Category: Uncategorized

Maybe it’s because I have a heavy heart, being apart from my wife for so long. Or else it could be the stress involved in this life transition: Moving, searching for work, financial insecurity, etc. But that’s not what I fear. I fear that I’m just past my peak, washed-up, burned-out. Getting older has a lot to do with the growing sense of dis-ease. I’m noticing changes on a daily basis, it seems. Hair thinning, gut growing, moles popping up everywhere. Is that a hair growing out of my ear? For the love of Christ.

Last night I watched “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” For the record, I thought it was terrible. “Pointless” is the word that jumps to mind. I put it in my Netflix queue because the new Hunter S. Thompson documentary is not available yet, and despite not really being a huge Thompson fan, I find myself drawn to his story. I enjoyed the book “Fear and Loathing,” and I like the whole “Gonzo” vibe in general. The guy had fire and could write, and I say I’m not a huge fan simply because I haven’t yet read much of his work. The movie, however, just seemed to be, well, pointless. It was like: “This is how a psychedelic trip can be portrayed on film.” And not much else. But I continue to be drawn to Thompson’s life story: the gonzo, all-out approach to experience and art, and the seemingly inevitable downfall, in his case ending with a self-inflicted gunshot blast to the head.

Disillusionment. This word has weight for me right now. I’m at a point in my life where I can look back and see how certain life experiments are panning out. And the data is not always inspiring. Did I think I could somehow avoid the inevitable slings and arrows? What DID I expect anyway?

I’m certainly not ready to give up the ghost just yet. I’m just sinking down a bit into the mire, and I don’t like it. All this struggling, this grasping for a way out. Out of what? Where do I think I’m going?

It took me a few seconds, but now I’m grasping the concept: I’m emailing myself. In one sense, it’s not that strange. It’s a way of journaling while I’m at work, without having to save files on my work computer. On the other hand, it just epitomizes the sense of being imprisoned–in my own skull, my own little cubicle, my own world–that has been setting in as I wind up week number two on the job. It’s difficult for me to imagine working here beyond my two month temp assignment. The whole “office culture” thing is just bizarre in many ways, which makes it such fertile ground for sitcom writers I suppose. Don’t get me wrong, though. This is no “holier than thou” put down aimed at the people around me. There are some bright and bubbly people bouncing around the place, making the rest of us look like sleepwalking clock-jockeys. I’m just saying that strange internal worlds have come into being during my short time here, and I can only assume I am not alone, that from 8am to 5pm, Monday through Friday, suspended above countless cubicles like Dilbert dialogue boxes, there exist these strange, idiosyncratic psychological universes, any one of which would make the Twilight Zone seem ho-hum by comparison.

My own private world revolves around the bathroom, or more accurately, the three or four bathrooms nearest to the office. I know what you’re thinking: “I don’t want to hear about this guy’s bathroom habits.” Bullshit. Then why are you still reading? At worst, it’ll just make your own life seem a little less insane. Anyway, not only do I guzzle water all day long, but I typically “drop anchor” three to five times a day, like clockwork. I like to be as comfortable as possible during these little breaks, and for me this means having some privacy, which of course is not a guarantee in a public restroom. If I walk in and see shoes in the stall–any stall–I just turn around and head to another bathroom. Unless, of course, a co-worker standing at the urinal or on his way out spots me, in which case I’ll pretend I was just stopping in to wash my hands. This happens at least once a day. Some days I’ll have rotten “bathroom luck” all day long, other days the stars are aligned in my favor. The worst is when the cat’s already out the bag (so to speak) and someone who doesn’t share my need for privacy comes in and plops his ass right down next to me. Now, if I’ve just sat down, or I’m still prepping the seat with a double layer of TP, I will not hesitate to abandon ship and head to another bathroom. Nothing says “You gotta be kidding me” like listening to another man grunting and whistling Dixie out his ass for ten minutes. I’ll pass. But sometimes there’s no choice, which means I’ll either hurry things along or else wait the other guy out, depending on the circumstances. After lunch today–after having already gone in and out of two over-crowded bathrooms, I was just getting settled in when three–count ’em three–dudes came bursting through the door, one camping out next door with a newspaper and letting loose a stench that could make birds drop from the sky.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a neurotic freak when it comes to such things. I’m also cursed with a “shy bladder,” and so I don’t particularly enjoy the urinal scene much either. I know I’m not alone in this though, because I’ve “heard” many a man come up empty after standing awkwardly beside me for way too long, waiting for the stream to burst forth but finding no relief, only the shame of having to zip up and walk away with his hope for humanity fizzling if not extinguished entirely.

When it comes to number one, I’m a stall guy–call me crazy. I mean, what the hell, I spent the first eighteen years of my life getting used to going into a bowl in total privacy, then all of a sudden I’m in a college dorm standing in front of some trough hanging from the wall, making small talk with a Jewish kid from Long Island, trying not to notice his kosher kielbasa in the periphery of my vision. Like Ernie and his rubber duckie, bathroom time for me was always a time to relax and experience the joys of bodily release. In any event, it’s not a social activity. Which reminds me of another formative freshman dorm experience. I was finishing up a numero dos in one of the stalls when I notice this very tall kid (a six foot six basketball player we called “Stick”) looking down at me from the next stall. As if he were asking me the time he says, “You wipe standing up? I’ve never heard of such of thing.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so. Why? Do you do it sitting down?”

“Of course, man. I mean, you’re already sitting down, and your butt cheeks are nice and spread out that way, so why get up?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess that makes sense man. I really never thought about it before.”

From that day forward I wiped sitting down. An eighteen year daily habit was transformed just like that. There’s a lesson there, but I’m still trying to figure out what it is.

One thing I know for sure is that there’s something about public restrooms that invites otherwise respectable citizens to act like disgusting freaks. I mean, the building in which I work is populated by professional types exclusively. We’re talking guys with PhDs. Graduate students. Well-dressed executives. Yet at least one of these guys thinks it’s okay to piss on the seat once in while. And the wall. And the toilet paper dispenser. For Christ’s sake, what are these people thinking? And which one of these Soccer Dads leaves us these racist screeds and homoerotic cave drawings? I would love to know. Or would I?

With that, I think I understand your earlier hesitancy about exploring this territory together. Maybe our private worlds are better off left to ourselves. Maybe making such things public is taboo for a reason. Sometimes when we tug on that thread we end up with an unsightly hole or, worse yet, the whole bloody works comes apart at the seams. I’ll have to think about it some more. In fact, I think I hear nature calling again, and with a little luck I’ll have some quiet time to contemplate. I think I’ll try the bathroom up on the third floor. I’m pretty sure most folks in that office go home by 4:30.