Well folks, your ol' buddy Hal is playin' a solo gig this week. The lovely and talented Sonya is off in Dallas, taking a class at SMU. Sonya, if you're out there, watch those Texans. They're almost as odd as the Australians. I love you, dear - see you Friday.

And for those of you keeping score, it is indeed hotter than hell on a Saturday night here in Memphis. For example, I took the dog for a walk this afternoon after I got home. I also had some mail to put in the mailbox, which is in front of the post office about two blocks away. There's a park on the way. So I figured I'd walk the dog in the park and then go on to the post office. Sounds harmless, right?

We got to the park - no problem. We went on to the mail box - no problem.

Then the tongue appeared.

If you've visited Roxy's page here at my website, you know she is a precious little thing. She has successfully retained her puppyish demeanor and good looks. I credit it to early spaying. (Fix your pets, folks - everybody will be happier.) Her vet once said, "you can go a long time and not see a dog that cute." This from a man who sees dogs day in, day out, year round. I think it's the ultimate compliment.

So you can imagine how jarring it is when out of that cherubic little hound-snout pops a tongue about eleven inches long. It lolls from side to side like a pink eel and drags the ground. The tongue's appearances are usually quite rare - Roxy is a laid-back canine who usually pants discreetly and calmly. Not today, no sir! That tongue was just hanging and flopping. People stopped on the street to stare at the little Taco Bell-like dog with a skinned snake in her mouth!

Cue the Psycho music...

Then I realized I was wet.

This was no simple sweat, friends. This was just-stepped-out-of-the-shower soaked. Dripping off of me, making my t-shirt stick.

The tongue appeared and I looked like Chris Farley - all from a two-block walk.

We got back to the blessedly cool apartment and Roxy headed for the water bowl. I added some ice. She drank it all. Then she ate the ice. Then she went to the middle of the living room floor and fell on her side with her legs pointed straight out.

I said, "dog, are you daid?"

She raised her head, looked at me bleakly, and wagged her tongue. She's now resting comfortable on the couch after recovering from the trauma. And I am dry.

Though I don't smell too good.

It's been an interesting few days here lately. Friday the crew gathered Dowtown to go see the X-Files movie. The crew consisted of Jen, Angie, Sonya, myself and James.

A word about James here, since you've probably met everyone else. James has the dubious distinction of being my longest-running friend, beating out my second-longest-running friend, Christie, by about a year. We hooked up in ninth grade and have been pretty darn tight since. Our mutual love of absurd humor and cluelessness about popularity bound us together. You know Beavis and Butthead? When I first saw them they reminded me of nothing more than me and James, sitting on my couch and making fun of Vince Neil. We started dating at the same time. I coached him through his first drunk. He hosted me at my first Mardi Gras when he was living in New Orleans and majoring in Russian Fermentation Theory. I sent him care packages and mix tapes while he was stationed in Korea, single-handedly holding back the yellow horde. They made him guard ALL of North Korea - I've seen the pictures. Now James lives in the same building as I. Pretty neat, huh?

Anyway, James fell off a ladder at work Friday and did a hack-and-slash number on his left wrist. We are thankful he is right-handed. I've heard the wound looks like Bob De Niro in Frankenstein, but I haven't seen it yet. I'm sure I will, though. I'll give you a full report then.

So James got home, bandaged and in extreme pain, and we took off for the movies. The show was excellent, by the way - the truth is, indeed, over yonder. We made a late-night stop at the IHOP and filled up on the pancakes and the eggs and gave Angie a hard time about her felonious ex-boyfriend. I won't go in to details about that out of respect for Angie, but suffice it to say she has terminated the relationship with extreme prejudice.

She also dyed her hair blonde. We gave her a hard time about that too.

Saturday is fairly vague - I ate a chicken sandwich, Sonya packed, me and Jen drank tequila, James was in pain. One incident, though, does stand out in the Our Future Is Our Children And Our Future Sucks Department:

I was driving home from getting my sandwich and came up to the intersection next to my building. The light was red, so I stopped. These five kids, maybe eight, ten years old, start to cross the street. They had their bathing suits on, so I assume they were going to play in the fountain in front of city hall. So they're crossing the street, and they all start looking at me hard - and I mean hard, like I'd pissed on their Tupac tape or something - and walking real, real slow. The opposing light turns yellow. They slow down some more. The opposing light turns red. They practically stop right in front of my truck.

I stomped the gas and popped the clutch. They scattered like birdshot and I smiled all the way upstairs.

Sunday I drove Sonya to the airport in Little Rock - it's cheaper to fly to Dallas from Little Rock than Memphis. A lot cheaper. Like $600 cheaper. Southwest vs. Northwest, I suppose. I came back to town and had lunch with the family. Then my mom put me to work in the yard. See the above description of heat and sweating to find out how that went.

After that I went to this store called Gamemasters to get some dice. Dungeons and Dragons dice. Yes, I'm a dork. I've played in the past and hope to play again soon. James and Jen said they'd play and I bet Sonya will too. Let's see here...computer in the living room, Dungeons and Dragons, I work on internet crap - who's the nerd here? That would be me. I just don't care anymore - screw the world. Being cool is too much damn work. Anyway, I go in this place to buy some dice. Every stereotype of the role playing game-fan is up and wandering around. I particularly like the ones that resemble the fat comic book store owner on the Simpsons. The tall skinny guy with the dragon on his t-shirt and the long-haired guy with the chip on his shoulder were well represented, too. I bought my dice and left quickly.

Today was interesting. I went through the new-employee thing for my new job. This afternoon I went for a physical. The high points? No cups in the bathroom to pee in. I restocked for the nice nurse. A finger-prick that was amazingly painful. It still hurts. I may never be able to flip anyone the bird again. Once all this was done the nurse guided me to an examination room.

"Take off all your clothes," she said, handing me a paper gown, "and put this on. The doctor will be in shortly.

All my clothes? I haven't stripped bare-ass naked for a doctor since I was four. Mind you, a doctor did do some tapping on the ol' scroat a few years ago for another job-related physical. She liked my tattoo, though, so I didn't mind so much. I wasn't too worried. I'd actually seen this doctor before and he's a pretty nice guy. So I stripped down and put on my little paper dress.

The doctor came in and did the usual - ears, nose, throat, lungs, reflexs. Then he said, "alright, Harold, stand up, bend over, and touch your toes." I did, and my paper gown fell down around my wrists.

The doctor laughed. How could he not? There I was, my white ass in the air, touching my toes with a little green dress puddled around me. I would have laughed like a motherfucker. I stood up and pulled my gown back around my shoulders. Grinning, the doctor held out a long piece of plastic that had fluttered to the floor.

"You forgot your belt," he said. Jesus...

So - in conclusion - I put on a dress and bent over naked for a strange man. You tell me what kind of day it's been.

Now playing: Songs For The Daily Planet, by Todd Snider. Word is MCA has dropped him. The bastards. The morons! One day they will be sorry, I assure you.

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