How Green Is My Toilet

March 17, 2011: Aloha and begorah to all you Irish folk; may all your vomit be green vomit.

Remembering that I've adequately bashed this and other revered iconic March moments in past Blah-ugh! entries, I thought tonight I'd (once again) focus on something much nearer and dearer to my heart -- the sanctity of toilets. Toward that end -- (and I must have used that silly double-entendre before!) -- I thought I'd present you with a most poetic moment that I experienced just tonight.

You see, I was feeling somewhat despondent earlier owing to several factors -- among them, humanity's failure to recognize my greatness, my Blah-ugh! readers' failure to recognize my greatness, my failure (thus far) to find a literary agent, my Blah-ugh! readers' failure to help me find a literary agent ... All in all it was a frustrating night, in which I was focused on humanity's numerous shortcomings, as well as the one or two that I can claim. Most of all, I couldn't shake that too-often recurring sense of my not being understood, of my not being accepted as I am, and not being loved simply because I'm (after all) so infectiously lovable.

So it was that I found myself in the downstairs toilet of my local library; not for any particular reason, except I had to urinate, and what better place for a literary man like myself to do so. And as I approached the urinal, I was overcome with that singular inspiration one only finds in Muse-addled moments of bathroom clarity, and the first lines of an inspired poem formed effortlessly in my pee-focused mind ... I took out my pen and wrote:

"Hello Toilet.
You still accept me, despite my shortcomings.
I can always come to you
Open and honest
And share
My innermost secrets"

Yes, once again, the answers were presenting themselves in porcelain, and all I had to do was show up. All at once my angst and frustration were softened by the satisfaction of being understood, as well as the elation of creative birthing. (I knew I was on to something big, and envisioned the veritable epic I would write as both tribute and analysis of the role the toilet has played in my life.)

Then suddenly this guy came in and hurried into the adjacent stall. This, in itself, wouldn't have bothered me, but he began talking over the wall. "Do you use the toilet on the second floor that often?" he said. And believe me, I froze, because I'm not one to talk to strangers in a toilet, let alone close friends. For a minute, I thought I must have imagined it, or perhaps he'd brought a phone with him or ... something. Let me tell you, it was very disconcerting.

"Somebody tore the toilet paper dispenser right off the wall," he said, louder now. "Brand new it was!" Again, I didn't respond, but raced to wash my hands and flee before he came out and identified me. (I was probably in my car before he even had a chance to flush.)

Looking back, after I jotted down his dialogue to get it verbatim, it seemed a kind of interesting coincidence that this weirdo would intrude on my toilet solace to express his own (dare I say) loving insights and experiences relating to the sacrosanct library toilets. And who was I, but a self-centered urinator bent on using the toilet to meet my own needs and not open to sharing the communal nature of this particular pee parlor.

Anyway, it gave me pause, if not humility. Tonight I was able to recognize our shared humanity, replete with the fallibility, need to be accepted, and -- when all is said and done -- deep, deep affection for, and gratitude toward, the many toilets in our lives.

Finding God In My Toilet

August 30, 2009: Those of you who've read my first novel TEMPORARY INSANITY -- (I know there are at least two of you out there, plus my late mentor, who committed suicide shortly after finishing it) -- know that two of my recurring literary themes are 1) going to the bathroom, and 2) God. What you may not recognize, however, is how often life imitates art, as an experience I had yesterday afternoon clearly demonstrates.

I was on a lovely walk down by Burying Hill Beach in Westport, CT, when I was overcome with a gut-wrenching compulsion to evacuate. Like Archie Bunker -- another fictitious character -- I fight to confine my waste-expulsion practices to my own home, but on rare occasions necessity thwarts custom, and with my car a good mile away and my intestines roiling like I'd swallowed a live ferret, it seemed only practical to take whatever opportunity I could find.

Imagine my delighted disbelief to discover not only a clean single bathroom with a lock on the door, but enough paper supplies for an entire army of incontinent men. I indulged myself with a sort of hearty gusto, took my time and care, and even washed my hands with the lovely machine-dispensed soap foam the Parks & Rec Department provided. In a state of gratitude, I noted to myself that God (Fate, Higher Power, the Universe, whatever the hell you want to call it) had seen to lead me to this literal sanctuary atop the hill, meeting the needs of a traveling pilgrim who viciously had to take a dump.

Before leaving, as a courtesy to the next incontinent man who'd need to sit, I flipped the seat up so it wouldn't be carelessly peed upon in the coming hours ... And printed underneath in soft, blue letters, there was that word again ... as it was reported being under the toilet seat in my novel -- "Church."

An inspired company, no doubt, meeting a great need of mankind with its unique and obviously spiritual brand of porcelain. Once again the lesson was clear, as it was demonstrated for my protagonist in my book -- (to paraphrase) Dogmas and doctrines will shift and pass (if you'll forgive the imagery), but when all is said and done, here is where you can always find peace, contentment and relief -- the trappings of a true spiritual experience!

Amen!