The Culmination of my Being

This is the day that we have waited for with bated breath since the last second of the clock ticked away last February. This is the day that will lead to an epic six months that will birth legends and tales. This is the day that brings peace around the world, and yet still divides us.

This is the day that it all begins.

The Immaculate Reception. The Miracle at the Meadowlands. The Catch. This day led to them all, and just as they are forever immortalized in history, more events like these will sprout from this, the holiest of days.

The Monsters of the Midway. The Purple People Eaters. The Orange Crush. They all evolved as bastard offspring of this day, fathered by fury and nurtured by will.

Broadway Joe. Crazy Legs. Boomer. They all drove down the field, spurred on by the idea that one day in history can make immortals out of men.

Today is the first day of football.

The Obligatory College Post

I’m beginning to go through the deep psychological trauma of leaving home. Though subtle, thoughts of what I’m going to do with my life (read: without my parents around me every day) creep into my head. This happens especially at night. I’m pretty sure that it is this doubt of the future, in association with my obscenely whacked-out sleep schedule that keeps me awake here at 3:00 A.M.

But today, I did one of the hardest things I’ve ever done: I vacuumed my room. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the fact that I never before vacuumed my room is disgusting. And it is. But let’s focus here, people.

This Sunday, I move away from home. And while it may only be two hours up the Interstate and I’ll be stopping in fairly often for visits, it’s still sad that I’ve packed up everything in my room except for my bed. As I vacuumed today, I looked at my room. It represented the last 18 years of my life. And what has it become? A cube with holes in the walls where pictures hung and a single, lonely bed in the corner.

Is that it? Is that all my childhood has become? A dusty old room with holes where the memories used to be?

Sure, they tell you that college will be the best years of my life. And I believe them. But I think that it’s the transition that gets us; we are trapped in the awkward purgatory between the long-passed memories of childhood and the not-yet-realized experiences of what is to come.

Perhaps, though, once I find whatever lies ahead on the road of life, I can finally sleep.

Dear Dave Thomas…

So, in my great many experiences eating hamburgers, I have not allowed for much tomfoolery in their preparation. Plain. Cheese, bread, and meat. Maybe ketchup, mustard, or mayonnaise will make a guest appearance. But other than that, I generally don’t do veggies.

But every now and then, I will see a burger all dolled up for its eventual demise in gastrointestinal juices and enzymes and I wonder: what’s with those raw onions?

The nature of a raw onion is to exist in a ring shape. Hence, we have such fried wonders as onion rings. But wouldn’t it make more sense to, you know, chop up the raw onion prior to its placement on my delicious slab of ground chuck? That way, it doesn’t just garnish the perimeter of my dinner.

Just a thought.

The Rays should retire the number 10

A few days ago, I went to a Devil Rays game with Angus. We played the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim from California within the United States but not Necessarily From the Actual City Proper of Los Angeles. At least, I think that’s what we’re calling them nowadays. They’re changing it every other day.

Anyhow, while at the Trop, I picked up and filled out an application for the Devil Rays Fan Hall of Fame. Apparently, they’re picking some select fans to enshrine for all of antiquity in plaque form at some permanent display at Tropicana Field. I must say, I am overqualified – I’m a small part of the team’s young and troubled history, after all – but the application had a word limit of 25 words. What this team has meant to me since 1998 cannot be fit into the cramped space intended for do few words; hence, this is my explanation of why I am an obvious candidate for the Rays’ Fan Hall of Fame:

Where to begin? Well, I was there since the very beginning, March 31, 1998, when we lost to the Tigers. But what’s so special about that? I mean, 45,368 other people were there. What’s so special is the fact that despite the loss that may have been a precursor of the painful decade to come, I continued to watch the Rays. I was 10 years old at the time, and to have a baseball team to call my own after not caring about the sport for the first stages of my childhood for lack of a home team was a special privilege. Wade Boggs, Fred McGriff, Larry Rothschild, I remember them all. Heck, I even remember sitting in the stands and wondering what nationality Rolando Arrojo could possibly be. I was young and quizzical, what can I say? To this day, I still have all of my inaugural season souvenirs: The three-baseball set I got exclusively with my breakfast meals at McDonald’s (signed by such crowd favorites as Vince Namoli, no doubt), the inaugural season gift calendar I picked up before 1999, and, of course, the tacky purple seat cushion given away at game number one:

And that was 1998. In 1999, we were promised a Hit Show! I can still sing you the whole promotional song, but I will spare you the pain of reading about all the promises that never panned out. Vinny Castilla, Jose Canseco, and Greg Vaughn may not have delivered that year, but it was especially memorable for yours truly. During a game, the roving cameramen in the stadium searched out the fattest and cheekiest kid in the vicinity. Of course, back then I was a portly young lad. Hence, they videotaped me. This footage, incidentally, was used in every single Rays commercial that year. I was a celebrity, so to speak, and soon people would recognize me in public. This footage was also used in a Rays music video by Sequel, though I have never seen it except for at the Trop that year and on the tape the PR department sent me. If you’re from the area and you need something to jog your memory, give this screencap a look:

Ah, those were good days. They got better, too. At another game with none other than Angus, I imagine their guest vocalist got stuck in traffic, which caused the cutest little girl from upstairs came down and asked me sing for the 7th inning stretch. Now, I had no prior vocal training, but I figured that it would be fun enough, so I agreed. I blew them away, too:

But that wasn’t it. They weren’t content with my tear jerking performance of “Take me Out to the Ballgame,” so they asked me to do a little jig to the tune of “Love Shack.” Now, as a fat little Irish boy, I’m well-accustomed to doing little jigs, but in front of 15,000 people? I was mildly nervous, but a few pelvic thrusts later, I was right at home; I was definitely a crowd favorite.

I was a Rays’ favorite, too. Because a few days later, I got a phone call from the guy who was in charge of Rays Vision at the time, asking me to star in a between-inning video segment where I would ask players pop culture questions (you know, silly things like their favorite movies, and so on and so forth). They had me do a lot of stuff: I dressed up (and impersonated!) Dick Vitale, who goes to many games and sits just to the left of the third base dugout; I impersonated a flying Superman who was curious about the players’ favorite bands; I even sported a beard that, apparently, made me look like a Rabbi. Oddly enough, only my Jewish friend Doug recalls that last one. Either way, I was big, and it was all because of me being lovable like this:

After the 1999 season, the Rays’ interests in me tapered off, probably because the players were in no mood to talk and because I was quickly growing out of my cute stages. It’s like when Beaver hit puberty and just became pathetic, asking Wally about things he should already know.

Anyway, I still followed the team. I remember Wade Boggs’ 3000th hit, a beautiful homer into right field. To this day, the seat where it hit is painted yellow, which contrasts the plastic blue of the rest of the stadium very well. I remember the crack of Tony Saunders’ arm. I remember the players that have come. More so, I remember the players that have gone.

Roberto Hernandez. Dave Martinez. Jesus Colome. These are only a few.

I remember seeing Hal McRae come in during the middle of a season, not knowing the atrocities he’d inherited. I’ve seen manager after manager. And, interestingly enough, I am content with the team’s management as it is now.

I’ve also co-founded the largest Devil Rays group on Facebook. It’s called Scotty Kaz Owns You. And he does.

With the sale of the team to new owners, the inception of Joe Maddon, the signing of Carl Crawford and Rocco Baldelli to long-term contracts, and with the new outlook on baseball that the new management brings, I’ve begun to become more entwined in this world of Tampa Bay Baseball. I’ve admired (perhaps a little too much) Travis Lee, fist baseman extraordinaire since the beginning of the season. I now sit in the beach, where I can be as loud as I want for the team at a low price. I live with a real, live Ray Team member. Baseball is as big in the Peterson household as it ever has been, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I will leave you with a picture from my latest journey to the Beach in the Trop, with my Ray Team sister Stefanie and two Russian girls to whom I tried to teach baseball (I was unsuccessful.):

Not again!

If you have been reading my pointless ramblings for some time now, maybe you can recall the time my chair snapped in two from right under me while I was computing.

I thought gravity had finished with me. Not true. Though I’ve relocated my computer and begun to use a sturdy, wooden chair, it seems that the cruel gods of chair fortune had something else in store for me.

Ladies and gentlemen, it happened again:

I should get out more.

Late Night Daydreaming

Having the nasty habit of staying up late at night because it’s summer, I also have the opportunity to expand my normal television horizons. No longer boxed into the quasi late night shows of Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim Lineup, I can channel surf to my heart’s content.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am in love with Game Show Network’s Playmania, which is an interactive game show. Is it because of the fun opportunities to play along? No. Is it because during the commercials, I’m exposed to the dreamy voice of TV’s own Chuck Woolery? Kind of, but no. It’s because of the hostess. I am in love with Shandi Finnessey.

Who knew that winning Miss America could afford a person the chance to be a game show hostess on a basic cable TV network? And here I thought they would go on to use their newfound fame to, you know, help save the world and kiss little babies. Well, either way, I’m glad that I can spend my time at 2:30 AM watching this lovely young lady.

Thanks a lot, Mother Nature

I love my car. It may not be the fastest set of wheels on the road (I sold that car a few months ago, sadly), but it’s a lovable little car. She’s black, sleek, and roomy. What’s probably most important is the fact that she’s mine. It is for this reason that I trust nobody with her. I keep her clean as a whistle, too. There are no little bits of paper in the storage compartments, no crumbs in the cracks of the seats, and when there’s too much dirt on the floor of the car, I know that it’s time for a cleaning. But I don’t just vacuum, I give my car the most deluxe automotive spa treatment available. I let nobody else do this for fear of their screwing up my tried and tested cleaning schedule.

First, I give the car a hose down. Then comes the standard wash (I’ve used a variety of products for this, but I’ve found that most of them are pretty much the same. So, I use Zip Wax car wash formula by Turtle Wax.). I hit the roof of the car, go down to the rear window and work on the windshield. Lather and rinse. Then, I get the sides, one by one, and finally scrub the hood and trunk area. Lather and rinse. Then I dry, windows first and body second. I then use Meguiar’s Back to Black formula on my plastic car parts, door handles and the rear view mirror cases. Next, I use Turtle Wax’s specialized automotive window cleaner on all glass of my car, inside and outside. Then, I go for Turtle Wax’s wheel shine formula on each of my wheels, followed by tire gloss of the same brand. Finally, I go to the interior and use Armor All on every inch of the cabin. This rubdown is followed by a thorough vacuuming of all parts of the interior (trunk space included!).

I know that last paragraph was long and monotonous to read. I just want to convey to you the insane amount of work I put into my car today in hopes that the next sentence will have a profound effect on you and that you understand my extreme anger and agony:

It is now raining.

Let's go, Blue Jays

The other night, I went to enjoy a game of Single A Minor League baseball in Clearwater between the Dunedin Blue Jays and the hometown Threshers. Now, because of my rich and lucrative history with the Dunedin ball club, I sported my $18.00 Dunedin Jays cap and my glove, on the off chance that I might be able to snag an errant ball. No such luck.

But as I watched the game, I did all of the standard baseball spectator-type things: I would argue balls and strikes (a pastime that got the manager of Clearwater ejected for his billionth game this season), I would congratulate players on having a “good eye” when it came to watching balls sail by outside of the strike zone, I would cheer for my team.

However, the man sitting four rows up in the section adjacent to me did not appreciate that. I would say something innocent and innocuous and he would spout back words of annoyance. And I thought it was only because I was rooting for the Blue Jays, until a man sitting in the section on the other side of mine began expressing his love for the Threshers. At this point, my little angry friend became so irked that he bellowed a hearty “Shut up!” that was probably audible throughout the stadium. Remember: it’s a single A team. Sounds travel quickly throughout a small stadium, especially when the home team can’t ever win a game.

But I digress. Has this man ever been to a baseball game? Does he not realize that fan interaction, especially at the lower levels of the sport, plays an integral role in the mental development of the players? If we can’t prepare these boys today for the screaming and obnoxious fans of tomorrow’s major league level, what service have we done? We haven’t done anything.

So, take it from me, Mr. Zippy McShutup: maybe golf is a better spectator sport for you.

Nobody can drive but me

Plato once said, “You are young, my son, and, as the years go by, time will change and even reverse many of your present opinions. Refrain therefore awhile from setting yourself up as a judge of the highest matters.”

Sorry, P-Daddy, but I’ve got a hankerin’ for some good old fashioned judging. Today’s defendant: the 60% of drivers out there who refuse to use their turn signal. It’s a real shame to drive down the boulevard to have a 2006 Ford Mustang cut right in front of you with not so much as a glimmer of the blinker. A nice car like that doesn’t have turn signals? I’d take that automobile right back to the shop so one of the helpful associates can take a look at the broken taillights.

I can see the argument against using turn signals when changing lanes – it’s not the law. Actually, my driving deviant friend, it is. The government here in the Sunshine State fixed this problem a while back. Observe:

“You must use hand signals or directional signals to show that you are about to turn. Turn signals are required when changing lanes or overtaking a vehicle.” (Courtesy of the Florida Driver’s Handbook)

Now, if your carelessness was actually a product of being misinformed, consider yourself informed. If your carelessness is a product of your disregard for anyone and everyone around you, I’d like to propose a hypothetical scenario.

You’re driving along. A Mac truck is in the lane ahead of you. A Mercedes merges into the gap created between you and Trucker Pete without using its turn signal. You narrowly evade death by swerving into the emptiness created by the Mercedes’ old lane. And while you may be safe, you are peeved. You spew angry words of hate, the likes of which your mother would never have uttered within 100 yards of her kitchen, and a fire of hatred builds in your heart. Mr. Mercedes speeds along his merry affluent way, while you’re left with an ulcer the size of a watermelon caused by the stress of the incident. Don’t you think the Mercedes could have used a blinker so that you would have ample time to either create room for the merge or speed up and ruin his day? And if he can go ahead and hit that lever on the side of the steering column, don’t you think you could return the favor?

I’m just saying that once everybody starts to drive in a uniform manner, more people will live longer as a result of reduced accidents and far fewer stress-induced sicknesses.

College Daze

Boy, does college look great.

I went to preview last week to register for my classes and to get the obligatory don’t-do-drugs-or-drink-because-you-will-die speeches. I had to pick a major. I think that’ll prove to be the hardest part of college.

I finally picked a beginning major of political science. Yeah, I know: everybody and their mother takes political science. And, you know, the world always needs more politicians. But I figure that someday I might be able to declare a dual major or a minor or get a certificate in Public Affairs or something of that sort. And then, who knows? Maybe I’ll go to the state and volunteer to take up teaching. God knows that we need fewer morons in front of the class, and the benefits of free coffee and summers off intrigue me.

But the best part? Well, I’m taking 12 credit hours of classes during the first semester, which is the bare minimum to be a full time student, which is the only way I can live the next few years of my life off of the benevolent taxpayers of the state of Florida. I conveniently scheduled my classes such that two of the four courses I take are solely internet-based courses. And the other two, American Federal Government and U.S. History to 1877, will take up a mere seven hours of my week: three hours on Monday and Wednesday, and only one hour on Thursday.

What ever will I do with myself?