HOLY CRAP!

Cash's father's day gift to me.


I discovered the surprise when I stuck my left hand in it.
Nice.

For A Good Time...

I made this with my friend, Jeff Blake. He's the handsome one.

The Hot Seat

This may come as a surprise to some members of the opposite sex, especially the unmarried demographic, but one of the most enjoyable simple pleasures in a man’s daily life are the few he spends in the bathroom taking care of nature's business. Some, like myself, stretch those experiences to their maximum in an effort to get the most out of one sitting. I can read, play sudoku, play my guitar, or even return phone calls. (If you know me well, we've probably talked more than once while I was on the think tank). And the best part is, I can’t be called on to do anything. That time is my own and I’m beholden to none. No one can tell me to move, and I don't until my legs are conclusively asleep.

This experience, of course, has it’s antithesis; opposition in all things. There is the joy of the domestic restroom experience and the pain of the public restroom experience. Let me give one example to illustrate my point. At home one of the worst things associated with the long sit down is the initial sting of a cold seat, and unless you’re willing to do the Japanese "stand-and-squat" you are forced to endure this inevitable shock of cold. This is only compounded when I unwittingly place my freezing bowl of ice cream on my naked thighs.

In public the opposite is true. Shock occurs when I sit, not on a cold, but on a warm toilet seat. The warm toilet seat means one thing; someone has recently been there and his butt heat is still radiating from the very surface my skin is touching. I hit the seat; feel the heat, my stomach sinks, and my mind races in an attempt to decipher who may have been here last. It doesn’t take long since it was only about 30 seconds ago that I past a fat, hairy Italian on his way out laughing under his breath, and, that explains all the black hairs around the seat when I sat down. Gag reflexes kick in and now the taste of bile accumulates in the back of my mouth. Without recourse I resign myself to this temporary lavatory Hell and set aside my bowl of ice cream, for which I have totally lost my appetite. Maybe if the seat cools sufficiently the next guy can enjoy it. (the ice cream, not the seat)



Every once in a while I accidently leave the door unlocked and Maggie comes in, turns and sits in the mini hammock made by my dropped pants, and then hopes to get a private concert. And though the private moment is lost I can't help but oblige my number one fan.

Public Invitation

WARNING: This entry is rated PG-13. It references public restrooms and a man named Joe. If you are uncomfortable reading about restrooms or Joe please skip to my last blog, which has nothing to do with restrooms or Joe. Thank you.

My wife, kids, and I drove from Salt Lake City to Jackson Hole Wyoming today and I was obliged to make the usual stops for gas, sustenance, a break from the banshees that are my kids, and, of coarse, the potty break. I say “potty break” not because I’m exploring a softer side of myself but because that’s what you say when you pull into a gas station with kids. “We’ve got ten minutes for a potty break. Everybody out.” And this is only because men know they’ll look like trailer trash if someone hears their kid say “Dad, I’ve got to use the crapper.”(1)

So anyway, there I am, on my own potty break, taking care of business when I realize I’ve failed to bring reading material with me to help pass the pleasant moments. And so I do what any forgetful person in my situation would do, I read the fascinating comments and lines of poetry conceived and left by the great minds that have come and sat here before me. There are lines that tell me what John is or what Carol did or who Steve loves or what I am or what I can sit on and while I spin. To me the bathroom stall is the worlds blank slate, a communal page on which the unknown poets and philosophers lay it all out for the common man to consider and contemplate. They have given us verses to rival those of Hemingway, Thoreau, Emerson, Quinn, and Dickens, to name a few; emotion wrenching verses like: “Here I sit my buns a-flexin’, just gave birth to another Texan.” In fact, to prove the quality of the modern bathroom stall writer I’d like to perform a small test. I’m convinced that unless you earned a degree in literature you will only pass this test by chance. Guess, if you can, which of these three excerpts and authors is not found in and did not write a classic novel.

1) “I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”
-Walt Whitman

2) “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.”
-Jane Austen

3) “Janice Wright is a fat ho-bag!”
-Dan

(The answer can be found under footnote 2 )

This brings me to the purpose of this post. As good, and as thought provoking as most of the writings are, I am most intrigued and perplexed by the writing of invitations. Without fail someone, let’s say his name is Joe, is offering a good time if the reader will but call Joe and schedule the good time. Upon reading such invitations I’m left to wonder, who is this lonely person who is willing to share his good time with perfect strangers? Has Joe no family, no friends, no associates to whom he can turn in his time of wanton leisure? Is Joe old, young, rich, poor, gainfully employed, dependent on state aid? What type of success has Joe experienced with this type of marketing in the past? I’m really curious to know if Joe has a specific activity in mind or if he’s just open to a plethora of activities. Not everybody likes everything so I would suggest to Joe that he include a menu of possibilities to narrow his search.

Call Joe for a good time. 555-1234
Joe is interested in movies, rollerblading, scenic hikes, baking yummy desserts, and discussing good books.”

This strategy would target Joe’s desired audience while not falsely encouraging other guys looking for a good time who may have a completely different field of interest.
I would call Joe myself to see if our interests align but I only see these invites in towns I am only passing through, and never have enough time for an ice-cream cone and small talk let alone a trip to the local art museum. Since I am without the time to investigate myself I am left to wonder, has Joe found that friend he is looking for or is he still waiting for the right guy to sit down, without a book, and start reading? I guess I’ll never know. So I just want to say to all the “Joe’s” out there, may you find many friends and may they all be as sweet and true as the words left on a bathroom stall.

Footnotes
1. Interesting fact: the expression “the crapper” only became popular after the advent of the flush toilet invented by Thomas Crapper – a blanket apology to all his descendents who share his unfortunate name. You should take comfort in the words of Bill Shakespeare, “What’s in a name, even a crappy name?”
2. Congratulations if you said #3. Either you are well read or you know Janice Wright personally.