My father took me to this place months ago. He was born in the town, only a couple of miles down the two lane road. I had never been to this town before, and I had never known the relatives I was visiting in that cemetery. But one thing stood out to me above all others as we wandered around looking at people that we never knew but with whom we probably share some genes. This was the calmest place I have ever seen.

I know that all cemeteries are meant to be calm, but it is impossible to find such tranquility in the city. In the city, the daily activity that surrounds any place intended for quiet and reflection is bound to seep in. But in this place, the only possible distraction might be a sluggish tractor chugging up the two lane road. More often than not, however, the only sound you hear is the wind among the stalks of corn. This is the ultimate calm, and this is where I want to be buried.

A few weeks ago, though, Dad took exception to my friendly jabbing and claimed with the authority that only a father can exert that he is, has been, and always will be in better shape than Yours Truly.

Now, I know very well that I am not what experts in the health field would call “in shape,” but I think I am in better shape than my Pop. We are of a similar build, with Peterson funk handles (they evolved from “love handles” at about the time when The Macarana came into its prime) and a fondness for crab legs. Dad is pretty much exactly like me, only with less facial hair and thirty years added to my age. This is why I doubted his claim that he was in better shape than me.

When I expressed the extent to which I opposed his ridiculous claims, he thought of a way to settle the issue once and for all: a footrace.

While the thought of two overweight, pale, and otherwise weak individuals racing each other is hilarious, I ask you to bear with me.

This challenge was posed a few weeks ago, and we set the date for this past afternoon. Well, it went down. Pop challenged me to race up Keene Road from Druid Road to Lakeview Road and back. We each took our positions at opposite corners of the busy intersection and awaited the signal from Mom. Her arm dropped, and we were off.

I had a strategy: I thought I would sprint from the starting line to gain as much ground on Dad as I could, allowing myself periodic sections of my journey where I could walk. Dad’s opposing strategy of taking the course at a steady, mildly-paced clip proved inferior. And wouldn’t you know it, 1.2 miles later I was waiting on the corner where I had started, watching my old man hobble toward me with a look of both resignation and defeat.

Victory is sweet. Victory is sweet, indeed.

I remember the day it happened. I was sitting in the very spot I’m in now as I write this. We all knew the dog was in poor health, but we just kept on living merrily without the fact at the forefront of our minds that this day was inevitable. I even remember how, in her waning months, I would take the care to pick out the disgusting little clumps of dead hair and crust to which I can only imagine those who are in line for the elevator up to doggie Heaven are entitled.

As I sat in this room, Mom called for me. I ran into her bedroom to find Chelsey on the floor, convulsing like I had never seen before. Not many preteens are privy to the uncontrollable shaking of a canine seizure so early in their lives, I suppose. After writhing on the floor for a minute or so, she calmed down. And, in a last gasp of life, Chelsey moved her little peg legs because she thought she was running. Then, complete still.

You know how when you get on in age, what you did during the first fifteen or so years in your life become a giant blur and you can’t really put your finger on exact happenings of the distant past? Well, and this sticks out in my mind as clear as day, for some reason I remember the exact dialogue between me and my mother:

“Is it over?”

“I think so.”

Then, we cried. Mother because she had witnessed – and had her son witness – a depressing doggie death. Me because I knew nothing would ever come along as great as that dog.

Boy, was I wrong.

A short time later, we came driving home with a new golden retriever. I knew this one could never fill his predecessor’s paw socks, but the family was lonesome with no trouble making varmint around Peterson Manor. Again, was I ever wrong. Ben is, without a doubt, the sweetest and most loyal animal with which we may share our world.

As I sit here in this same room where I heard my mom’s call so many years ago, Ben lies at my feet. I know he may not be here forever, but I should enjoy what time I have with him and move on to the great things life has to offer me after his departure.

I realize that this entry is seemingly not in keeping with my overtly optimistic posting style, but the entire point is one of hope and goodness: While you may be disappointed and sure that the world will never be as good tomorrow as it is today, you are very likely wrong. Life has a funny way of working itself out.

Granted, not as genius as Superbad, but I doubt we will see many movies that compare in our lifetimes.

It’s a funny movie with a funny plot and, yes, good acting. In fact, I would say that the acting trumps all other aspects in this film in the humor category. It’s a far-fetched, fun movie. Will Arnett and Will forte paint a beautifully absurd picture of life as the Brothers Solomon, and if people are too stupid to see that, it’s their loss.

Funny enough though: when Ian and I saw the movie at 9:55 last night, we were the only ones in the theater. I would rather have it that way than to have the house packed with people who don’t appreciate the genius that we were able to see last night.

Well, it happened.

Allow me to set the scene. Ian, in all of his fortunate goodness, was able to lease a (very nice) new Nissan Altima a few months ago. He kept his old jalopy of a Saturn so he could drive it to and fro while not accumulating miles on his new, fancy-shmancy car. This left me high and dry outside of the garage, which only has room enough for two cars. So, I have to park in the backmost portion of the driveway, leaving Ian to play musical cars to work his vehicle around mine, meandering into and out of the garage. I have no problem with parking where I do; it will be especially cool in the winter (no pun intended!) when ice forms on my windows.

We both agreed at the beginning of this system that my car was going to be hit. We didn’t know when it would happen, but we knew it was coming. It’s sort of like a far less interesting return of Jesus to Earth.

Sure enough, last night Ian took a page out of the book of my grandmother, whose two year old Mitsubishi Gallant has been wrecked no fewer than five times as a result of her not looking behind her when the backs up her car. He hit my front fender. No actual damage, though – just a good amount of paint that has found its way off of my bumper.

Interestingly enough, though, Ian was far more upset than I was. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so genuinely apologetic. It was kind of nice – I could get used to that. As for the car, it will be fixed in time; it’s really no big deal.

Until then, I’m parking in the street.

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.

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.

That being said, the woman has the most skewed concept of time in the world. All of the clocks in our house (with the exception of the ones in my bedroom) are set to be approximately five minutes ahead of the actual time. Her reasoning is understandable: she never wants to be late.

Therefore, one would assume that it is easy to be able to know the correct time while looking at any clock in my house. All you would really have to do is subtract five minutes from the time which is upon the clock,. However, like many of life’s false promises, this protocol is full of flaws due to the fact that absolutely none of the clocks in the Peterson household are set to the same time.

Take, for example, a sample reading of a few of the house’s timepieces:
* The clock on the wall in the dining room (that is taped together with scotch tape because I accidentally made it fall one time) reads 10:48.
* There lies a small desktop clock atop the wine rack in the dining room that reads 10:31.
* In the living room, there’s a clock that chimes every 15 minutes. It reads 10:46.
* On the wall in the living room, there is a nifty cuckoo clock that reads 10:47.
* There also sits a cheap grandfather clock in the dining room that my brother got for my mother for her birthday or something a few years ago. It reads 3:50, but I’m pretty sure the reason for that inaccuracy can be attributed to a lack of consistent winding. Anyhow, it still contributes to the point at hand.
* The actual time, according to “The Man”:http://www.time.gov/, is 10:43.

The success of my mother’s goal of punctuality, therefore, is wholly dependent on which room you’re in before you leave. Me? I’ll just sit at my computer and be five minutes late to every place I go.

Yesterday, in an attempt to feel rich, my brother and I traveled out to a local course. We qualified it as such: he’s soon to be a lawyer, and lawyers need to golf. Anyhow, we teed off on the first hole with positive attitudes and optimistic outlooks. By the 18th green, however, our hopes and dreams were cut at the seams.

Ian and I started this par 53 course with boxes and boxes of shiny new golf balls. We finished the course with (very lenient) scores of 85 and 99, respectively, and one golf ball.

One ball.

By the 18th tee, we had managed to lose upwards of 20 balls and were forced to play the hole separately. I used the remaining ball to finalize my already miserable stroke count and then brought it back to the tee so that my brother could finish up the course. That, my friends, is Peterson golf at its finest.

Perhaps we should just stick to video games.