Still airing out the archives...

Why is it that every time someone is about to take a photograph they want the subject to smile? Why not a really intense grimace like someone who happens to be passing a kidney stone the size of Vermont? How about an expression of deep sadness or even a homicidal glare? No, we get stuck with the smile. One facial expression in the Crayola 64 pack of expressions. It seems like we are only presenting one facet of the human diamond. I figure even those that process film must be really sick of all the faked smiles and lame poses. If for no other reason, we should rework our photographic poses and expressions to break up the monotony for those fine folks. I am guessing this is the precedent set down from ancient portraits and we get the smiles. Thank you, Mona Lisa, thank you.




Of all the cowboys in history, Twinkie the Kid is obviously the most ruthless of the bunch. You don’t want to piss that bastard off. He’s a golden, cream-filled timebomb ready to go off as only a snack cake desperado can go off. It’s not a pretty sight, so avoid him at all costs.




A Toilet By Another Name Is Still A Toilet

It’s amazing that something as relatively simple as a toilet can be so complex in the context of society. For instance, the home version of the toilet is called the “bathroom.” The land-locked, grounded public version is called a “rest room.” Take the same public toilet and put it 30,000 feet in the air or on the high seas and it’s called a lavatory. It can get incredibly complicated and I suppose if anything is going to get utterly confusing, it might as well be a toilet. The toilet has done and continues to do the dirty job and thus deserves the glory. All hail the toilet. We salute you.

The term “bathroom” seems a little vague considering all that goes on in said location. It implies that it is simply a place to bathe and leaves out the awesome presence of the toilet. I’m sure that it could possibly give the sensitive and emotionally fragile toilet some kind of inferiority complex. But dammit, the toilet is in the bathroom and let it roar.

The next on the agenda is the misleading “rest room.” This is the toilet available for mass public consumption in such luxurious locations like elementary schools, shopping malls, flea markets, football stadiums and numerous other nifty locations. I will never understand the rationale behind the decision to name these franchises of human elimination a “rest room”, because I personally find no rest or relaxation in them. I’m too busy trying to open doors with my feet like Pele. I end up getting quite a workout in these places. I’d like to think that I invented the concept of the foot flush. However, I’d be willing to bet that someone else kicked the flusher before I even entered the scene.

If “rest room” is a swirling stream of confusion, then I won’t even try to figure out “lavatory.” I’ve never experienced the high seas variation, but I have taken to the friendly skies and I hear they have lavatories on airplanes. I will confess that I’ve never had the guts to use what I will call the “aerial pisser.” In my whacked out reasoning, I figure the mere procedure of flushing is somehow diverting precious energy from the engine. I would hate to be responsible for sending a plane full of people into the ground at a high rate of speed simply because I didn’t visit the ground-attached facilities, or rest room, back at the airport. In fact, there was a time when I nearly had to use the air sickness bag because I didn’t want to use the aerial pisser. By the time that I worked up the nerve to visit the 30,000 feet facilities, the captain put on the “Do not leave for seat for anything” sign and we proceeded to hit some gnarly turbulence. I will add that I did not have an aerial accident, but when we landed, I was hauling it through the airport like a pre-double homicide O.J. Simpson in his prime. True story.

This leaves one more on the list. Yes, the bastard son of the toilet—the porta-john. I was completely paralyzed with fear when it came to the concept of the porta-john. For many years, I evaded them for any acceptable eliminatory substitute. Be it a tree, a desolate stretch of multi-lane highway or anywhere conjured up by a lukewarm creative mind. But as I once learned at a music festival in downtown Nashville, desperate times call for a place to urinate. It was either sink beneath my prima donna levels of existence or walk across Hell’s half acre in heavy traffic back to the hotel. Laziness beat out fear that day and I opted for the porta-john. Other than fearing that I’d drop my possessions into the abyss, it wasn’t an entirely terrible experience. Actually, it was inspiring as a human being to face the fictitious fear and conquer it. Now I wish all toilets had the charm and charisma of the porta-john.

Don’t even get me started on Depends undergarments.




May 2, 4:45am

As Saturday gives way to Sunday, I sit in the dark listening to Bob Dylan’s Time Out Of Mind at a low volume so the ghost of Saturday won’t be offended. It all amplifies the lonely melancholia that seeps into the bones of the early morning hours. The light of day would chase away the spirits and the routine would mute out the sadness until night falls. Saving it for times like this when I feel like the only person on Earth. I can’t reach out to touch you or call to you. I can only lie here feeling tragic as the music plays me to sleep.




The canine world will be disappointed to learn that perversion is now man’s best friend.