Have I mentioned that James sold the Pleasuremobile? He did. He looked mighty fine tooling around town in his '97 Grand Prix GTP, but the note was eating him alive. So he sold it to some nice folks from Arkansas and has been driving a work-truck since then.

It did present a small problem Friday night, though. James and Jen had been invited to a party at the house of one of Jen's friends. James was doing a theater thing. He can't drive the work-truck willy-nilly around town, or he'll get in trouble. How would they work it out?

By me and Sonya taking Jen, of course.

"I don't think Joey will mind if you come over," Jen told Sonya.

This statement worried me a little bit. Besides the fact that this was a theater kind of party and you just never can tell with those people I hardly wanted to show up at dude's house unannounced.

I'm not as apprehensive around theater people now as I would have been a year ago, though. Since I've met and hung out with Jen I've realized that theater people are odd, but usually in a good way. Most of them defy the hand-raised, "Acting!" cliche quite well.

This is a prejudice I developed in college, though, so it's hard to shake. This was the rule at the University of Central Arkansas:

Weird: English majors. Not the sorority girls studying to be English teachers, either. I'm talking about the tie-dyed, spacy, chain-smoking English majors who could argue Tennyson vs. Blake all day long. (I kind of fell into this category.)

Weirder: Art students. Not the design and graphic arts people, though. These are the paint-spattered, beret-wearing ones. Strange people.

Weirdest: Theater people. All types. Singing. Quoting obscure plays. Showing obscene gusto for loading and unloading trucks full of production equipment.

Anyway, Jen cleared it with Joey and it was cool. We went to the party and had a good time, too. Joey had just received the Star Wars Trivial Pursuit game for his birthday (I think) so we played that. The Downtown Crew (me, Sonya, James and Jen) actually beat a roomful of people and Joey, who is something of a Star Wars guru. We stayed pretty humble after the victory, though: the other team had been drinking heavily and smoking pot. I figure the substance abuse helped us as much as anything.

We didn't get in 'til two or so, which wasn't terribly good since we had to get back up at seven to take the girls to the airport. Why? They were going to Atlanta to see John Taylor, who you may remember as being the bass player for Duran Duran. What can I say? Jen and Sonya are dorks.

So after a flurry of early-morning, airport-related activity James and I went back home, showered and changed (not together, I might add - you naughty little monkeys) and headed back out - this time to the Liberty Bowl stadium to see the University of Memphis play Tulane.

James is a fan of Tulane. I'm a lover of all things New Orleans. Besides, they're having a great season (8-0 so far) and I did order a Tulane sweat shirt last week. I could hardly miss the game.

We took some beer for tailgating, which I drank (sitting on the tailgate, appropriately enough) while James tried to talk some of his less mentally gifted fellow employees through some computer problems. Then we wandered in the direction of the Bowl itself, stopping only to buy some $20 tickets for $15 from a guy outside the gates.

"Those are real good tickets, man," he told me, "fifty yard line."

More like thirty yard line, actually, but they were good seats. The only problem was they were behind the Memphis sideline. The Tulane fans were on the opposite side of the stadium from us, so we felt a little lonely when Tulane would score and we'd cheer, getting hostile stares from the Tiger fans all the while.

But Tulane did win, 41-31. So we were right and they were wrong.

I retrieved the girls from the airport Sunday afternoon, and they said they had a pretty good time. I believe them. Sonya bought a nifty burgundy wig, too. I look like Dave Foley when I wear it.

Sonya and I were driving from the bank to Subway last night.

"How you doin'?" I asked, just like Joey from Friends.

No response.

"Well?" I asked a few seconds later.

"Oh," she said, "I'm fine. I thought you were just, you know, saying something. I didn't think you expected a response."

"Talking to hear myself, is what you're saying," I observed.

She shook her head tiredly. "No, no. I thought you were being entertaining. You know, doing your Joey impression. I didn't think it was an honest inquiry about my well-being."

"Talking to hear myself talk," I continued, ignoring her (perfectly rational) explanation, "would you like to call me fat while you're at it? Just zing it at me like a goddamn jai alai ball!"

[One day on vacation this summer I told Sonya that she was being ugly - as in her attitude was unpleasant. She misheard me and thought I said she was ugly. Immediately, she shot back with "you're fat!" As if that particular comment had been on the tip of her tongue for years, just waiting to escape.]

"No, dear," she soothed, "I meant 'phat' with a 'p'."

Sonya was also pleased that her pet monkey comment (see the previous issue) got such high praise. She was debating on whether to call me "Monkey Boy" or Banana Boy." Somehow, between Circle K and Subway, this conversation got entangled with our earlier one.

Now she's calling me Phat Banana Boy.

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