April 28, 2012: How ironic it was to return home on Earth Day to find a representative of CL/P (Connecticut Light and Power) tagging trees in our neighborhood for take-down. (CL/P apparently hires local "gardening" businesses to do this sort of work, and I have to assume -- it only makes sense -- that the more trees they cut down -- the more they tag -- the more money they can make.)
So it shouldn't have surprised me that he was suggesting a beautiful, large healthy tree at the corner of our property -- at least 12 feet off the lines, and in no way presenting a danger -- be given the ax (or chainsaw, as it were).
What was also hysterical (and frightening) was that the CL/P flyer -- entitled "You Can Help Prevent Power Outages" -- ONLY talked about PRUNING trees, and referenced their "tree-trimming program." But on the enclosed permission sheet -- the empowering written consent form that CL/P NEEDS to do their dirty work -- they had a little line checked for "taking down," with the numeral "1" next to it.
Were you to see the tree, you'd laugh that CL/P (or in this case, its paid assassin) would even TRY to argue this lovely lifeform should be taken down. But what's so scary is that -- and I have no doubt -- many people throughout the town, throughout the whole state, are going to quickly sign these consent forms without even realizing it means they're going to kill a healthy tree simply because 1) the tree killers will make more money and 2) it may save CL/P trouble in the long run.
The carelessness with which people take axes to healthy trees -- ESPECIALLY so-called gardeners and tree caretakers, ironically -- is pitiful. Modern housing construction starts with clear-cutting lots, rather than trying to design structures that work in tandem with the natural world (meaning big, beautiful trees). Homeowners consider fine landscaping cutting down everything that makes shade and grows on the ground, planting the most artificial-looking chemical-saturated grass money can buy, and surrounding it all with woodchips, woodchips, woodchips -- the stinkier, the better!
On a parallel note, the state is taking great steps to cut down as many trees as possible along the scenic Merritt Parkway. Apparently everyone is feeling paranoid because of some lawsuits involving trees and death and storms, so the logic is to always blame the trees (because we can't blame the state, or the drivers), and so they must be cut down en masse, and scenery, nature and trees be damned ...
(I know, I know! You don't care any more than the state does! You just want to hear about the progress of SPACE CASE -- my nonfiction novel about what might have happened if the Lorax had LIVED -- soon to be available in hard copy form, if you know what's good for you.)
On a positive note -- and please forgive how disjointed this is, for I'm simultaneously watching "Don't Drink the Water" on a loud TV, and it's really much more awful than I remember, despite having Jackie Gleason and the great Ted Bessell -- I found some good tree-related news in my toilet today. Apparently Marcal, which makes my dye-free toilet paper, has been making great efforts to save trees. Not only do they use recycled paper for their products, they encourage people to use their toilet paper, which is made from recycled paper and leads to tree-saving.
After that disheartening Earth Day encounter from that CL/P stoogie, it was great to -- once again, dare I say it -- find hope in my toilet. It felt so good, in fact, I'm thinking seriously about writing a letter to Marcal, telling them how -- while I was wiping my ass -- that encouraging information on the back of their package really made a difference for me ...
And remember, when you look out your window at a lovely tree, when you recycle, and when YOU wipe with recycled, dye-free, fragrance-free Marcal -- YOU too can make a difference!
Showing posts with label toilets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toilets. Show all posts
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Can't Stop Talking Toilets 2012
February 10, 2012: If this were your homepage, you'd be home now ... And if you haven't purchased your virtual copy of SPACE CASE by now (Amazon or B&N), I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with you, except fervently resent ...
That all said, with numerous topics vying for selection in my muddled, moribund mind -- my email struggles, Indian food, Hermann Hesse, the dangers of synthetic underwear ... Once again, toilets turned out to take top billing here at the Blah-ugh!, for once again I'm moved to revisit and revial my most favorite of holy subjects.
You'd think by now you'd have learned everything you needed to know from me about toilets from previous posts. (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2009/08/finding-god-in-my-toilet.html, http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/03/still-more-on-toilets.html and http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/01/finding-acceptance-in-my-toilet.html are just some examples ...) The fact is, however, that we've only just begun to scratch the surface -- or dive deeper, if you will -- regarding this important and yet sadly overlooked element of our overtly disturbing modern human existence.
Today's entry was prompted by my seeing someone pee on the seat at work today. (No, no! I didn't bear witness -- perish the thought!) But I was the unfortunate victim of some selfish moron's thougthless skullduggery and, at the time of my toilet pigrimage, was unfairly forced to view the result of the disturbing actions of what is in essence a modern-day fiend.
Fortunately (for me ... and we all know this is all about ME), this was one visit where the condition of the seat didn't come into play for MY plans, except for the disgust I had to feel in having to gently lift that soiled seat with my foot while watching those skin-creeping neon-yellow dots of vitamin-enriched urine clinging there like so many June bugs ... And while I relieved myself (if you'll forgive the gruesomeness of THAT image), I got to thinking about my own habits where the seat is concerned.
You see, I've long wondered why men are forever implored to "put the seat down." In this enlightened age of equinimity -- (Is that the right word? If not, please don't tell me; I don't WANT to know) -- shouldn't we all be responsible for our own toilets? In other words, if I'm required to LIFT the seat to do MY dirty business, why should a woman not be required to LOWER the seat to do HERS? And yet, time and again, in my codependent efforts to be polite and be a good citizen and to get people to like me in AND out of the bathroom, I will not only raise the seat at the start, but return it to its resting place when I'm complete.
But this ongoing journey of self-discovery has led me to experiment a bit and -- depending on my mood, level of self-confidence, sense of self-esteem, and memory -- I sometimes will and sometimes WON'T put down the bloody seat.
(To be honest, at home I tend to always put it down, for various reasons. As a rule I think one is much more comfortable handling their OWN toilet seat. Despite all the rumors about urine's sterility and the argument that sexually transmitted diseases can't be thusly tranferred -- and why should we believe THAT anyway? -- handling public seats opens a clean man such as myself up to all kinds of disturbing, disgusting and potentially dangerous possibilities.)
Anyway, what really struck my mind -- and you have to understand, this was all unfolding in that short window I took to pee -- was how hostile a gesture it was to pee on a seat. Leaving the seat up is one thing, but by actually PEEING on the seat, you're sending a clear message of contempt -- and dare I say MISOGYNISTIC contempt -- to anyone and everyone who tries to use that soiled toilet after you. And this is what I REALLY found worrisome -- that there was some dirty, vitamin-fueled misogynist running around my place of work -- peeing at will, like a rabid fox terrier, leaving his supposedly sterile mark on our sacred toilet seats, ruthlessly laughing in the face of everything that's decent about urinating ...
At the end of the day, I'm not a woman -- not in any literal sense -- so it doesn't concern me too much. But again, I'm reminded how we, as a society in the 21st century, must not lose sight of the importance of our toilet culture.
We've come light years as an enlightened and spiritual species. We can't regress now. Let's not forget that kindness, caring, community, and even love begin when we first settle down to not just TAKE our piss, but MAKE IT ...
That all said, with numerous topics vying for selection in my muddled, moribund mind -- my email struggles, Indian food, Hermann Hesse, the dangers of synthetic underwear ... Once again, toilets turned out to take top billing here at the Blah-ugh!, for once again I'm moved to revisit and revial my most favorite of holy subjects.
You'd think by now you'd have learned everything you needed to know from me about toilets from previous posts. (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2009/08/finding-god-in-my-toilet.html, http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/03/still-more-on-toilets.html and http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/01/finding-acceptance-in-my-toilet.html are just some examples ...) The fact is, however, that we've only just begun to scratch the surface -- or dive deeper, if you will -- regarding this important and yet sadly overlooked element of our overtly disturbing modern human existence.
Today's entry was prompted by my seeing someone pee on the seat at work today. (No, no! I didn't bear witness -- perish the thought!) But I was the unfortunate victim of some selfish moron's thougthless skullduggery and, at the time of my toilet pigrimage, was unfairly forced to view the result of the disturbing actions of what is in essence a modern-day fiend.
Fortunately (for me ... and we all know this is all about ME), this was one visit where the condition of the seat didn't come into play for MY plans, except for the disgust I had to feel in having to gently lift that soiled seat with my foot while watching those skin-creeping neon-yellow dots of vitamin-enriched urine clinging there like so many June bugs ... And while I relieved myself (if you'll forgive the gruesomeness of THAT image), I got to thinking about my own habits where the seat is concerned.
You see, I've long wondered why men are forever implored to "put the seat down." In this enlightened age of equinimity -- (Is that the right word? If not, please don't tell me; I don't WANT to know) -- shouldn't we all be responsible for our own toilets? In other words, if I'm required to LIFT the seat to do MY dirty business, why should a woman not be required to LOWER the seat to do HERS? And yet, time and again, in my codependent efforts to be polite and be a good citizen and to get people to like me in AND out of the bathroom, I will not only raise the seat at the start, but return it to its resting place when I'm complete.
But this ongoing journey of self-discovery has led me to experiment a bit and -- depending on my mood, level of self-confidence, sense of self-esteem, and memory -- I sometimes will and sometimes WON'T put down the bloody seat.
(To be honest, at home I tend to always put it down, for various reasons. As a rule I think one is much more comfortable handling their OWN toilet seat. Despite all the rumors about urine's sterility and the argument that sexually transmitted diseases can't be thusly tranferred -- and why should we believe THAT anyway? -- handling public seats opens a clean man such as myself up to all kinds of disturbing, disgusting and potentially dangerous possibilities.)
Anyway, what really struck my mind -- and you have to understand, this was all unfolding in that short window I took to pee -- was how hostile a gesture it was to pee on a seat. Leaving the seat up is one thing, but by actually PEEING on the seat, you're sending a clear message of contempt -- and dare I say MISOGYNISTIC contempt -- to anyone and everyone who tries to use that soiled toilet after you. And this is what I REALLY found worrisome -- that there was some dirty, vitamin-fueled misogynist running around my place of work -- peeing at will, like a rabid fox terrier, leaving his supposedly sterile mark on our sacred toilet seats, ruthlessly laughing in the face of everything that's decent about urinating ...
At the end of the day, I'm not a woman -- not in any literal sense -- so it doesn't concern me too much. But again, I'm reminded how we, as a society in the 21st century, must not lose sight of the importance of our toilet culture.
We've come light years as an enlightened and spiritual species. We can't regress now. Let's not forget that kindness, caring, community, and even love begin when we first settle down to not just TAKE our piss, but MAKE IT ...
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Good Grief! Still More on Toilets
January 30, 2011: Blah-ugh! ideas can either fall from the sky, or crawl wretchedly from the shallow depths of one's toilet. You judge where the Muse really dwells ...
Tonight, moved to get another one of these rambling posts into the ether (or out upon the microwaves ... Whatever it is; I'm not Al Gore!), I was pleasantly surprised to get a welcome dose of that muse-manipulated magic to guide me right. For, you see, as I climbed my stairs -- literally moments before I would get to my keyboard -- my no-good son Max bellowed out that he'd fatuously dropped the toenail clipper into the toilet bowl.
Eureka! I thought. This is divine inspiration!
You see, as many new people are drawn to my Blah-ugh!, like so many mealy little European cockroaches attracted to a low-class German bakery (and I don't mean that in any derogatory way, I hope you understand), I'm compelled -- I feel it's my duty, really -- to start repeating myself in order to enlighten all the newcomers to the divine novelty of my meaningless insights and opinions. I only have so many, after all (for as I mentioned, I'm not Al Gore), but these few are important and well worth regurgitating.
So this is -- or at least would have been -- the ideal intro to talk at length about my toilet-related theories, experiences and ideas ...
But, y'know, I'm really, really hungry, and while I've explained in past Blah-ughs! how vital physical hunger can be to the creative process, there's only so much I'm willing to do to please you people. (Selfish cads!) So expect the rest of this finished soon ... or pretty soon. I just -- having paused in my prose -- mashed a large pot of potatoes, and they grow cold as I write ...
So stay tuned ... and, as always, thanks for reading!
Tonight, moved to get another one of these rambling posts into the ether (or out upon the microwaves ... Whatever it is; I'm not Al Gore!), I was pleasantly surprised to get a welcome dose of that muse-manipulated magic to guide me right. For, you see, as I climbed my stairs -- literally moments before I would get to my keyboard -- my no-good son Max bellowed out that he'd fatuously dropped the toenail clipper into the toilet bowl.
Eureka! I thought. This is divine inspiration!
You see, as many new people are drawn to my Blah-ugh!, like so many mealy little European cockroaches attracted to a low-class German bakery (and I don't mean that in any derogatory way, I hope you understand), I'm compelled -- I feel it's my duty, really -- to start repeating myself in order to enlighten all the newcomers to the divine novelty of my meaningless insights and opinions. I only have so many, after all (for as I mentioned, I'm not Al Gore), but these few are important and well worth regurgitating.
So this is -- or at least would have been -- the ideal intro to talk at length about my toilet-related theories, experiences and ideas ...
But, y'know, I'm really, really hungry, and while I've explained in past Blah-ughs! how vital physical hunger can be to the creative process, there's only so much I'm willing to do to please you people. (Selfish cads!) So expect the rest of this finished soon ... or pretty soon. I just -- having paused in my prose -- mashed a large pot of potatoes, and they grow cold as I write ...
So stay tuned ... and, as always, thanks for reading!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Finding Acceptance In My Toilet
January 12, 2010: Looking back, I've found many things in my toilet. (You'll recall the spiritual discoveries I recounted in my August 29, 2009, entry "Finding God In My Toilet.") Well, I'm pleased to report that the miracles continue.
Once again, the "Church" brand name -- a holy blue inscription painted under the lid of the best toilet seats, or at least the most holy -- followed me to the workplace. Imagine the comfort and joy that came just this week when, in the middle of my daily toil, I raised the lid and found my brand of spirituality there at work, just inviting me to get on my knees and pray (were the floors cleaner).
A cerebral man by nature, this experience -- after I washed my hands -- started me to thinking about what it is that makes the toilet such a wonderful place for me. I've addressed the spiritual aspect on more than one occasion, and have written extensively about the privacy and vital solitude of this most holy of sanctuaries. (For those of you who haven't read it, my novel "TEMPORARY INSANITY" offers an articulate summation of my American toilet, and I'd recommend you buy a copy, except it hasn't been published yet, so be patient and read something else for now.) The conclusion I drew this time, however, is that the toilet is a place where I can go and be accepted unconditionally, and this may be its most giving feature.
I don't have to put on airs in the toilet, if you'll forgive the pun. I can be myself. Where else can I go for such a forthright experience -- to stand before (or sit upon) a veritable sanctuary of acceptance -- one that never judges me, no matter to what foul depths my behavior may deteriorate. The toilet is always open for us -- frank and without criticism, willing to tolerate our ugliest sides, even when no one else will, and never one to abandon us even if we occasionally clog it.
Toilets not only service our spiritual and physical needs, but our emotional ones as well. I'd like you think about this next time you have to go. Sure, you're probably making the trip there to drop something off, but perhaps it's time to thing about what it is that you're taking with you when you leave ...
Once again, the "Church" brand name -- a holy blue inscription painted under the lid of the best toilet seats, or at least the most holy -- followed me to the workplace. Imagine the comfort and joy that came just this week when, in the middle of my daily toil, I raised the lid and found my brand of spirituality there at work, just inviting me to get on my knees and pray (were the floors cleaner).
A cerebral man by nature, this experience -- after I washed my hands -- started me to thinking about what it is that makes the toilet such a wonderful place for me. I've addressed the spiritual aspect on more than one occasion, and have written extensively about the privacy and vital solitude of this most holy of sanctuaries. (For those of you who haven't read it, my novel "TEMPORARY INSANITY" offers an articulate summation of my American toilet, and I'd recommend you buy a copy, except it hasn't been published yet, so be patient and read something else for now.) The conclusion I drew this time, however, is that the toilet is a place where I can go and be accepted unconditionally, and this may be its most giving feature.
I don't have to put on airs in the toilet, if you'll forgive the pun. I can be myself. Where else can I go for such a forthright experience -- to stand before (or sit upon) a veritable sanctuary of acceptance -- one that never judges me, no matter to what foul depths my behavior may deteriorate. The toilet is always open for us -- frank and without criticism, willing to tolerate our ugliest sides, even when no one else will, and never one to abandon us even if we occasionally clog it.
Toilets not only service our spiritual and physical needs, but our emotional ones as well. I'd like you think about this next time you have to go. Sure, you're probably making the trip there to drop something off, but perhaps it's time to thing about what it is that you're taking with you when you leave ...
Thursday, October 1, 2009
TravelBlah-ugh! -- Go Stratford, CT
October 1, 2009: It could be any American town, and yet it's probably unique in ways I was too bored to discover. Still, having two hours until my car was ready, I took the time to explore this staid little Connecticut coastal town they call Stratford.
My first disappointment came at the railroad station, where I'd hoped to use the bathroom. You see, there was no bathroom. There was no railroad station, only a muffin shop, with a generous-hearted proprietor (who sadly feels compelled to flood his potentially pleasant place with the obtrusive scream of a wall-mounted television. I ask, Are there no longer any places to go without being bombarded by these fucking things?!) Even stranger, the station house on the eastbound side has been turned into a helicopter museum of all things. I mean, to quote Reggie in the movie "Phantasm," "What the hell is goin' on?!"
Heading out, I realized train travelers are forced to buy their tickets from ugly electronic vending machines, rather than quaint, Yankee-accented older men in blue uniforms, as it should be. Such progress they've made in Stratford. How soon until they install vending urinals and make us pee into timed receptacles that snap shut if we go on too long?
Downtown Stratford is split by the elevated Interstate-95, which rips through the community like fungus on fire. Emerging in the light on the south side, I was disappointed to see the town's center feeling somewhat dried up and lifeless. Needs are getting met at strip malls these days, where people feel safer going to stores they've learned the jingles to, from television. Here, it's sad and hopeless, just like George Bush wanted it!
Choosing a side street, I found a lovely string of Victorian-era homes -- priceless properties that, owing to the ongoing proliferation of new ugly construction, I don't think people generally appreciate. I skulked here and there, trying not to look suspicious, but feeling suspicious nonetheless. I began to discover the pleasant vibration that is Stratford off the beaten trail.
Eventually I emerged close to the water, and was thrilled to remember that Long Island Sound cures everything. A little shack was selling "Fresh Fish & Chips." Is it really fresh? I wondered. Who can we believe when they take away our train stations and replace them with helicopter museums?!
I found a small dock that was, oddly enough for a Thursday morning, busy with visitors -- mostly seedy, bearded motorcycle-type men who smoked and acted suspicious. The view over the water was gorgeous, but there were a lot of bees being frantic on the dock, probably sensing their imminent death with the cold weather, or the smoking men, who could start stomping them at any minute. A surly old fisherman didn't return my wave, perhaps fearing I was competition, poised to usurp his cod or something ... I moved on ...
The political season is underway, and there were many lawn signs for local candidates. I became suspicious at the idea of voting for "Dom Costello for Mayor." The "Dom" part aside, how could I trust a Costello not to do something to infuriate Abbott? "Unaffiliated candidate" indeed!
Turning back inland, I was led to a great, open field, which offered a grand veteran's monument, including wars I didn't even know we'd had. From there I found a funeral, with a flower shop right next door, which I knew did good business. The library was next, and they had a toilet I took the time to enjoy ... Stratford was growing on me!
Heading back toward the center, I passed a man who looked like the Village Fool. We greeted each other warmly. Nearby I spotted an old box of Lorna Doone cookies. There were lots of churches, too, and this all seemed to make the community a better place. I stopped at one church to explore a little thrift shop in the back, but I didn't stay long, as it smelled like a dirty diaper. I did, however, make another bathroom visit in the building, as I just can't seem to say No to a free toilet.
All in all, Stratford was a pleasant place to kill a couple of hours, and isn't that so much of what our lives have become about -- killing time until we die? Don't take my word for it. Take a morning there yourself, explore the toilets, and wonder why we, as a population, feel we need to even leave our houses when we have toilets and televisions of our own.
My first disappointment came at the railroad station, where I'd hoped to use the bathroom. You see, there was no bathroom. There was no railroad station, only a muffin shop, with a generous-hearted proprietor (who sadly feels compelled to flood his potentially pleasant place with the obtrusive scream of a wall-mounted television. I ask, Are there no longer any places to go without being bombarded by these fucking things?!) Even stranger, the station house on the eastbound side has been turned into a helicopter museum of all things. I mean, to quote Reggie in the movie "Phantasm," "What the hell is goin' on?!"
Heading out, I realized train travelers are forced to buy their tickets from ugly electronic vending machines, rather than quaint, Yankee-accented older men in blue uniforms, as it should be. Such progress they've made in Stratford. How soon until they install vending urinals and make us pee into timed receptacles that snap shut if we go on too long?
Downtown Stratford is split by the elevated Interstate-95, which rips through the community like fungus on fire. Emerging in the light on the south side, I was disappointed to see the town's center feeling somewhat dried up and lifeless. Needs are getting met at strip malls these days, where people feel safer going to stores they've learned the jingles to, from television. Here, it's sad and hopeless, just like George Bush wanted it!
Choosing a side street, I found a lovely string of Victorian-era homes -- priceless properties that, owing to the ongoing proliferation of new ugly construction, I don't think people generally appreciate. I skulked here and there, trying not to look suspicious, but feeling suspicious nonetheless. I began to discover the pleasant vibration that is Stratford off the beaten trail.
Eventually I emerged close to the water, and was thrilled to remember that Long Island Sound cures everything. A little shack was selling "Fresh Fish & Chips." Is it really fresh? I wondered. Who can we believe when they take away our train stations and replace them with helicopter museums?!
I found a small dock that was, oddly enough for a Thursday morning, busy with visitors -- mostly seedy, bearded motorcycle-type men who smoked and acted suspicious. The view over the water was gorgeous, but there were a lot of bees being frantic on the dock, probably sensing their imminent death with the cold weather, or the smoking men, who could start stomping them at any minute. A surly old fisherman didn't return my wave, perhaps fearing I was competition, poised to usurp his cod or something ... I moved on ...
The political season is underway, and there were many lawn signs for local candidates. I became suspicious at the idea of voting for "Dom Costello for Mayor." The "Dom" part aside, how could I trust a Costello not to do something to infuriate Abbott? "Unaffiliated candidate" indeed!
Turning back inland, I was led to a great, open field, which offered a grand veteran's monument, including wars I didn't even know we'd had. From there I found a funeral, with a flower shop right next door, which I knew did good business. The library was next, and they had a toilet I took the time to enjoy ... Stratford was growing on me!
Heading back toward the center, I passed a man who looked like the Village Fool. We greeted each other warmly. Nearby I spotted an old box of Lorna Doone cookies. There were lots of churches, too, and this all seemed to make the community a better place. I stopped at one church to explore a little thrift shop in the back, but I didn't stay long, as it smelled like a dirty diaper. I did, however, make another bathroom visit in the building, as I just can't seem to say No to a free toilet.
All in all, Stratford was a pleasant place to kill a couple of hours, and isn't that so much of what our lives have become about -- killing time until we die? Don't take my word for it. Take a morning there yourself, explore the toilets, and wonder why we, as a population, feel we need to even leave our houses when we have toilets and televisions of our own.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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!
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!
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