12/19/99
Tucker

Now, I don't mean to sound bitter or like a complete bitch or anything, but some of the folks on Archipelago suck right out loud. And in public. Not all of 'em, now, not by a long shot. Some of the best journal-people around are on there. But you got to admit, some of them stink the joint up.

I sent the chick who maintains Archipelago an e-mail a long time ago, alerting her to my existence and desire to be on here list. Why? 'Cause it is, supposedly, a collection of the best and brightest journals out there. I obviously belong. She informed me that they were at capacity at the time, but that I would be considered if there was ever an opening. Nothing since.

Of course, this caused a torrent of ego-driven fury to wash over me. What? No room? Then kick somebody out! I admit I might not be better than everybody else, but I damned well know I'm better than one or two of 'em, at least.

I should start my own list of fine journals, you say? Oh ho ho! Yes, that would work. Everyone would be interested in my list because a whopping twenty-five people a day visit my web site and my journal list has been in action for ten whole minutes. Absolutely unacceptable. There is no doubt in my mind that I write one of the finest online journals that exists today. Quite simply, I deserve credibility and recognition because I'm as good as it gets.

Now, I'm not saying you should send an e-mail to Lucy at huntzinger@mindspring.com, telling her how wonderful wonderland 2 is and how you think it would be a wonderful addition to Archipelago - a definite improvement, even. I can't make you do that. But if you choose to, well, it's a free country, isn't it?




Of course, the only award I actually want is a Dear Jackie Robinson, which I was probably just edged out for this year. I will strive to improve and get one in the next century.




And another thing that pisses me off: these huge dump trucks, filled with gravel, with the signs on the back that say

STAY BACK!
NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR
BROKEN WINDSHIELDS

Bullshit! It's their gravel, it's their truck, it's their fault that they're not either driving slower or covering the shit up....they're totally responsible for the broken windshields! What they actually mean is

STAY BACK!
WILL NOT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY
FOR BROKEN WINDSHIELDS
EVEN THOUGH IT'S OBVIOUS
WE BROKE THE MOTHERFUCKER






Wednesday night David ("Just David!") wanted us to come to his house for pasta and salad. Sonya made him a counteroffer: hummus at Mojo's Wednesday night and we'd come to his house for Italian food on Friday night. David did that deal, so Friday night we grabbed a bottle of wine from the cellar (Il Fratello 1996, a friendly red zinfandel) and went to David's new apartment for dinner.

His new place is a duplex, obviously built in the late fifties or early sixties, and it is really similar to the house I grew up in. So that was nice right there. We listened to lots of good music and had salad and pasta and wine. Shawn joined us as well, and he brought along his pug-dog, Tucker. Tucker grunts and snorts a lot, which I understand is normal for the breed. He was very entertaining. Hell, we all were.

And would you believe I fell asleep again! It sad, but true. We were playing Clue (which I had never actually played before) and I was both confused and bored. Combine that with a few bottles of wine and voila! Harold is napping. Much fun was made of me. Regardless of my narcoleptic motherfucker-ness, it was a fun evening.

Yesterday was calm, except for a jaunt to Oak Court Mall. Sonya has a gift certificate at Goldsmith's, and she wanted to try and spend it. If you're familiar with this particular Goldsmith's location, you know the women's shoe department is hectic during the slowest of seasons. Yesterday is was just a notch below frantic.

I observed, "women are about shoes the way men are about pussy."

"I certainly am," the Wife agreed.




Last night we went to Kent and James' house for a Christmas party. It was a small, intimate gathering; there were only eight of us there. Ten if you count Ranger and Nicholas, the dogs. We ate party food, drank lots of beer and learned some interesting things during an extended game of Truth or Dare:

We learned a lot last night. We didn't necessarily want to, but we did.




Sonya was looking through the Flyer earlier, checking out the situation for New Year's Eve.

Looking at one of the casino ads, she said "Rick Springfield costs sixty bucks, but the BeeGees cover band is free."

"A kick in the head is free," I reminded her, "but do you really want one?"

What does the New Year's situation look like in your town? In Memphis, it's surprisingly lame. I certainly don't want to be at the casinos, and the drunken throng on Beale Street might be entertaining from the fringes, but being in the middle of it would be crushing. Literally. There are several superexpensive swanky deals going down, but none of them actually seem real tempting to me. The problem with New Year's is all the lightweights who haven't been out drinking all year who suddenly want to hang out at the bar all night long. Drinking establishments become clogged with people who don't actually drink. The new century may be greeted in my living room.





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