. Inside, written in orange, there is a poem:

“I am writing this note
Yes, it is true
Without sugar-coat:
I (heart) you!”

Below this reads “Happy Mother’s Day!!!” in green and “Love, Ian” in purple.

My Card: Construction paper cut out on a yellow backdrop. On the front reads, “To the best Mom in the world,” with “Mom” written in large red glitter atop a large pink heart in the middle of the page. Inside, there is a cutout of a white body under a red oval meant to represent a uterus. Inside is a pink fetus with a beard giving a thumbs up. From this area emanates a blue speech bubble, causing the fetus to say, “Thanks for birthing me!” To the right of this, written in orange, green, and red is, “Happy Mother’s Day 2007, (heart) Casey.”

I’m sorry that this textual representation of our artwork is the best I can offer, but sadly I haven’t yet discovered how to operate the scanner here in Clearwater. I also don’t think it would be prudent to stick glitter in there. However, I do state that my description of each card is as accurate as possible, and I don’t think it takes a genius to know who the favorite son is going to be this year.

It had to happen sometime

Well, it happened. The invincible man, best driver in the world, and all-around nice guy got a speeding ticket. It happened on Monday. I only post this now because, originally, I had planned to keep my fau pax between myself, my parents, and John Q. Law. My tactic here was simple: I didn’t want my dear brother to know.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Ian is my closest friend and all, but we have somewhat of a brotherly rivalry. I had fully expected him to ridicule me and pull an eternal “I told you so.” I just would rather have him in the dark on the issue. I told both of my parents, distinctly and deliberately, to refrain from mentioning this blunder to anyone. Then Dad let it slip.

I stormed off, angry at the fact that I was so close to getting off the hook, and in the interim I assume they explained my logic to my brother, which is why he has been a pretty good sport about this entire thing.

So, now that the one person I didn’t want to know has discovered the unbearable truth without much adverse reaction, I can tell everyone. So there you go.

I look at it this way: getting a speeding ticket is sort of a necessary step in my own self betterment. For the time being, at least, I will watch my speed.

And if I had to get a ticket, at least I was going a somewhat humorous speed: 69.

Nightmares

I was having a conversation with James the other day about bad dreams. My Dad called today and said he had a nightmare that I had a party at the house and someone pooped in the bathtub.

My question is, why waste time on nightmares? I mean, you get a few hours every day to escape the dull, monotonous life that has been given to you, and you choose to have a nightmare? In dreams, anything can happen. I just don’t see why you would do that to yourself.

Are we that screwed up that our inner psyche allows us to waste some of the best downtime on introducing worries and anxiety? If so, that sucks.

I guess I’ve held this sentiment for a while. I haven’t had a nightmare that I’ve been able to remember in years. I’m one of the lucky ones.

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.

I Love Lamp

There is a lava lamp in my room. I’ve had it for years, but I’ve only turned plugged it in on occasion, and even then it was so that my friends or people who come into my room think I’m cooler than I actually am. To me, a lava lamp signifies that you are a rebel of sorts: one who sees no need for conventional lighting in spite of the fact that lava lamps are really, really bad at shedding enough light on any given situation. If I were to use my lava lamp as my only source of illumination, I doubt I could get my pants on in a pitch black room. But I digress.

Yesterday, I had to unplug my lava lamp to make way for a real lamp. A guy’s gotta study for exams, after all, and a dim red cylinder with bubbles of effluvious goo just isn’t going to cut it.

That said, though, I really, really miss the lamp. It sits on my desk as I type, a skeleton of its former self. While a lava lamp isn’t by any means a beacon of luminosity, it says something about the person who owns it. I don’t know, maybe I’m just insecure.

That said, goodbye, traditional lamp. I’m plugging in my lava lamp again.