3/19/99 --  Not to keep beating a dead horse here, but work really sucks, now that's Lan's gone.  Guess who gets the lion's share of the workload? 

Last nite we went out for what became "Jimbo's Last Nite Out", even though he'll be in LA tonite, and next weekend as well.  He's going up to the Bay Area on Saturday to try to find an apartment in four days, and he starts his new job the following Monday.  Ray's tagging along with him next week and he's going to help him move in, along with Das and Paul.  I feel a little bad about not going up with them, but since Sharon's going to be around, that'll lighten the guilt.  OK, it's not really a tough choice -- four sweaty guys in a U-Haul for six hours, or six hours (or something) with the girl I've had a crush on since my first week at UCLA -- in 1993?

Anyhow, we're at the patio at Friday's after the boys got some predrinking done at Ray's house, and we're treating James to Stoli tonics.  Towards the end of the night, around 12:30 or so, I see James start to convulse in his chair and suddenly stand up, his face a mask of pain.  He starts tearing at his jacket and his shirt collar, as if he was trying to get something out.  I think, "Bee?", but of course, there aren't any bees in LA on a cold March night.  As James rips open his collar and starts pawing at his shoulder, I saw a cigarette, illuminated by the cherry, on his skin in his shirt.  Being the quick thinker that I am, I stand there in disbelief and thought, "Wow, that must hurt."  Eventually the cigarette was dislodged and fell to the ground, and James earned a round of applause from the table next to us.  Apparently he'd tried flicking the smoke over his shoulder, only he projected it straight into his shirt collar.  That produced his spastic efforts to disrobe and the ensuing applause from the adjacent party. 

Our waitress, who used to serve me last summer before I started working and would go in by myself during the afternoon to load up, was giving me shit for just drinking iced tea.  I wonder if Master P and Jennifer Lopez (who reportedly don't drink either) get shit from waitresses.  They probably just get autograph requests.

I need a computer.  That way I could get more sleep and be more productive at work.  Maybe I'll find a car dealer that'll throw in a laptop.  I mean, they throw in airplane tickets as promo giveaways, what about computers?  Whatever, I'd have a better chance of finding a black Republican. 

This weekend I'm supposed to go hang out with Jenny and her limey buddy Sam somewhere.  Sam's a nice guy who used to go out with Jenny's old roommate.  Anyhow, we were trying to think of something to do, and Jenny mentioned Magic Mountain.  Ugh, that is not happening with me.  I used to love theme parks in middle school.  I did the rounds of the LA area ones -- Magic Mountain, Knotts Berry Farm, and Disneyland -- and I liked Magic Mountain the best b/c it had the best rides and was the least cheezy.  But I didn't go to any of them during high school, until 12th grade, when I went twice to Magic Mountain in a span of three months.

It was painful.  I felt so damn ill.  I remember feeling woozy, and then thinking, "It can't be the rides.  Maybe it's how I'm sitting."  So I would adjust my seating position for rides, and try to not stiffen my neck, which I thought my also be a cause for my malady.  Didn't help.  After two consecutive rides on the Viper on the second trip, I swore off thrill parks.

Well, I did until Val came back from France with her German boyfriend in tow.  Val had the great idea to take him to Magic Mountain, apparently thinking that grossly overpriced theme parks make for a great American experience.  I had to tag along, for some stupid sense of obligation that I've hopefully purged from my system.  Oh, the horror.  Oh, the pain.  And then I got on the rides.  I didn't even last until the PM; I could barely stand after the Batman ride, and I conceded to old age and quit thrill rides forever. 

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