Life is just a beach so far out of reach
[ 7 Comments ] Posted on 05.22.04 in complaints, friends, funny stories
Last night I went to Egle’s party at the Den. Nice place (especially because we had the Hockey game on). I gave her a nice present wrapped in pretty rose wrapping paper with a potato and twenty bucks inside. Also included was this note:
All my life, I’ve envied girls who go to birthday parties and get their friends intricate, complicated, and personal gifts that just suit their style. I’ve always been the typical guy, throwing 20 bucks at the birthday girl and eating cake. But not this year. This year, I made it a point to try to get a gift for you; something thoughtful that you would really enjoy. In efforts of giving you the perfect present, I asked myself, “What do I know about Egle?” It was then that I realized I don’t know all that much about you, except that you’re Lithuanian. I had a great idea: I’d give you the country’s main agricultural product as sort of a memento, a reminder of the great motherland. So, after a quick trip to Google, I found that the main agricultural export of Lithuania is grain. After searching high and low, near and far, I couldn’t find any to give to you. Apparently they don’t sell raw wheat here in the U.S., one of the largest wheat economies of the known world. I did the next best thing and included the second most populous agricultural export of Lithuania, the potato. But then I realized and said to myself, “Self, you’re giving the girl a potato.” So here’s 20 bucks.
Today I took advantage of the environment I take for granted and, like a real Floridian, I went to the beach. This experience has only reaffirmed my opinion that the beach is an inefficient, silly place to go.
First, you have to wait in gobs of traffic, which wasn’t so bad today, because we took a detour down Drew Street, behind Coachman Park and bypassed downtown traffic. After averting the roundabout, we traveled up to North Beach and set up camp.
Now, think about this logically with me.
Every year, millions of tourists come to bask in the light of the single brightest object in our solar system, which has been proven to cause skin cancer. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.
Every year, millions of tourists come to swim in our sea. Well, technically it’s a gulf, filled with bacteria and harmful animals. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.
Every year, millions of tourists come to lay down in our sand. Sand, which I might add, that the city of Clearwater spends millions on each year to be trucked in and spread due to our deteriorating coastline. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.
Every year, millions of tourists come to buy our outrageously overpriced merchandise. I’m not saying that this is necessarily bad, but when I have to pay $2.25 for a coke at Pier 60, I’m gonna start complaining. But no big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.
It’s an odd concept, this “beach.” People go to sit on a field of dirt and to swim in the world’s toilet. I’d much rather be sitting home, in the air conditioning, with a cold drink by my side.
Now, I’m not bashing the beach, don’t get me wrong. Tourism is this city’s main income and because of Joe from Chicago wanting to give me all of his money, the roads are paved where I live and my life is generally more pleasant. I merely cannot comprehend what would make the beach an attractive place to go. Perhaps if I lived in Topeka, Kansas, I would feel differently and I would despise my city’s… corn.
Public Restrooms
[ 7 Comments ] Posted on 05.10.04 in complaints, observations
By their very nature, public restrooms are very awkward places.
If you’re a guy, urinals have the capability to backfire on you. Sure, they’re convenient. Sure, they don’t require a lot of work on your part, but they have the potential of disaster. I’m not complaining about the fixtures themselves; running water is a commodity that we as a society could never teach ourselves to live without. However, the people who indulge in the porcelain handiness can make your experience a nightmare.
It never fails: Sometime in your life you’ll be standing there, minding your own business, when all of a sudden he comes in. Sure, there’s a row of twelve urinals and you’re the only one in the bathroom, but he takes it upon himself to come and do his business right next to you.
It’s not like a Boy Scout helping a little old lady across the street to earn his Merit Badge or anything, but this fellow apparently thinks you need help. You’re nervous and you want to empty yourself as quickly as possible to alleviate the tension between you and this overly friendly stranger who’s exposing himself just eight inches from you, but the stress that has just been created makes you stop. You can’t do it. Thus, the encounter is elongated.
The worst kind of neighbor is the talker.
“How about those Mets?”
“Some weather we’re having.”
I’m not at all an unsociable person; if someone talks to me on the street or in the local convenience store, I’ll converse with him, if only for a short time. But this is taking it too far. When a man is doing his thing in the only place he sees fit, when he’s gotten an iota of time to himself, it is simply deplorable for another to ruin that solitude.
But no matter, you stand there… waiting. Waiting for something to happen. You’re not quite sure what – for your newfound friend to leave, for you to get the courage to bolt, for a ton of bricks to fall on your neighbor’s head, something.
But then what? After you’re done, do you stick around to wash your hands? That would make the encounter even longer. But if you don’t you risk being thought less of by the others in the room. Either way you’ll have to make some sort of sacrifice, which makes bathrooms a social disaster for men.
But it’s not just for men, oh no. Women have it rough, too, sitting in those little stalls with so much to worry about:
What if someone peeks through the 1 inch crack between the door and the wall of the stall? Will you smile, ignore it, or make some quip about looking at your crack?
What if the lock fails and someone swings the door wide open? After that, will you have to hold the door closed with one leg as an added reinforcement?
What if you run out of toilet paper? Do you call to the person in the stall next to you and violate the unwritten law of no talking in bathrooms?
The woman’s restroom is a ticking time bomb for disaster, just like men’s. A hoard of strange people cramming into poorly kept, unclean rooms and emptying themselves is not my idea of fun. Potential confrontation with the unknown masses scares me, and that is why bathrooms are strange, weird places.
No Boat Drinks
[ 1 Comment ] Posted on 04.25.04 in complaints, music
We were on the floor, so we had to use a special entrance, which they opened up a little over an hour before show time. We went in right when they opened it, and the man in front of us was the most obese man alive.
No, not the same kind of obesity people are suing McDonald’s over, but the sort that affects the Earth’s rotation and tides. I was telling this story to a group of three friends as we walked to pre-calculus class in a line (sort of West Side Story-esque), and the man had a girth that spanned longer than our line of Spic-hating Jets. He was so insanely large, I sort of pitied him.
We figured, “Hey, the floor seats thousands of people – this guy won’t cause us any trouble.”
We figured wrong.
We walked up to our seats and what do you know, the man (who we shall refer to from now on as Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth) is sitting there and greets us with a smile. Luckily for me, Ian sat next to him. Unluckily for me, problem number two was waiting to show itself.
If you’ve ever been to a Buffett show, then you know how it is pre-concert in the arena. Beach balls, loads of drunks, and people who don’t come to their seats until two minutes into the first set.
I swear, two seats in front of me came Dikembe Mutombo, painted white and heavily intoxicated. I think it was God punishing me for making fun of Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth. In any case, my 5″6′ self was a bit miffed.
No worries though, Roger the Last Surviving Wooly Mammoth on Earth didn’t intrude much on our parade (except for taking up 1½ seats) and the Jolly Drunk Giant was dancing and left every 2 songs to get another cold one, so the show was prime viewing. Jimmy had an awesome set list (not that it matters to any of my non-parrothead friends that may be reading this) and during Fins they launched a giant inflatable RC shark that flew into the rafters of the St. Petersburg Times Forum and got stuck.
Love,
Casey
P.S. Sorry to the dude in front of me who got his beer knocked out of his hand by a beach ball hit by yours truly.
P.S.S. Sorry to the people in front of him who got doused with Corona. Don’t blame me, blame the moron who held his beer up above his head at a Jimmy Buffett Concert.
P.S.S.S. I would like to officially retract my apology to the man whose beer I spilled. You’re an idiot; drink it – don’t flail it around.