Journeys of Jack Tripper

Actually just the verses are "new," I came up with the chorus a long time ago.

The Coffee In Your Cup (3meg mp3, 3:41, emo)

Now on a faster server!

Posted by Timothy at 03:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

And a new song coming as soon as Jenn goes to work.

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

Today's song is titled "Home." I think all the beating on my guitar is putting it out of tune. Oh well.

http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/music/home.mp3 (4:03, 2megs, cheesy poker references)

Here are the lyrics, I think they are poorly served by my musical abilities.

Bartender, give me just one more
Stonemason's lying on the floor
I'd pick him up but I was told not to do heavy lifting.
Sunglasses perched upon your head
Hair like you just got out of bed
Eyes wide as dinner plates and I'll be damned there's someone cookin'
I'm chuckin' snowballs at the sun
You say it's not all that much fun
Giv eyou the finger and you chase me down into the cellar
Press you up against the wall
You smell rustic just like fall
I take your breath away but I'm so nice I let you have it back

'Cause everybody wants a place they can call their home
A place that makes 'em feel just right
So, c'mon, tell me, baby
Where you sleepin' tonight?

Bartender, can I get a light
I'm throwing down big slick tonight
I got the Hammer but the next hand I'll be floating bullets
You're curlign rocks along my pond
You're throwing bricks and I'm not fond
You know you're safe with me but then again it's barely raining
Give me a sign of what you mean
Can't understand what's in between
The sign and signified I'm semiotic George Steinbrenner
The cafe walls are filled with names
Of people who called and complained
She broke teir hearts but they just didn't learn their lesson on the side

I'm staring rainbows in the eye
You're floating up into the sky
I'd wave goodbye
But I know that you're not really leavin'

Posted by Timothy at 11:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Current Mood: cynical

Posted by Timothy at 02:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It seems I rip someone new off every day. Fitting that with a hangover I do Tom Waits, though. Also, Day #2 of the artifact project.

http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/fuckinbirds.mp3 (2:17, 2 megs or so, "fuck")

Here is your artifact for the day.

Posted by Timothy at 01:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm getting a new computer. Keeping things in sync is too hard with the one I'm using to make these. I gave up trying on this one.http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/whineM.mp3 (2:00, 750k, synthesizers)I don't know why the song is named "whine." So, do not ask. I guess because I'd rather be outside today?
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Posted by Timothy at 04:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm going to try and scan an artifact in every day. Today is my response to what people commonly ask me: "What, exactly, are you writing in those little notebooks all the time?"

This would be what I wrote Wednesday night, watching someone sing karaoke.

Posted by Timothy at 01:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Timothy at 11:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I called a girl I like last night and woke her up. I felt bad, and this song just now came into my head.

So I recorded it. Of course, I'll never let *her* listen to it.http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/music/wokeyouup.mp3 (71 seconds, 400k)

Posted by Timothy at 04:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

WEEEEEEEEET! WEEEEEEEEEET! WEEEEEEEEEEEET!
The harsh noise of the bedstand alarm clock brings me back to semi-consciousness. I'm in a hotel room - a lavish hotel room, though hotels don't much impress me these days. I've had a job for four years that put me in hotels from Jacksonville to Boise. But this is one of the nicer ones.
It's 7:30 a.m. on the morning after my cousin Andy's extravaganza of a wedding. I'm at the Hilton Netherland Plaza in downtown Cincinnati, and - God - fucking - headache - I'm being hassled by my brother to get my ass up and into the shower. We're having brunch at Aunt Becky and Uncle Mike's house over in Anderson at 8:30, so I need to get moving.
I'm used to the routine, so I handle my morning business quickly.
Why, why, why did I not drink water and take aspirin last night?

My hangover, a result not of the reception itself but afterhours bar carousing with my cousins, is encroaching on my reasoning ability. I nearly crack open the $5.00 Dannon water bottle - Put that down! - before remembering I was paying for this room, albeit at the discounted "wedding family" rate.
I think it was the smoking. Did I smoke in front of my brother? Shit.
I shield my eyes from the overenthusiastic sun as I follow my parents' van down Columbia Parkway and into the swanky neighbourhood that is the home of several professional athletes and business executives. I've always envied living there. I park my car and my brown oxfords sound a click against the cobblestone driveway.
I need a bloody mary. NOW.
My youngest aunt, Tete Bonnie, recognizes my bloodshot eyes immediately.
"Tim! Fix ya a bloody mary?"
"Yeah, thanks."
I nurse the salty drink, nibble unsuccessfully on my grandmother's baklava (an item I would have been scarfing down on any other occasion) and quietly observe my aunts and uncles joke around with their mother, my Baba.
I feel like shit.
Adrienne, Andy's younger sister, nudges me.
"You want any of this?"
She points at a plate of runny yellow egg-like substances.
Um, not so much.
She tells me its name, but it's long and complicated, like most Macedonian words, and it avoids my memory. In my state, it was all I could do to hold my breath and avoid smelling the concoction.
Is this really Baba's cooking? I'm usually devouring her stuff.
After noon, the crowd starts to disperse. I'm sticking around the city, because I'm meeting up with my friend Anne-Marie that evening. Anne-Marie was stuck in Cincinnati because she'd been visiting her terminally ill aunt Chris, while the rest of our friends were on a rafting trip in Tennessee. I'd promised her I'd hang out with her for the evening and, having a massive crush on her, anticipate the date.
She's not going to be home for another six hours. What do I do?
I elect to drive by Great American and see if I can score a Reds ticket. I do, and for five bucks I sip on overpriced beer and watch Cincinnati beat the Astros. It's a good game, and Aaron Boone, my favorite player, cranks a line-drive home run over the rightfield wall. It proves to be the only scoring of the game, and, for me, this day. The game ends quickly. I file out of the stadium with thousands of happy Reds fans.
Okay, two more hours to burn.
I attempt to avoid the traffic and find myself coursing around Eden Park, the highest point in Cincinnati. In places it provides a panoramic view of the Ohio River and the river banks of Kentucky, and I'm familiar with it due to several romantic exchanges with an ex-girlfriend having taken place there.
I miss her.
I park my car and grab my guitar, looking to take advantage of the gazebo, which overlooks a lake and fountain. A light rain is falling, and it seems like a perfect time to be creative.
I clumsily strum for ten minutes or so, when I'm interrupted by a loud group of people who enter my sanctuary. It looks like a family of maybe five young children and five adults. They're noisy and rude. I'm perturbed.
Get the fuck out!
They seem to be enjoying themselves and making fun of my nervous plucking. One of the men strides up to me.
"Whatcha playin' yo?"
"Umm, my guitar?"
"Yeah but what?"
"I don't know yet. I'm trying to be creative and write something."
"Ahh."
He shuffles away.
LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!
I contemplate leaving, as there are other gazebos in Eden Park, but I fear making it appear as if I'm leaving because I'm the skinny white guy threatened by the scary black people. So I stay and get little accomplished. Five minutes later, he approaches me again.
"Hey, give this a try."
His hand extends toward me, a poorly-rolled joint pinched between its fingers.
"Uh, no thanks. Maybe later."
"Your loss, buddy."
Ohmygod I need to get the fuck out of here.
I'm frozen by fear. I'm ashamed at my response. He returns yet again and this time, I accept his offer. I take an ever-so-slight hit of the joint and inhale hot smoke into my lungs.
Just play it cool, boy, real cool.
The toke clears the remnants of nausea that had inhabited my stomach since the morning, but does nothing for my creativity.
I can't feel my fingers.
Nervously, I gather my music, strap my guitar into its case, and quickly bid my neighbors goodbye. Teeth chattering in the cold rain, I rush to my car, toss the guitar case in the back seat, and settle behind the wheel.
Breathe, buddy, breathe.
I glance at the clock and realize I have another hour before I need to meet Anne-Marie. I merge onto I-71 and take the Montgomery Road exit, remembering a Starbucks is across the street from the Kenwood Mall. I need someplace warm, soothing, and open on this Sunday afternoon.
The perky barista recommends a new drink - the caramel macchiato. The ingredients sound good. I order a Venti.
At 6:45 I am going to call Anne-Marie.
I grab the Sunday Times and pretend to read it, interested more in the photos and relaxing into the soft leather of the loveseat I'm planted in. I glance at my watch.
20 minutes.
This obsessive clockwatching continues for a half hour before I finally strike up the courage to make the phone call.
"Hey, Anne-Marie?"
"Tim, what's up?"
"Hey, I was just in the neighbourhood and we'd talked about getting together, want to hang out?"
"Sure! You know how to get here?"
"Uh, no."
She gives me directions to her apartment down the street. The caffeine from the macchiato only serves to elevate my nervousness. After three months of cat-and-mouse, I am finally going to ask my longtime friend Anne-Marie if she's interested in. more than that. She's certainly sent the signals, and my friends haven't dissuaded me from breaching the subject with her, so I ought to have confidence.
Ugh. I feel like shit.
My insides rumble with indigestion and cramps.
Maybe they'll go away.
Anne-Marie greets me with a solid hug at her doorway, and invites me into her fashionable apartment. She takes great care to show me where she's placed the candle I purchased for her as a housewarming gift. We settle on the sofa and start one of the better conversations I've had in my life.
Jesus, I need to take a shit.
Clearly, my bowels were not cooperating with the caramel macchiato. I felt nauseous, and knew a trip to the bathroom would somewhat alleviate my situation.
I am NOT taking a noisy shit in Anne-Marie's bathroom right before asking her out.
The cramps continue and Anne-Marie finally notices.
"Oh, wow, your stomach's growling. You haven't eaten today! Come on, I'm taking you out to dinner."
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
At the very least, our jaunt to Arthur's, a Hyde Park restaurant, would give me the chance to evacuate myself. We settle into a booth and, after a few minutes, I excuse myself to the restroom.
I arrive and find it hasn't been cleaned in a very, very long time.
Maybe the women's bathroom is empty.
Colon screaming, I lurch back to the table.
"That was quick."
"Yeah."
Having zero appetite and a fatigued body, I pick at my black bean burger. Anne-Marie eats her soup quickly, and we head back to her place.
I need to fucking ask her out. Do it. DO IT NOW.
I don't. Instead, we talk another two hours.
The urgency of my parallel situations comes to a head, finally, when she mentions her exhaustion. I agree.
"Do you want to just sleep on my couch?"
"No, I'm staying at my friend Maggie's tonight," I lie. I fully plan on driving three hours back to Zanesville.
"Oh. Okay then."
MAKE YOUR MOVE.
"This was a really great conversation, I hope we can do this again sometime."
I look into her giant blue eyes and respond, "Yeah, me too. Maybe we can do it again as something more than we are right now."
Clearly, she'd been anticipating this all evening.
"Well, you know, I've been thinking about that with the distance and my work I just don't think us being anything other than friends would work right now. I hope you're not upset."
Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.
"No, of course not, I just wanted to make sure we were on the same channel about this."
Change the channel! Quick!
I escape the apartment in a flash.
Where's the closest public restroom WHERE IS IT
I elect to take my chances and use the first I-71 rest stop, north of Kings Island. It doesn't help much. I spend three days or so in gastrointestinal hell due to my "holding it in."
As it turns out, and unmentioned by the perky barista, 75% of the new caramel macchiato consists of milk.
Guess who's lactose intolerant?

Posted by Timothy at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This is the quotation you were seeking. It is via  who is one punk kid.

"I took a Civics class. I thought it was going to be about modifyingJapanese compact cars, but they kept talkin' about America an' SHIT!"

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Posted by Timothy at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I apologize for updating this so infrequently. It's been a busy couple weeks, what with yesterday's NCA deadline, projects, papers, performances, and social obligations.

Speaking of NCA, for the zero of you interested, here's links to html-ized versions of two papers i submitted yesterday. They're long gone, so I can't really make any changes, though I'll think about submitting them to some journals eventually.

Sex & Skeletons: A Rhetorical Criticism of Agitation Methods as Used by the American Life League

Metaphors and Miracles: Image Restoration and New York City After 9/11

I think Microsoft Word does an okay job of making them html, though the formatting gets a bit screwed up.

Last night I totally abandoned my friends to talk to some women I hadn't met before. That was kind of shitty of me. So, I feel bad about that. The women were very nice though and I now have two new friends. After they left (the lot of them; I still had half a drink left), I went next door to say goodbye to my friend Kim. While talking to her, this stunning brunette with curly hair, big eyes, and, well, suffice to say she was gorgeous, comes striding up to me and asking if I'd dance with her. I glanced over at her companion, a towering hulk of a fellow who resembled in every way Mr. Incredible. I'm not joking, this guy's neck was as thick as my ever-shrinking spare tire. "My brother," she explained. "He's a bodybuilder." No fucking shit. I had him pegged for a Java programmer.

I never actually ended up dancing with her, because the only danceable song the rest of the night was "New York State of Mind" and I was singing.

I haven't sung at LA Hangout karaoke in a few weeks bc the wait is so long, but, last night was, well, different I guess. And New York State of Mind really challenges the vocal folds of a bass-baritone like me, but the Captain & Diets I'd been drinking loosened things up and I really belted out something I didn't know I had.

I guess it was poetic, in a way, too; I've been thinking about New York a lot lately. I'm sad that I can't be there to see The Gates at Central Park or smell the smells and be all... excited all the time. And the breeze and the smoke from manhole covers and taxicabs. And being around people like Corporate Mofo all the time. Not that I don't adore my friends here, but ... I just crave sensory overload sometimes.

The woman left with my number. She left with the guy who brought her, her brother. She left reluctantly.

Posted by Timothy at 11:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

syrinx2001 rocks my world and is one cool chick. That is all.
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Posted by Timothy at 12:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I fidget in the passenger seat as the white SUV exits the freeway and pulls onto the access road that leads to my house. I glance at the large, bearded man behind the wheel, then to the stereo, which plays country music neither he nor I are fond of. Changing the station might lead to the two of us talking, though, so it's left alone. I'm getting a ride home because four straight days of snow combined with the city's reluctance to plow my street has rendered my Jetta immobile.

He pilots the mammoth vehicle to the top of the hill, where my small bungalow lies quietly belching out steam from an ancient furnace. I breathe a sigh of relief at seeing my street finally cleared - and realize it's the first positive thought I've had all day. See, the man driving the SUV is my boss. And I've just been fired.

Well, not fired, exactly. Non-renewed. I'm told there's a difference. And it hadn't just happened today; it happened Monday, but I hadn't been able to make it in to teach all week on account of the snow, so I just found out. I lost my job because of a frivolous and false allegation of sexual harassment which, I'm sure, will be cleared up long after the damage is done.

Nevertheless, the cleared street makes it possible for me to embark on what is the perfect antidote to what is probably the worst day of my life. This weekend is the annual 8 Palmer ski trip, named after the old house we all lived in or around at one point or another in college. Two dozen or so twenty-somethings on a mountaintop, drinking beer and simmering in a Jacuzzi. The excitement lifts the corners of my lips as I rush the Jetta through the curvy hills that mark the drive to Athens, our point of departure.

I arrive just as the Cincinnati contingent of our party does and, after quick hugs and greetings, we systematically load up equipment and duffel bags into the five cars that will make up the caravan to West Virginia's Timberline ski resort. My car gets a special nod as the keeper of the keg. I take the responsibility seriously.

The four-hour drive tires me, and I keep up a conversation with my passengers to stay awake.

"We have the tap for the keg, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," Daggy, a lanky brunet photojournalist replies.

He verifies this with Greg, our de facto trip chairperson, via two-way radio.

"Yeah, we have the tap. Don't worry about it."

I continue to worry about the tap. I know my friends all too well.

I pull into the house (I am instructed to refer to it as "the lodge") driveway and gasp at the amount of snow that surrounds the property. It's easily six feet high in parts. The cleared paths resemble a maze. The garage, which would be useful considering our five cars and the two belonging to friends of ours arriving from Cleveland and D.C., is rendered useless by a tower of packed snow.

"Well, this is a problem," Greg nonchalantly remarks.

Greg does everything nonchalantly.

"Why?" I ask.

"Well. technically we're only supposed to have twelve people here."

I count off friends on my fingers.

"Me, Greg, Jenna, Jack, Justin, Daggy, Christine, Amy, Anne-Marie, Reba, Dara, Bill, Alex, Kara, Andy, Jen, Jess, and Mandy. Eighteen."

"Plus Kara's friends coming tomorrow, equals twenty."

"Well, we'll have to be inconspicuous."

"Burkeman, when have we ever been inconspicuous?"

"Definitely not the night we all got arrested."

He laughs at my bringing up an incident from freshman year. It seems both very distant, yet, with the camaraderie of my reunited friends, familiar.

Bill and I carry the keg to the backyard and dig a hole for it in the snow. Jack and Justin, who'd arrived hours before, gawk lazily from the steaming Jacuzzi.

"Okay, where's the tap," I ask.

"Uhh, let me go find it."

Bill returns inside and I catch up with Jack and Justin, two good friends whom I see irregularly. The conversation continues for some time, as the tap search is, apparently, not going well. I grow impatient; the primary motivation for my driving here in the middle of the night was the promise of cold beer. After the day I've had, I need one. Or ten.

"FUCK! WE FORGOT THE TAP!"

My smug happiness at knowing my suspicions were legitimate are unable to balance out my anger and frustration at being deprived of beer. I growl, "Son of a bitch," don trunks, and jump into the Jacuzzi. The warmth takes my mind away from the knowledge that the nearest town is a half hour away, and it's 3 a.m. - meaning the cold beer in the shiny metal keg next to me will be inaccessible until tomorrow. The only booze we have is liquor left over from our New Year's party and some beers Jack and Justin brought. I drink the Bud Light like water and toss the cans toward the lodge.

"Drink, Burkeman?" Jess calls from the kitchen.

"Rum and Coke, if you will, darlin'."

She fixes the drink and delivers it to the hot tub with a flair. I tip her a snowball, which she proceeds to mash into my face. I lean back and close my eyes.

I'm awoken by a commotion from inside.

"HOORAY FOR ALEX, HOORAY AT LAST! HOORAY FOR ALEX, HE'S A HORSE'S ASS!"

It seems Alex located the tap. The trip improves immediately.

The next three days are an alcohol-induced blur. Kara's friends arrive and are entertaining, Amy fixes chili, we play drinking games, and we stumble to bed at 5 a.m. every night. I succeed in being the last man awake each night, an accomplishment I regret each successive morning. Sunday arrives, and we pack up in preparation to head home.

10:30, the planned departure time, comes and goes. We finally get on the road around noon, the lodge's "checkout time,". or at least we try to. My Jetta won't start. I visualize what's happening under my hood: the electricity arcing from the plug wires to the engine block, instead of the spark plugs where it belongs. I lament not replacing the wires before this trip; they'd been a problem in bad weather before, and at noon, on Sunday, at the top of this mountain, "bad weather" is a massive understatement. Snow drifts like white blankets across the front of my car as I crank the engine, sweat of frustration dripping down my temples.

Finally, miraculously, the small engine sparks one cylinder, and I limp off behind the other four cars in our caravan. Christine and Daggy quietly observe from the back seat, owing to my front door locks being frozen (yet another enjoyable aspect of my beloved car).

The drive goes slowly, as the near-whiteout conditions make it impossible to see even the car in front of us, let alone the rest of the caravan. My left hand's fingers are white as they grip the steering wheel, right hand cupping the stick shift, feet working in a desperate waltz to keep the engine from stalling, and eyes squinting ahead to see Reba's 1999 Infiniti, her pride and joy.

"Burkeman, you're doing it all wrong, you can't hold down the gas like that," Daggy criticizes.

"If I don't, I'll stall the engine."

"No you won't."

I prove it to him, slowing our progress down the access road. Luckily, the car starts back up immediately. The five cars pull out onto the road that will take us to the bottom of the mountain, and, eventually, home to Ohio.

"I want nothing to do with this," I mutter to my passengers. It's a total whiteout. I am torn between keeping a safe distance from Reba and keeping a distance close enough to actually be able to see - something. I elect the former, and we make it about a mile down the road, crawling at 25 miles per hour.

"Maybe we can do this," I think to myself, as Reba's bright red brakelights come screaming out of the whiteness, searing into my retinas, demanding a reaction. My right foot complies, pushing into the narrow brake pedal. My wheels lock, and I skid toward the black Infiniti's license plate. The wrath of its owner, one Rebecca Miller, burns in my ears. I spin the wheel to the left, sliding past her rear bumper - and into the oncoming traffic of a massive dump truck.

I close my eyes.

The five cars pull off in the next driveway. I jump out of my car, and run to Reba's, which is now behind me in the caravan. She leaps from the driver's seat and we embrace, amazed and confused at how our cars are intact. Greg concludes we should return to the lodge until zero visibility conditions clear up. There are a few objections, but they're quickly silenced by Jen's flat refusal to drive any further.

We crawl back to the lodge. Those with jobs mill around, contemplating how to handle the possibility of missing work Monday. Reba and I sit on the couch, shaking, still processing what happened to us. Greg informs us it'll be $100 to spend another night in the lodge. Compared to what's happening outside, we feel it's the deal of the century. We watch movies and drink hot cocoa.

It's warm.

Posted by Timothy at 11:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling
It's you, it's you must go and I must bide

The white-bearded man finishes his song, waves his hand, and walks back to his seat. Before sitting, he smoothes out his ancient yet pristine black suit, removes his green plaid cap, and leans forward at the waist to ease his transition from a standing position to the chair. His name is Michael McPhee, and he was my grandfather's best friend.

I am seven years old, and huddled under a coffee table due to the number of people crammed into my grandmother's living room. They have come to celebrate the long life of my grandfather, from his birth in Kilkenny in 1915 to his death, three days ago.

Modern difficulties prevent the traditional, proper Irish wake from taking place. My relatives live too far away for the full three-day ritual, and while protocol would dictate my grandfather's body be upstairs, in his bedroom, it was instead at a mortuary being prepared for tomorrow's funeral Mass.

I know, because I saw it there, in a casket surrounded by flowers. Only hours before I'd kneeled with my mother, who was distraught despite being related to this man only by marriage, at the dark oaken casket. Wailing, she'd reached her hand slowly inside to grab my grandfather's motionless arm. I was embarrassed for my mother, making such a spectacle as she was, and instead looked at my grandfather's eyes, set in the middle of his fat, bald head, upon which lay two silver dollars. They reminded me of how he always gave me a dollar every time we left to go home from their house in Cleveland.

Later, much later, I will learn that my mother's wailing is an Irish tradition and she wasn't that upset.

"Friends" are not something of which my grandfather had many. He was a quiet, reserved man, dedicated to supporting his family and the Church. It makes the sheer number of people whom have come to this gathering astounding. Some of them speak with haughty brogues, and others in quiet, reserved tones. Each has a story of indiscretion or horseplay revealing my grandfather to be a far less "proper" man than I had thought. They refer to him as "Tommy." Most of them look as old as he did, or older, but then a man about my father's age stands up. His dark, oiled hair reflects the candles that burn above the brick mantle, with a sheen that hurts my eyes. He speaks.

"Some of you know me, most of you don't. Tom hired me as a young kid twenty years ago at the furniture factory. I was just a punk, didn't have one damn good thing about me, but he hired me anyway. I don't know what he saw, hell, I still don't. But I'd decided then that his was the last door I was gonna walk through, and if I didn't get hired, well, that was gonna be it for me. And hell if I ain't raised three kids on my salary from Callahan's. I owe it to Tom."

With this statement he raises his glass of Jameson's toward the ceiling. The adults in the room follow suit, with small tumblers of whisky, pint glasses of Guinness, or, in my mother's case, a conservative glass of red wine. Drinks mingle with the blue smoke collecting at the top of the room, the product of my grandmother's Virginia Slims and the older men's long cigars.

".a man who helped a young punk Italian kid make it, Salute, amico, salute."

The crowd, probably tired of toasting with the traditional Gaelic Slainte, murmurs the cheer in response.

My father's two older brothers, my uncles Kevin and Jim, slip upstairs, whispering and giggling to themselves. I embrace the rare occasions when I am in their company, as they always entertain me in their role as family comedians. Even at seven years old, I can tell they're up to something, and I quietly anticipate the forthcoming experience from beneath the coffee table.

Minutes later, they shuffle back down the stairs, dressed in my grandfather's clothes. The image itself causes a laugh to erupt from the audience; my uncles are slim and athletic, while my grandfather was a large man who openly disdained exercise (a policy that more than likely led to why we're here today).

With a gruff, guttural voice my uncle Jim begins his impersonation of my grandfather. He refers to episodes of his own childhood, and the many times he was disciplined at my grandfather's hand for repeated misbehavior, like the time he shot that gun down in the basement and when he "ripped off that Negro boy." Most of the stories I've never heard before, and they're told in Jim's colorful language that makes me blush and avoid my mother's eyes. I now realize how much of a miscreant my uncle Jim must have been.

The crowd laughs heartily at the performance and the similar one by my uncle Kevin. My father and his sisters interrupt, arguing their case as Kevin, wearing my grandfather's grey felt cap, describes the time the girls tied my father to the washing machine.

I am hungry, so I escape quietly from the protection of the coffee table and rush to the kitchen, where a heap of my grandmother's famous cookies awaits. Everyone had tried to tell her not to bother, but her Macedonian heritage demanded that since she was having guests to the house, she had to make baked goods for them. It was a clash of traditions; the Irish would order a widow not lift a finger at her husband's wake. But, then, we're not in Ireland, or Macedonia; we're in Cleveland, Ohio, and the adults are drunk, and singing, and cursing the name of a man fortunate to be in Heaven while they toil away here on Earth.

I eat an apricot dainty. I feel warm.

Posted by Timothy at 11:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The entire second half, and concluding portion, of my report.

Enjoy!

15th commercial break - 11:04 left, 3rd quarter
57. Olympus
	Basically the same as the previous Olympus spot, but with less to make fun of.
58. Tabasco
	Ahh, the Trammps. Disco Inferno was one of my favourite songs as a kid, and here it's matched up with a lovely gal in a Tabasco bikini. Now, you'd think she'd be able to afford something that doesn't look like it came free in every 12th bottle, but whatever. She puts two dashes of the pepper sauces in...whatever that is, and takes a bite. Immediately, she gets burned UNDERNEATH the bikini. Clever trick, but everyone knows you need to dump like half a bottle into whatever you're eating to have it make a difference.
59. Robots
	Wow, another horrible movie featuring Robin Williams. When will he ever learn?
60. NFL
	A single moment. A moment of brilliance. A moment that has been building forever. Cheadle is, of course, referring to the moment when the NFL hired him as spokesman.
61. Fox 24 promo
16th commercial break - 10:59 left, 3rd quarter
62. Anheuser-Busch "Thank the troops"
	This spot was one of the more disturbing of the evening for me. Woman in airport. People talking. Moving. No talking. Bored people, communicating with each other. That never happens in an airport. Soon we see the crowd of people applauding a shipment of soldiers whom have apparently arrived from...somewhere. Workers neglect their duties to provide the men and women their just due. But something strange is afoot. What? A closer look reveals that none of these individuals have names on their jackets. In fact, no armed forces insignias appear anywhere on their clothing or equipment. Are these real U.S. Military? OR ARE THEY MERCENARIES? Even worse, they could be freaking terrorists. It would be a damn good idea, walk through an airport to standing ovations... Look at that one on the left. She has that look in her eye. I can see it! When you drink Bud Light, you aid the terrorists. Or something like that.
63. Napster - Sign
	This spot opens with an aerial view of Alltel Stadium, citing the Super Bowl attendance as 73,122. Actual attendance was 78,125 so next year, they can work on getting that little fact straight. Meanwhile, an extremely frightening mascot is hanging around the stadium. I hope y'all had your kids in bed by now because the Napster kitty, while cute in its Napster 1.0 rendition, is positively scary now that it's gone corporate. And I feel bad for the poor saps sitting behind him. I'm sure that sign provides quite the obstructed view. These guys painted "NAPSTER" on their chests only because they didn't have enough friends for "BITTORRENT"
64. NFL - Disclaimer
17th commercial break - 8:49 left, 3rd quarter
65. Staples - Easy
	I don't even think this was a Super Bowl ad, because I've seen it before.
66. Ameriquest - Cat
	Young gentleman hurriedly attempts to prepare dinner for a date he has coming over. I noticed he's risking severe food poisoning with his lack of proper sanitation principles. Anyway, he kills his cat and tries to serve it to his date, but she catches him in the act. The moral of the story: most meats can be prepared and chilled overnight before cooking.
67. Careerbuilder.com
	Another lame careerbuilder.com chimpanzee spot. This one takes the sophisticated route by featuring a whoopie cushion.
18th commercial break - 7:52 left, 3rd quarter
68. War of the Worlds
	Tom Cruise is a Yankees fan. I pretty much stopped paying attention at this point. However, my attention was drawn to this significant fact:
	From my experience, something like 90% of people who suffer disasters while in the car are driving Dodge Caravans. So, take it from me, and stick to the Mercury Villager or something else that doesn't suck.
69. Cialis
	Are you kidding me? Spot #69 is for Cialis? I *know* they plan this stuff out this way. Anyway, the entire point of a Cialis ad is waiting for the "four hour erection" blast. I think even the folks in charge know this, because the Cialis slogan is "Are you ready?" Also, I don't need to see old people making out. Thanks.
19th commercial break - 3:35 left, 3rd quarter
70. Honda Ridgeline
	I'm pretty sure wearing a Honda belt buckle in Texas is license to get your ass kicked.
71. Verizon V-Cast
	In a lot of ways, this spot is a fantasy come true for me. Kid Rock and Christina Aguilera are shrunken down to a non-media-worthy size. I didn't exactly understand what this ad was promoting, because I was lost in my thoughts of a Kid Rock and Chistina Aguilera-less world. Think about that for a while. It's like happy little trees. Shaq gets shrunk too, ... you know, this ad sucked. It just did. It was stupid and annoying. I don't need to make up cheesy jokes to get that point across.
72. The Shield promo
	Glenn Close is now on the cast of a cable (and not even basic cable, like, extended basic cable) dramatic series? Huh?
20th commercial break - end of 3rd quarter
73-75. Lame local spots
21st commercial break - 13:44 left, 4th quarter
76. Toyota Prius
	At first, I thought these cars all had those spinner wheels that are all so popular and retarded. Then I realized that everyone and everything in these shots were just spinning their wheels. As were the people who brainstormed this debacle. (no, no, no). I did find it interesting that a dog and his walker are doing the Moonwalk. It reminded me of Super Bowl XXVII when Michael Jackson was the halftime entertainment. Remember that? When Michael Jackson entertained people with his music and not his antics? Okay, me either.
77. House promo
78. Super Bowl MVP voting promo
22nd commercial break - 12:29 left, 4th quarter
79. Budweiser Select
	There's a new beer on the block. Unfortunately, it has its daddy's name. Budweiser Select promises to be the worst-tasting beer since Coors Extra Gold. With minimal calories and extra-low carbs, it's a dream come true for those who've had their taste buds surgically removed. What's up with the "no aftertaste" thing, anyway? Compared to what? Rubbing alcohol?
80. Mastercard - Mascots
	I HATE"For everything else there's Mastercard" spots. I think the first one was okay. The rest are just flogging a horse that was dead, reincarnated as Jack Paar, and then died again. Tonight we're treated to a dinner featuring food mascots chosen, it appears, randomly from a hat. As far as I can tell, there's nothing connecting any of them. And what's up with them keeping the Jolly Green Giant outside? Bitches always keeping the Green man down. Uh... is that tuna casserole, Charlie? Doing the cannibalsm thing again, I see! Finally, we're given insight into the class system at Mastercard, as the help clearly does not get to eat until he's finished his cleaning duties.
81. American Idol promo
23rd commercial break - 9:42 left, 4th quarter
82. Emerald Nuts
	Cute little girl asks her daddy for his nuts. Daddy says no. Santa Claus shows up and threatens daddy. Easter Bunny complains. Daddy gives up his nuts to his little girl. Cute ad. I don't eat nuts.
83. Bud Light
	Once again, it's Cedric the Marginally Humorous. Tonight, he's the DD. Unfortunately, uberdense white dude across the bar can't understand him through all the noise.
	Thus, he resorts to gesturing to try and indicate that he's the DD. It's not working.
	Finally, he pulls out his keys to show he's the DD -- and everyone else pulls out their keys. Wait a minute. If everyone else has their car keys, exactly whom is he DD'ing for? Then again, the tag is "everyone's doing it," which I guess means it was a slow night for the bartenders.
84. Careerbuilder.com
	Yet another lame chimp spot.
24th commercial break - 8:40 left, 4th quarter
85-87 NFL/Fox promos
25th commercial break - 2:00 left, 4th quarter
88. Sahara
	If you can explain at all what this movie is about, please email me, because this tv trailer was more convoluted than... well, it didn't make any sense. You know it, I know it, and the American people know it.
89. Diet Pepsi - P.Diddy rerun
90. Simpsons promo
There you go. All 90 spots that ran during the Super Bowl. Hope you had fun, frankly, for me it was a pain in the ass.

Posted by Timothy at 02:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Below the cut :-) Part three coming soon.

6th commercial break - 9:55 left, 2nd quarter
25. Budweiser
	A giraffe. An emu. Some sheep. An elephant, a llama, and about thirty other animals. Put them together, and you get one crappy spot. This ad had some intertextuality -- you wouldn't get it if you didn't remember last year's spot where the donkey earns his turn with the Clydesdales. Here, the other animals come for their turn. Of course, most of them could just swallow the donkey in one bite, but nobody mentions THAT.
26. Lay's Potato Chips
	The Sandlot is one of my favourite kids' movies. This spot doesn't even attempt to be creative in ripping it off. So the kid hits the ball over the fence of the disagreeable neighbour. A debate ensues about how to retrieve it. The kids decide to throw a bag of Lay's potato chips ("Everyone loves Lay's." the little scamp explains, clearly showing he can lie like the best of them) over the fence, an attempt I liken to using a flagpole to go bass fishing. It's a good thing I wasn't there, or else I'd have told these kids they were goddamn idiots. Also, I am curious to know how the kid got such a good grip on that bag with the oil-soaked fingers that result from eating Lay's potato chips. Anyway, the kids get back their ball, their dog, a '72 Chevy Nova, and M.C. Hammer. Clearly, The Hammer's bankruptcy filing has prevented him from purchasing any clothing since 1990. He informs the kids that "they cannot touch this." They touch it like Michael Jackson, and another incomprehensible spot ends. And without any James Earl Jones! You're killin' me, Smalls.
27. Subway
	"Looks like we got a couple of lovebirds." I don't remember if that was the first line of Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me but it would have been an excellent one. Pestering coppers pull up on a car at Makeout Point with steamed over windows, and the muffled sounds of... Firehouse? (Friends & family, please forget that I knew that.) So the pigs start they' hasslin' and scrufflin' and it turns out they're just bothering two stoners who are gobbling up some new Subway grilled sandwiches. Lucky for them, because after eating Subway, they're going to require immediate medical attention anyway, so it's best to keep law enforcement nearby. Also, why are two stoners listening to Firehouse? Something tells me these guys are curious about more than just sandwiches.
7th commercial break - 9:49 left, 2nd quarter
28. Pepsi
	Seriously, I hated this spot so badly that it hurts my body to write about it. But I must. This poor kid is on a date but his Pepsi bottle keeps revealing the fact he dumped some Captain Morgan in there before the date. I think the girl's dad can tell, but he remembers being young once. Von Bondies are one of my favourite new bands. Here, their good name is thoroughly dirtied by ... you know, I don't even know what the hell this was. The kid spills a bottle of Pepsi and the CD starts skipping. I thought there might be an Ashlee Simpson reference somewhere, but then I remembered that something like that would be in a GOOD spot, not this one. Moral of the story: a song might be the ONLY good thing you find inside a bottle of Pepsi.
29. Be Cool
	Ohh, boy. So much to cover here. The bell will ring every time a racial stereotype appears. So you have Vince Vaughn playing a guy who, we're told, "thinks he's black." We see him dance in a style that reminds us all that he definitely is not. (ding!) Next, we meet the "thug gangstas" who are "rollin' on dubs" and "packin' heat" as they walk the streets in athletic jerseys (ding! ding!) Cedric the Bemuser cracks a line that's about as funny as asking a quadruplegic to play pattycake. ...which brings us to John Travolta, who portrays a member of a secret organization that occasionally has people killed to keep them quiet. I'm not talking about Scientologists, I'm talking about the mafia. (ding!) So as a real GANGSTER he takes on the GANGSTAZ with (alluded-to but questionably) hilarious results. The tv trailer ends with a parody of Travolta and Uma Thurman's dance scene in Pulp Fiction, but as parody is usually funny, I don't really know what to call it. I love Vince Vaughn movies, but I'm about as excited to see this one as I am to start annual prostate exams.
30. Degree Antiperspirant
	This spot opens with the action figure "Mama's Boy" which is supposed to make you laugh, giggle, or snicker. Instead, it makes you get up to take a piss and get a beer. Yup, there's Mama's Boy at the supermarket, magnet action, blah blah blah. I am astounded that Jerome Bettis had anything to do with this campaign, but, then, you know what they say about Notre Dame guys. For those who want to take chances, try new Degree For Men. It won't let you down. Unlike this spot.
8th commercial break - 7:13 left, 2nd quarter
31. Pepsi
	Another lame "pop the top" spot. This one features Gwen Stefani's new Fiddler on the Roof ripoff, "If I Was A Rich Girl."
	If I opened a Pepsi bottle and heard Gwen Stefani emanating from it, I would be forced to assume 1986 Tylenol-style contamination. Oh, and if I was a rich man, I'd make sure we never heard from Gwen Stefani again.
32. Cadillac
	Someone needs to inform Cadillac's ad agency that in car spots, automobiles generally look more attractive when they're moving. 25 seconds later, they finally do, though I recommend they use a Steadicam next time they do cockpit filming. I guess they're alluding to Back to the Future here with the cars disappearing and the clattering of a license plate? That's supposed to be proof a car goes fast? Fuck that, my Jetta hits 88 on a daily basis out on I-275.