Sonya and I were watching TV Tuesday night. A commercial came on for the (I'm guessing at the spelling here) Fokuyuko 9000, a "fingertip massager." The commercial showed this clever little device, which does indeed fit on the end of the finger, being used to massage tired shoulder muscles and ease headaches.

"You know why they call it the Fokuyuko 9000?" I asked Sonya.

She raised an eyebrow.

"'Cause you can't say Cliterrific on TV."

Jen and I came in at the same time yesterday and we checked the mail at the same time. As we headed for the elevator I noticed a catalog laying on a table near the mailboxes. It was taped shut and boldly proclaimed that it for adults only.

Of course I grabbed it.

This thing, y'all, is morally reprehensible. I've seen my fair share of stuff and I could actually feel my hair curling as I looked through this book.

I was tempted to call Jerry Falwell and say, "sign me up, buddy. I've seen the light."

As I'm sure most of you know, yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. One of the big to-do's in Memphis on Green Day happens in the Pinch, a cluster of bars just down the street from my house. James had family concerns, and Sonya is still recovering from her recent illness. Jen and I ended up going down there for a while.

[Isn't that wonderfully liberated? Not so long ago a married man and an all-but-engaged woman out together would be the source of all manner of talk. In some towns it still would be. Reason number 347 to live in a big city: no one gives a damn what you do.]

Anyhoo, Jen and I drank green beer and wandered around. At one point we found ourselves standing in front of a stage watching some generic angst-rock band do their thing. We were watching the crowd, drinking beer, what have you, when I noticed someone had gotten on stage with the band and started dancing.

And he was completely naked!

Well, not completely naked. He was wearing hiking boots. He danced for a minute or two, then pounced off the stage and into the crowd, where he ran around, arms outspread, airplane-like. After a little of this he ducked under the stage, put his pants on and sprinted away, heading north.

Jen and I high-fived, then went home. Really, there was nothing else to see.

So I get home and directly go to bed, with more than a little beer buzz sloshing around. I got up this morning early to take Sonya to work and, or course, I had the requisite pounding morning-after headache. It made my morning slow and ponderous.

But I saw a naked guy, you know? That's a story I can tell for years.

Sonya and I went to the Arcade for lunch today. As usual, Heroin-Shooting Devil-Worshipping Girl was our waitress. For those of you unfamiliar with her, HSDWG has dyed black hair in a fashionable Bettie Page 'do, is junkie thin and has lots of pentagram jewelry and visible tattoos. She also has a great graveyard shift DJ voice and is, actually, a pretty good waitress.

"Her eyebrows are painted on," Sonya observed today.

"They've always been painted on," I said.

"Do you think they're tattooed on?" Sonya asked.

"Possibly," I guessed, "or maybe she just has a steady hand and a flair for artwork, 'cause her eyebrows are very consistent."

Sonya once said that if she were going to be with a woman, it would be a woman like that. This filled my head with all sorts of lovely images, to be sure, but it also set me to thinking who my choice would be, if I were going to do such a thing.

My first choice would be Brian Molko from Placebo, but that would be cheating, I think, 'cause Brian is as pretty as Helena Christensen, but shorter.

So for the record, here's my decision: John Cusack. Not from Sixteen Candles, mind you, but from The Grifters or Grosse Point Blank. He's just so cool, you know?

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