What's in a name?

If you’re a sports fan like I am, over the course of a season you develop an affection for the players on your favorite team so much that you give them nicknames to prove to everyone that you are, indeed, a die-hard fan. I’ve developed so many nicknames this season that I halfway expect these shortened identities to show up on the back of everyone’s jerseys. This hasn’t happened yet, but as I sit here and hope to God that the Rays can pull out a victory over the Indians, I would like to share with the world what everyone should be called. These nicknames are combinations of Joe Maddon’s overly-friendly monikers, the (sometimes depreciating) names that have evolved over at the forums of raysbb.com, and the nicknames developed over the course of the season by me and my friends. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you nicknames for everyone on the current Rays’ 25 man roster:

Akinori “Aki” Iwamura
Al “El Asasino” Reyes
Andy “Sonny” Sonnenstine
B.J. “Bossman” Upton
Brendan “B-Har” Harris
Brian “Stokesy” Stokes
Carl “C.C.” Crawford
Carlos “C-Pain” Pena
Dan “The Man” Wheeler
Delmon “Delmonster” Young
Dioner “Navi” Navarro
Edwin “EJax” Jackson
Gary “G-Lover” Glover
Grant “Ball Four” Balfour
Greg “Norty” Norton
James “Shieldsy” Shields
Jason “Hammy” Hammel
Joel “Manchild” Guzman
Josh “J.P.” Paul
Josh “J Dub” Wilson
Jon “Switz” Switzer
Jonny “Gomer” Gomes
Juan “The Juice” Salas
Scott “Dohmannator” Dohmann
Scott “Kaz” Kazmir

Moving down the dial (again)

It’s been two years since I discovered the splendor that is Bishop Allen. And thank the good Lord, they released a second album. Having acquired it, it is quite different from their first; it’s more pensive, less poppy, and perhaps even better. Anyhow, I’ve been listening to The Broken String for about three weeks straight and trust me when I say that every time I listen to it, I notice something new and clever. I recommend that you give it a listen.

756

This is a day late, but I figured it would be necessary to post for all of antiquity. If it ever comes out that Barry Bonds is, indeed, a cheater, liar, and all-around douchenozzle, let it be known that I never supported him, because I know that about a bajillion sportswriters in America are going to flip flop. Heck, the fact that Barry Bonds broke Hank Aaron’s home run record has gotten me rooting for Alex Rodriguez to beat it in a few years – and he’s a Yankee!

And yes, Mother sent me this today. I don’t know who made it, but it is clever nonetheless. I give you Barry’s rookie card:

Adventures in Being Neighborly

My apologies for not writing as often as I should have for the past few weeks, but I have been a working man. I look after about 15 of Clearwater’s finest children. I use the word “finest” very, very loosely, but in this case, it’s beside the point.

I’d like to tell a little story of a fun excursion I had just the other day. As you know from the Great Dress Fiasco of 2007, my pastor is a woman. As such, she sometimes has to solicit the assistance of other folks as she goes about her papal business. Last Friday was one of these days.

I was so looking forward to shipping the little troublemakers out with their parents at 3:00, but I had no idea about the fun I was about to have. At about 2:45, I was approached by this woman of God. She asked if I would accompany her on a Godly mission to pick up a man and take him to the doctor. Naturally, I said yes because in this day and age it’s never a good idea to send a woman out in a cruel world of vicious predators.

The guy we had to pick up was located at the local Motel 6. He said he had come from LA and called our church because he belongs to Hollywood Christian, a church of the same denomination as mine. He traveled down by train to visit his family in Palm Beach, and hitchhiked to Clearwater from there. He needed a prescription from the doctor to keep him alive on the trek back. Oh, did I mention that he was gay and had AIDS? Yeah, that was sort of awkward.

We went downtown to the only doctor that would see him. The office was a little mobile home shack in the middle of the ghetto, filled with gangstas and whatnot. Anyhow, long story short, our AIDS-ridden friend was addicted to narcotics and wanted some drugs. I guess this makes me an accessory?

Tang: America's Premier Powdered Beverage

I know that I alluded to my unfathomable love and adoration towards it a couple weeks ago, but my sweet Jesus. I love Tang.

(Upon writing that last sentence, I realized that some folks might misconstrue my love for Tang. While I’m sure that Tang as a derivative of “poontang” is equally as gratifying and probably way better than the kick in a glass, I’m referring to the drink that makes me feel like an astronaut. Thanks to Urban Dictionary for that definition.)

No, friends, I am talking about the greatest invention since sliced bread. Eh, scratch that. You know what? It’s better than sliced bread. Yeah, I said it. Tang is just that good.

It’s a strange thing, the love a man can have for a drink. Some folks are scotch men. Some guys sit back with a chilled bottle of some random imported beer. And there are those (and these really annoy me) who swish their glass of Cabernet Sauvignon under their noses before they take the girliest sip in the world. Me? I drink Tang.

It’s a fruit juice. But it’s not.
It’s orange soda. But it’s not.

No, Tang is more than that. Tang is more than some ordinary prefabricated drink. Tang is a gift from the God Dionysus’ teetotaling younger brother, Neil Armstrong. Tang is what the 1980 US ice hockey team drank between the second and third quarters during their match against the dirty Reds. Tang is what Popeye wishes he had instead of Spinach.

Too bad it wasn’t invented back then.

Well, how was I supposed to know there were two dresses?

So, the other day Mother sent me on an errand.

See, the preacher at my church is a woman. Coincidentally, she and my mother had, at one point, owned the exact same dress. Mother thought this was particularly amusing. Anyhow, the dress does not fit Mother anymore. This is actually particularly convenient, because my preacher’s dress was ruined when it was accidentally washed with one of her young son’s crayons. It was the preacher’s birthday last week. Mother wanted to give the preacher her dress to celebrate this momentous occasion and to replace her sullied garment.

Mother insisted that I dry clean the dress, though, as we don’t want to go to Hell for giving a woman of God a dirty dress. So, Mother gave me a three piece ensemble to take to the dry cleaners and then drop off at the church office. I did just that, but the preacher was not there when I dropped it off. No worries, I left it with the secretary.

Yesterday, Mother asked where the second of the two dresses I took to the dry cleaners was. Two dresses? Oh, crap. Now I have to find some tricky way to get the second dress back from the preacher.

Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned…

This is how lazy I am during the Summer

Dad: So, what did you do today?
Casey: I made Tang.
Dad: What’re you gonna do now?
Casey: I’m waiting for it to cool down.

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 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):

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.

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