I got a new job.

Yes!

I tell you, when dude called and offered me that job...the feeling of sweet, clean, pure, savage satisfaction was just too much. I bet when, say, a cheetah out on the veldt pulls down a healthy male gazelle he feels the same way I did. True, I can't eat the job, but I can't run 40 miles per hour either. It's a metaphor.

Money, kids, the likes of which I've never made before. And Downtown, too - I step out the door of my apartment building, get on a trolley, and get out a few minutes later at work. How sweet is that?

I'm stoked. I told my boss Thursday and he made the general announcement to my co-workers today. They took it well, I think. I've heard lots of "congratulations" and "we'll miss you" today, but I'm pretty sure they're all secretly worried the place will fall apart after I leave.

It was a pretty slow news weekend, to tell the truth. Sonya and I are between-paychecks broke, as usual, so we couldn't actually do anything exciting. Or expensive. Friday I took the afternoon off to go take a drug test for the new job. Peeing in a plastic cup for a stranger is always an enriching, fulfilling experience.

After that I swung by the apartment and got Sonya - she had a hair-cuttin' appointment, and we were gonna get some food after that. So I'm sitting in the little waiting area of a tasteful Midtown hair salon when Sonya come around this little partition, her hair stylishly cut, her hand pressed to her ear, holding a tissue there. A bloody tissue.

The guy who cuts Sonya's hair (and my hair, for that matter) had cut her ear. He was very sorry about that. So was Sonya. We then spent a happy thirty minutes driving around Midtown, trying to figure out where we would eat while Sonya bled. A lot. Finally we went to Rite-Aid (not K&B, dammit) and I got some little bandages for Sonya's ear. Her flesh wound patched, we went to the Public Eye and ate lots and lots of barbecue. It was very good. The most annoying girl in the world was at the Public Eye, talking loudly about how she was planning a big party for one of the local TV stations. Sonya said she thought the girl wanted us to know how important she was. I agree - but why? Did we look so intimidating to her she needed to build herself up? I don't know.

Saturday was very slow - I cleaned the kitchen and the living room, made some jello shooters, failed to bathe and watched Men In Black. Sunday, though, I swore it would be different. I was feeling like a total slug so I got my bike out to go ride. Living Downtown is conducive to bike-riding, I find. So I threw the bike in the back of the truck and ran to Achmed's (A local convenience store - it's not really called Achmed's but the various guys behind the counter all look like they could be named Achmed) to air up the tires. Just as I'm getting through with this I get approached. Normally when you get approached around Achmed's it's by some crack-addled wino who wants a nickel. This time, though, was different.

There were two of them, a guy and a girl about my age. Ball caps, shorts, t-shirts, sandals, backpacks. I sized them up as tourists in about two seconds.

"Suzme," the girl said, "doyanowhamcleeis? Whatrinetagettathlibree."

"Huh?" I asked.

She repeated herself.

"Pardon me?" I replied wittily.

Very slow and very loud, she said, "do ya know wheah McLean is? We're trine to get to tha library!"

It seems that I have a hard time understanding Australian accents. In my defense, they didn't sound anything like Crocodile Dundee, the drag queen in The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, or like Toni Collette in Muriel's Wedding. Like that means anything. They weren't listening to Abba, wearing women's clothes, drinking Foster's or petting a koala, either. I'll tell you one thing - Australian's look just like us. Beware.

Turns out some joker at the bus station had told them the library was just a couple of blocks away, when actually it would have been a pretty grueling hike through the unpleasant buffer zone between Downtown and Midtown and then a nice long walk across Midtown itself. I gave them a ride. They told me they'd been stranded by a bus on Brooks Road the night before after leaving Graceland and they thought Memphis was kind of scary. If all I'd seen of Memphis was Graceland and Brooks Road (an area of prostitution and titty bars) I'd think it was kind of scary too. They were supposed to catch a bus last night - I hope they made it. Good luck and be careful, my little Australians, where ever you are.

So then I went for my bike ride all around Downtown. Down the mall from my house, over to Tom Lee Park, along the river to the Rivermark, then back up Front Street to do a few laps around the Pyramid. Exhilirating. And very hot. A lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Then I made a Burger King run and gorged on a gigantic Double Whopper, totally undoing any good I might have done by riding my bike. It was pathetic.

Current Reading: Harry Turtledove. He writes alternative history books, and the ones I've been reading feature the South winning the Civil War. The first one - The Guns of the South - was kind of cool - racist skinhead bastards from 21^st century South Africa delivered AK-47's to General Lee and his troops. General Lee get's a copy of a modern history of the Civil War that tells about how evil slavery is and starts to do away with it. The racist skinhead bastards get upset with this and start fighting General Lee, who wins in the end anyway. It's a pretty cool mix of sci-fi and historical fiction. His other books that I've read, though, have the South winning through military strategy and what-not. He seems to be a cool author, but I'm afraid he's just another Civil War geek having us on. Again, beware.

How 'bout those Civil War geeks, huh? I mean, being a history buff is cool, and the Civil War is without a doubt very important in the history of the U.S. But these guys who dress up in the outfits and talk old-fashioned and eat month-old cornbread and all that shit? I just don't get it.

Forrest Park here in Memphis has a statue of Nathan Bedford Forrest in it, a man who was a pretty good soldier, by all accounts. And he probably founded the Ku Klux Klan, which makes him America's own low-rent version of Hitler, as far as I'm concerned. Still, every once in a while I'll drive by there and there will be a bunch of buffoons in Confederate uniforms, saluting the statue, saluting each other, whipping each other lustily with straps, lopping off limbs and surrendering to Union forces. I repeat, I don't get it. It's over boys, welcome to the ass-end of the 20^th century - you're team lost!

When I was in college one of the history professors was a Civil War nerd. You'd see him wandering around evey so often in his blue uniform, charging at sorority girls and outflanking squirrels. He was insane, and yet he had a large group of student followers who would dress up like him and go off in the country for days at a time. These being college students, I'm sure they drank a lot of cheap wine on these trips and had sex in tents. I don't know, though. I was never there.

And the thing that always killed me was that a lot of girls got in to this, too. If you're a guy I can at least understand intellectually why you might want to do the Civil War thing: you get to play soldier. Most guys like that, right? But girls? They got to wear uncomfortable, unattractive clothes and wait for the guys. Sounds like a fun club, huh? Where the hell do I sign up?

So anyway...

Okay. Very quickly, I'd like to list Two Things That Annoyed Me Yesterday. Are you ready?

Number One: I went to Circle K yesterday to get some gas. I also needed a loaf of bread and a Coke, so I went inside. I got my stuff and told the woman at the counter I needed ten dollars worth on pump number three. She told me my total - thirteen something - and I handed her my credit card.

"You cain't use a credit card," she said.

I looked at her, puzzled. "I can't use a credit card?"

She shook her head sadly. "Credit machine broke."

I had no cash on me, which was why I was using the credit card. "Guess I can't buy anything, then." And I proceeded to head to the door.

Then she released the most bitchy, put-upon sigh I have ever heard. I guess she was pissed that she'd rung my purchases up and then I refused to pay for them

Why does this bother me, you ask? Because it's not my fault her shit is broke, and she doesn't need to act like it is. There's a sticker on the door that says you accept Visa - you best take it down if that's not true anymore. Go to hell, Circle K woman, go to hell.

Number Two: After I left Circle K (I ended up going to Exxon, which I try not to do seeing as how they ruined Alaska and everything) I was in the drive-through at Burger King, waiting for the aforementioned Double Whopper, when this homeless fellow staggers up to my truck window. His face is all screwed up, he's got on the thrift-store special wardrobe, and for some reason he's holding a can of grape soda and a newspaper over his head.

As he got close to me I said, "I can't help you, man."

Then he proceeded to look all hurt and say, "how you know you can't help me?"

I shook my head, "I got nothing for you."

He looked like he was insulted there for a second. Then he grinned and said, "how 'bout a nickel?"

I shook my head again and he wandered across the street, grape soda high in the air.

This bothered me because he acted upset that I assumed he was going to panhandle. The fact that he was going to panhandle - and did - never crossed his mind. If you're going to beg, fine. I may give you a buck now and then. But don't take it personally or get all pissed off when I don't. I work for my money. If I remember that before I hand you some money chances are you're not going to get anything. Whenever someone is bright enough to panhandle what they're saying to me is, in effect, "hello! I'd like for you to give me something for nothing!" Fat chance, buddy. You go to hell too.

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