10/11/99
Mr. Turtle

You know what? I don't owe anybody an update. Be happy you're getting this one, monkeyboy.

Let's see here...last Thursday night we had a house full as Jen and James were down and Glen came over. We ate takeout from T.J. Mulligan's (two days in a row!) and watched the election returns come rolling in (recap: we had a big city election here in Memphis last week. The incumbents rocked the competition). Then we drank beer and burned a CD for Glen of Tenacious D songs. A surprisingly fun night.

Friday night was pleasingly different. The Wife and I had intended to go see the Church at Newby's, but finances simply wouldn't allow it. However, our good friend David (of "Just David!" fame) had some extra tickets to the dress rehearsal of Dracula being put on by Ballet Memphis. I'd never been to the ballet before, so we jumped on it. David and Shawn, the Lovely and Talented Stylist, met us outside moments before showtime.

It was cool. It's always nice to go to the Orpheum anyway, and the crowd was thin, being solely employees of the company David works for. The company's a big sponsor of the ballet, you see. While the ballet was a bit rough in spots (it was the final dress rehearsal, after all) it was thoroughly captivating. Dracula was captivating, anyway. The lead piece, Strays, was strange, but it was very elegant. Odd, though. I didn't quite get it. I'm no ballet expert, though.

Two very funny jokes were told during the intermission at the ballet.

Things got strange afterwards. We went down to the Spaghetti Warehouse to have some food and fellowship. The service, rendered by a hapless waitress who bore a disturbing resemblance to Dave Chappelle, was horrid. The dinner, though, was not without its moments.

David, upon finding out that Sonya drinks Coke almost exclusively, asked, "when you go to the bathroom is it just, like, an orange paste?"

I also found out that excessive toilet-sitting can lead to hemorrhoids. Is that spelled right? I don't know. Mind you, I'm not a long-term toilet-sitter. But forewarned is forearmed, right?

We also got to dispel Shawn's belief in the Gerbil Up The Ass urban legend.

"It was in the newspaper..." Shawn began.

"Did you read it yourself?" Sonya interrogated.

"No, it was on the internet..."

The whole time Sonya is shaking her head. Fighting misinformation, my Wife is.

Apparently, Shawn also made a fart-like facial expression that nearly made Sonya pass out, she was laughing so hard. David and I missed that. Sonya was really laughing hard, though. It must have been funny.

To top off the evening, when the ineffectual waiter brought us some dessert menus he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "sorry, I'm not on the menu."

Huh?

I'm nice and all, but Shawn and David are both gay as the feather in granddad's hatband. I don't think I was giving out the homosexual vibes at all. Not intentionally, anyway. Even if I was, how could anyone pick up on it while so close to the Combined Sodomite Factor of David and Shawn? It was puzzling.

We were also surrounded by a strange and magnificent cast of diners, including:






Through the magic of Jamie Zawinski's bookmarks I've found out about Shortwave Numbers Stations, spy-related broadcasts in the shortwave band. They're creepy things: a robotic voice reciting a cryptic series of numbers, seemingly at random. Saturday morning I made a CD, incorporating lots of these spooky soundbites in with some peppy pop music, including a couple of songs by Helen Love, who makes music so sugary-sweet and bright I can't imagine listening to a whole album of it without going in to some sort of diabetic fit. The contrast was nice.

Saturday night was James' bachelor party. I drank a lot of beer. The rest of the evening doesn't bear further discussion.

And yesterday was strange. I slept late, awakened by a huge, apartment shaking explosion. The demolition of the Auditorium North Hall continues. Still, it's never good to wake up to an explosion. That's just a true thing: explosions = not good.

We made a trip to West Memphis and the Saints lost to the communist pederast Falcons. I had a slight hangover and by the time yesterday afternoon got here I was in the middle of an inexplicable, full-bore depression. We didn't make our regular trip to the Castle - I wouldn't have been fit company for all those nice people. Finally I went to bed. Today I've been fine, though I feel I'm still standing near the black pit o' despair and could slip back in without a moment's notice. Again, these depressions have no reason or rhyme, they just happen. I dislike it intensely.




I saw a turtle today. I stopped at the post office to drop off a package. As I was driving off I saw an interesting, rounded lump in the parking lot. I got out of the truck to investigate.

It was a small, respectable-looking black and yellow box turtle. His head was sticking far out of his shell and he was looking longingly at a patch of grass at the top of the curb. It was obvious he couldn't make the jump.

I walked over to the turtle and bent over. "Would you like some help?"

"Why yes," the turtle said, "some help would be a fine thing." He was absolutely unafraid of me, never once pulling back in to his shell. I picked him up and he slow-motion walked through the air as I carried him to the grass.

"I'm getting quite a lot done here," he seemed to say, "I've never flown through the air before."

I put him down and he wandered off, slowly, going to take care of whatever business turtles have to do.





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