Sinning never felt this good

I know, I know. It’s been a while.

I’m getting fat again. Well, let me rephrase. I’m eating like a genetically mutated cow that fills its four stomachs with whole pepperoni and mushroom pizzas rather than Bermuda Grass. Why? I’m guessing it’s a product of my new line of work and the metabolism that arises from a day on the job.

Either way, this week, I’ve eaten about 3 pizzas, which isn’t all that bad. But when you add in all of the other crap I’ve eaten, my eating habits look atrocious.

Normally, I would feel badly about my newfound diet habits. I really would. But I’ve managed to maintain my weight at a steady 140. Therefore, I’ve decided that as long as I eat when I’m hungry and what I eat is greasy and delicious, I will have no problems in the short run.

And the long run? Who cares?

Did I just hear a fat lady?

If you’re like me and you’ve grown up near Clearwater, since your early childhood, you have been privy to countless commercials for used cars from Dayton Andrews’ Chrysler/Jeep. Ever since I can remember, I’ve seen this old fellow by the name of Dayton Andrews peddling his automobiles from the angle of an honest, family-friendly car dealer. He attempts to appear as a good, old fashioned, nice old man as he ends every commercial with the same plea: “Come trade with me under my old oak tree.”

See, there’s this oak tree that’s been there (presumably) since the dealership opened 40 years ago. There’s just something about purchasing a car from an old Southern type under his famed branches that makes you feel like you’re getting a real deal, you know?

Well – and I absolutely hate to say this – Mr. Andrews, after your tree’s decade-long fight with old age, mother nature has emerged victorious. And it’s looked this way for more than a year. I beseech you: please take that tree out of its misery. It looks pathetic sitting there on the side of State Road 60, one of the busiest roads in the county.

The dream is dead.

!http://www.sociallyconsciousbird.com/storage/images/deadtree.jpg!

Revenge of the Sith

Dear George Lucas,

It is 3:06 AM, and I just got back from my local theater. Now that I’ve seen every Star Wars movie in the saga, I have a few suggestions that could make it even better than it is.

# Can we please see Queen Amidala’s boobs?
# You should remake Episode 1 so that Jar Jar Binks does not talk.
# Perhaps an intellectual Wookie? You know, one who wears glasses and gives the British equivalent of a hearty grunt. All of the current Wookies just sound retarded.
# Can we please see Queen Amidala’s boobs?

Love,
Casey

But not a drop to drink

As I was walking out of school today, I got to thinking about how much I’ll miss going everyday during the upcoming summer months. It’s not the friends that I get to surround myself with; Lord knows it’s not the overly exigent educational experience that beats the life out of my mind day in and day out; and no, it’s not even the new chocolate milk that they came out with at lunch this year. So, if it’s not any one of these things that keeps me coming back, what could it be?

Dude, do you know how many good looking girls go to school in Palm Harbor? Everywhere you look, there is a fine example of a prime piece of beauty. I think it’s primarily a product of two things: the location of my school and my general teenage hormonal activity. The former means that chicks at my school can afford to pretty themselves up. The latter references my low, low standards – but you already knew that.

Anyhow, thus begins Summer of 2005: months without unlimited eye candy.

PDA

New on the list of things that upset me: public displays of affection. And no, I won’t cloak the fact that this entire tirade is a manifestation of my own jealousy.

Now, I don’t mean to say that running off into a corner and sucking someone’s face off until they look like Inside Out Boy from the days of Nickelodeon past is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, compared with the alternatives, this form of affection isn’t half bad.

What’s really annoying is when people try to act normal while they are talking to you. Here I am, trying to have a conversation with you sexually charged lovebirds and you’ve suddenly morphed into what the Power Rangers would look like if they banded together into a giant ball of flesh and limbs. You think I don’t notice? When people do that, it’s like trying to talk to the last desperate people on earth who must repopulate its lands before they themselves die. And I must admit, it irks me like no other; just be a normal person for once.

I get it: you have someone and I don’t. Now go find a corner, because you’re just reminding me of what I’m not and doing a pretty fine job of making me sick in the meantime.

Play ball!

Hey, dude. Seriously, what’s your problem?

You know I’m talking to you, Fellow who Starts Applauding and Yelling before the National Anthem is Over. Honestly, does that last “and the home of the brave” really seem that insignificant to you?

Perhaps the whole situation is proof of the lack of American fortitude. People are expected to stop talking about how horrendous the Yankees’ record is while chugging down their Budweisers for _a whole song?_ Impossible. There’s always that one guy who starts having boisterous conniptions after “O’er the la-aand of the free,” and then, like within a giant herd of sheep the identical actions spread throughout a ballpark like plight through a corn field. Before you know it, the performer of the National Anthem is drowned out by the spectators of the national past time and the patriotic flare of the events before a game is snuffed out by the drunken ravings of a bunch of overweight and balding men.

Perhaps we Americans need to work on our collective stamina.

Paul McCartney ate Ringo's head unit

Last night, as the family had dinner at Outback Steakhouse, the topic of conversation meandered down the path of upcoming concert events. Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson are coming to town; so are the Allman Brothers and the remaining one-four-hundredth of Lynyrd Skynyrd; and, of course, who could forget Sir Paul McCartney?

My father asked me whether in my music interests I’ve come across Sir Paul’s first album, dubbed “The Cherry Album,” but more formally “McCartney.” I knew of the album and its cover art, but I had yet to listen to it fully. After obtaining it when I got home, I went to bed.

This morning, I burned a copy of the CD before I ran out of the door at 6:10 to initiate the carpool. I walked out to Ringo feeling refreshed and ready to start my journey to school (which, by the way, I only have to do once more this week, thanks to AP exams). I got in my car, put Sir Paul in, and was on my way.

However, the CD player spit out Paul like he was a giant bowl of that greenish marshmallow stuff my mother makes on major holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. After picking up Angus and fiddling with my testy stereo for a few minutes, we noticed that there was a plume of smoke spewing from the head unit. I assumed that this was not a good sign, so I took off the faceplate and hoped that the short would not spark and cause a fire.

Now I know where my first few paychecks are going.

Why my job is cooler than yours

I don’t feel that my previous and rather nebulous description of my new job is sufficient enough to completely describe the awesomeness thereof.

Last Saturday as I was showering, my good brother Ian knocked on my door and said, “Dude! I’ve got the perfect job for you!” So, after getting dressed, I went to his room to see what the entire hubbub was about. It turned out that he had seen an advertisement on the Dunedin Blue Jays’ Web site about a need for a mascot. And here’s the kicker, folks: no experience was necessary.

So, after pacing around and dialing six digits like a little schoolgirl who just wants to breathe heavily into the receiver and hear that cute boy from English class answer the phone, I called a contact with the team and left a message regarding my interest in the position. I hadn’t heard back from them for a few days, so I assumed they had found someone more favorable for the position.

Therefore, when I got a callback on Wednesday of last week, I was adequately surprised. The good folks from the Blue Jays wanted to meet with me that evening before their game against the Lakeland Tigers, an offer which I immediately accepted. I met my contact with the team and we had a nice interview in the box office of Knology Park.

I returned on Thursday’s game against the Tampa Yankees to learn the ropes from Dave, a freelance mascot who knows what he’s doing. It was a good thing, too. I wouldn’t have had any idea how to do the mascot thing.

Then, on Friday night, it was my turn. I donned the outrageously warm blue fur and proceeded to mess with each and every person in the stands at least once. I raced a kid from first to third base after the second inning. He smoked me. After the last out of the third, I participated in a game in which I threw rubber chickens into the air and two kids with giant clown pants tried to catch them in their festively colored garments. By the time the fourth inning rolled around, I was atop the dugout and entertaining the cozy Dunedin crowd like there was no tomorrow. And when the game encountered the seventh inning stretch, I led the masses in a stirring rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

And by the end of the eighth, I was out of costume and restoring my original body temperature in the stands while watching one of the better extra inning ballgames of my short existence. And the best part of it all was that in normal clothes, no one in the stands was wise to my alter ego as D Jay, the happy-go-lucky Blue Jay.

I had a lot of fun last night. The only downfall of the job is its heat factor, but other than that, it’s a veritable perk machine. Free drinks; free baseball; the opportunity to say, “Hey ladies, I’m a mascot” and a schedule that mandates only 2.5 – 3 hours of work whenever I’m scheduled to appear. And the kids love me, so that’s nice too.

But the best part, my friends, is the fact that I am the first kid I know to actually be on the front of a real, live baseball card. One day, I’ll get some and sell them autographed for $19.99 on ebay.

Here's looking at you, Lord Durham

Today, I’m attempting an unprecedented career move in which I will never, ever have to make the use of inferential calculus or epistemology. My vast knowledge of Canadian history might come into play, though.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you will be aware soon enough if it’s meant to be that way.

Thor is dead

About “eight months ago”:http://sociallyconsciousbird.com/wordpress/?p=81, I outlined the reasons for my faltering loyalty to 107.3 FM and took up my cross to go hang out with the folks at Thunder 103.5. I can honestly attest to its superiority in every facet: talent, programming, promotions, and commercial placement.

However, it seems that now I’ve upset the Gods that have been sending their rays of love down in the form of megahertz waves for the larger part of a year. Without warning and without any consideration of the devastation to which a large portion of us classic hit aficionados would succumb, the bigwigs down at Clear Channel Communications took away the compromise between The Bone’s hard rock and The Eagle’s mindless droning of softer stuff by Elton John and Jim Croche. My friends, the worst thing happened Thursday morning that I can possibly even consider: I woke up to a country station.

And so, that leaves to those of us who appreciate the music that shaped society as we know it roughly three stations. We’ve got The Bone (102.5 FM), which, in my humble opinion, has some sort of bass and screaming fetish. We still have The Eagle (107.3 FM), which has been far less impressive since the name change from The Bay on 1 January 2004. Nowadays, its play list is tiny and repetitive, sort of like Ross Perot. I reckon that leaves us with The Point (101.5 FM), whose inclusion in this list is debatable because I’m not sure the eighties can be considered a markedly impressive era for rock and roll.

That’s it, folks. This kind of thing happens with no warning, either. I think had Ledge called my house and let me down easy like a fat Prom date, it would have been okay.

“Hey, uh, Casey? Yeah, hi. This is Ledge, you know – that DJ from Thunder? Yeah, well, I just wanted you to have a heads up on this. Starting next Thursday, we’re going to be a country station. Just wanted to let you know. Bye.”

That’s all I would have needed. Then, I could have weaned myself off of the addicting drug known as Thunder 103.5 by going back to The Eagle or The Bone for a certain allocation of time daily. But as it stands now, I am very, very shell-shocked. And mad.