I was in a public restroom today that has one of those automatic air-freshener things. I was sitting on the pot when it released it's latest load of Stinky Stuff, or whatever it is. The sound it makes when it does this is exactly like the sound of the latches on the stall doors being opened.

This is very scary when you're sittin' on the pot. The sound had a certain stealthy quality to it, too, like someone is trying to sneak out of one of the stalls. It's very Stephen King-ish.

James was down at the house last night. While Sonya and Roxy slept on the couch, we watched Loveline. The caller in question had a problem. Apparently, his roommate and frat brother kept grabbing his crotch. Adam and Dr. Drew suggested that he threaten to tell the other fraternity members.

"Tell the other members, hell!" James said, "what you do is you tell him to quit grabbin' your crotch. If he doesn't..."

"You whoop his ass," I finished. James and I nodded in utter agreement.

I considered doing the Greek thing in college. Really. And I think it's a fine thing for certain kinds of people. I just don't think I'm one of those people. The fraternity guys I talked to as a freshman were talking about being campus leaders and role models, brotherhood and academic excellence. I was like, "um, I just want one of the older guys to buy me some beer. That's really the beginning and end of my interest in the matter."

I have a Beanie Baby parrot - his name is Jabber. They're a hot commodity these days, aren't they? Mine came from the thriving West Memphis Beanie Baby Black Market, courtesy of my mom.

I have my problems with Beanie Babies. Any toy that gets so much attention and affection from grown-ups kind of freaks me out. That's not my big problem, though.

Think about it for a second. Every dinky-ass gift shop in the country seems to have a selection of Beanie Babies. Every collector has a garbage bag full of them. Kids have more than they know what to do with. Even I, who doesn't give a damn about such things, have one in my office. Sonya has a pile of them on our dresser - just five or six that my mom has given her.

They're not rare at all. They're fuckin' everywhere! Value is in the mind of the buyer. As my good friend Jon used to say,

Let me say once again that I love my town.

I was in a high-rise office today, showingthe occupant some computer tricks. I had to really concentrate, though, 'cause he's got this window-wall view of Beale Street and Peabody Place that just blows my mind. I couldn't get any work done if that were my office; I'd just press my nose to the glass and watch downtown chug right along.

It didn't help that it's an eye-bulgingly beautiful day: powder-blue sky, no clouds, warm, the sun just beaming down on the whole affair. It's the beginning of December and it's warm enough for shorts.

I think people who say, "oh, but I like seasons" should be forced to live in Siberia for a year. How'd you enjoy your fifty below seasons, motherfucker? Fuck that. I want humidity, all the time. Bring it on. A balmy, damp winter sounds fine to me.

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