Summer fun!

Summer is very boring in Clearwater. While I’d like to say that I love being home to the point of not wanting to return to Gainesville in the fall, I can’t do that. However, here are some of the highlights of my recent life:

I saw 1408 the other night. While it was the typical mediocre (and I’m being nice) spooky movie, it was made about ten billion times better with the presence of John Cusack. By far my favorite actor, he made the two hours of ghosts and loud noises completely worth it. Still, I’m more of a Serendipity kind of guy.

Angered by the fact that Angus was the eighth entry in my cell phone’s contacts list, I edited the name to read “Aangus.” This way, all I have to do is press two buttons to call him. I am very excited about this, despite the fact that his entry is highly inaccurate.

I now am a valued Fun Pass member at Busch Gardens. I rode Gwazi last Tuesday, and I plan on riding Kumba the next time I make the trek over to Tampa in the coming days. Previous to this, I was deathly scared of roller coasters. I still am, but once you get to the top of the chain lift and you can’t go back, you learn to scream and live with it.

I am the Sing & Play Director at my church’s version of vacation bible school. The theme is Avalanche Ranch, so I have to dress up like a cowboy. I don’t understand how John Wayne did his cowboying duties in the ridiculously hot desert of the American West. I was drenched in sweat after a half hour in an air conditioned room. Anyhow, because I’m sure you are intrigued, I will leave you with a photo of my getup (sans giant foam orange and blue hat):

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We should have listened to Bob Barker

The cat is in heat. I only recently learned what this means, and I must say, it fascinates me to know that all this whining sack of feline estrogen wants is someone (or something, as it were) to come and take it for a ride.

Two observations, though.

One, why don’t human females go through this stage? I must say, it would make things far easier on me if all women just walked around, ladyparts exposed and all up in my grill, vocalizing how much they wish I’d do what I’ve wanted to do to them for years. It would take out all of the formalities of dating, and would likely be cheaper.

As for the second thought, come on, Cat. Give me a frigging break. I’ve wanted to have sex since before I came out of my mother. You’ve been with us on this green earth for five months. Try nineteen years, you ungrateful varmint. You don’t see me parading around like the world owes me intimacy, with my hind parts raised toward the sky while I moan and groan for hours on end while other people are trying to sleep, do you? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

So seriously, Cat, get a grip, take a chill pill, and do whatever it is all of those other idioms that mean “relax” tell you to do.

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Drive(a)way

Dear Friends,

If you know me, you know that I have a lot of weird, quirky pet peeves. I can’t eat popcorn. I like to set the volume on radios to increments of five, since prime numbers mortify me. And, of course, I don’t like people who turn around in my driveway.

I live one block east of a moderately busy intersection. It seems that if you want to go through this intersection, you have to be a complete idiot, since it seems like the vast majority of cars that pass through have to turn onto my street, maneuver their automobiles between the mess of cars that’s already in my driveway (At last count, we have five cars. This is unacceptable.), and back out. I normally wouldn’t have a problem with this, but lately people are getting more and more courageous.

People will pull into my driveway even when I’m in the driveway. If I’m taking the dog out or getting the mail, they completely disregard me and pull their two ton pickups right up onto my property. It’s especially bad when I get in my car to back out of the driveway and go about my mundane travels, and I can’t because some thoughtless old cow has proceeded to impede my ability to travel in favor of her own ignorance when it comes to basic navigation. It really ticks me off.

Therefore, I have lately been a master of the three point turn, such that folks would not see me in the same light that I see the dolts who rumble into my driveway multiple times every hour. And, my friends, I encourage you to do the same.

Yours,
Casey

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Ben's haircut

Lately, my parents have been advocating giving the dog a haircut for the summer. I was originally very opposed to this, but gradually decided that it might be comfortable for Ben. I have since changed my mind again.

Before, Man’s Best Friend looked like this (nestled snugly in his chair with the cat):

Two trips to the vet and $80 later, however, my dog looks like a giant naked mole rat with an unusually hairy head:

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Cola Wars

I am not a sickly person. The last time I got sick was a little over a year ago when I mysteriously got mono at about the time I got a girlfriend. Now that I’ve been a single guy for the better part of a year, I have been able to avoid contact with germs and what have you, thereby avoiding illness altogether.

However, last Tuesday, I woke up feeling absolutely drained. I was fatigued and sort of nauseous, but I went along with my day and these symptoms wore off. I figured that I had dodged the bullet, but I was wrong. The next three days were a living hell.

It literally hurt to move any muscle on my body. It’s like I was laid out on one of those medieval torture tables and stretched until the muscles on my appendages were just lifeless masses of jelly. I had a fever and, much to my chagrin, there wasn’t one aspirin in the house.

Now, some might say that I have the flu. My theory is way more fun.

I’ve been watching the History and Discovery Channels lately, and they tell me that people who are possessed by demons have a history of waking up completely worn out and bruised, as if they were literally fighting with their demons while they slumber. Is it any coincidence that for the past week, I have been having non stop dreams about my new arch nemesis, soda pop? I’m not saying that I am possessed by the ghost of John Pemberton or anything, but it certainly would explain a lot.

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Casey and the Tetricolor Dreamcoat

I hate Tetris. Okay, I lied. I love Tetris. But I hate what it does to me.

For the past couple of weeks, I have been setting into stone a nighttime routine that has needed stone setting for a long time. Now, before I go to bed, I turn on ESPN so I can watch Sportscenter, lift weights for a few minutes, and then settle into bed, where I treat myself to a well-deserved game of Tetris on my handy dandy Game Boy Color.

I started this a while ago. Now, my high score has eclipsed 300,000 points and my cunning ability to stack randomized collections of four blocks is uncanny.

But there is an obscenely bad side effect that arises when one plays lots (and lots) of Tetris: I can’t get the blocks out of my head. The cube, the two different pieces that look like the letters S and Z, the two pieces that look like an Arabic numeral seven and the Greek letter gamma, and the all-holy four-brick column. I will make hypothetical situations in my mind, causing me to mentally place piece upon piece until my psyche is completely filled and the screen goes gray.

I’m sure I am not the only one who has this problem. Day and night, awake and asleep. I wish I could fix it.

But alas, that frigging high score is just sitting there, taunting me.

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