Number of interesting things that have happened to me since Sunday: zero.

Isn't that sad?

Though yesterday afternoon I did go and get take-out from the Public Eye. This was a new experience for me, what with the whole not-really-eating-meat thing.

Not to worry. I got slaw and beans and french fries (which the Public Eye covers with their dry rub - yes!) and heated up some crescent rolls Sonya made for dinner Sunday night. It was a feast, I tell you.

And I went running this afternoon. Which was hot, and not too fast. Not really interesting, though, is it?

So I guess that means I have to tell a story from my exciting and checkered past. How fun for you!

Picture it, if you will: Little Rock, Arkansas, December, 1993. The place was called Midnight Rodeo, a cavernous bar with a country area and a dance area. It was the Thursday night after finals, and the place was packed with students from UALR and UCA. Me, Sonya, Christie and Cindy (Christie's roommate) and maybe a few other people were there, blowing off steam and drinking.

Actually, I wasn't drinking. I was driving.

Anyway, we danced and played pool and smoked far too much. It was a few hours into the next morning and we were still going strong.

Most of us were, anyway.

"Where's Christie?" I asked Sonya as we were dancing on the nearly-deserted dance floor.

"I don't know," Sonya shrugged, "I guess she's with Cindy."

Then we spotted Cindy strolling by the dance floor, drink in hand.

Where was Christie? Had she hooked up with a man? The three of us searched the joint. Christie was nowhere to be found. Certainly she hadn't left. True, we were in her car. But I had the keys.

Playing a hunch, Cindy and Sonya went into the bathroom.

The following is reconstructed from first-person acoounts, since I didn't go in the ladies room.

Sonya and Cindy found Christie, wrapped around one of the toilets, a copious amount of vomit in the bowl in front of her, her butt wedged against the stall door, keeping it shut. Cindy slithered into the stall, where Christie was in a state of near-constant puking.

What to do with her? Cindy wondered.

Sonya went off and came back a few minutes later, carrying a huge bar garbage bag. They popped it over Christie's head and, supporting her on either arm, led her out.

This is where I come back in to the story. To say the least, I was amused at Christie, half-comatose yet still shuffling, being led out of the toilet with a garbage bag over her head. She looked like somebody doing a none-too-convincing impersonation of a condom.

We got her out to the car and put her in the front seat. Cindy and Sonya climbed in back, giggling all the while. I drove back to Conway, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Christie's throat, both to make sure she still had a pulse and so I'd know if she started to puke.

We made it back to Conway. Christie leaned out of the car, puked one last valedictory puke, and then staggered, unassisted, straight into her apartment and off the bed. Cindy put a bucket under Christie's head and let her sleep it off.

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