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:

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.

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.

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.