Hazards of Portable Electronic Devices

I ran into a *situation* the other day in the men's restroom. Noo, not that kind of situation! Anyway, I don't mean to launch into another tirade on urinals, but I think that a slimy public restroom can create some singularly thorny situations that really prey on our personal insecurities. What's more, it's one of those rare times for solitary contemplation. Breathe in... and now... exhale...

But now suppose, just for the moment if this is not in fact so, that you are male, and that you have entered... The Dewomanized Zone. Indeed, you have stepped foot inside a public men's restroom (complete with a line of urinals and everything). After having judiciously chosen a urinal (second from the end, not the short one, and not the first or last one), you settle in to take care of the business end of this affair.

Before you can even get started, however, That Guy wanders in and chooses the adjacent urinal to your left, despite the overwhelming surplus of alternatives. He has committed an unpardonable breach of bathroom etiquette. That Guy is a well-dressed youngish chap, at any rate. "He's right 30," you might say, if you were from that part of the world. He looks friendly enough, and if he were a friend-of-a-friend that you met at happy hour, you know, you'd probably buy him a beer. But you are not at happy hour. You are attempting to urinate.

He settles in. Your concentration is broken. Worryingly, you sense that you may not be able to pull it off. Inside your head, where your brain is and your discomfort lies, your agitated pleas grow increasingly despondent and you find yourself glancing up and you're worried that he overhears the commotion: "come on, relax, just let it go, just let it leave, let it go home, just go home, home in the porcelain bowl, are you too good for your home?!!"

Suddenly, just as your new companion settles in for the job and you are about to convince yourself to do likewise, a strident (and very much unsettling) uproar erupts in the near pocket of his pants: "Die muthafuckas, die muthafuckas, DIE!"

It is his ringtone. Someone is calling him. Now you know very well that he can't exactly answer his call at the moment. Nor can he reach down to silence the offending device. Not during The Business. And so the ringtone drones on, interminably repeating: "Die muthafuckas, die muthafuckas, DIE!"

He glances embarrassingly in your direction. You turn your hips slightly away from him. You think of Donny and Walter and the Dude: "You're phone's ringing, Dude."... "Shut the fuck up, Donny." Soon, it is over. But not completely. You know what is coming now. Wait for it... wait for it... ::shrill beeping::.

It is his voicemail notification. He has received a voicemail. At this point, he has also regained a free hand, so he apologetically reaches down to silence the unruly beeping (you scoot over to avoid the reach-down; meanwhile you have given up on any business ambitions of your own). He finishes The Business sans flushing and hurries out the door while dialing his missed call. The bastard. Motherfucker didn't even wash his hands.

Would you kindly step back from that ledge, sir?

"Sir, you should take a look at this. It's amazing what some people write these days: Let [Muslims] rot back in the dust bowl they came from."

"You know, I've gotta say-- I totally agree with that guy. God, Muslims really just poison our democracy. We should get rid of them."

"What, by pre-emptive nuclear action?"

"Exxxcellent idea... exxxcellent."

"Well, I was merely being ironical."

"What? Anyway, it still stands that Islam is an inherently violent religion since I'm always hearing about Arab guys blowing shit up in the name of Allah or whatever."

"Isn't it possible that Allah would rather they spoke for themselves?"

"Oh God no... Jesus, who the hell is Allah, anyway?"

"Ahem, well, let's get back to the point. So you don't think we could peacefully coexist in an inclusive secular society?"

"Huh? Listen, all I have to say is that if they call me a godless infidel one more time...!"

"Um, sir, would you please wipe the rabid foam from your mouth."

"Youuu commie BASTARD!"

Prepubescent Priorities

I was back at my parents' place for the weekend, and rummaging through my old stuff, I came across a basket containing old trinkets from the crinkly pages of my youth. It was kind of like in the movie Amélie when that one guy Dominique Bretodeau finds the nostalgic tin box she leaves for him in the telephone booth...

The creaky hand grip exercise thing for a better wrestling grip. The Know-a-State memory cards. The "Scientist" activity pin from Webelos Scouts. The beloved red butterfly yo-yo that used to turn the tip of my finger purple when it would cut off the circulation. The notes written in cavortingly cursive script from high school girlfriends, surreptitious correspondence passed ever so furtively from assigned seat to assigned seat. The unsolved Rubik's cube. The action figure of a Christianized Roman tribune, complete with a holy cross on his breastplate (goddammit, I've lost his sword and shield).

Intriguingly, I also came across a diary that I had tried (and quickly failed) to keep when I was eight years old. I'm going to faithfully reproduce it here, exactly as I so eloquently penned the words. We all come face to face, from time to time, with a likeness of ourselves we may not even recognize, but which we must grudgingly accept as part of our singular nature, that which we've become. I might snicker at eight year-old Edwin and his teetering steps toward self-articulation, but there's no getting around the fact that I am he. Just as, for that matter, you are he as you are me and we are all together.

1 January
We had a real blast that day. We had a lot of fireworks. First, me and my family blew some fireworks of our own. Then we went to our neighbor's house and had a real blast. We countdowned to the last second, then boy how we screamed. We screamed as loud as we could. That must of woken up the neighbors. It was a fun and tiring night.

6 January
Today was Ephany [Epiphany]. I got a 500 piece puzzle, Talkboy, this diary, a picture album, one pair of wrist bands, and a set of the world book encyclopedia. My favorite was Talkboy. My worst was the 500 piece puzzle. Then the wristbands. Then the picture album. Then this diary. And then, Talkboy.

7 January
That night, after my soccer practice, my dad wanted to me to take away the soccer ball while he was guarding it. My brother was trying to make a goal but instead, hit me in the thigh. My dad picked me up for about 20 seconds. Then it felt better. The moment he put me down, it began to get hot and I couldn't play. Just because of that I couldn't play Super Nintendo [recent Christmas gift] for the next two days.

8 January
That afternoon, after school, my friend Johnson came over to play. First, Johnson, my little brother Davin and me play Super Nintendo. Then we had a snack. Then we played some more Super Nintendo. Next, we played dominos and made domino spitters [???]. Then we play Connect Four and watched T.V.. Then, it was time for Johnson to go. He put on his rain poncho with a hood because it was a rainy Friday. It was a good thing Johnson came or my dad wouldn't let me play Super Nintendo.

[End of diary.]


Sitting on a cornflake,
Waiting for the van to come.
Corporation tee-shirt
Stupid bloody Tuesday.
Man, you been a naughty boy,
You let your face grow long.