This is for all my Memphis readers: isn't all the construction Downtown really impressive? I like to crow about my own neighborhood, but I was down on Beale Street today and from there you get a pretty good view of the new Hampton Inn, and the Gibson factory (they're making guitars!), and the entertainment complex behind the Peabody and even though I couldn't actually see Autozone Park I knew it was there.

Downtown's really taken off in the last, say, five years or so, you know? The Autozone headquarters, the revitalization of Peabody Place, thousands more tourists, Central Station, more apartments all over the place... Give it another five years, y'all, and every building Downtown that isn't currently business-oriented will be all apartments with a bar on the first floor. Downtown Memphis will never be like, say, the French Quarter, but I think it would be pretty cool if it had the vitality of the area in the Loop in Chicago or (probably more realistically) downtown Fort Worth.

Continuing in a Memphis vein: how about the mayor's race? For those of you out of the area, the mayor's race this year is looking to be pretty interesting. The incumbent, Willie Herenton, has done a lot of good things (especially for Downtown) but he's also managed to piss a lot of people off, especially when he tried to sell our local utility. His main competition is Joe Ford, the brother of Harold Ford Sr. Joe has been a city councilman for years, and Harold was our congressman for years, also. His son, Harold Jr., is our congressman now. The Ford family is something of a political machine in Memphis. Also in the running is Jerry Lawler, a local suprestar and WWF wrestling sensation. The smart money is on Herenton, but either Ford or Lawler could make a legitimate run for the office. It should get very colorful before Election Day.

Okay, enough of the local edition. On to national news.

A while back I was reading the Village Voice and came across a review of an Ethiopian restaurant.

"Isn't that an oxymoron?" I muttered to myself. "What do they serve - muddy water and a big plate of sand?"

I thought that was funny as hell. Everybody knows that they ain't got no food in Ethiopia.

In other vaguely inappropriate matters, I overheard someone say today, "pop music today is full of guidos and Mexicans."

Not exactly politically phrased, but pretty accurate, I thought.

In my entry the other day I mentioned that one of my fondest high school memories was puking on the door of Lori Malone's car. If anything needs a little more explanation, it's that. Besides, it's a very funny story. Here it is.

Picture it, if you will: April, 1989. My friend Jon and I (along with our friend, Eric) had front row tickets to see Anthrax, Exodus and Helloween at the Auditorium North Hall. Needless to say, we were deeply upset when the concert was cancelled due to lack of ticket sales.

The night that the concert was supposed to be found Jon and I cruising about. We decided we should drink. We went to Jon's apartment and asked his mom if she would make a beer run for us. Sweet woman that she is, she said yes. Our friends (and Jon's classmates) Donnie, Lori and Kim showed up and sent their money to the liquor store, too.

I had a six-pack of Moosehead. Nowadays, if I need to, I can pace myself, eat sensibly beforehand and knock back a six-pack, no problem. Ten years ago, though, I just went blindly gulping down the beer as fast as I could open them. I hazily remember watching some Talking Heads videos (and doing the little chop-chop-chop down the arm thing along with David Byrne) and wrestling on the floor with everybody else. Then, for some unknown reason, we decided to take a ride.

We piled in to Lori's Firebird. Jon was in the front with Lori and Kim, while Donnie and I sprawled in the back seat. I suppose somebody got hungry, 'cause the next thing I knew we were in the drive-thru at Central Park (a no-frills regional fast food chain). I poked my head out through the tiny gap behind the driver's seat to get my bearings. Two things happened simultaneously then:

1) The woman at the drive-thru opened the drive-thru window, allowing a gust of hot, greasy air to blow across my face and directly down my throat, and

B) Donnie leaned against me to shout out his order, pressing his hot, sweaty, drunken self against my shoulder.

That was it. I looked down and puked a great, beery, hamburgery gout of vomit all over the door of Lori's car, liberally covering the door handle and but getting some all over the exterior of the door.

At the time, I was perversely proud that I got not one drop of vomitus on myself or the interior of the car.

The next thing I remember we were at Kentucky Fried. I was sick in their parking lot. I was sick in their bathroom. I went back to the parking lot and found Lori, trying to pry her door open by jamming a stick under the door handle.

Eventually I found myself back at Jon's, the TV on, the lights off, everyone else gone. I was profoundly miserable. I looked at the clock. It was one-thirty. I turned to the TV, then back to the clock. It was three-thirty. That, friends, was my first waking blackout.

The next morning I woke up, still miserable. Jon's brother, the deeply unsympathetic Terry, got me some water and worked the remote control until I felt stable enough to get myself back home. Now, of course, it's typical teenage stupidity. At the time, though, it was the most horrible experience in my life. I learned a little lesson that night.

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