Journeys of Jack Tripper

Posted by Timothy at 01:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Recorded. Standard disclaimer about the server being fussy applies.

http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/music/nextbestthing-demo.mp3 (3:44 5meg mp3)

also, here's something i recorded a few days ago as a joke.

http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/music/animefan.mp3 (1:50 1.3meg mp3)

Posted by Timothy at 06:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Current Mood: accomplished

Posted by Timothy at 02:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Top five people I've gotten into arguments with lately5) John. Sat to my left at the poker table Saturday night. Minor league baseball umpire. Went to Miami U., but is cheering for Ohio State when they play each other in football this year. Yet another reason not to trust people from Dayton.4) Jacqui. Met her at the frat party next door Saturday night. From Queens, but is a Yankees fan. Truly inexcusable in my opinion. I just kept screaming, "BUT YOU'RE FROM QUEENS!"3) Sandy. Met her at the Hangout last night. From Long Island, but a rabid Red Sox fan. Perhaps even more baffling than #4. At least the Rays beat the Sox last night, so I could rub that in her face. Also, she was hot, and I tend to get in arguments with hot women quite often. It never gets me anywhere, and last night was no exception.2) Jenna. Frat party. I was trying to convince her that my saying she looked like Barbara Bush was a compliment. 1) Girl-whose-name-I-can't-remember from the housewarming party. I played a short set that included "Bush Voter" and she wasn't fond of it. Chill out, it's just a song.
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Posted by Timothy at 01:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'll write this up more properly later.Went to dinner with tinafizz and Charles, then met Megs, Ralph, and Dave at the Hard Rock. Had AK cracked four times. Four times! Only won three pots, all three of them split (including a three-way where I had the nut flush on the flop, only to suffer a runner-runner straight flush for the board.) Gahh. I lost the $57 I won in Las Vegas and decided I hate the Hard Rock.Charles dropped me off at my house and I noticed the next door neighbours were having a party. I then noticed they were out of beer. To the rescue I came. I gave a girl who looked like Barbara Bush (the young, hot one) my number and smoked from this huge hookah they have on the back porch. Why have I not been hanging out with these guys?I was over there until six and now I have to shower and leave for a housewarming party which is supposed to start at one. I guess I'll be fashionably late.
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Posted by Timothy at 12:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

1. When John F. Kennedy was shot (11/22/1963)1a. when man first walked on the moon: Apollo 11 (7/20/69)nonexistent2. When Mt. St. Helen's blew (5/18/1980)18 months old3. When the space shuttle Challenger exploded (1/28/1986)Read my first vignette here: http://www.entertainmentweakly.com/narrative1.html4. When the 7.1 earthquake hit San Francisco (10/7/1989)Watching the World Series pregame in my parents' basement in Napoleon OH5. When the Berlin Wall fell (11/7/1989)Parents' basement, NBC, Tom Brokaw6. When the Gulf War began (1/16/1991)Parents' bedroom, CNN, Bernie Shaw7. When the first World Trade Center bombing happened (2/26/1993)Talking to Christine Bostleman at my locker, freshman year8. When OJ sped off in the White Bronco.(6/17/1994)Hotel room in Marietta, OH, with parents on way home from Myrtle Beach9. When the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed (4/19/1995)Junior year of HS, I blocked out all memories of that year10. When Princess Diana was killed (8/31/1997)Cleveland, OH, dorm room of my friend Mia, at CWRU, we'd just seen Barenaked Ladies play a free show down in the Flats.11. When Bush was first announced President (11/7/2000)Apartment, Ypsilanti, MI, drunk12. When terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center (9/11/2001)Technically? Teaching. Muskingum College, New Concord, OH. At 9:30 I went back to my office and turned on my TV like I always did. Matt Lauer.
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Posted by Timothy at 01:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

People almost universally will bitch about airports. I actually like them. They're a great microcosm of the world society in a controlled environment. Thus, if you sit and pay attention to things going on around you, you can learn a lot.

Memphis airport. I know this place better than any other airport on Earth, with the possible exception of Detroit, which is so huge and sterile that nothing interesting ever happens there. Memphis, on the other hand, has numerous BBQ establishments (including Corky's, where I've eaten probably ten times out of tradition more than actual preference) and the glorious establishment that is the Budweiser Brewhouse.

Yeah, every airport has a Budweiser Brewhouse, including Newark where roughly 50% of the floorspace is taken up with a useless, non-functioning ancient pickup truck display. (Aside: the steakhouse in the International Departures wing of Newark is the best place in the world to meet exotic, rich, and talkative foreigners. Also, my favourite bartender on earth, a Polish girl named Jonne, works there.) Yet the Memphis airport's Budweiser Brewhouse is the one place in the entire airport where you're permitted to smoke.

And that fact alone makes it way more popular than it deserves considering its Anheuser allegiance and bland food.

Sitting at the bar of the Memphis Brewhouse, you will find yourself assaulted from the rear by desperate smokers -- freshly on layover from some West Coast origination and headed to Miami or Washington, and lacking the Bic lighter confiscated by TSA -- who beg for matches.

In busy times, the bartenders serve more matchbooks than beers, and pretty much assume that someone approaching the bar needs a light.

I have two hours before my flight back to Tampa, and I'm absorbing the time I spent with Lori, the blonde I sat next to on the flight from Cincinnati/NKY. (I'll write about that later). I sip a Bud Select and look around the room.

In the corner, she sucks a Heineken and nurses a brown, presumably clove, cigarette. Sunglasses hold messy, hipster curls in place as the sides fall down to shoulders bracing a white tanktop. Hair pins knot the back and form an "X" that are semiotic as we make eye contact and she frowns, returning to her newspaper as I do mine. She finishes the Heineken, places it on its side on the table, and stands, picking up a massive (and out-of-carryon-spec, I am guessing) backpack. She wheels on her urban sneakers, flashes me another frown, and leaves.

My beer cheese soup arrives, and I immediately miss Sundays at the Pub in Athens -- that was Beer Cheese soup. This is... soggy bread. A few more Bud Selects disappear.

A blonde with long, straight hair and a black business suit sits down two seats to my left. She asks me for a light, which of couse I don't have, and Lakeisha the bartender helps out instead. (Aside: they confiscate lighters at security before you can enter the concourses of the airports. Do airport employees not go through the same security? Couldn't the all-evil terrorists just get jobs working at Starbucks or Jose Cuervo's Tequileria and not have to give up their Lighters of Mass Destruction?)

She wants no part of talking to me, especially after discovering the BUDWEISER Brewhouse doesn't serve Miller Lite, which I consider to be a public service more than a marketing decision. For some reason, blondes are way better at dirty looks than brunettes. With brunettes, you always feel like she's about to break into a laugh because, you know, she's just fucking with you. With blondes, you know they're business. Her face is classically beautiful, but wrenched into a scrunched-up mess of bitchiness.

A thin, jittery kid in too-big desert BDUs pops up between us.

"m...m...ma'am do you have some m...matches?"

"Sure, darlin'," Lakeisha replies, and tosses him a book. I glance at his shoulder: the insignia identifies him as a Staff Sergeant. The name tag reads "Stack." He crosses the room to sit along a railing, toting a massive (and out-of-carryon-spec, I am guessing) duffel.

I wish I could say I am about to do what I'm about to do entirely out of national pride. Certainly, that had a lot to do with it. I hate the war in Iraq, but I know the vast majority of our servicemen and women are hardworking and never signed up for this shit. I have a special affinity for Air Force personnel, coming from a family of Ohio Air National Guard members/having dated a USAF Captain/having a lot of USAF and ANG friends.

But I am doing this, in part, to impress the blonde.

"Lakeisha? I'd like to buy that young man a beer."
"Sure thing."

She walks over to Sgt. Stack (God was not helpful in providing him a body frame suitable for his truly awesome name), takes his order (Budweiser draft), and quickly draws the beer and delivers it. He turns to me and shouts, "Thank you." I nod, and respond, "No, thank you" in a voice I don't recognize.

The blonde is unimpressed.

Posted by Timothy at 02:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

ahhh hahahaha our Joseph is fully grey he's supposed to be playing a 17 year old, and ten of us are supposed to be "older" than him but there are like 14 year old kids playing his older brothersthis show is just such a joke. LA Hangout #10, #4, #7 in a row last night. Either Charles and I are good, or Monday nights are dead for NTN.--the skinny, ugly white kid in an expensive shirt bobs his head and lip syncs to the truly awful and misogynistic rap song. i lean to Charles and whisper in his left ear, "If I knew this song, I'd have to kick my own ass." He turns to respond and sees Ugly Lipsync Kid. He's rendered unable to respond due to hilarity.Ugly Lipsync Kid goes over to the other side of the bar, gathers his lithe, blonde girlfriend into his arms and takes her into the corner of the room for whoknowswhat. It's then that I realize every gorgeous woman in the bar is accompanied by an ugly guy in an expensive shirt. I'm wearing a Gap 3/4 sleeve that I got from the factory outlet store for $5.A drunk guy who's been going around trying to get high-fives from people makes me promise to "hit that shit" and points at L.B. I don't know this guy, nor does he know me (and afaik doesn't know her either). He won't leave until I promise.I don't break promises.He's escorted out anyway.
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Posted by Timothy at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This song is, in retrospect, some kind of failed attempt to sound like the Rolling Stones. oh well. recorded in the downstairs bathroom for reasons i have yet to understandCock Blockers - 3:30 2.4m mp3it was a clever idea when i came up with it in the car the other day, i swear. and like most of my songs, true stories
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Posted by Timothy at 04:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The last time I slam danced ("moshed" depending on your part of the country and/or musical influences) was January, 1993. I was a freshman in high school, and we used to have after-basketball game dances in the high school Commons. Being someone who always enjoyed seeing and being seen, I never missed an after-the-game dance -- ever -- regardless of whether my friends went or not.

I was a nerdy, five-foot-ten 125 pound fourteen year old. My high school wasn't big, but suffice to say that I wasn't exactly a BMOC. I tended to make a name for myself, then, by doing bizarre, stupid shit that would be memorable. In this case, I would go to those after-the-game dances and get into mosh pits with senior football players. I would get the shit beat out of me, but I earned their respect. I think. I also seem to recall doing a Michael Jackson impersonation, complete with a shiny, single glove.

Anyway, after a while moshing was banned at school dances and 15 months later Kurt Cobain killed himself and nobody really wanted to listen to Smells Like Teen Spirit anymore anyway. So that was the last time I slam danced.

Until Friday night.

So thatsmyjew rings me at like 5:00pm needing a ride to the Hot Hot Heat concert. I really don't want to go, considering how I've only listened to their records a few times, but I relent and quickly shower and head out the door, wondering if the long-sleeved navy shirt and bluejeans with shitkickers are the right ensemble for a show at the State Theatre. I head to Carrollwood, pick Jackie up, and we make our way through sparse traffic to downtown St. Pete. The doors are scheduled to open at 7, but it's 7:15 and the line isn't moving. Then we're told we're in the wrong line to begin with, so we trudge down the street and park ourselves in front of one of St. Petersburg's many vintage stores. This one has two ancient Singer sewing machines priced at like $5,000 each. It's no wonder they have a thick coat of dust indicating their having been on sale for quite some time.

We wait.

This teenaged kid in a pink t-shirt with the word "VIRUS" written on front rides past on a 1970s-style women's bike, back and forth, ten times. He's doing this bizarre dance with his fists while he rides by. At some point he just stops riding the bike and leaves it in the middle of the street. We're thankful for the entertainment, as it's becoming more and more clear that we aren't getting into this place. The doormen keep saying, "Sold out." Meanwhile, my bladder is about to explode. I run across the street to this dive bar where I buy a Coors Light that lasted about as long as it took me to relieve myself. "Light My Fire" blasts from the jukebox as four men prepare to play darts; one of them is far too excited and keeps yelling, "DOUBLE IN, DOUBLE OUT!"

I go back across the street, stand in line another 20 minutes, and finally get into the club.

We enter just in time to see the last song of the opening-opening act, World Leader Pretend whom as far as I can tell sound nothing like R.E.M. from whom they got their name. They do have some showmanship, though. I get a beer and start observing.

Faithful readers of the Journeys of Jack Tripper (that's the name of this LJ, kids) know I often lament the male/female ratio at the various venues I tend to populate. Well, I can shut the fuck up now. It's easily 75% women at the State Theatre. Half are scenesters; half are wearing black plastic emo glasses. I am a big fan of the black plastic emo glasses.

The place is packed tight and hot as hell. The State Theatre's a small place; it's laid out almost exactly like First Run w/a balcony (never minding that only thechuck_2112 will know what that means) ... that is to say, short stage, boxed-in dancing area in front of it, etc. thatsmyjew and I get beers and head up to the balcony to watch the second act, Eisley. I've never heard of this band, either, but they're so good we go back down to the floor so I can see them more closely. The lead singer has short blonde hair and an Apple sticker on her giant Rickenbacker guitar. The other lead singer has long brown hair that covers her face as she moans, mumbles, and plays a Rhodes piano in the middle of the stage. The lead guitarist is the hottest one, also a blonde. Two guys play bass and drums behind them and nobody really notices them.

Anyway, Eisley reminds me of the old band Star 69 which no one remembers. They rock out, I have a good time, and they're hot.

Jackie and I push our way near the front after their set to get up close to Hot Hot Heat. I'm somewhat uncomfortable with this. I don't like being up front for bands whose songs I don't know well. It's embarassing to have a lead singer looking at you and you just sort of stare back and chew your gum. But, considering how she's five feet tall, it's good for us to be up close. Two cute girls stand in front of us, and everyone starts filing in behind, careful to avoid the pile of vomit in the center of the floor. We're in the center of the theatre, about six "rows" back.

A group of very large, very loud people fill in behind me. This one woman begins grabbing my ass. She was large, black, and had several pieces of metal in her face in locations I had never previously seen as piercing choices. I shuffle forward to avoid her unwelcome advances. Of course, if she'd been a brunette with black plastic emo glasses, it would have been a different story.

After an hour or so, Hot Hot Heat takes the stage. A giant sign behind them is revealed: it reads "Hot Hot Heat." I've never understood why bands have giant signs or displays with their names on them at their own concerts. It's not like you're going to forget which band you came to see. However, I decided that in this case the sign was appropriate. After all, you might walk in and hear the music and think you might be watching Franz Ferdinand or the Killers so the sign is a helpful navigational device.

It's about 100 degrees and 1,000 of us are smashed into the place like the proverbial sardines. Hot Hot Heat melts my face off. Lead singer Steve Bays has on far too many clothes for the heat, but, then, maybe that's why the band's name is HOT HOT HEAT. He's surprised by the crowd; this is the first time they've played in St. Pete. Well, I'm not surprised. No decent bands ever come here.

He loses more and more clothes as the night goes on. The show is solid, tight, and a real rock n roll concert. The lighting, the stage, Bays' antics, everything. Hays is a true rock star. He demands every ounce of your attention, and is really the closest living thing to Freddie Mercury I've ever seen. Also, I discovered I knew quite a few of their songs. These guys are all over the radio.

Halfway through the show, Bays announces "This song is called Bandages" and the crowd goes nuts. Bandages is, of course, their big hit, and when the song hits the chorus, a massive mosh pit breaks out. I'm thrown into the cute brunette in the red tank top dancing in front of me, and then against the woman who keeps grabbing my ass, back and forth. It's odd, because while most of the people around me are small women, the people engineering the whole slam are great big football player types. As the pit grows in ferocity, I begin to feel the flow of adrenaline that accompanied my old participation in slams. I loved that feeling of being thrown around in all directions, and the randomness of it all. I'm digging it, but worried for the girls around me, which I guess is either very feminist or very misogynistic of me.

The song ends and it turns out to be the last evidence of moshing there would be for the evening. Hot Hot Heat continues to melt my face off with a loud, hot, noisy rock concert, the likes of which you just aren't seeing much of these days. Why this band is playing a tiny club but the Killers are playing the Sun Dome is beyond me. I cannot fathom the Killers being a better performance than Hot Hot Heat.

The night ends on "Goodnight, goodnight" followed by an encore capped with "Running out of time" which i find clever. Both great songs and ones I know pretty well. I am soaked in sweat and my ears ring with the slight tinnitus a good rock concert leaves you with. We filter out, and after grabbing some merch we head back to thatsmyjew's place. I drop her off, and head to the L.A. Hangout.

Posted by Timothy at 06:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Instead of outlining the past few days, I'll pull out a few choice moments and then maybe construct a meta-narrative. But for now, moment #1.

The amber glow coming from my dashboard reminds me I need gas, NOW. Unfortunately, I'm stuck in 5pm traffic on I-275 just outside the Tampa airport, and significant movement anytime soon seems unlikely. I'm in a merge lane, so I need to get left, and dutifully have my turn signal clicky-clacking and my window down, as I lean out, hoping for someone to let me in. I'm in a hurry, though I didn't yet know how much.

A shining navy Jeep Laredo tailgates the silver Benz in front of it purely to avoid giving me a chance to merge. Behind the wheel, a blonde hides behind enormous brown sunglasses. I watch as the passenger window rolls down, and an unshaven man with scraggly black hair and squinty eyes leans out the window toward me.

He exhales a massive cloud of marijuana smoke into my face and immediately rolls the window back up. I sneak my Jetta in behind it.

The Jeep had New York plates.

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

Entertainmentweakly is back up and running, so any of you trying to download songs, it should be working today. Scroll down my recent entries to find them.

played like 45 minutes at the Pegasus last night, Aaron was tired so I just kept playing. Played all kinds of things I've never played before. Was a bit drunk, and hadn't even really been home yet. Yesterday was a long day, the details of which aren't important or will be written about later. Suffice to say that I didn't get any singing part at all in Joseph which is quite curious as I'm (and seriously, I'm being legit here) probably one of the three most talented people in the show. Several people with singing roles are literally tonedeaf, but, then, so is the music director. Nobody my age in the show, just a bunch of high school girls. So I'm in a shitty mood, really.

However, I'm going out to buy NCAA 2006 today and that will make me feel much better, methinks.

Posted by Timothy at 11:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Slightly long, but worth reading.

There is no better litmus test of a town's true nature than a stroll through its Wal-Mart. Particularly in towns where there is no other big box store, Wal-Mart serves as a microcosm or cross-section of a community at any given moment. Simply observing the mannerisms of individuals in a small-town Wal-Mart can give you a pretty good idea of what the people in that town are like.

My observations began early, when I saw not one but two cars that formerly belonged to high school friends of mine in the parking lot. Both small, GM convertibles from the early 90s, and both in truly rotten shape.

My brother and I had driven up in my shiny silver Cobalt rental, parked in a spot close to the grocery store side of the Wal-Mart. This Wal-Mart was built a few years ago, to replace the one up the road. It was built with massive local government subsidies, as clearly life for local citizens was made better by the fact their Wal-Mart now has a grocery store in it. Never mind the eyesore along the US-24 highway that the empty shell left by the old store.

We walked inside. Immediately, my eyes took in an interesting coincidence: every man in the store was wearing a tank top. (I am trying to get away from the usage of the obloquy "wifebeater" for while I appreciate the negative light it casts upon the article of clothing, I find the term rather misogynistic.)

Most had hairy backs and deformed, twisted tattoos that used to resemble something on their flabby arms. All wore mesh trucker's caps and several were accompanied by homely, obese wives and unruly children with either fittingly unruly hair or a mohawk-in-the-making.

This is my hometown the place where my parents live.

I proceed to the bakery with the Hot Dog Man. We are tasked with picking up the cake for my father's retirement party. After several minutes of waiting, a short, elderly woman emerges from the back room. My brother, who worked at Wal-Mart for four years before finally finding gainful employment last week in Columbus, recognizes her immediately.

The woman recognizes me, too. I am blank. Hot Dog Man says, "You remember Mrs. Fisher, right?"

Ah, yes. Mrs. Fisher. The woman who spooned out applecrisp and square pizza to me for eight years as the head cook of the Catholic grade school I attended. She hands me the cake, which reads -- not surprisingly -- "Happy Retirement, Mike," and I head toward the front of the store. I get in the "20 Items or Less" line and remark, as I always do, that the sign features improper grammar and curse its position just slightly out of my reach. I would be tempted to fix it myself, but instead look around for anyone capable of comprehending why it's grammatically incorrect. I see many people, but I see none who fit that category.

I conclude that as I saw no one I recognized in Wal-Mart (mind you, even five years ago I could go to Wal-Mart to pick up batteries or something and be there an hour owing to the number of acquaintances I would run into and my fairly loquacious nature) that the town suffered some sort of nuclear blast that eliminated its residents and replaced them with imported citizens from the Ozarks.

We arrive at Rick's East, a restaurant/banquet club on, yes, the east side of Napoleon. It was, once upon a time, a disco. Then it was a supper club, then a bar, then condemned due to knifings happening on a nightly basis. The Rick (not his real name) of RIckety Rick's purchased it and it's actually a very nice place. Nicer than I would expect.

The food my parents have been slaving over for days is spread out, and as some of my parents' closer friends arrive, they bring more. I pray that people show up, and that they eat the food, because there's a ton. Chicken wings, cake, fruit, veggies, crackers, cheese, and the other typical party foods reside along the south wall. Inoffensive music from XM plays on a small PA system. Notably, however, is the large pot of my father's piperki, a dish i cannot even find info on via google. Suffice to say, it is roasted peppers and sausage in a kind of sauce that you dip bread into. It's Macedonian, yeah. Also, there is piperki who has the best LJ user name ever.

People start to arrive. Teachers. Coaches. My old high school principal, one of the few men I hug instead of shake hands with upon seeing. sickdogg and Jen arive. My senses are a little overwhelmed; many of these people I haven't seen in five or ten years, and I can barely remember their names. My grandmother and aunt show up, and I'm impressed because they aren't even from my father's side of the family. Everyone wants to know what I'm doing, and if I'm glad I'm not in Florida right now. (For once, I am.)

I see an old history teacher of mine and tell him I continue to use the phrase he taught me back then ("The weak will fall by the wayside. The strong will somehow endure. I am a living example") in my classes. I make my rounds and try to talk to people as quickly as possible, because while we were expecting 40 or so people, more like 70 show up. The bar is open and I am lubricating my throat with Miller Lite and Black Velvet (separately).

My parents' speech coach, who taught me speech my freshman year at Heidelberg, arrives and we have one of our famous conversations of rapid speaking and conversation about academia. This dude's pretty much been the reason I've been successful at anything in my life, so I oblige him the time and enjoy it.

Then someone shows up whom I would have never expected.

For about five years, I had a crush on this girl who was a year behind me in school. We worked together a few summers teaching tennis lessons, and became pretty good friends. I'm not even sure anyone ever knew I had a crush on her, but berrydip and sickdogg would have to attest to that, because they're the only ones whom I would have told if I did.

She and her sister had played tennis for my dad, and they came in with their parents (including her father, whom berrydip once worked for and dubbed "Jizzbrain"). I think his real name is Steve.

Anyway, she looked ... great. I mean, you always say that, but for some reason, I thought she looked amazing. I hadn't seen her in at least five years. She lives in Oregon, now, works for Planned Parenthood, and drives a VW Golf. I tentatively ask if she's a Mac user, too, afraid that if she says yes I'll ask her to marry me right then and there. And yeah, I checked for a ring. There was none. (Though sickdogg had a longer conversation with her elsewhere, so she quite possibly could be in some committed relationship, but I didn't ask. Hopefully he'll chime in with an answer to that question.)

She said, "yeah... why?" and I reminded myself to breathe.

As people started to leave, I prepped myself for the "Hey, I want your email address" question but she beat me to it. We laughed about how we're old now and have abandoned our silly email addresses for simple ones that are firstname.lastname@generic.com.

She walked away, and I lingered upon her for a little too long, for dramatic effect if any other reason.

We cleaned up. I came home and napped off my booze-haze. I dreamed about my ex, again. Except she didn't look like my ex. She looked like that girl.

Time to drive back to Cincinnati.

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

The summer I was 21, I was living at home [Napoleon, OH: population 8,000 and high school graduating class of 152 for the uninitiated], working (kind of; that's a story for another day) and waiting for the fall to arrive and bring with it my first real full-time college teaching job at Eastern Michigan.

But mainly what my friends and I did that summer was sit out on our boat on the Maumee River, go to our play rehearsals for Hello, Dolly! at night, and follow it up with a trip to Napoleon's newest and nicest (and only, for the most part) bar: Rick's Sports Tavern, retitled "Rickety Rick's" almost immediately by my buddies and I.

We hit Rickety Rick's nearly every night of the week. We were some of the bar's best supporters in the early days, and knew nearly everyone who frequented the place. As the years rolled on, and we went our separate directions, we still hit up Rickety Rick's on Saturday nights, and it's a sure bet to see most of the people we went to high school with there on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

Thus, I had concluded I was going to go there Saturday night, regardless of if any of my friends in town were interested in going with me.

My parents, the Hot Dog Man, and I headed over to BW3 in Defiance for some beers and trivia, and we spent maybe two and a half hours there, fumbling through trivia and eventually giving up and playing poker instead. It's weird that I spend enough time in bars that I go into "bar mode" regardless of the fact that I'm with my parents; I had to keep telling myself, "no, you can't go talk to those girls." But it was a great time, and we got home around midnight. I asked the Hot Dog Man if he wanted to grab a beer at Rick's and he said he was tired. So I headed out alone.

One thing about living in a small town is that your sense of distance gets totally warped. A drive downtown seemed like a bit of a haul, when we lived here, but I timed it and discovered it takes four minutes and 15 seconds to drive from my parents' house to Rick's. What a joke. I can't even get out of my neighbourhood in Tampa in four minutes.

I walk into Rick's and look around. I recognize no one. This falls in line with the article in the paper about a bad car accident near my parents' house that killed three people, ages 24-27, all from Napoleon, yet listing names I did not recognize. Everyone I knew here moved out and the replacements came from who-knows-where. They looked at me suspiciously, like I was infringing on their territory. I felt the same about them.

I was about to leave when this beautiful brunette comes through the door in a dress that is just slightly gaudy enough for me to recognize as a bridesmaid's dress. I look more closely and realize it's a girl I went to school with for eleven years and whom had always been a little strange toward me, for reasons I have never nor will ever understand. She was cute when we were in school, but she's grown to be a real stunner.

I almost didn't recognize her, but then I was like "LISA" and she was like "OMG TIM" and we decided to have a beer. I asked if the dude she was with was her husband; it was, and he introduced himself and those were the last words he said. Why all the cute girls from high school married quiet, gruff men I will never know.

So we talked for 20 minutes, catching up on who got married (one of her friends from high school, someone who was always much nicer to me than Lisa was) and who was at the wedding, what I'm doing, et cetera. The conversation was far longer than any conversation between the two of us previously in the 20 years I have known her. She and gruff husband left.

I went into the other room and realized two twin brothers that were in my high school class, collectively known as the Youngbuddies, were sipping bud lights and smoking cigarettes along the bar. I was not friends with these guys; they were well-known as drug dealers and punks. Truth be told, they're nice guys now, and I sat and talked with them about life, gossip, and how our hometown sucks now. We closed down the bar, pledged to see each other at our ten-year next summer, and I headed home on the frighteningly short drive. Napoleon used to be a "nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there." I'm not so sure it's even a nice place to visit anymore.

Posted by Timothy at 11:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Well, I'm at my parents' house, and bored out of my mind. My parents are great, and I do live fourteen hours from them, but I've seen them three times now in the past month, and we've sort of run out of things to talk about, except my extended rants about politics. Perhaps I'll play the piano for awhile.

Last night was GREAT. I flew into Cincinnati for one reason: to go out for one last time in Mt. Lookout with berrydip and his buddies. Sharno showed up out of nowhere, and I put on an extended concert in Dave's living room. Somehow, these guys know all my songs. It's a little creepy. Sharno has apparently been playing my songs for his high school kids. That's even more creepy.

Paul Otten at Million's one last time was great, too. I danced with this redhead stunner who looked like (oh, who am I kidding, she didn't really look like who I said she was gonna look like; suffice to say she was a stunner) ... she was from Kentucky and I was just getting to that .. point, you know, during "Let's Get It On" and then her friend is like OKAY IT IS TIME TO LEAVE and she's all "i'm sorry... she's my ride" and I wanted to say "Hey! I have a sweet rental car" but she was gone, as is my voice after hours of singing and screaming to Paul Otten, but I went to bed happy that my investment worked out well.

I am going to try to convince the Hot Dog Man to go to Rickety Rick's with me tonight and see how many of my high school classmates still live in this godawful town.

Posted by Timothy at 09:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Pegasus was a blast last night. Played an early set of Waterfalls, VD, and Black Gold, then a late set of Gold's Gym Guy, 37, I was Just 15, What The Hell Happened to Jewel? and Handjob on a Churchbus.

Darren informed me he was going to send a demo to some places for me, so I had to "hit the studio" which I haven't done in a few weeks. Luckily Caitlin and Jen were gone this morning.

37 - aka the hot dog song - my new favourite. 2:51
Jailbait 3:05
V.D. (It's Hard Not To Notice) 2:19
I'm In Love With A Lesbian 2:00
Bush Voter 3:27
Blondie's Got A Boyfriend 2:56

I really pumped them out today. Of course, all the important things I had to get done today were left untouched. But that's what Thursdays are for.

Posted by Timothy at 04:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

http://www.aaronsmusic.com/openmikes/openmikelive_pegasuslounge.asx to listen live. 12:30-1 am or so
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Posted by Timothy at 10:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Tonight I believe I'll play the following songsJuly 4th trilogy1. Gold's Gym Guy2. Sonya (song I just wrote about the woman at the hot dog eating contest. The chorus is "37, 37, GOBBLE GOBBLE" so you can imagine how the rest of the song goes)3. I Was Just 15 (song about my first makeout session and how I had a chance to get back in touch with her after ten years but i flunked the kid who was going to give me her phone number)4. What The Hell Happened to Jewel? (wrote it a few days ago)5. Jailbait (premiered last week)6. [not sure yet? probably waterfalls]I was worried that I wouldn't come up with enough new material this week, but I pulled it off. Obviously, the goal is to get enough to create a solid 45-minute routine that I can start shopping to the club booking managers.
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Posted by Timothy at 04:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Timothy at 08:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm such an asshole.I'm sitting here watching Live 8, designed to draw attention to poverty and hunger in Africa, and I am sitting here making the best lunch I have ever made. I even took a photo. It's called Steak Al Capone; flank steak, soaked in olive oil, topped with italian sausage, prociutto, fresh mozzarella, and pepperoni, then rolled up, dipped in olive oil, covered in garlic powder, pepper, and oregano...i even took a picture.i'm a fucking prick.
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Posted by Timothy at 02:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Happy:

18th birthday to Calisa, who three years ago inspired Underage Columbus Girl, the first funny song I ever recorded.

138th birthday to Canada, a nation I have always loved and pretended to be from.

1st day in the Big East to my future alma mater USF and berrydip's new alma mater UC.

1st day without Marshall/[screw'em] to the Mid-American Conference.

1st day of panic about whom W's first Supreme Court nominee will be.

(and happy 1st day of me using the Semagic LJ client. We'll see how it works out.)

Last night, I went over to New Port Richey to a) calculate exactly how long it's going to take for me to get to rehearsals for Joseph b) check out another open mic night at a place called Bourbon Street which is, sadly, not as cool as either its namesake in New Orleans or the rat-tastic casino of the same name in Las Vegas.

I got there and a high school band was playing in front of about 20 people. Ten of those people were clearly the girlfriends and parents of the guys in the band. They weren't bad, but it was funny to see the kid not say the word "fuck" in front of his parents as they covered Sublime's "What I Got." I drank a Bud Select, paid the waitress a dollar tip, and got the hell out of there. I might go play there sometime, because they do seem to have nice equipment (a real Hammond B3 organ!) but what's the point if there's no crowd? Nice place, but kind of empty.

So I went out and started exploring New Port Richey. I went downtown and found a place called Jilly's. I walked in and discovered they had NTN, which was a nice surprise. However, I sat at the bar for 15 minutes and saw no semblance of a bartender or Playmakers, so I got up and left. Strange.

I ended up stopping at a place called Wing House. It seemed to have beer and a lot of cars in front of it. Little did I know that Wing House is a clone of Hooters. And when I say clone, I mean, "developed from stem cells" or some shit, because Wing House had the following characteristics:

White, Black, and Orange colour scheme
GIrls in cleavage-revealing tank tops, shorts that more closely resemble diapers, and pantyhose (what the fuck is up with hooters girls wearing pantyhose with shorts and tennis shoes? that is easily the most bizarre uniform choice i have ever seen)
An emphasis on wings
Large, rectangular wooden bar
Calendars of waitresses available at the door
An entirely (ENTIRELY) male clientele

Now, I almost turned around and left once I realized the nature of this place. After all, I've gone on rants about Hooters many times. This is big time Hooters territory -- the first one is just down the road in Clearwater. I think their food sucks and their very nature objectifies women and is insulting. That having been said, I stayed at Wing House because I wanted a beer.

Then I realize there is one singular difference between Hooters and Wing House. Wing House has constant references to someone named Crawford Ker. I have no idea who this guy is, but apparently he played football for the Cowboys back in the 80's. I'm sure my father knows who he is. Anyway, you can buy items autographed by Crawford Ker for 11.99. I decided I would rather have something autographed by Steve Kerr for, oh, five bucks. Maybe.

As was, I ordered some wings -- hot -- and they turned out to be very, very good. Large wings, way better than Hooters'. The sauce was good. It wasn't BW3 quality, but it was good and the size of the wings made up for it. I got ten wings and a 32-ounce beer for 10 bucks and decided that was a pretty good deal. So I might actually go back, despite my feminist leanings telling me that I shouldn't.

Current Mood: hungry

Posted by Timothy at 12:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)