It's Baxter!

A few years ago, when my 17 year old cat named Sam died three days after my dog, the Peterson family was reduced to owning and caring for one cat. And at first, it was alright. It was nice to have an animal around the house filling my Miniature Chelty’s role as resident furry thing that poops.

Mind you, however, that I brought this cat, Lucky, home from preschool. That would make him 12. Sixty four in cat years. That’s old. And it’s showing.

Since about four years ago, Lucky’s had a very demanding nighttime schedule that, luckily, I am not responsible for maintaining. Each morning at about three, his high-pitched squeal that has devolved and can no longer be considered a meow rings throughout the house, waking my poor father, consistently and without fail. Then good ole Pop gets out of bed, letting the cat outside to do whatever cats do in the wee hours of the morning.

Then, I get up at five and ignore the mindless droning of feline desire so that I don’t have to deal with the morning feeding chores – particularly because I have no idea what to feed this thing. Enter my father, who’s been through the regiment morning after morning for years. My mother is very particular about her cat; she’s outlined a system concerning what food the cat eats at particular junctures that is more intricate and complex than most women. And, my friends, women are enigmas.

And so, upon allowing entrance to the most annoying animal God decided to put on this green earth, Dad has to feed it the food prescribed by the mandate of the matriarch of the household and wait until its next session of crying, whereupon someone lets the cat outside only to be forced to let it back inside again.

When everyone leaves the homestead to attend to their daily affairs, the cat sleeps the day away atop the back of our blue recliner, which is nice and peaceful. Until it has to poop. Then, it goes and squats in the same place every time. Every time. And I clean it up every time. Every time.

Unbeknownst to my mother, I’ve proposed that we kill the cat. However, by posting it here, the secret’s out. Therefore, I guess I can’t get away with it. On the other hand, it would be an absolute travesty Lucky accidentally disappeared. A real tearjerker, let me tell you.

I’m currently accepting bids on the job.

2020

Having officially proven my worth as a mediocre gifted student with my 2020 on the new SAT, I’ve decided that I’m not going to apply to, say, Harvard. Or Yale. Yale’s out, too.

It’s great to be a Florida Gator…

The most disgusting entry to date

Last night, I didn’t want to deal with the daily hassles of teenagerdom, so I escaped all of that by vowing to high-tail it out of this town and to not answer my cell phone. So, if I ditched you last night, I’m sorry. The same goes for if I didn’t pick up your call. I needed it.

To escape from the perils of Pinellas, my brother and I trekked down to Sarasota, where we used our last minute concert tickets. The act? Art Garfunkel.

You know, the tall, quite one with froofy hair from Simon and Garfunkel. He’s lost a bit of his hair by now, seeing as how he’s like a billion years old and all. The show was pretty good; he has quite the pretty voice and can really belt out a love song.

But I think his career is really going downhill. He couldn’t even sell out a small performing arts venue. And we got front row tickets from a scalper for $45 for the pair. That isn’t very good when the tickets have a face value of over $40.

Maybe his lack of support is a product of the way he puts on a show. He’s very queer about every thing he does on stage. During the long instrumental bridges in the songs, he would pretend to play the instruments that were being played by the band. A little air guitar here, some imaginary drums there, and a whole heck of a lot of fake piano playing everywhere else.

Another thing I noticed, and pardon me for being the biggest hypocrite in the world after razzing Art for his gaity, was the fact that *Art Garfunkel is hung like a HORSE*. He wore the tightest pants he could find on the clearance rack at Ross and, I swear to you that it was two entities singing to us last night: man and beast.

It was like hitting two birds with one stone while at the same time getting more bang for your buck. That’s two acts for the price of one!

Moving down the dial

I know I don’t usually venture outside of my thirty year old box when it comes to music, but I recently acquired the “Bishop Allen”:http://www.bishopallen.com/ _Charm School_ release, and believe me when I say that this little indie band is going to be big one day. Very big.

The lonesome loser

This is not interesting to anyone but me, but I thought I’d mention it because It feels good to see it in print.

At the beginning of last summer, I weighed about 175 pounds.
At the commencement of school in August, I weighed about 155 pounds.
At the beginning of Lent, I weighed about 149 pounds.
At the present moment, I weigh 143 pounds.

Life is good.

Ode to Gravity

Just when you think nothing can look up, things fall down. Perhaps I’m being a bit too cryptic.

Today, as I took a jolly jaunt around the neighborhood with the dog, I got to thinking as each of my feet hit the ground. I thought about lots of stuff, but mostly how thankful I am for gravity’s perfect attendance record.

Sure, you can overlook it as easily as one takes breathing or meiosis for granted. But once you take into consideration the fact that in billions of years, gravity hasn’t taken one sick day, governmental holiday, or weekend in its timeshare in Southern San Bernardino. Gravity doesn’t even go home: it spends day after day cooped up in its little office, ordering in Chinese food on the company’s budget.

And how are we beneficiaries of gravity’s undaunted work ethic? Everything we hold dear, gravity, too, holds near. However, gravity is not so developed as a workaholic tot he point of overbearing dominance upon the surface of the earth. That is, gravity is like a cool babysitter that holds its children close but allows a certain degree of independence. While we are held to the globe like a fly on spherical sticky paper, gravity allows us to lift our feet to move.

For its unceasing respect for the terrestrial responsibility to which it has been ascribed, for the dominant execution of its duty, and for its flexibility that correlates with our human desire for controlled independence, I commend Gravity and owe to her much of my good fortune.

Roper v. Furley

In the seventies, America was posed with a conflict of interests. There was Mister Roper: married to Helen, typically sad, and outrageously whipped. Then there was Mister Furley: single, whimsical, and outfitted with the typical Barney Fife voice cracks and squeals.

This problem arose in the 1970s, but after Three’s Company went off the air and the nation was thrust into the mondo-rad world of the roaring eighties, the public sort of let it go. They had no need to play favorites – the ordeal was over.

But then, after I had lived out a healthy portion of my life, Three’s Company made its way onto the Nick at Nite lineup and into my heart. There was, however, a noticeable rift in character between the two landlords of Jack, Janet, and Chrissy. I knew in my heart that I had to choose between one of them. I had to make the hardest decision of my days up until that point.

Sure, Mr. Roper was funny in the passive, aloof sense. But Don Knotts’ characteristic active comedy contributed to Furley’s character in a way that catches the spirit of humor by the toe and swings it around in the air before slamming it onto the pavement of Slapstick Avenue. Roper’s interaction (or lack thereof) with his wife, though, puts a tally in his column of hilarity; jokes about husbands not wanting to be intimate with their wives are outstandingly funny and, like a fine wine, are even better when aged about thirty years.

Upon culmination of my analysis of these two television giants, I came to the conclusion that these two fellows are like apples and oranges. Their stylistic approach to comedy is determined by their overall characters, which are as different as the comedic environments in which they were taught their trade. Therefore, I cannot compare these two men. I cannot identify one as greater. I cannot, by the same token, name one as inferior.

Thus, I applaud the characters of Mr. Roper and Mr. Furley for developing their characters in ways very different from each other. God bless you both.

NYC in a Nutshell

I’ll spare you every last detail of my voyage to the Big Apple by including a brief recap of everything I can remember:

Tampa. La Guardia. Super Shuttle. Milford Plaza Hotel. Carmines. Hotel. Subway. No one smiled. CSPA at Columbia University. Nacho Grill. Guggenheim. Contemplated killing self. Escaped. Hotel. Smiles remain nonexistent. Some deli with big pastrami sandwiches. Hotel. Shower broken. Columbia. Skipped class. Starbucks. Some Asian deli. Times Square. Virgin Records. Saw Whoopie Goldberg. Some pizza joint. Empire State Building. Cold. No smiles. Hotel. Shower still broken. Starbucks. Columbia. Skipped class. Starbucks. Carnegie Deli. Western Omelet. Rockefeller Center. Hotel. Lost on Subway, ended up in Brooklyn. Late for show. Saw 30 minutes of Blue Man Group. Stardust Diner. Sang Hopelessly Devoted to You. Hotel. Shower never to be fixed again. Starbucks. Subway. Smiles? Staten Island Ferry. Thought up theme. Ground Zero. Chinatown. Haggle. Had to pee. Hotel. The Producers. Richard Kind. Alan Ruck. Euro Diner. Western Omelet. Hotel. Euro Pan. Subway. Museum of Natural History. Dinosaurs. Planets. Subway. La Guardia. Tampa. End.

All in all, it was a good trip. I can take or leave New York City, though. It’s such a desolate and lonesome place: 17 million people and not one person has it in them to smile in the subway or talk to one another. That ambiance, my friends, is not the sort I would like to immerse myself in.

The lowest possible point

Since they moved Oak Grove Middle School into a little city of a hundred portables in the field at Clearwater High last year, we’ve had to have crossing guards next to my house come dismissal time. This year, the guard has been driving a white minivan and parking in my front yard.

Recently, though, the vehicle has moved across the street to my drunken neighbor Steve’s house. Interestingly enough, that same van was over at the house on Saturday night. Late Saturday night.

It turns out Steve has a new girlfriend. My brother and I agreed (in all our bitter loneliness) that this mere notion is about the most depressing thing ever.

Baby, you're a rich man

Wonderful news! Today, I officially qualified myself as a citizen when I received my first ever income tax return. I had to tax the little bit of cash I made this summer, but as a reward for taking a giant hunk of my money, Uncle Sam gave one third of it back!

That’s right, my friends, in my possession is a handy check signed by my regional disbursing officer in the amount of $50.34.

I’m now a man of means; now all I need is a girl on whom to spend it.