There Aren't Enough Hours in a Day

So, I’ve completely messed up my sleep schedule.

Generally speaking, now that it’s summer, I stay up for 13 hours daily and sleep for the remaining 11. But I have a nasty habit of going to bed later each night than I did before, so my daily routine of going to bed at 4:00 A.M. and waking up at 3:00 is slowly turning into a progressive cycle in which I will soon go to bed at 5:00 and wake up at 4:00. Five o’clock will soon turn into 6:00 A.M., at which time I don’t think I will be able to justify going to sleep at the beginning of a new day.

I wish people had daylight savings time every other day. Then, I wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

Here, Fishy Fishy

Last night, I went fishing with my good buddy Angus.

We loaded up Dad’s old pickup and headed out at 9:00, not leaving the pier until 1:30 in the morning. Now, I am not afraid to admit that I am not a trophy fisherman. In fact, something the television never taught me were the harsh reality of an angler’s life: expensive shrimp, slimy fish, and the pressure of watchful and knowledgeable eyes on the dock.

First off, I didn’t know how many shrimp to get. So I went with three dozen.
“I’d like three dozen medium shrimp, please.”
“We only have jumbo.”
“Okay, I’d like three dozen jumbo shrimp, please.”
“That’ll be $18.00.”
“Ooooooooh. Okay, I guess.”
So, I overshot the amount of jumbo shrimp we would need. Who knew? If those last 15 shrimp had lived through the night in the cramped recesses of my outrageously small bait bucket, they’d be really relieved that I let them go at the end of the night. But they didn’t. So they weren’t. Oh well.

And secondly: why in God’s name did God decide to make these fish so ungodly wet and slimy and icky? I know I sound girly and all, but good golly. These things are so gross! So, I left all the fish touching to my good buddy Angus. I know, he is more of a man than I will ever be. But without the soft, sensitive type of person that I have come to represent, how would Jerry’s Kids ever make any money? You think big, burly lumberjack types would add a dollar to their purchase of maple syrup and whiskey at the local Walgreen’s? I think not.

Coincidentally, one of these big, burly lumberjack types was at the pier last night. And he was quite the fisherman. You could look down the wooden structure to see this fat dude, sitting on his cooler, watching his four fishing poles and smoking his Lucky Stripes. It’s guys like this that make me wary of repeating the fishing experience. Here I am, flinching when grabbing my overpriced jumbo shrimp and trying to catch anything, and there’s this guy eyeing me up who actually knows what he’s doing. I get embarrassed easily, what can I say? I would much rather have been on my own pier, completely devoid of big, fat, burly guys named Phil who probably live in their mothers’ basements.

So, over four hours later and after hooking a baby shark (which, by the way, was ferocious) and what appeared to be a little redfish (which, by the way, was comparably ferocious), Angus and I decided to pack up and go home.

I have a newfound respect for the good people of Long John Silver’s.

Yo Mamma So Fat…

We all have our dirty little secrets. Some people secretly like musicals. Some secretly kill people and hide their chopped-up bodies in the walls. Me? I watch MTV.

Now, I’m not a religious watcher. I know it’s like an instant brain cell killer. And I know that by watching it, I’m probably shortening my life span. But hey, I’m a relatively unhealthy person anyway. What’s a couple years when I’m 70? (As if I’ll make it to 70, considering all the $1 double cheeseburgers from McDonald’s I’ve been eating lately.)

Today, I watched a marathon of MTV’s “Yo Mamma.” It’s a show where a bunch of ghetto folks with interestingly nice houses insult each other in front of a group of comparably ghetto people who say “Oh snap!” or “Oh no you di-en’t!” when one guy squeaks out a lame “yo mamma so fat…” joke. It’s a half hour of mind-numbing fun!

You know, this is the second MTV show with which I’ve fallen in love. My first man was Andy Milonakis. But my true love? Wilmer Valderrama.

Mon-OH!

Well, my attempts to live a normal teenage life in the last few months have paid off. Ladies and gentlemen, I have mono.

It’s not great – that’s for sure. But, you know, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. The only bad things about mono are the enlarged (and pus-covered!) tonsils, sore throat, fever, stuffiness and constant sweat. However, the positives are pretty nice, too. The doctor says that I should take it easy for the next few weeks.

I am now sitting on the couch, watching the big screen TV, computing, eating and drinking loads and loads of Gatorade. And after the last two IB exams tomorrow, this is all I’ll have to do for the next month.

Oh, woe is me.

I'm President of the Fan Club

If you’ve been around me for the past couple of months, you already know this. But if you’ve been living under a rock and you aren’t aware of the simple fact that Travis Lee is the best baseball player to ever play the game, this is your heads up.

Lee’s fielding percentage is .997, which is the highest active percentage in the league among first basemen. He is as tall as the Empire State Building; he is as mighty as a lion; he is as nimble as a kitten; he is as powerful as a locomotive.

Notice that locomotives do not have opposable thumbs. Hence, they cannot hold baseball bats. And because they cannot hold baseball bats, their batting averages are not very high.

But did Jesus ever rub pine tar on a Louisville Slugger? Did Mohammed have a good batting average? Could Moses crank a ball over the centerfield wall? Collective answer? No. Collective moral? You can go ahead and disregard Travis Lee’s batting average. Pay attention to the obvious: he is easily the greatest first baseman in the league and he is possibly the greatest human being to walk the earth in 2000 years.

One last standing ovation

After I got home from church today, I got this message from my favorite Colombian:

Vie Bizarre: Casey, post your speech from yesterday in your blog

So, because Laura told me to, here’s the speech I gave last night at IB Senior Celebration:

Fellow students, teachers, parents, friends, Mr. McGonegal:

It’s been a crazy four years: sleepless nights, endless lectures, perpetual work, and bottomless cups of coffee. And now we’re growing up, about to venture out into a world where we have to do all of this grown-up stuff: get jobs, pay taxes, … get jobs. It almost seems impossible that these past four years have sneaked up on us so quickly. But, I will remind you that in the time since we entered the hallowed halls of PHUHS, so much has happened that we may have once deemed impossible. The Buccaneers won the Super Bowl, the Red Sox won the World Series, J-Lo and Ben broke up. So, maybe our progression into a big people school was inevitable.

But still, we’re all human. And humans will remember. Humans will reminisce. Humans will think back on the years we’ve spent roaming the hallways of PHU and remember them fondly. What will you remember? Will you remember how no matter where you sat, Señora Gleason feng suied you without fail? Will you remember Mr. Valdez’s unhealthy obsession with Julia Roberts? Or maybe it’ll be the way Pete Just would keep his desk absolutely barren (like his head).

Personally, I’ll remember all of the stuff I didn’t quite understand. Like matrices (sorry, Math Department…). Like who actually killed William Robinson. Like Mr. Coffman’s grading system. And like how in the world I am expected to eat a whole elephant.

To the parents here tonight: thank you for supporting your child through these last four years. Without your support, they wouldn’t be here. And if they weren’t here, I would have no friends. So, thank you. I’m sure they’ll thank you too, as it’ll make college that much easier. That is, they’ll thank you right after they get done screaming, “WHY?! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME!?”

To the faculty and staff here tonight: Henceforth, you will be referred to as officers, Mr. Burkett and Ms. Lowry as marshals, and Dr. Brown as warden. You run a tight ship (especially you, Mrs. Kolhoff), but in the end we know that it’s for our betterment. Palm Harbor is the single best place we could be spending our young and malleable years. Thank you for training us to be responsible young people. And while I use the word “responsible” loosely, I’m sure that you know how much you have impacted our lives.

And finally, to the 40% of you who are NOT going to UF: It’s been a pleasure to have known you. I speak on behalf of everyone who is moving two and a half hours up the Interstate (two if you drive like we do) when I say that we will miss you dearly. The bonds we have formed on this campus are too strong to break, so make sure you keep in touch with us, wherever you go. And yes, that does mean “Facebook me!”

Folks, this is so surreal. Unlike the bouncy-bouncy of the moon landings and the chippy-chippy of the Great Pyramids, this is actually happening. You see the movie Grease and you think that a Danny Zuko-like graduation will never happen to you. But, short of a magic red convertible flying into the sky, it’s here. And it’s happening. Now we know that what once seemed so impossible, so far off in the distance, is truly possible. Now, it’s up to us to make the best of our own futures.

Thank you, Palm Harbor University High School. And thank you, everyone. We’re all in this together.

See you in Gainesville!

You're a towel!

A couple of years ago, I became fortunate enough to stumble across a particular towel in my linen closet. It was blue, big enough to make a skirt of absorption in which I could roam the house under the guise of actually being clothed, and best of all, it was absorbent.

I’ve found that in life, about 98% of towels made are not absorbent; they merely sop up the water from your skin and become a slosh of fibers and hard water from the shower. But this one, it’s different. I can dry every inch of every crevice of my wet and naked body without having to switch to another towel.

Now, I’m afraid that my beloved blue angel is no more. Mom convinced me to send Towlie to the great washing machine in the sky. It was time, though – he was tattered and torn so much that you would think Ive been using him to dry my pet porcupine.

In the meantime, I’ve switched to another towel. And while this one is much larger (I can envelop myself like a human burrito), it lacks the principle quality of absorption that I’ve taken for granted during the last two years of my high school career. This upsets me, so I think I will protest the absence of an acceptable drying device in my home by not showering for a while. Then, maybe someone with whom I reside will notice the wretched stench and toss a suitable towel my way.

And no, I do not have a pet porcupine.

The Lowlight of my Day

I was never permitted to go to the big peoples’ doctor. I would always be sitting there, in a room full of little snot-nosed children whining to their mothers, waiting for my overly friendly pediatrician to call me in so that he could tell me how bad my acne was getting.

So today, I walked in because I had to get some paperwork filled out before I could go to college. I was the only person who could grow facial hair in the entire room. None of the secretaries could do it (I hope), none of the mothers who had to take the day off from work to bring their little bundles of joy in for medical care could do it (I hope), and none of the kids in the waiting room could do it, either.

So, while I was waiting for my appointment to get scheduled, I took a seat to check out the reading material. And you know what I hate?

Every doctor’s office in the known universe has a copy of Highlights Magazine. And every copy of Highlights Magazine has that sweet hidden picture puzzle where you have to find a baseball, canoe, and umbrella in a seemingly normal landscape. But the thing that gets me is that in every copy of this magazine in every doctor’s office across America, some stupid kid went and found them all for you. There you are, sitting there ready to play paper detective, and that fat kid with the mumps went and stole your glory.

Go spit, fat kid with the mumps. I’m sick of you.

Unfortunately, he isn't REALLY burning…

You know, having a blog like this means that I have a medium through which I can reach an audience (however miniscule). And that means that I can do what every human with a penis has done at some point in his life: I can tell you all about my meaningless opinions about sports!

The Devil Rays will go .500 this year. They’ll still finish third or fourth, but they’ll win over half of their games.

The Lightning will make it into the playoffs as a wild card but lose in the first round.

Much to my chagrin, the Buccaneers will go 7-9 because they lack an offensive line and special teams.

Kasey Kahne will finish first this year in NASCAR. Not because I know anything about NASCAR, but because his name is Kasey and he drives a Dodge. I get sentimental.

The Florida Gators will remain NCAA Men’s Basketball champions, at least until next year’s season starts.

Maybe someone in the country will realize that the NBA is ridiculous and that no one should watch it.

But seriously. See how you don’t care in the slightest about what I just said? See how my opinion, the thoughts of one inconsequential speck on the face of a seemingly infinite universe, will never have any effect on how the sports world plays out?

That’s always been my take. Which leads me to ask: how in the world do bozos like Jim Rome (yeah, I said it) and Stephen A. Smith (who, by the way, has not totally convinced me that he knows the English language) get their own shows on ESPN?

Isn’t three hours of Rome’s incessant blathering about how anyone who disagrees with him is an idiot enough? During any given radio broadcast, Jim Rome has what most scientist estimate to be 45 seconds of actual new information and opinions. He then repeats this. Over. And over again. And if you raise issue with one of his points, you’re an idiot. He then lets us listen to him make these exact same points WHILE you watch him on TV! How lucky are we?!

Anyway, the point remains: people’s opinions about sports don’t matter. And if you don’t agree with me, you’re an idiot.

Proud to be (a little) Irish

Last week, to prepare myself for the St. Patrick’s Day holiday, I burned a CD with about thirty Irish pub songs for use in my car.

I started listening on Monday. I was still listening today, four days after the holiday. I am about to go insane, but I can’t stop.

What gets me is the fact that these Irish folks, who are presumably always drunk, can remember the eight billion words that are to be in any song and that they can spit those words back out as fast as many of these melodies require.

This is what has convinced me of the supreme greatness of Irish people: they’re always drunk, fighting, and can really drop a phat beat.