Tuesday night I was playing Tomb Raider II. Sonya had folded a load of clothes I'd washed and left them in the basket in the middle of the living room floor.

"Some of these need to be hung," she said, pointing to the shirts spread out on top of the pile.

"Uh-huh," I said absently, shooting Bartoli's henchmen while running and leaping about.

Several hours later I look around. Sonya is asleep on the couch and Roxy is curled up atop the mound of warm clothes, sleeping peacefully and shedding all over my black turtleneck.

That damned game.

I'm getting pretty good at it, too. I found some cheat codes yesterday and kicked some major butt on the oil derrick. I bet you don't give a damn, do you?

I'm a game nerd. Eek.

I haven't run since last Thursday. I am a slug. Sonya won't be in 'til seven or so tonight. I need to run, but the urge to play the damned game will be strong.

I'm not making any promises.

Watched the Motley Crue bio on VH1 last night. You know what? They rock. They fuckin' kick ass. Still, ten years later.

What was the soundtrack to your senior year in high school? You know you had one...the tape that never left the car, the CD that was always playing at some girl's house, the lyrics your best friend scribbled on his notebook. For me, it was Dr. Feelgood. Just pop it in and let it roll, all the way from Terror 'n Tinseltown to Time For Change.

I lobbied hard for Time For Change to be my senior class song. It was one of the few things I got excited about in high school. It didn't happen though, mainly because I'm an idiot. When the principal wanted to see the lyrics of the song I gave him the whole CD. He saw all the lyrics.

"Now people," he asked my assembled class, "do you really want a band that says things like this to represent you and be what you remember your senior year with?"

"YES!" we shouted in unison.

Tough. No Motley Crue. End of fuckin' story.

I still break out Dr. Feelgood on occasion and listen to it in the truck. I have to laugh at some of the lyrics ("Oh good God there's a fire in my pants..." is an actual quote) but Kickstart My Heart never fails to make me crank it up and drive too fast.

Oh, good lord. I have a ten-year reunion next year. The nineties are fuckin' gone, man. Where'd they go?

I'm not terribly interested in my class reunion, really. I've kept up with exactly one person from my class (the lovely and currently-pregnant Christie - hey dear!) and I'm pretty happy with that.

I wouldn't mind going to the class of '89 reunion this year, though. I loved those guys. They were so much more fun than my class.

I had an okay time in high school, I suppose. I have friends who hated it, whose every moment there was a hellish torture. I also know people who really peaked in high school; life has been a long downhill slope for them ever since.

I wasn't the most popular kid, but I had a circle of good friends. Lots of acquaintances, lots of beer and dancing connections. I had a good time when I wasn't actually in class, and in class I did okay.

Oh yeah, I almost got in really big trouble one time. My physics teacher was this simpleminded coach with a speech impediment. He gave us tests directly out of the teacher's manual or whatever the hell it is tests come out of. Anyway, one night I was at the school doing some extracurricular bullshit. His classroom door was unlocked.

Physics, from day one onwards, was devilishly hard for me. I was only in it because I was on my second year on the yearbook staff; the only science class (which I had to have to graduate) that matched my schedule was physics.

What can I say? I was a weak and foolish kid. I snagged a copy of the next test.

Somebody ratted me out, though. A few days later the coach called me into his classroom.

"Williamth," he began, "I've heard that thomeone may have gotten their handth on a copy of our nektht phythikth tetht. You know anything about that?"

I knew what I had to do. I squared my shoulders, swallowed hard, looked my teacher in the eye and said, "no sir, I haven't heard anything about that, coach. If I find out anything I'll let you know."

God, but I was a good liar. Politician-level good.

Coach gave a laboriously handmade test instead. I got a C.

My mother in-law gave me a long black wool coat for Christmas a few years ago. It looks nice and it's like wearing a blanket, it's so warm.

For some reason, though, I quit wearing it so much last winter and started wearing an old coat someone had left at Sonya's workplace. My coworkers call it my "homeless coat," in that it is greeny-gray and drab and a bit frayed.

"You never wear your black coat," Sonya said last night, "my mama paid good money for that coat!"

True, and for the life of me I couldn't remember why I'd put it away. This morning I put it on to walk the dog. It was elegant, and so much warmer than the homeless coat.

Then I got in the truck for the short drive to work. Aha!

I remembered why I'd quit wearing it. It's unpleasant to drive in; sitting on all that long coat is bulky and makes it hard to move my arms and turn my head. You'll agree those things are almost requirements for driving.

Seeing as how last winter I was driving an hour round trip to work and back I can now understand why I quit wearing it. For a stylish, short-trip Downtowner, though, it's perfect winter wear.

A trio of asinine, idiotic DJ's here in Memphis were spreading a particularly moronic urban legend this morning: the one about the AIDS-infected needles in payphone coin slots. I shook my head at their foolishness as I brushed my teeth.

"Urban legend," I thought to myself, "idiots."

[Why do I listen to such foolishness? Because these family-friendly simps annoy me and Sonya out of bed. Anything else and one - or both - of us will oversleep.]

When I heard coworkers repeating it as gospel fact, though, I had to spring to action. I found the above hyperlink, printed a copy and showed it around the office. Then I faxed it to the woman who had initially spread it to my coworkers.

Fighting misinformation - that's me.

Okay, now I've got just a touch of metajournalistic content. Scroll on past if this shit bores you, I won't mind.

And really, this question is for those readers of mine who also read other journals as well. Here's the question:

Call me shallow, but it's a big deal with me. Life is too short to read ugly people's journals.

Don't worry, I'm not gonna name any names here; I'd probably get in all sorts of trouble. I will give an example, though:

I went to check out this one journal that won some awards last year. Actually, this girl was on a mailing list that I used to follow.

Small internet, huh?

Anyway, I go to her site and and it's like a slap in the face, this girl is so hideous. Just paint-peelingly, dog-howlingly ugly. I tried to read her stuff anyway. I couldn't do it. My mind, Tom Servo-like, kept making snarky comments.

"I used a cream-based sauce..."
(You mean you didn't curdle it with your ugly mug?)

"I was playing with my cat..."
(Did you have to tie a fish around your neck?)

"My father was so mean. He called me stupid and ugly."
(Well, honey, he kind of had a point about one of those things.)

So I only read beautiful people's journals. Wil and Scott are good-looking young men. Siobhan is lovely. Lizzie (or Beth, or Xeney, or whatever the hell her name is) is a cutie. You get my drift?

And me? Are you kidding? I'm a Leo. I know I'm gorgeous.

Now Reading:
Pack of Two by Caroline Knapp. It's all about dog people and why we love dogs so much. It's like someone wrote about me, man. Delightful.

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