11/09/99
Happy Moments

Labor Day Weekend, 1990 - I went to college at the University of Central Arkansas in Conway. Sonya, that first semester, went to college at Arkansas State in Jonesboro. I made the first of several trips up there on Labor Day weekend. I drove up Friday afternoon and made it to her apartment before dark. I went back to Conway Monday afternoon. In between we holed up in that little apartment, eating and watching movies, listening to music and having sex. I knew I loved her, but it was that weekend when it first dawned on me that I could live with her - maybe for the rest of my life. People - even the closest of friends and family - get on my nerves after I spend too much time with them. Sonya never does, and I learned that that weekend.

16 February 1991 - I got married. I was 18. She was 19. She wasn't pregnant. Lots of people gave us shit about this decision, but like Billy Crystal says in When Harry Met Sally, "when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.." We were right, the naysayers were wrong. Being correct on a longshot is the ultimate vindication.

Margaritaville, spring 1993 - An incredibly successful party Sonya and I threw along with our friend, Christie. Two apartment, a lot of booze, god knows how many people. At one point I went staggering down the stair from our place - each step was covered with bottles. People (me included) puked out the window. The cops came. I've never had a party more spectacular, or tried to. It set the standard.

A Sunday afternoon, fall 1993 - Sonya went computer shopping with Christie. The night before she had fried some chicken legs. I sat on the couch all that long, sunny Sunday, eating cold chicken, drinking iced tea, smoking and reading The Witching Hour. The memory of that day often comes up when I try to identify the perfect afternoon.

New Year's Eve, 1994 - I sat in the deep windowsill of the bay window in our new apartment, watching the crowds surge up and down Front Street to celebrate the new year. The Wife and I had returned to the big city, even though we almost couldn't afford the rent and we both had shitty jobs that we hated.

Early January, 1995 - We went to the animal shelter in West Memphis and got a puppy. She was a shy, tiny thing who hid under the seat on the drive home. Sonya said she looked like a Roxy and that's what we called her.

Late January, 1995 - So I had this job I hated, processing prints and doing some black and white work for this total moron asshole at his shitty little photo lab. He'd promised me a raise after two months. After two months not only did I not get a raise but he started sending me home at noon, meaning that I had a part-time job that didn't pay much more than minimum wage. One Thursday - and it was one cold and rainy motherfucker of a Thursday - I had a job interview. I left the shitty job at ten that morning, went to the interview, got the new job and went back to the shitty job where I took great joy in telling the moron asshole that I was quitting right that minute. I left him in a bad spot and I was very happy about that.

Mardi Gras, 1995 - 1999 - There is no finer feeling than having a drink in your hand, a belly full of good food and knowing that strangely-dressed strangers are going to throw trinkets at you for the next few hours.

Universal Studios Orlando, Late August, 1998 - Sonya and I were sitting on a bench. We had just come out of Twister: The Ride and we were having a smoke. With a clear-eyed, commonsense foresight I knew we had a monstrously fun day ahead of us. I was totally right.

This list is by no means exhaustive. It's just the good moments that easily come to mind.




I boogie.So, I'm happy 'cause Beth has linked to me. I am so fucking validated. Beth is bigtime, y'all, and therefore I am bigtime.

You realize what this is, don't you? This is my entree into the elite journal cabal. It's all charter jets, lobster tails and champagne for me from now on. None of that flank steak bullshit for me - I'm gonna try the London broil.

Really, though, I'm appreciative of all the wonderful people who have linked to me. I'm gonna set me up some links here one day and get the favor back to them. For now, though, I have provided the graphic at right to illustrate how happy all the links make me.




I had to go to this class today. In the course of the class we went around introducing ourselves. I said that I was a web guy.

The class was full of cretins, knuckle draggers and morons. Whenever I did anything to draw attention to myself (cough, answer a question, enter the room) I'd hear dark mutterings of "blah bluh blah mutter web guy mutter grumble who does he think he is?"

They said the title "web guy" much the same way I imagine the Puritans in Salem said "witch."

I was wearing my baggy cargo pants and a new Duran Duran t-shirt. Do you think they were threatened by my young-people wardrobe?




I was watching ESPN2 earlier (SportsCenter - The Seventies, Stuart Scott and Rich Eisen in tacky leisurewear; a scream) and saw Reggie Jackson get hit with a wild pitch. That prompted me to tell Sonya the following story.

In third grade I played wiffleball for the first time. I had played kickball before. For those of you unfamiliar with kickball: it's like baseball, except you kick a big, soft, red rubber ball. If you get hold of the ball you can throw it at the baserunners. If you hit a runner they're out.

So in the course of this, my first wiffleball game, I managed to get hold of the ball and I found myself near a runner, approaching first base. The ball was all taped up and exceptionally hard and unforgiving.

I beaned the runner a good one in the head. Motherfucker hit the ground, y'all.

My teacher took me aside, then, and explained to me that you could not get an out by hitting the runner with the ball in wiffleball. It was news to me!

And you know, now that I think about it I think it was a girl.

"Good thing we weren't playing baseball," I told Sonya.





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