Do you want to hear my analysis of this historic Election Day?
Not that I don’t care. I’ve cared so much since January that I had to put on a helmet and just wait this day out: play some guitar, drink some wine, wait until it’s over.
So instead I’ll go to the other extreme and write about boys peeing.
All male animals are territorial, none more than humans. When I’m waiting in line for a public bathroom, even one of those vile plastic portables, the guy ahead of me will deed it to me as he leaves, as if peeing on it made it his. “Here you go. It’s all yours.”
Last week as I waited pinch-legged with urgency for a bathroom, the guy came out holding by its stem a full glass of amber chardonnay. Eeeew.
It’s always a bit of a drag when the occupant doesn’t lock the door. There are things I just don’t want to see. I always apologize and shut the door, then think, “Why did I just apologize?” Again last week, as I opened the bathroom door on an existing deedholder, he smiled as he washed his hands and said, “I’ll hurry.” I closed the door, overheard the sink shut off, then heard him blow the most prodigious, prolific snot wad I’ve ever heard. The door opened. “It’s all yours.”
I have a close friend whom I’ve personally seen naked in public four times. He’s a popular drummer, and he has been known to play naked on stage. I won’t give away his name, but his initials are W.A.Y.N.E B.R.E.K.K.E. After witnessing some tell-tale pinch-legged urgency on his part, I learned he won’t use the bathroom at my bar because he doesn’t trust the door lock. I pointed out the time I saw him perform a naked fan dance at a wedding. “That’s different,” he explained.
This is the point where I wrap up all these observations into one coherent thought. But it’s warm out, maybe that last sweet, musky day of the year, and I want to go outside.