hate to add another bathroom story. I assure you I am not a coprophiliac (real term, check it out at: http://www.rr1.net/users/wrhardesty/webdoc1.html).
Kramer's is a lovely bookstore/coffee house/restaurant on Connecticut Ave. right off of the fantabulous Dupont Circle (memo to me: spellcheck has no objections to "fantabulous", however it does not like "spellcheck"). It's where the love of literature, fine food, tasty desserts, and snobbery go hand in hand at a (moderately) affordable price.
Atmosphere – lovely. Food – A-OK. Service – delightful. Bathroom situation – yeah, a bit militant.
I excused myself from the table and asked where the elusive bathroom hid itself. My server whipped out a dime-sized golden token that reminded me of my elementary days at the arcade ("but I don't wanna play Turtles, I like Rainbow Brite!" – how did my parents not know …).
I was told to follow the signs up to the bathroom where I would exchange my token for the illustrious opportunity to relieve myself in their facilities. Naturally, I was looking forward to a bathroom experience that merited a token, a golden one no less.
After climbing 4 flights of stairs, taking the third right and the following left, and finally a summersault, I came upon the only-those-tokened-shall-pass door to the men's room. A heavy Alcatraz-style bolt could only be undone by my magical token (why does this feel like The Secret Garden?).
The bathroom was skanknasty. The faucet dribbled enough water to wet a freckle, and the blowdryer panted weakly like a dying dog. I don't think I've been that disappointed since Crystal Pepsi.
But three glasses of water later, there I was requesting another golden token.
In attempting to close this blog, the following free association went through my head: golden token, golden ticket, Willy Wonka, Free Willy – and all related to the bathroom (you figure it out).
Friday, March 31, 2006
Got a stick?
I was on the Metro the other day when a girl in her mid-20s pulled out a packet of gum as a post-lunch courtesy to the crammed passengers within garlic-breath range.
I had the impulse to ask her if I might have a piece, but then I reminded myself of cultural norms (and what possible consequences might ensue for one who breaks the don't-talk don't-look don't-acknowledge-life rules of the Metro system) and that this was an inappropriate circumstance to freshen my breath.
Then I thought: Why is it OK to bum a smoke off of a complete stranger, but not a piece of gum?
Gum costs less, makes you more pleasant to be around, and doesn't cause cancer. Why do we hoard it?
Furthermore, linguistic variances of the word "cigarette" in other countries could lead to dangerous cross-cultural miscommunications with strangers (you should just see their faces when you ask for a "fag" in Alabama).
Perhaps it is the guilty conscience that unites smokers and allows them to violate our normal rules of stranger engagement.
I suppose the only cancer-entitlement we gum chewers have is saccharin. I just don't know if that's enough to help us build bridges to mooching.
I had the impulse to ask her if I might have a piece, but then I reminded myself of cultural norms (and what possible consequences might ensue for one who breaks the don't-talk don't-look don't-acknowledge-life rules of the Metro system) and that this was an inappropriate circumstance to freshen my breath.
Then I thought: Why is it OK to bum a smoke off of a complete stranger, but not a piece of gum?
Gum costs less, makes you more pleasant to be around, and doesn't cause cancer. Why do we hoard it?
Furthermore, linguistic variances of the word "cigarette" in other countries could lead to dangerous cross-cultural miscommunications with strangers (you should just see their faces when you ask for a "fag" in Alabama).
Perhaps it is the guilty conscience that unites smokers and allows them to violate our normal rules of stranger engagement.
I suppose the only cancer-entitlement we gum chewers have is saccharin. I just don't know if that's enough to help us build bridges to mooching.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Collarless priest
Nothing beats Scrabble with a priest, I always say. You have to omit words like "breasts", "bitch", and "penis" (yeah you just try to challenge those words) but all in all it was a fun night of modest language, unlimited amounts of alcohol (who needs Jesus and his fancy tricks?), and nudist colony stories.
*car tires screeching to a halt* -- WTF?!?
Yes, my priestly classmate told us all about his conquests around the globe (geographical conquests – let's keep this clean), including a surprise stop at a nudist colony somewhere far from Alabama (thank goodness, my eyes can't process that much flesh).
I, for one, would be a bit stupefied to find a man of the cloth (hehe) at a nudist colony. Just imagine, hanging out (hehe) with all of your nudist friends and reminiscing over those fond memories: that summer meeting at Larry's with the leather couch, the aerobics class where Betty suffered a severe back injury, the game of Limbo over at Tom's (use your imagination people), and particularly that one crazy party where Jello body shots brought on a different type of shot altogether from Stuart (oh no he didn't!) – and then a priest walks in the door …
First of all, seeing a priest naked is probably not the most arousing sight imaginable. Secondly, all of the eye candy in the world won't make that lollipop sweet (it's a bit like walking around with your appendix revealed – who cares?! And it's useless!!!). Third, in the unlikely event that the priest is attractive, I don't believe that a Hail Mary (keep that imagination churning) is entirely appropriate considering the circumstances.
I applaud my friend's incredible bravery to enter the colony; in fact, I believe a standing ovation is warranted.
*car tires screeching to a halt* -- WTF?!?
Yes, my priestly classmate told us all about his conquests around the globe (geographical conquests – let's keep this clean), including a surprise stop at a nudist colony somewhere far from Alabama (thank goodness, my eyes can't process that much flesh).
I, for one, would be a bit stupefied to find a man of the cloth (hehe) at a nudist colony. Just imagine, hanging out (hehe) with all of your nudist friends and reminiscing over those fond memories: that summer meeting at Larry's with the leather couch, the aerobics class where Betty suffered a severe back injury, the game of Limbo over at Tom's (use your imagination people), and particularly that one crazy party where Jello body shots brought on a different type of shot altogether from Stuart (oh no he didn't!) – and then a priest walks in the door …
First of all, seeing a priest naked is probably not the most arousing sight imaginable. Secondly, all of the eye candy in the world won't make that lollipop sweet (it's a bit like walking around with your appendix revealed – who cares?! And it's useless!!!). Third, in the unlikely event that the priest is attractive, I don't believe that a Hail Mary (keep that imagination churning) is entirely appropriate considering the circumstances.
I applaud my friend's incredible bravery to enter the colony; in fact, I believe a standing ovation is warranted.
Friday, March 24, 2006
SHOWBOYS!
Last week the Gay Men's Chorus of DC paid tribute to the celebrated successes of gay Broadway (and redundancies). "SHOWBOYS" was broken into 4 mini-shows of Anything Goes, Dear World, Company, and Hairspray (you'll get 10 bonus points for using them all in one sentence).
Tap dancing, flag twirling, men in drag and more: the curtain flies as the lights blind you senseless, the sound of applause the only clue that something lies beyond the invisible 4th wall of the stage.
The curtain drops to conceal the chorus during a spotlighted solo; your only chance to rest, regroup, and be a spectator of what truly is an impressive attempt to show the normalcy of a gay man's life. Songs written for male-female couples are performed by boys and only boys.
As we sit back there in the darkness, listening intently to "Being Alive" and "I Never Said I Love You", an unusual hush falls over what is normally a chatty bunch of chorus boys.
Some of us inspired; others lonely.
The members of the chorus are as varied as they can be: old and young, thick and thin, different races, different religions, and many stories of exclusion and hurt.
The curtain flies for the final time, we shake and shimmy it with all of our might, cheer when it's over, and go our separate ways; some hidden, some open.
I won't remember what I sang, and I won't remember how I danced. But I will always remember how I felt when I performed with such an amazing group of people – of men, who understand me.
Tap dancing, flag twirling, men in drag and more: the curtain flies as the lights blind you senseless, the sound of applause the only clue that something lies beyond the invisible 4th wall of the stage.
The curtain drops to conceal the chorus during a spotlighted solo; your only chance to rest, regroup, and be a spectator of what truly is an impressive attempt to show the normalcy of a gay man's life. Songs written for male-female couples are performed by boys and only boys.
As we sit back there in the darkness, listening intently to "Being Alive" and "I Never Said I Love You", an unusual hush falls over what is normally a chatty bunch of chorus boys.
Some of us inspired; others lonely.
The members of the chorus are as varied as they can be: old and young, thick and thin, different races, different religions, and many stories of exclusion and hurt.
The curtain flies for the final time, we shake and shimmy it with all of our might, cheer when it's over, and go our separate ways; some hidden, some open.
I won't remember what I sang, and I won't remember how I danced. But I will always remember how I felt when I performed with such an amazing group of people – of men, who understand me.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Walk of Sham(e)rock
"One day is worth two tomorrows" – Ben Franklin
(or Rent, yeah … or Dead Poet's Society)
Some hardy-party-ers may take their carpe diem-ism to the next level – like my friend who inadvertently drank her way into oblivion one night at JR's (much to the dislike of the all-gay-male staff that is apparently intolerant of female drunkenness). Seize the day, Mich!!! Just don't seize the nearest boy (ahem!).
What is to follow after a night of throwing caution to the wind (and not to mention the tossing of other miscellaneous items like: rusted hooks, moist underwear, and, most notably, one's cookies – and I'm not joking about ANY of these) is the payback of doing things one used to manage well until the ripe old age of 25.
Drunkenness is a bitch; just ask the cabbie who politely pulled over every other block to allow my friend the honor of puking on the street in 30 degree weather. At least the cabbie was helpful: "Just put finger in throat … feel much better!" Apparently purging advice transcends cultures.
There is also the "walk of shame" that accompanies any rough evening out trying to reclaim one's youth (and later, one's dignity). Most people can disguise the shameful saunter that follows the scandalous tumble of the prior evening: hair matted, lipstick reapplied, wrinkles shaken and eyes slightly glazed.
However, there is one day where the walk of shame cannot be avoided despite all attempts to primp and pamper one's disorganized morning crawl; the day after St. Patrick's Day.
Sweetheart … if it's the morning of the 18th, and you're still wearing green on the Metro at 12:00 noon, shame shall stalk you until your next shower.
I wonder how you say that in Latin?
(or Rent, yeah … or Dead Poet's Society)
Some hardy-party-ers may take their carpe diem-ism to the next level – like my friend who inadvertently drank her way into oblivion one night at JR's (much to the dislike of the all-gay-male staff that is apparently intolerant of female drunkenness). Seize the day, Mich!!! Just don't seize the nearest boy (ahem!).
What is to follow after a night of throwing caution to the wind (and not to mention the tossing of other miscellaneous items like: rusted hooks, moist underwear, and, most notably, one's cookies – and I'm not joking about ANY of these) is the payback of doing things one used to manage well until the ripe old age of 25.
Drunkenness is a bitch; just ask the cabbie who politely pulled over every other block to allow my friend the honor of puking on the street in 30 degree weather. At least the cabbie was helpful: "Just put finger in throat … feel much better!" Apparently purging advice transcends cultures.
There is also the "walk of shame" that accompanies any rough evening out trying to reclaim one's youth (and later, one's dignity). Most people can disguise the shameful saunter that follows the scandalous tumble of the prior evening: hair matted, lipstick reapplied, wrinkles shaken and eyes slightly glazed.
However, there is one day where the walk of shame cannot be avoided despite all attempts to primp and pamper one's disorganized morning crawl; the day after St. Patrick's Day.
Sweetheart … if it's the morning of the 18th, and you're still wearing green on the Metro at 12:00 noon, shame shall stalk you until your next shower.
I wonder how you say that in Latin?
The Shrine at Catholic University
The Catholic University is a quiet place to reflect on the impact of religion, theology, and gross expenditures of cash in our society.
The Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and Run-On Titles houses the most impressive collection of white-supremacist art that I have ever encountered (trust me – museums in Georgia just aren't that big!)
I don't mean to ruffle feathers or acolyte robes (I'll leave that to the white-collared folk), but honestly; up on the ceiling are Adam and Eve in their pre-apple glory, both a pasty white, with Eve displaying her silky cascades of blonde hair. Blonde?
But wait! There's more!!! Here comes the white man on horseback, bringing the good news to the heathen Indians of the Central Plains! The awed Natives stare up in wonder at their Casper-like deliverers who have traveled so very far to save, rape, and pillage their savage race.
Then the quote that runs above the doorway: "Teach all ye nations" They must have run out of chiselers for the remaining "that the white man cometh to break treaties and build a staggering number of McDonalds and Starbucks."
I guess the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Oops Who's the Father Beats Me was built before political correctness, common decency, or morality in general.
P.S. I'll take one ticket for that handbasket to hell, please.
The Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and Run-On Titles houses the most impressive collection of white-supremacist art that I have ever encountered (trust me – museums in Georgia just aren't that big!)
I don't mean to ruffle feathers or acolyte robes (I'll leave that to the white-collared folk), but honestly; up on the ceiling are Adam and Eve in their pre-apple glory, both a pasty white, with Eve displaying her silky cascades of blonde hair. Blonde?
But wait! There's more!!! Here comes the white man on horseback, bringing the good news to the heathen Indians of the Central Plains! The awed Natives stare up in wonder at their Casper-like deliverers who have traveled so very far to save, rape, and pillage their savage race.
Then the quote that runs above the doorway: "Teach all ye nations" They must have run out of chiselers for the remaining "that the white man cometh to break treaties and build a staggering number of McDonalds and Starbucks."
I guess the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Oops Who's the Father Beats Me was built before political correctness, common decency, or morality in general.
P.S. I'll take one ticket for that handbasket to hell, please.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Democrazy
The Library of Congress celebrates the famous quotes of inspirational American leaders by brilliantly posting them as engraved beacons of sage light for all to see, admire, and ooohhhh at.
"There can be no perfect democracy curtailed by color, race, or poverty, but with all we accomplish all" – W.E.B. Dubois
Obvious Mr. Dubois has never dined in the cafeteria of the Rayburn Building on Capitol Hill.
Leave your jeans and T-shirts at home, boys and girls; this is where the big dogs play in their Gucci and Armani. Just two minutes from the House and Senate, the Rayburn Building houses many of the Congressional offices of the political big wigs (it just struck me that "big wig" as an expression may have something to do with pre-Propecia colonial snobs with gavels).
Jeans = tourist … but I wouldn't let that stop me from seeing what the Congress folk and their staff munch on during their hectic day of misusing government funds. The cafeteria was clean, inexpensive, and altogether pretty decent (the dessert cart, in particular, was more tempting than even an intern with a cigar).
I took a moment to pan over the cafeteria and its patrons. The "democracy" that Dubois refers to should be evident in this, the United States of America; prized democracy that stands as a leader to the rest of the world for values and ideals such as equality, tolerance, and gorging.
Instead what I saw was a room FULL of white people (mostly men) in suits. I could count the persons of color on two hands. Interns, office assistants, lobbyists: everyone was white.
Well, "everyone", except for a small group that was probably working the hardest that day- the clean-up crew.
"With all we accomplish all" – indeed: we pass laws that instill racism and neglect within our entire system, we encourage individualism at the expense of others' misfortune, we don't have national health insurance, and we expect people to clean up after us.
Seems like we accomplish quite a bit.
"There can be no perfect democracy curtailed by color, race, or poverty, but with all we accomplish all" – W.E.B. Dubois
Obvious Mr. Dubois has never dined in the cafeteria of the Rayburn Building on Capitol Hill.
Leave your jeans and T-shirts at home, boys and girls; this is where the big dogs play in their Gucci and Armani. Just two minutes from the House and Senate, the Rayburn Building houses many of the Congressional offices of the political big wigs (it just struck me that "big wig" as an expression may have something to do with pre-Propecia colonial snobs with gavels).
Jeans = tourist … but I wouldn't let that stop me from seeing what the Congress folk and their staff munch on during their hectic day of misusing government funds. The cafeteria was clean, inexpensive, and altogether pretty decent (the dessert cart, in particular, was more tempting than even an intern with a cigar).
I took a moment to pan over the cafeteria and its patrons. The "democracy" that Dubois refers to should be evident in this, the United States of America; prized democracy that stands as a leader to the rest of the world for values and ideals such as equality, tolerance, and gorging.
Instead what I saw was a room FULL of white people (mostly men) in suits. I could count the persons of color on two hands. Interns, office assistants, lobbyists: everyone was white.
Well, "everyone", except for a small group that was probably working the hardest that day- the clean-up crew.
"With all we accomplish all" – indeed: we pass laws that instill racism and neglect within our entire system, we encourage individualism at the expense of others' misfortune, we don't have national health insurance, and we expect people to clean up after us.
Seems like we accomplish quite a bit.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Shear Madness
Shear Madness is a silly-comedy mystery-whodunit play that is decent, but would be better after two beers (like watching Medium, Charmed, or any other show currently running on the WB). It's full of one-liners and sharp-tongued jabs that make the audience hoot and holler like spectators in the Jerry Springer Show.
And, like Springer, there are the usual "suspects" on stage: overly flamboyant gay man sporting pink and personifying every stereotype known to homosexuality, the tough ignorant cop who can't add, read, write, or avoid doughnut jokes, the slutty big-breasted loud-mouthed chubby lady with a thick New York accent, and the pristine anorexically-thin aristocrat bitch who is offended by profanity and anything fun.
What really makes this play is the participation of the audience. The stage is surrounded on three sides (mostly by prepubescent teens who are wearing a tie for the first time and giggle at the word "it") and halfway through the performance the house lights come on and the actors invite audience to piece together the series of events that led up to the murder.
It's not an evening of magic, but for 28 bucks you can sit back, howl a bit (Jerry! Jerry!), laugh at a gay man making eyes at a cop, wonder if that New York gal has any serious back injuries, and wonder why the hell you never went to acting school.
And the ending? I'll only say this: Be careful what you wish for.
And, like Springer, there are the usual "suspects" on stage: overly flamboyant gay man sporting pink and personifying every stereotype known to homosexuality, the tough ignorant cop who can't add, read, write, or avoid doughnut jokes, the slutty big-breasted loud-mouthed chubby lady with a thick New York accent, and the pristine anorexically-thin aristocrat bitch who is offended by profanity and anything fun.
What really makes this play is the participation of the audience. The stage is surrounded on three sides (mostly by prepubescent teens who are wearing a tie for the first time and giggle at the word "it") and halfway through the performance the house lights come on and the actors invite audience to piece together the series of events that led up to the murder.
It's not an evening of magic, but for 28 bucks you can sit back, howl a bit (Jerry! Jerry!), laugh at a gay man making eyes at a cop, wonder if that New York gal has any serious back injuries, and wonder why the hell you never went to acting school.
And the ending? I'll only say this: Be careful what you wish for.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Green Lantern
Sunday nights at the Green Lantern: where performing arts meets boozing and cruising, as it is the locale of choice for the Gay Men's Chorus of DC after our evening rehearsal.
Low lights, square bar surrounded on all sides by stools, no windows to the outside world; it's a cozy dive for those who need to hide, and also a stage for the divas who need their moment in the spotlight (that's right – karaoke!!!).
From Garth Brooks to SpiceGirls, these primadonnas (first ladies of the stage) take to the microphone to croon for a male audience of boys, toys, mares and bears. The bar splits in two: to the right, dancing queens (although older than seventeen – and no tambourine) who like to shake and shimmy it with all of their might, and to the left, butch bearded bear boys who are grizzly-guzzling their Bud, Miller, and Heinys.
It's the dichotomy of the gay experience – and where do I fit in?
I attempt a mix: casually sipping my Miller (Lite), a sing along gaily to "Loathing" from Wicked. What a strange exhilaration …
(P.S. If you caught all of the musical references, you belong on the right side of the bar)
Low lights, square bar surrounded on all sides by stools, no windows to the outside world; it's a cozy dive for those who need to hide, and also a stage for the divas who need their moment in the spotlight (that's right – karaoke!!!).
From Garth Brooks to SpiceGirls, these primadonnas (first ladies of the stage) take to the microphone to croon for a male audience of boys, toys, mares and bears. The bar splits in two: to the right, dancing queens (although older than seventeen – and no tambourine) who like to shake and shimmy it with all of their might, and to the left, butch bearded bear boys who are grizzly-guzzling their Bud, Miller, and Heinys.
It's the dichotomy of the gay experience – and where do I fit in?
I attempt a mix: casually sipping my Miller (Lite), a sing along gaily to "Loathing" from Wicked. What a strange exhilaration …
(P.S. If you caught all of the musical references, you belong on the right side of the bar)
Thursday, March 9, 2006
Grubb's Pharmacy
The pharmacy is a nasty, cold, and bitter place to do business. It is where humiliation meets frustration, embarrassment and expense collide, and you constantly wonder to yourself "What the hell has brought all these people here?!"
Grubb's Care Pharmacy on East Capitol and 4th is not your typical pharmacy. It's crammed into an old-style white-walled building that has the faded air of some once impressive pharmaceutical giant.
It feels like a community center. Everyone bursts through the door and is greeted with instantaneous shouts of recognition (I swear I heard someone yell "Norm!") – well, except for me, that is (and I don't aspire to become a regular).
Everyone is warm and friendly, bustling about with their precious parcels of pills, having a laugh over Metamucil, snickering about that time when Barbara got the hemorrhoids or when Danny's rash prevented him from having his daily bike ride.
Even the staff violates the pharmacists' "must be an asshole to work here" code; they seem thrilled to be giving away drugs. It feels like an expensive candy store (please leave the distasteful suppository jokes at the door). The only exception to this was the woman behind the counter who was sporting a mask and abruptly spraying patients in the face with Lysol when they approached.
And now for today's medical trivia: Does anyone know how much a "walker" costs?
You see, Grubb's is not only entertaining, it is also informative. Today I learned that walkers come in all shapes and sizes, and with prices to match. It all depends on the style you would like to accompany your afternoon saunter.
There is the standard "just get me to the bingo hall" walker, which will cost you about $140. If you upgrade to the sleek dark-gray Turbo Roller (estimated time crossing the street: 3 minutes), you can expect to pay about $175. For the elderly on the run (*ahem*) and in need of convenience, there is a Super Turbo Roller that comes with a basket to carry all of your personal belongings ("Look, Ethel, I can even put my oxygen tank in it!"). That puppy will cost you the big bucks - $200.
Come people, it's 2006!!! Why not just get a segway?!
Grubb's Care Pharmacy on East Capitol and 4th is not your typical pharmacy. It's crammed into an old-style white-walled building that has the faded air of some once impressive pharmaceutical giant.
It feels like a community center. Everyone bursts through the door and is greeted with instantaneous shouts of recognition (I swear I heard someone yell "Norm!") – well, except for me, that is (and I don't aspire to become a regular).
Everyone is warm and friendly, bustling about with their precious parcels of pills, having a laugh over Metamucil, snickering about that time when Barbara got the hemorrhoids or when Danny's rash prevented him from having his daily bike ride.
Even the staff violates the pharmacists' "must be an asshole to work here" code; they seem thrilled to be giving away drugs. It feels like an expensive candy store (please leave the distasteful suppository jokes at the door). The only exception to this was the woman behind the counter who was sporting a mask and abruptly spraying patients in the face with Lysol when they approached.
And now for today's medical trivia: Does anyone know how much a "walker" costs?
You see, Grubb's is not only entertaining, it is also informative. Today I learned that walkers come in all shapes and sizes, and with prices to match. It all depends on the style you would like to accompany your afternoon saunter.
There is the standard "just get me to the bingo hall" walker, which will cost you about $140. If you upgrade to the sleek dark-gray Turbo Roller (estimated time crossing the street: 3 minutes), you can expect to pay about $175. For the elderly on the run (*ahem*) and in need of convenience, there is a Super Turbo Roller that comes with a basket to carry all of your personal belongings ("Look, Ethel, I can even put my oxygen tank in it!"). That puppy will cost you the big bucks - $200.
Come people, it's 2006!!! Why not just get a segway?!
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
Santa Claus
There are 2 questions that spell certain doom for any adult working in an elementary school: (1) where do babies come from? (which for many children the answer begins some freak Freudian preoccupation with beaked creatures that take flight), and (2) Is Santa Claus real?
There I was, cornered in the cafeteria, with 3 pairs of innocent eyes (Bambi comes to mind) intently fixated on every flinch, twist, and hesitation of my facial expressions. Their suspicion had already been heightened; some twat at recess had started rumors.
This leaves an adult in a precarious situation; who is responsible for spilling the beans? I had to think fast … and I refuse to lie to children.
"Well, young men of the world," I began, desperately trying to stay afloat without crushing these boys' dreams (and quite possibly starting an incident that would require a crisis-counseling intervention team) … and then it dawned on me.
"When you believe in Santa Claus you get loads of gifts at Christmas," I began. "One day I decided to stop believing in Santa, and the next Christmas my entire tree and underneath was bare, bare I tell you!!!"
They all recoiled and gasped in horror.
But I did not tell a lie …
There I was, cornered in the cafeteria, with 3 pairs of innocent eyes (Bambi comes to mind) intently fixated on every flinch, twist, and hesitation of my facial expressions. Their suspicion had already been heightened; some twat at recess had started rumors.
This leaves an adult in a precarious situation; who is responsible for spilling the beans? I had to think fast … and I refuse to lie to children.
"Well, young men of the world," I began, desperately trying to stay afloat without crushing these boys' dreams (and quite possibly starting an incident that would require a crisis-counseling intervention team) … and then it dawned on me.
"When you believe in Santa Claus you get loads of gifts at Christmas," I began. "One day I decided to stop believing in Santa, and the next Christmas my entire tree and underneath was bare, bare I tell you!!!"
They all recoiled and gasped in horror.
But I did not tell a lie …
Sunday, March 5, 2006
Urine luck(y)
Another bathroom story – forgive me.
The male bathroom is a place of great peace and tranquility; it is a time to reflect on life and feel the pride of being able to stand while urinating. It is also a time to read the senseless scribblings of loose men who haven't discovered the online ManHunt or who are interested in perusing a cruising old-school style.
Tonight's literary treasure was inspiring; apparently there is a young Asian out there somewhere who would like me to do somewhat abrasive things to his posterior, and quite quickly if I wouldn't mind.
The most interesting part of his message was the oh-so-believable sworn statement of cleanliness that his body would provide should I decide to darn leather and bring along a sheet of sandpaper: "I'm HIV negative".
Now, is this necessary? Does he really need to say this? What person in their right mind advertises that they are in fact a carrier for a deadly disease? Please …
Well, Mr. Negative, you can take your needy graffiti and shove it. Er … I mean …
The male bathroom is a place of great peace and tranquility; it is a time to reflect on life and feel the pride of being able to stand while urinating. It is also a time to read the senseless scribblings of loose men who haven't discovered the online ManHunt or who are interested in perusing a cruising old-school style.
Tonight's literary treasure was inspiring; apparently there is a young Asian out there somewhere who would like me to do somewhat abrasive things to his posterior, and quite quickly if I wouldn't mind.
The most interesting part of his message was the oh-so-believable sworn statement of cleanliness that his body would provide should I decide to darn leather and bring along a sheet of sandpaper: "I'm HIV negative".
Now, is this necessary? Does he really need to say this? What person in their right mind advertises that they are in fact a carrier for a deadly disease? Please …
Well, Mr. Negative, you can take your needy graffiti and shove it. Er … I mean …
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