L: 1/16/03

Work Diary, 1/16/03

The Men's Room. The Ladies' Room. Outside of polite company, men have
many names for it: the John; the Crapper; the Shitter. Bilious drunks
know it as the Abode of the Porcelain Goddess; Native Americans used it
as a greenhouse in government subsidized housing (refusing, despite
pressure, to use it for its intended purpose. "Who shits in their own
house?" they asked. Who, indeed.).

Of course, people's home toilets are not typically classified as His or
Hers (or maybe they are in the upper tax brackets. People get strange
when they get money.). Ladies everywhere, however, should breathe a
collective sigh of relief that public restrooms are usually divided up.
Trust me.

I've been inside the Ladies' Room exactly twice in my life. A taboo
exists at the threshold of the toilets belonging to the opposite sex;
it takes a very strong will or an extremely full bladder to overcome
such a taboo. Each time I've managed it, however, I've been caught off
guard by the peculiar mixture of regular bathroom smells, perfume, and
wax. Why wax? You tell me.

Naturally, I'm far more familiar with the Men's Room. As a rule, the
Men's Room is a fetid, stinky place that reveals quite a bit about the
male psyche. It's not all bad; some of the graffiti is downright witty
and shows a surprising knowledge of classic literature. But overall,
the Men's Room supports the universal Guy Motto: If there's no one
around to see you, go for it.

How else to explain the menagerie of boogers on the urinal wall, a
collection that exists in every Men's Room regardless of the prices on
the menu? Just recently, we had a new employee who lasted only two
weeks. This employee was over six feet tall, and from the moment he
came here, I started noticing a speckling of boogers above the urinal -
that is, high above the urinal. Then, when the guy left, the boogers
tapered off. I know it was him; none of the other males in this office
are tall enough to reach that high (which just means that they place
theirs at eye level, forcing the urinee to deal with one of humanity's
gooier aspects).

I mentioned graffiti earlier. In the Men's Room, it can be anywhere.
Sometimes it's even hidden, like the call to rid the United States of
illegal immigrants under the handicap bar in my office's restroom. Or,
it's everywhere, like the graffiti in the gas station restroom by my
house (which repeatedly points out that Patrick Doolittle is a
narc?Patrick Doolittle - Westside Narc?Patrick Doolittle - Burn in Hell
You Narc). As a child, I can still picture the question I found
scrawled in a Men's Room in Houston: Why do women have c*nts? Answer:
So men will talk to them. Is it any wonder I have very few straight
male friends? Things like that can scar a proto-queer for life.

In my office, any man seated in the left stall is visible to passerby
when the restroom door is open. Even worse, on every floor of this
office, the restrooms have vents that lead out to the hallways. The
Ladies' Room vents are strangely quiet, whereas the Men's Room vents
emit grunts, groans, Oh, Jesuses!, and the crinkly sound of newspapers
being folded and unfolded. If I'm waiting for the elevator, which puts
me directly under the Men's Room vents, I automatically become a
smirking ten year old, ready to point and jeer when the occupant shows
himself. Fortunately, my elevator usually arrives before I'm forced to
give myself over to what can only be called morbid immaturity bordering
on a pathologically infantile fascination with going to the
toilet.

But I digress. Or do I? Most bookstores carry titles such as "Toilet
Humor IV" and "Bathroom Hijinks from Around the World." Euphemisms
abound for the very act: Dropping the kids off at the pool; laying
cable; taking a waz. Clearly, I am not immune.

Are you?