Journeys of Jack Tripper

I am doing a performance tomorrow about Spam. I am putting four randomly selected spam emails from my Yahoo! spam folder to music.

Here is a preview I just recorded.

http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/music/spur-m2.mp3

Posted by Timothy at 10:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

d'oh
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Maura Tierney, or, more accurately, her character Abby Lockhart, is wearing a headband on tonight's ER episode.

Two confessions:

• I believe that the headband is the ideal female accessory.
• Maura Tierney regularly occupies my top slot of "favourite actress."

Posted by Timothy at 10:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Eight p.m. The sky was empty, new moon being only an evening away. Cloudless, it gave access to a sea of stars normally washed out by the bright illumination of the city. At the top of a parking garage, I leaned against the fender of my rented convertible, picked out constellations I remembered from college, and waited.

The jacket of my black Jones New York suit lay carefully folded on the trunk, vibrating softly to the thundering beats coming from the silver-blue Mitsubishi's stereo. Billy Corgan's voice rocketed through the empty garage, echoing and re-echoing as it bounced between the concrete barriers.

WHO(who,who,who,who) WANTS (wants,wants,wants) HONEY...

I wondered if the stereo was too loud, but the entire block seemed to be empty. I turned it up one more notch and glanced at my small, silver mobile for the fortieth time. The amber dash illumination of the Eclipse faded slightly with every thump of the bass drum.

I was waiting for my friend Meri, with whom I was scheduled to attend a Christmas party at some swanky club. It was my first night in Tampa, having flown down to determine if I could fathom actually living here, and my palms quickly dampened as anxiety about the upcoming social gathering grew in my chest.

The navy and silver stripes in my tie reflected the floodlights mounted on the corners of the garage. I adjusted the straight pin which held my tie in place, nearly stabbing myself in the belly when her black Miata came screaming up the ramp, levitated slightly, and landed, stopping only yards short of my knees.

The tall, impossibly thin blonde unfolded herself from the Mazda's bucket seat, strode to my not-as-thin body, wrapped her arm around my waist and said, "Sorry I'm late."

She grabbed a purse from her car, turned off the ignition, and approached the passenger side of my car, as I reflected on how unimpressive it must seem to her. I opened the door for her, placed my suit jacket in the back seat, and climbed behind the wheel.

"Where are we going?"�

"It's called 1509, it's in Ybor City. It's not far from here."�

I coursed the car out of the parking garage and onto highway 60, careful to not abuse the accelerator as I had on the drive over from my hotel on Rocky Point.

"How do you know these people?"� I asked.

Her long blonde hair floated over the silver dress that shimmered in the dim orange lights as she pondered the best way to answer me.

"I used to work at a law firm, and we did business with a lot of the big wigs in this town, so this party's mainly going to be lawyers, judges, city council people, the Mayor, et cetera."�

The Mayor?

"She always makes an appearance at this party."�

As if I wasn't self-conscious enough about being with this stunningly beautiful woman, now I was going to be amidst town celebrities whom any resident would recognize -- and whose identity to which I'd be totally oblivious.

She navigated me through the bricky Ybor streets, directing me to a small parking lot. I pulled a five-dollar bill out of my wallet, handed it to the attendant, and pulled into a well-lit spot.

As we walked elegantly down 8th Avenue, I became aware of the juxtaposition of our finery and the fairly dirty and downtrodden appearance of Ybor City. At the same time, I was impressed by the sheer number of bars and nightclubs lining the streets. I could see myself having a good time in this town.

We approached the 1509 and a tuxedoed doorman checked our names off a list attached to a shiny black acrylic clipboard. As we stepped through the entranceway, Meri leaned down (in her stiletto heels, she had at least three inches on me) and whispered in my ear, Get ready.

Her brief advice was inadequate to prepare me for what I was about to see.

Crossing the inner threshold my eyes immediately focused on a massive spread of food in the center of the room. Meats of indefinite origin surrounded an enormous and abstract ice sculpture. Cheeses, fondue, caviar -- wow, I've never had caviar -- unreal. I can't wait to feast.

My eyes scan the room, taking in dozens of well-dressed individuals, nearly all of them twice my age. I think to myself, Meri and I are the two most attractive people in this room.

Then I notice the dancers.

In three cages suspended above the floor dance scantily-clad women, though in the shadows cast by the rafters I can't see many details. I'd read about this trend in my fashion magazines, but never imagined I'd be able to afford going to a club that had something so exotic.

Meri nudged me out of my observation of the spectacle by asking me if I wanted a drink.

"Yeah, uh, gin and tonic. Thanks."

Leaving the dinner spread for the moment, I followed her to one of the several bars arranged around the dance floor. The blue neon lights combined with the sharp features of the dark-haired bartender reminded me of the film Cocktail, though he didn't perform any alcoholic pyrotechnics.

A wide-faced man in a brown jacket and maroon tie approached us as we sipped our drinks, interrupting me from contemplating which free drink I wanted next.

"George!"� Meri shouted as she embraced him. "This is my friend Tim."

George was a partner in Tampa's largest law firm, and had employed Meri for a short term. I listened intently to their conversation, ignorant to the people they discussed and the rumours about those people.

The night continued in much the same manner. I chose my words carefully, describing myself (accurately) as a speech professor in Ohio who was looking at coming to do work at USF. We worked the room, and the muscles in my forearm began to tire from shaking so many hands. I was impressed at how many people Meri knew, being no older than I was.

A group of white-shirted caterers shuffled quickly into the room, catching my eye behind the state representative to whom we were speaking. I gasped as they methodically broke down the dinner spread and carried it out of the club. I guess I won't be eating tonight, I thought.

A DJ materialized at the console on the stage and began spinning 80s dance hits. A fire-haired antiques store owner we'd talked to earlier grabbed my arm and pulled me to the parquet floor. As I lurched through Electric Avenue I tried to determine if she was in her late 30s or early 40s. Or older. Botox makes reading faces so much more difficult.

Her brown eyes flashed as she handed me her card. "Call me when you move down here," she said with a wink.

As I slipped the card into my breast pocket to mingle with a tube of ChapStick, I reflected on how very unlikely that was to happen.

At midnight the party ended, and we stumbled to the car I now felt undeserving to drive. Spending four hours around the rich & famous will do that to you. We floated back to the parking garage, still as empty as we left it. Meri climbed out, kissed my cheek, and told me to call her when I get back in town. The red lights of her Miata blurred the city skyline in the background as she squealed down the ramp.

My eyes averted, and the stars stared back as they had before. I took off my jacket, folded it neatly, and placed it on the Eclipse's trunk. I reached in, pressed play on the CD deck, and skipped to track three.

It hadn't been the greatest day I'd ever known, but I'd had worse.

Posted by Timothy at 08:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"WARNING: Contains Stuff you don't even want to know about!!"

"Do Not Taunt, provoke, or aggravate this product."

"WARNING: May be too intense for some members of the general public."

It came from the great minds of Royal Crown cola. Their goal: to compete with Mountain Dew for the coveted "young person's highly caffeinated citrus drink." Brought to national market in 1995, the fizzy drink had an equal amount of caffeine as the Dew with twice as much attitude. Mind you, this is before Mountain Dew became "extreme." Kick was the first beverage to feature a URL on the can and the first soda to appropriate the wide-mouth style that had been previously introduced by Coors ("Less glug," anyone?).

I was an early adopter of Kick, and took to carrying sixpacks with me everywhere I went. It tasted better than Mountain Dew and was only 35 cents in machines (I don't remember how much six packs were but they were cheap, apparently). Not everyone thought Kick was as great as I did.

From: g...@arh0280.urh.uiuc.edu (Geoge Gruschow)
Subject: Re: Kick Soda
Date: 1995/08/31
Message-ID: <424tds$i7m@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu>#1/1

I bought Kick the first time I saw it (I'll try almost anything), and I
hadn't ever seen an ad for it (still haven't).. not even the people in
the store knew what the heck it was. I took it out to the picnic I
was going to, and I was astounded.. It was Mountain Dew! I mean, it
wasn't really Mountain Dew, it was just the same taste again (you know
that funny milky citrus type taste in Mello Yello, Mountain Dew, and
Generic Citrus Drinks). I hate Mountain Dew!

Moral of the story.. GG's opinion of Kick: It sucks. Jolt Kicks Kick's Ass.

Well, he is a losar. Huge losar.

Ryan Flannery of the Kentucky Kernel didn't like it either, as he wrote on September 8th, 1995:

The following warning, yes, warning appears on cans of Kick: "Contains stuff you don't even want to know about." Needless to say, I read the ingredients. Among those listed were gum acacia, sweat from the brow of Larry (a worker at the bottling plant) and other natural flavors. Certainly, gastrointestinal juices from a dead opossum on New Circle Road would fall into the "other natural flavors" catagory (among other things). If you look up gum acacia in the dictionary, I'm pretty sure you'll discover it's just tree sap. Sounds refreshing, huh? They were right. I didn't want to know about this stuff.

Clearly this guy thought he was some kind of amateur Burke and Kline or something.

Anyway, Jenn didn't remember Kick, nor did her thugged-out boy toy of the moment, so it might have never been a national product. Or perhaps others didn't have the love affair with it I did. Oh well. I miss it. After it went off the market, I switched to drinking beer, and I haven't really gone back to soda.

Maybe some day.

Posted by Timothy at 08:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

top five retired fast food products in no particular order

burger king rodeo burger
taco bell steak burrito bellgrande
mcdonald's McDLT
KFC Chicken Littles sandwiches
wendy's cheddar lover's cheeseburger

Posted by Timothy at 02:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

There is allegedly an inauguration today. I suppose people will be celebrating. Well, good for them.

Last night I taught my class down in Ybor then walked over to theImprov to hopefully see my friend Gabe perform on an open mic night. Mystudents managed their way through their introduction speeches and it's clear I have my hands full this semester. Let's just say I have a lotof assertive women in my class who are not impressed by my role asprofessor one bit. I guess that's a good thing, but a stretch from thefair amount of discipline I'm used to dealing with (even in theprison).

I'd not been in the Improv before, but it's a really nice place. Therest of Ybor was pretty much dead, which I guess makes sense for a"cold" Wednesday, but I rather wish there were more places busierbecause I really do want to get out down there more often.

I couldn't get into the Improv in time to see Gabe's act, though, whichsucked. I did get to see quite a few other comics, none of whom wereparticularly funny. The guy who won was particularly lame, in myopinion, all dick and fart jokes.

Oh well, I guess that's what passes for humour these days.

We were, however, treated to a free act from tomorrow's headliner,which was cool because he was excellent. Gabe and I were rolling,though, I think we laughed harder than anyone else in there. Not surewhy.

On the way home stopped off at the LAHangout to see if my friends were still up there. They were,of course. I have long ago decided to stop singing at their Wednesdaynight karaoke (last week, i had to wait through an hour and a half of "regulars" singing the same songs they sing every week, just so i could sing one johnny cash song. lame) so we played trivia and Golden Tee. i did well at the trivia part, not so well at the golden tee. Meanwhile, my eyeskept shifting to the one woman in the bar, a blonde with enormous fake... yeah. I'm talking, disproportional. She was with one of those thugboys who doesn't know how to wear his hat straight. It was almostenough to make me abandon trivia forever.

Almost.

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I had an assignment to write a story about this guest lecturer whom was an applicant for an open position in our department. She came and spoke to our class last week. Instead of doing the obvious I went in a bit different a direction.

She stepped into the room as if its floor was paved with eggshells. The neutral colour of her taupe suit left her entrance unnoticed by most of the students in the room. Indeed, she was so unremarkable that few recognized the fine tailoring of her pantsuit or her fabulous shoes. Her tenure before them would be brief, and it was imperative she make a good impression.

Giggling nervously, she arranged her materials on the small table, the bulk of space being taken up by the intrusive overhead projector. A laugh erupted and her eyes squinted thin as though she was onstage. In a way, she was.

A coffee cup steadied her shaking hands as her eyes shot quickly around the room, afraid or unable to maintain contact for more than a brief moment.

Until the eyes landed upon mine, where they lingered for just an instant longer than they had others. My right brow lifted provocatively.

She began her lecture with an unsteady voice revealing years of attempts to mask an accent I couldn’t identify. Austrian? German? Her high cheekbones made her look Swiss, to me, but what did I know. Clumsily, she fumbled through the organization of her lecture, eyes coming to mine every so often, with a fire of anxious tension relieved with every occurrence.

She spoke of the futility of anti-drug campaigns, drawing me further into inquisitiveness with each pronunciation of “smoking Mary-ahna.� Her pupils dilated with what I thought was anxiety but hoped was passion, masking her pale brown iris.

She distributed handouts, happily anticipating fewer staring eyes to accommodate. She attempted to demonstrate her ideas upon the overhead projector, but her transparencies were unruly, creating disorder and launching themselves from the projector’s face. She asked for questions, as she played with her wedding band to relieve the unease.

I raised my hand to inquire about some frivolity unearthed by her brief lecture. She answered it excitedly, happy to have an excuse to avoid the unfriendly eyes projected by the others in the room, and finding solace in mine. A professor behind me follows up with a brief rant, clearly identifying her frustration with the health services industry.

The lecturer thought briefly, and grasped her black halter top, as she had several times during the lecture, wary of revealing even the slightest bit of cleavage to her audience. She stopped midsentence, seeking the English word for the foreign concept weighing down the dock of her mind – then found it, and rose onto the balls of her feet to finish the statement. She smiled, squinted, and glanced back at me.

In the process of answering another question, she let slip her background – Italian! Well, that explained the fabulous shoes.

Her constant references to her physician husband meant little to the passion we were sharing. As our time together came to an end, she asked for any final questions, and the audience filed quickly out of the room. I had but one chance to speak to this woman, this queen for an hour.

I grabbed a pile of leftover handouts and approached her.

“Uh, did you want these back, you know, save trees, or whatever?�

“No, just throw them out. Thanks.� She finished piling her materials into her black attaché bag and, smaller than she had seemed during her lecture, attempted to leave – but was interrupted by a student with a quick question before she could reach the door that represented her emancipation.

Perhaps I’ll see her again. Perhaps she’ll be hired and become a face I see daily. However, the nature of our interaction and the fires that burned that afternoon can never be replicated. It was a private moment that happened in a public sphere. It was a love affair we weren’t even aware of. It was passion in a classroom.

Posted by Timothy at 11:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Well, I gave in to all y'all's pressure and opened this. Hope it's worth it.
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