Journeys of Jack Tripper

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Posted by Timothy at 05:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I just cracked Big Slick with The Hammer... to win a SNG. Oh, if PokerTime didn't muck immediately after tournaments end, so I could get a screen shot.
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Posted by Timothy at 10:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Nestled all up in my pop's recliner, Xbox fired up, spitting this season of Veronica Mars at me in rapid-fire.Is there any better moment in life when the action glides to a halt, and the swell of Dandy Warhols' We Used To Be Friends starts?
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Posted by Timothy at 02:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Today begins the celebration of Hanukkah... so to everyone who celebrates, Mazel Tov and L'Chaim. From fishamaphone on Fark:Lincoln was an awesome guy. Unfortunately, as far as morals and righteousness are concerned, comparing Lincoln to today's Republican leadership is like comparing Julius Caesar to the current Prime Minister of Italy.Yahtzee.
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Posted by Timothy at 10:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Just as soon as I start cracking back on my hometown, the most bizarre development ever breaks out:There is a new internet cafe in downtown Napoleon. (unbelievable.) They have free WiFi for the entire downtown district. (very unbelievable.) They have NTN! (impossible.) They have food, French Press coffee, sofas... QB1! Oh, and it's called the "Philosophy Cafe." That won't scare away the local rednecks, no way. Supposedly it's an afterschool hangout for the high school kids. I think it's amazing. Napoleon's downtown tends to be a hole; most places there can't survive because Wal-Mart came in and gave people no reason to go downtown. I hope they do well.
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Posted by Timothy at 05:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My time in Akron has come to a close, for now. Last night, I:

* Got horrendously drunk
* Hit on berrydip's paralegal (successfully)
* Found a bar with Harpoon IPA (which I realize I haven't fully written about yet)
* Came home and typed things like <Bubbaprog> ogobllllel my 0ccc on IRC
* Ate less than I should have to avoid appearing a glutton
* Got pwn3d in Silver Strike Bowling
* Watched the UT Rockets put the hurt on the UTEP Miners
* Stole a glass from Parma Tavern
* Stole another glass from the Winking Lizard
* Managed not to break them
* Left the leftover pizza in berrydip's car so I can't eat it this morning.

Grumble.

I'm leaving now for the Y-Bridge city of Zanesville, where I have not set foot down since July 31, 2004. My anticipation can really, truly only be appreciated by a few of you. And by that, I mean, well, probably no one. Nobody gets excited for Zanesville. Do they?

Well, I do.

James Dungy, the 18-year-old son of Indianapolis Colts coach Tony Dungy, was found dead at 1:30 a.m. ET Thursday in his apartment in Lutz, Fla., a suburb of Tampa, Debbie Carter, a spokesperson for the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office, confirmed Thursday.
A death investigation is under way, and the spokesperson said that the county medical examiner's office or the hospital at which James Dungy was pronounced dead would have a ruling on the cause of death.
James Dungy officially was pronounced dead this morning at University Community Hospital in Tampa.
Tony Dungy has left the Colts and is in Tampa. Indianapolis plays at Seattle this Saturday.

Lutz. A scary place. I'll be watching my back next time at the L.A. Hangout.

Posted by Timothy at 09:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Timothy at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I caught up on some television today while sweating off a hangover from last night's bash at tinafizz's. I am several months behind; episodes build up in the TV directory of my server, waiting for my Xbox to order them up like hearts when you're holding all red AKQJJ.

I couldn't decide if I was in the mood for Veronica Mars, Law & Order, Alias, The Office, Arrested Development, Numb3rs, or any of the other myriad programs I download weekly due to the cable company's piss-poor DVR being a piece of crap. So I decided to catch the last three of Grey's Anatomy, and pondered whether or not I think it's a good television program.

A TV show, like any narrative, is held up to scrutiny along two lines of cognition: Narrative coherence and narrative fidelity. Narrative coherence refers to whether the story "holds together" and makes sense in the world. Do the characters behave in rational, or if not rational, realistic manners? Do computers/hacking really work the way represented in the story? (That's a big stumbling block for me, and after watching a woman on Numb3rs WAVE A MAGNETIC WAND over a broken hard drive platter, extracting a .jpg in the process, I might have to stop watching the show.) Narrative fidelity is the nature by which the story "rings true," or reflects our own life experiences. Can we identify with the characters, and see our own thoughts and emotions in theirs?

It's in this analysis that I have to bring up the question posed in today's subject line. A more pragmatic person might simply ask, "Do you watch the show?" to which I'd obviously answer "Yes" and thus it must be "good" because I don't, as a rational human being, watch bad television. (The pragmatist does not realize I voluntarily watch The Biggest Loser and even those late night commercials for the loathed Girls Gone Wild. Perhaps we need to reconsider the concept of rationality.)

Anyway, let's look at the show through the first dimension, narrative coherence.

The vast majority of the program (at least in this, its first full season) has dealt with the complexity of the sexual relationships occurring amongst the show's characters, who essentially are banging each other with regularity. They are all phenomenally attractive human beings, easily engaging with each other but with the expected results. Even the "lovable loser" cliche of George O'Malley is cute. It's not ER by any means; while the medical situations due move the plot occasionally, this show is about the relationships amongst the characters -- and nearly the entire show takes place inside the hospital where they're surgical interns.

Narrative coherence would mean I would have to buy into the idea that people placed into this situation would inevitably end up screwing each other. I've been working full-time as a professional for seven years now. While I work in the field diametrically-opposed (in terms of intensity of work) to medicine, I can't say I've observed co-workers going at it with such fervor and passion. Maybe I'm blind; maybe I don't get the invites to those parties. Most importantly, the utterly single nature of each character is particularly out-of-line with my observations of the world. I don't buy that all these gorgeous doctors emerged from med school without a one of them being in a serious relationship. (Then again, I dated a med student a while, and knowing the life she lived, perhaps it's not that absurd after all.)

Regardless, this is either a commentary on the lack of narrative coherence for Grey's Anatomy or on the lack of my having ever been on the "Everybody's Having Lots Of Sex" train.

As for fidelity, I think the show comes through a bit better. A recent episode dealt with the boons and banes of solitude; the reactions to which amongst the characters I certainly found reflective of the way I see things. There's a spectrum line upon which lies the dot that represents our comfort with being alone. At one end we have the Ted Kaczinskis of the world, and at the other, the hypersocial. While the show in its first season focused closely on the title character, the second season has been fairly even-handed in taking a more omniscient perspective (making Meredith Grey's occasional voiceovers a bit of a paradox, but anyway). It's been to the benefit of O'Malley, ever-longing after Meredith -- the only girl for whom he wears a heart on his sleeve, but obscured by the black armband of self-doubt. Even Alex -- the future cosmetic surgeon and embodiment of the cold, heartless surgical cliche -- suffers his first major mistake in the manner you or I would: with anguish and dejection.

I've always wondered why programs about the most exclusive and least-identifiable occupations (medicine, law, politics) are the most popular on television. It would seem that to create narrative fidelity, writers are challenged further to make these very unique characters behave in the manner a common viewer would, with the same goals, hopes, and aspirations. Of course, dramatic programs about more commonplace situations occasionally succeed; Boston Public, Six Feet Under, Joan of Arcadia (ignoring the metaphysical dimension), and others. Alas, most "everyday American" programs are relegated to the half-hour sitcom format, where they flourish.

Some critics respond to this by saying, "If people wanted to watch dramatic television about their lives, they wouldn't have to watch television. They could just watch life." In her book on Irish television drama, Helena Sheehan of Dublin City University says the key to good writing for a TV drama is the same as good writing in any narrative: evocation. Viewers don't need to identify with a television character's occupation, living situation, or degree of wealth; they simply need to have emotions that they recognize evoked by the story. In that, I have to question whether or not we (the people in my academic genre) have been privileging autoethnography to a degree. I'm not entirely sold, anymore, that autoethnography is any better than fiction writing; nay, I don't even know if it's even different. So should I abandon autoethnography and go into fiction writing? (Television writing?) I don't know if I'm that creative. I'd like to think I am. What I know is this: I'm not reading autoethnographies and yelling, "What an asshole!" I'm not reading autoethnographies and writing about them here. I *am*, however, reading autoethnographies and saying, "I hope I'm never this self-involved and pretentious."

I think we all need to watch more, not less, television. We just need to be more conscientious of what we're getting out of it.

Posted by Timothy at 11:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I got fed up with trying to make it sound better. It's still one of the best songs I've recorded, but i have some serious sibilant issues. It's almost becoming a lisp. Ack.

A Single Christmas - 4:30 6mb mp3

Edit: Some people have problems with the main EW server. Here's another one that will work.

A Single Christmas - 4:30 6mb mp3 alternate server

Posted by Timothy at 06:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

A Christmas Song for SinglesMissing a few instruments, and mixing, EQ, etc, but thought I might share
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Posted by Timothy at 06:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Not sure what I was thinking.

Frosty 2 - 1:48 2mb mp3

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

http://www.sptimes.com/2005/12/13/news_pf/Tampabay/_Out_front__and_now__.shtml

I have always been a fan of Larry Flynt. While the manner in which he makes a business can be a bit revolting at times, the man has fought -- more successfully than not -- for First Amendment causes around the country. In that, I consider him one of my heroes, and would like to meet him some day.

Thus Mr. Joe Redner is also a hero of mine. While I do not patronize strip clubs (I shun the fantasy that a stripper will go home with me; instead, I embrace the one where a single woman will one day walk into the L.A. Hangout), Mr. Redner has tirelessly fought for First Amendment issues here in Hillsborough County. (I say "Here" even though technically I live in Pasco. Go with me on this one.)

Anyway, for Mr. Redner, a man with a family whose career has been made in catering to straight men, to admit he's gay shows a certain strength that might not accompany other outings -- though the first major male athlete to come out will probably take the cake in the "heaviest door out of the closet" award. That Redner came out in order to further the case against Ronda Storms and the other bigots of the Hillsborough County Commission is even more impressive.

If I went to strip clubs, I'd drop a few [insert whatever the current argot for hundred dollar bills] at Mons tonight to show this man I'm on his side. As you can see from the story above, nobody really cares that he's gay. And isn't that the direction our country ought to be going?

Cookie Christine puts it much more eloquently:

Whether you agree with his politics or not, one thing is for sure. Joe Redner is not a liar and he's not a hypocrite. It seems these coming out of the closet thingys are only fun if the new openly-gay person has been hypocritical or has bashed guys himself/herself for personal or political gain. And Joe has done none of that.
I wish Joe the best of luck in both his private affairs and his legal affairs.

Posted by Timothy at 04:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Sitting here listening to the feed music on the NCAA volleyball tournament video, I notice a song that is rather catchy and "rock-y." I decide to google the lyrics to see who it is.LINDSAY LOHAN.*time to take a quick shower*
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Posted by Timothy at 09:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Record of the year:
Mariah Carey (haven't heard it)
Gorillaz (don't even know who they are, though if they have De La Soul, it can't be bad)
Green Day (good song, but probably the 4th best cut on that LP)
Gwen Stefani (dear god shoot me with B-A-N-A-N-A-S)
Kanye West (my pick)

Album of the year:
Mariah Carey (see above), Paul McCartney (ditto), Gwen Stefani (gag), U2 (auto-nomination), Kanye West (my pick)

Song of the year:
(I either don't like or am not familiar with any of the choices here)

Best new artist:
Ciara (who?), Fall out Boy (sucks), Keane (boring), John Legend (who?), SugarLand (who?)

Rock Performance by Group:
Coldplay (good song), Foo Fighters (average), Franz Ferdinand (_mathlete approves), The Killers (meh), U2 (boring)

Rock Song:
Foo Fighters (meh), Weezer (seriously? the song is okay I guess), U2 (blah), Bruce (okay I guess), Coldplay (my pick)

Urban/Alternative Performance:
I'll go with Mos Def since I have never heard of these other people.

Country:
Honestly, nearly all these records were fantastic this year. I couldn't begin to pick one over the other. Or I will: Lee Ann Womack. Note that Big & Rich, those totally homosexual guys, got a nomination for best group performance. Cincinnati Chili forever!

Polka:
My money is on Eddie Blazonczyk's Versatones, my all-time favorite polka band. Though Jimmy Sturr has like 40 grammies already, so he's the favorite.

Spoken Word:
Tough competition here. Garrison Keillor, Al Franken, Barack Obama, and George Carlin will fight it out. Sean Penn will stand on the sidelines and claim bigotry.

Compilation Soundtrack:
Beyond the Sea, Napoleon Dynamite (CANNED HEAT BABY), Dylan, Ray, Six Feet Under. You know who my pick is... the underdog.

More later.

Posted by Timothy at 11:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

http://www.upcheer.com/images/foxnews/The very first image on that page, the Dr. King one, I made for Fark on April 1st, 2003. I don't mind Upcheer using it, really, but it's kind of in bad taste to take someone else's creation and put your logo on it. Right?
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Posted by Timothy at 11:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Wrote and recorded song #1 for the Christmas EP today. Remind me to tune my guitar before recording next time.

Don't Feel Like Christmas At All - 4.6m 3:35 mp3 version

Don't Feel Like Christmas At All - 5.1m 3:35 AAC version for you iPod people

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

Needing new material to perform at the Sunday night comedy open mic at the Hangout, I threw together a new jive and recorded it so I'd remember it. It's kind of gross.

Jail - 2mb 2:06 mp3

I arrived and found myself the only white person a room containing about eight other comics. Being that my material is pretty much cracker-ass white boy guitar jamming, I was a bit concerned, but it went over well, considering the main joke was about a guy I knew at the prison, a sweetheart 6'6" 300lb black dude who was in for drowning a guy in a bucket of bleach. I had to leave during some of the other sets; I may sing about some disgusting topics, but I'm not down with gaybashing, which apparently is the core of a lot of these comics' routines.

Ended up staying there until two or so, hanging out with some folks who liked me enough to buy me drinks all night. A few girls were there, for once, celebrating a 21st birthday. The birthday girl was more hammered than I've seen anyone in a *very* long time. Usually people pass out or throw up by the time they get that wasted, but this girl, I mean, WOW. She was a broken woman, and of course attracted about seven guys who were trying to take her home. My friend Chantal got involved and basically picked her up and threw her into a cab to the dismay of the creeps who wanted to take advantage of her. Just another night at the Hangout...

Posted by Timothy at 01:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I realize not a lot of you click on the jump. The next few days, I'll start doing my stories from the past couple weeks. I assure you, it'll be worth your time.

16 November 2005

As always, I'm in a hurry on my way to TPA. I know that it's one of the more efficient airports I've ever dealt with; only CMH is a quicker park-to-the-gate run. Yet I'm always beset with concern that I'll be pulled aside for a strip search, or there will be a longer-than-usual line at security, or that my luggage will cause some sort of TSA problem. So when I pull up to the terminal long-term parking and realize TPA has eliminated it, forcing me to park at the remote (and by remote, at TPA, they mean BFE) lot. As I pull into the new structure, a silver Honda pulls in next to me. It's the Herrmannator, my roommate for the next five days. His flight to Boston leaves an hour after mine, but unlike mine, it's nonstop -- meaning he'll end up bumming around Beantown for a while before I get there to check us in to the hotel. He's cool with that, and we part at our respective concourses.

We're on our way to the 91st annual convention of the National Communication Association. I traditionally refer to NCA as "my favorite week of the year," due to it being the one time I get to see many of my best friends in the world. NCA plays a variety of roles in my professional and social universe: it's where job interviews take place, grad school recruiting runs rampant, occasional academic papers are presented, and open drunkenness is not only permitted, but expected. Past NCAs have found me with eight female friends in a sex club in New Orleans, vomiting over the edge of a boat while deep-sea fishing in Miami Beach, behind the wheel of a stranger's coupe tearing through the streets of Atlanta, and slamming Old Styles with cute Texan coeds in Chicago's dive bars. For a hypersocial being like myself, stuck in the rut of social doldrums that is Tampa, NCA is an annual cocoon emergence that I anticipate with vigor.

I'm flying Delta today. This detail is significant. While I'm not a "frequent flyer," as compared to the thousands of businessmen and -women who crisscross our fine nation every day, I have spent the past five years in the air more than the average citizen. I've always flown NWA, not because 911 Is A Joke but because they're my frequent flyer carrier. Alternatively, I've flown only on Southwest (once, an ill-fated 9/14/01 flight to Chicago to visit berrydip that ended up being turned around due to MDW suddenly closing [bomb threat]) or NWA codeshare partner Continental. Delta is also a codeshare partner, but I've been quite vocally opposed to flying Delta since an April 2002 incident in which they stranded myself and Ryan in Salt Lake City necessitating an overnight 750-mile drive across the Rockies en route to Rapid City. The debacle concluded in my pledging to never again fly Delta.

Monetary issues led me to rescind that pledge, and so I find myself in my comfortable exit row aisle seat, working the Wednesday NY Times crossword and anticipating another eventful series of flights alongside the unique and talkative individuals who tend to accompany my travel.

Instead, I'm seated next to very large, very odorous, and very sleepy men whom are apparently the driving economic force in our great nation.

Upon my arrival at Logan, I collect my garment bag and board the shuttle to Boston's famed "T" subway system. I'd memorized the map so as to appear at least slightly familiar, and I board the blue line headed toward the Back Bay. At Government Center I hop off, wait for the Orange Line, and carefully avoid a homeless (I assume by his scraggly beard and collection of apocalyptic literature) man screaming "How Much Is That Doggy In The Window" and offering requests "for a modest fee." He has no takers. What I fail to realize is that I am boarding the Orange line at 5:30 pm, and my bags will create quite the space problem upon the arrival of thousands of commuters headed home. Stuffed like a Sheboygan bratwurst in a surprisingly clean car, I take advantage of the situation to do a bit of subway ethnography.

Immediately, I notice a significantly diminished number of blondes on my subway train. Perhaps 18 months in Florida have led me to forget that not everyone bleaches their hair. The brunette hipsters with their iPods and the redheaded young businesswomen in their earthtone Kaspers and Anne Kleins endear me to a city I've only yet seen the literal underbelly of. Boston is one of the few major U.S. cities I've yet to visit in my years of travel, and with its myriad colleges and universities I have to consider it a possible career destination. So far, I approve. The women here are hot.

At Back Bay I push my way through to the subway doors, hop off, and climb the stairs where I'm slugged with a cold breeze that penetrates the fibers of my brown tweed jacket. It feels like home, and I smile. I know my subway stop is only a block from the Hilton, and I scan the horizon looking for its distinctive logo gleaming in the distance. It's nowhere to be seen. My attempt to gain my bearings in more traditional methods is foiled by the dark, cloudy sky obscuring any celestial objects to utilize for navigational purposes. I'm quite positive I need to go a block west and am determined to find my hotel with pure pluck.

I head toward what looks like a series of tall buildings that might be hotels. A girl with black plastic emo glasses, a grey toque, and Jagermeister-puke-colored scarf stops, looks at me, and says, "That bag is way too heavy." She's probably right, as my impeccable sense of fashion (NCA is the only time of year I get to wear the suits that hearken back to a career in which they were necessary) has required me to pack the nines. I laugh, respond with some kind of meatheaded hypermasculine response, and ignore the opportunity to ask directions. I continue on in a similar manner for another half hour. Finally, I find one of the large, glassed-in maps that tend to dot metropolis street corners. While attempting to locate myself, a lithe, attractive brunette in yet another business suit approaches me.

"You look lost."
"Yeah, you know, I was, but I think I know where I'm going now. Thanks."

She walks away, and I wonder why I didn't feign ignorance just for the sake of conversation. I've never been good at feigning ignorance; I'm ignorant enough as it is.

A half hour later I'm checking into the Hilton Back Bay, trading 140,000 of my hard-earned HHonors points for four nights of relative luxury. I've always found it queer how the more expensive a hotel, the fewer amenities are provided free-of-charge. The $39 room at a Days Inn features free local calls, HBO, and even a warm breakfast. My hotel will offer none of these things, save a gorgeous 26th-floor view of the Christian Science complex to the south and all of the sprawling, historic land that is Boston. I will admire the view for fifteen seconds.

The Herrmannator and I drop off our bags, collect some cash, and head out in search of trouble... but first, food. On our short walk to the Marriott, home base for NCA, we run into a USF colleague and his partner. Herrmannator joins them and I continue toward the Marriott. Along the way, I see Mariaelena, one of the new faculty members in my department. She is, as always, representing her Italian heritage in a stunning outfit, topped off with what must be this season's most fashionable coat. (VERY longtime readers remember my first meeting with Mariaelena, during her interview, eleven months ago.)

I roll into the swarm of humanity wandering around the lobbies of the Marriott. Almost immediately, I run into my dear friends the Carmack Twins. Formerly of Truman State, and now holding graduate degrees from my two alma maters Ohio (Heather) and EMU (Amy) I simply adore them, and we quickly agree to have dinner -- though not after stopping by the Forensics Organizations party upstairs. I snag a Heineken and commence the litany of drinking. I shake some hands, greet some old friends, unspool the "my dissertation is about poker" story a half-dozen times, then run out with the Twins to grab a few more OU grad students and make our way to Macaroni Grille.

A shrimp pasta and two Sierra Nevada Pale Ales later, the twins head to bed and I head back to the Marriott to find some more friends. At the lobby bar, most of my department's faculty members and a dozen grad students are collected around tables with other superstars of the symbolic interaction world, and I find the Herrmannator. I order a few Harpoon IPAs, not quite knowing what they are, but falling immediately in love with them. The party breaks up around one a.m. and the Herrmannator and I make our way back toward the Hilton. I'm not done drinking, though, and either is he. I'd had a goal of hitting up the Bukowski Tavern next door since reading about it on Citysearch. Named after the hard-drinking literary hero of mine, it was a must that I check it out.

We show up to the door where a beefy bouncer waited, smirking. He asks for my ID, and I hand it over.

"You're not getting in here."
"Huh?"
"You're too drunk."
I turn to the Herrmannator.
"Too drunk, he says. I've only had three beers, and that's too drunk? THIS IS BOSTON!"
"You're not getting into this bar," the bouncer iterates.
"YOUR BAR IS NAMED AFTER CHARLES BUKOWSKI AND YOU THINK I'M TOO DRUNK?"
He hands me back my ID.
"He thinks I'm too drunk! Bukowski Tavern thinks I'm too drunk. That's pretty f*ckin' ironic, don't you think, Herrmannator?"
Herrmannator shrugs.

As we walk away, I silently swear to do whatever is necessary to gain entrance, at some point, to Bukowski Tavern. Still thirsty, we go next door to Kings, a swanky but cheesy restaurant/pool hall/bowling alley that would be the site of our USF party the next evening. We descend the steps of the subterranean establishment and the rotund bouncer has no qualms about my previous drinking.

It's Boston, after all. They defined the art.

Posted by Timothy at 02:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This is my first holiday season with an LJ. Is the whole adding-a-Santa-hat-to-your-LJ-icon meme a yearly tradition, or just something that's working its way through this year?Writing will come. Eventually.
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Posted by Timothy at 10:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)