by Tim Sampson thursday, june 1 As a man who's dealt with more than his fair share of anxiety disorders, nervous problems, temporary bouts with reality, and the like for 40 years, I never underestimate the value of a sigh of relief. And right now I'm not overlooking the fact that I'm looking at an AP photograph of one of my favorite American icons, Tonya Harding. The photo is to illustrate Tonya's current community service work, forced upon her just because of the much-publicized and overblown incident recently when she got into a fight with her boyfriend and just happened to clip him in the nose with a hubcap she was trying to throw at his motorcycle because he was bothering her out by the barn, after which he filed charges against her. (Read: Wuss.) I can't tell you what a sigh of relief I'm sighing just to see her back in the news. To make it even better, the community service work she's pictured doing is weed-eating grass in a cemetery, and she just happens to be standing beside a tombstone engraved with the name "Ronchette." Now, pronounce that in your best Southern drawl and tell me that photographer is not evil. Evil, evil, evil. Wanting to find out more about Tonya's predicament, I did a little research, and let me tell you that that poor woman has been through hell ever since her ex-husband clubbed Nancy Kerrigan on the kneecap with a metal baton. (Read: Big fat deal.) First of all, it's obvious that the trauma has rendered poor Tonya unable to realize that "the tuft" she incorporates into her hairstyle -- you know, the stiff, straw-like bangs that stick out from the forehead, not unlike a cockatiel and very prominent among young women who live near naval bases -- needs to go. Or maybe not. Maybe she knows that without "the tuft," the media might start to lose interest (I know I would). Maybe she ought to market Tuft Hair Extensions in such areas. If Monica Lewinsky can push handbags and diet programs just because she had oral sex with the president, Tonya ought to be able to capitalize on the particular blow that put her in the limelight. At any rate, ever since hubby attacked old cat-lips with the baton, poor Tonya's been on a rocky road. Literally. Her pickup truck, described by police as having big tires and being "jacked up to the legal limit" (I feel like I just had an injection of something really good), slipped on the ice (it's really kicking in now) on the way to the mall and went straight into a ditch. See? Poor thing. Then she got kidnapped. She was at home one day and went to get some cigarettes out of the pickup truck (just when I thought it was wearing off), and a guy with "bushy hair" -- so she says, and she should know about that -- nabbed her at knifepoint and made her drive him about 30 minutes away to another town, and to escape she had to drive the truck into a tree, jump out into the woods, and hide in the brush. Very smart to think of such good camouflage in such a whirlwind situation; maybe she'd better not do anything about that hair. Finally, the truck was stolen at the mall -- or repossessed. It's not quite clear. Then she had to call 911 and give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when someone collapsed in a bar in Milwaukee; photos from a video of her wedding night wound up in Penthouse; in her first skating performance after the Kerrigan clubbing she was forced to dress up as Mrs. Santa Claus; she was offered a job as the spokesperson for Road Rage Apparel; she had to manage a wrestler for a night; a judge made her start taking antibuse, which makes you deathly ill if you drink alcohol (and they say Communism is dead); she had to auction off some of her skating costumes; and now -- instead of letting her serve her community service by teaching skating to underprivileged kids as was the plan -- they've got her out there in the bone yard chopping down weeds for all the world to see. Geesh. That's enough to make Whitney Houston wanna run out and buy a new crack pipe. And speaking of crack pipes, I guess I'd better put mine away and get around to get around to the real point of all this: what's going on around town this week. And because I have rambled on so and taken so much space -- and because there's a very special event later in this column that's going to require a little more than just a mention -- this is going to have to be brief. Tonight, Ringo Starr is at the Horseshoe Casino (a former Beatle at a casino, and people are worried about Nancy Kerrigan's knee); the Reba Russell Band is at the Black Diamond; Nancy Apple's Pickin' Party is at Kudzu's; and Truckadelic, with Bumbercrop, is at Young Avenue Deli. friday, june 2 Lots of art openings tonight: the 2nd Annual Trailer Trash Art Show featuring lots of artists and plenty of Cheez Whiz at 2174 Young; at David Lusk Gallery, for Robert Yasuda and Libby Johnson; at Delta Axis Contemporary Arts Center, for Bridge: A Show of Ceramic Work; at Art Farm Gallery of Fine Art, for Tenacious Memories; at Java Cabana, for Second Chances; at Albers Fine Art Gallery, for Southern Artists: Diverse Views; and at Perry Nicole Fine Art, for Greg Decker. Comedy: Jeff Foxworthy at Sam's Town Casino; Finis Henderson at Gold Strike. Tonight's Orpheum Summer Movie Series feature is The Wizard of Oz. Today kicks off this weekend's Memphis Italian Festival at Marquette Park. Richard Orange is playing at the Blue Monkey; and the Groobees are at the Hi-Tone. saturday, june 3 Very quickly: There they are again -- Accidental Mersh at the New Daisy (watch out). Davy Bennet at the P&H. Bill Cosby at the Grand Casino. sunday, june 4 Skip it. monday, june 5 Who cares? tuesday, june 6 I'm running out of space. wednesday, june 7 Finally. Finally a reason for me to leave my house and go out into public for more than cigarettes and cat food. There's a booksigning tonight at Davis-Kidd by the funniest living writer today, David Sedaris. I once spent the greater part of a vacation in San Francisco in my hotel room, unable to leave and enjoy the jewel of the West Coast because I made the mistake of taking Naked with me to read for the first time and there was simply no putting it down -- well, except to mix a drink. And I've read it many times since, along with the rest of his books, which I keep close at hand most of the time. So let me just say this. After all the ink I've given to all the people in this city on this page, after writing this piece of crap column every Sunday for the last 10 years of my life, if someone out there doesn't arrange it so that David Sedaris and I can go somewhere and unspear a few olives together, I'm going to start saying what I really think in this stinkin' space and it's going to make Tonya Harding look like Marie Osmond. So there. As always, I couldn't care less what you do this week, because I don't even know you, and unless you can have that photographer fired for invading Tonya's privacy with that tacky photo, I'm sure I never want to meet you. Besides, it's time for me to blow this dump and go lose 20 pounds, get a tan, and have a hair transplant. Gotta get ready for company. n You can e-mail Tim Sampson at letters@memphisflyer.com.