Respect at the Age of 45

I regret to report that the #1 stall in the men’s bathroom on the first floor was out of toilet paper this morning. I didn’t discover this until the end of my morning bowel movement. Like all people stuck in this situation, I scoured the empty toilet paper role(s) for remnants, rifled my pockets for discarded tissues and even searched the floor for bathroom reading material: sports page, SF Weekly, etc - anything that could take the place of toilet paper. Nothing. I pondered my options but I knew what I had to do.

Like a ladle dipping into a well, I lowered my hand into the water of freshly clean toilet bowl. I splashed water on the soiled areas until the grimy texture gave way to fresh skin. I retracted my hand and held it over the floor, careful not to drip water from the bowl on my trousers. I pondered my options again. This wasn’t over.

I could wait for my hand and buttocks to air dry, but that would take too long. Keenly relying on my second sense, I listened for approaching footsteps in the hallway. Silence. The bathroom was empty; I made my move.

With my pants straddling by ankles, I broke for the next stall. The thought of toilet paper outweighing the chance of getting caught with my pants down. Success. Clean.

How cool would it be to get into a fistfight in a used bookstore with a guy that looked like Spencer from the Hills?

I opened the door to the punch line: “It was an adverb not an adjective.” The balding, never-left college man behind the counter let out a belly laugh and his co-worker, a diminutive woman with cat-eye glasses and a threadbare cotton t-shirt, chuckled, proud that her joke went over so well. Like all successful jokes she repeated the punch line: “It wasn’t an adjective.” 3 deep in line, the customers were privy to the joke, either giving a short courtesy laugh or nod that said “I got it.” I looked at all 5 and regretted leaving Border’s. I was out of my element and on the run.

It was a used bookstore in a college town. What did I want? The aisles were narrow and errant paperbacks were stacked vertically along the base of the shelves like molding. There were a handful of people in the store and we were all jockeying for position in the fiction section.

I wanted the book Middlesex by an author I couldn’t remember, but there was no way in hell I was going to ask the 2 behind the counter who wrote it. Even though the book was approved by the used bookstore intelligentsia and the subject matter was titillating and could be used as liberal leverage at parties or poetry readings, I was afraid that just asking a question would spawn conversation about books and I didn’t want that. I decided to go it alone, starting in the “A” aisle. It had a familiar cover and was popular book, so it wouldn’t be that hard to find.

It didn’t’ start well. Next to me was a guy in a Strand t-shirt, the CBGB’s of used bookstores. I glared at him and thought: “We get it, dude. You like books.” He bugged me already.

Since there was a little room to move past the book browsers, I bunny hopped sections, going around the back of the bookshelves. Ending up in the “S” section, I had yet to find the book and had already written it off. My eyes darted from book to book, mindlessly wandering the mosaic of fonts and colors that were in front of me, wasting time until my exit.

Two students passed behind me, parking themselves in the “P” section. I caught the tail end of their conversation: “Fuck’em if he was offended. He didn’t move,” he proudly boasted. He was young, good looking, taught and tanned. He had that rich-boy look that was intimidating and that said “Don’t fuck with me, I have something to prove.” I gave him a lot of space.

Pulling a book of the shelf, his friend appeared to be the opposite of him: mousy and non-descript with a best-friend-never-a-girlfriend vibe. It was easy to see that she pinned over him and was too dumb to notice or didn’t care.

“Have you ever heard of her?” thrusting the binding of the book toward his face.

“No, contrary to popular belief,” he said, “I’m not that well read. Who is she?”

What a dick, I thought.

She continued, “Well, she was a woman that was married to an abusive man. She killed herself. I like poetry like that.”

I'm in Michigan

See ya in a week

An Arbitrary Admission of Adolescence

By the time we got to Minneapolis, the word was out; at least our booking agent Ellen knew about it.

We were drunk - really drunk when some kid interviewed us for a local fanzine in St. Louis. We never thought that it would be published and distributed by the time we reached Minneapolis and, we assumed, no one would read it. Regardless, what did we say that was so bad or offensive? I found out it wasn’t what we said, it was what I said.

I wouldn’t have remembered if it wasn’t for the interview. It slowly came back to me - the sloppy grade school-like photo of both bands with beers in hands and over animated expressions, and all the responses to questions starting with, “Dude!” It reeked of intoxication.

And there it was, like big zit on your nose on a date, at the end of the interview: “Duuuude, I had sex before masturbating. I attribute this to my well being high school.” It came out of nowhere – an arbitrary admission that had nothing to do with the interview. It was like standing up in class announcing that you’re gay.

The admission was met with a chorus of “Bullllshiiiiit!”

Ellen asked me if it was true. Supporting the interview, I responded, “Yes. I attribute this to my well being in high school.” I’m not sure how this little anomaly is serving me in adulthood.

The Picture of Freedom

My new symbol. When you think of me, think of this:

Where the Doctors and Lawyers are Poor

While sitting in the bar area of the lodge of the fanciest ranch in Montana, the bartender asked, “Are you guys a flight crew?” IT was the oddest question and was said with such sincerity that it couldn’t be a joke. Just by the looks of us, it should’ve been obvious that none of us could fly a plane, let alone be trusted with one. We were not of this ilk.

“No, we’re the band,” we responded, wide eyed with bewilderment.

Realizing we had no idea why he asked us if we were pilots, he cleared things up: “Sorry, a lot of the guests’ flight crews stay here.”

“So, you mean people fly here in private jets?”

“Oh yeah, most people do.”

“Really? Wow!”

"Yeah, this is a place where Doctors and Lawyers are considered poor."

You’re Like All Dads

I mean, come on, wouldn’t you be pissed if your dad distracted you from your Wii game and you lost because of it? I sure would. And wouldn’t you want to challenge him to a game and say, “I want to kill you at this?” Sounds pretty reasonable to me. Luckily I wasn’t the dad or I’d feel completely different.

While the 9 year old cooled down in the living room, my head laid against the shoulder of their dog. The dog didn’t seem to mind and it was quite relaxing. Testing out my pre-teen whisperer skills, I tested the tumultuous waters, offering her a spot next to me on the dog’s stomach. I was trying to be the cool dad or, more like, the cool friend of the dad. We would talk it out and everything would be alright. Fantasy, right?

Appearing to calm down a bit, she moved to lie down. Feeling pretty good about my parenting skills, I said in a loving manner, “Put your big head here,” gesturing to the dog’s stomach. She abruptly stopped and gave me a menacing look: “Big head? You’re like all dads.” And she stormed off.