On Public Restrooms

Human beings are funny little things. On the surface they seem to be nothing more than primates with delusions of grandeur. Yet beyond the simian exterior there seems to be something more, an inexplicable essence encapsulated within the species. In humanity’s not-so-humble opinion, we are capable of vast feats that surpass the greatest abilities of our animal cousins. It is this self-realization, or sentience, that gives us further distinction. Some call it having a “soul”, others a delusion. Are human beings fleshy houses for immortal souls or simply talking bits of carbon? I feel this question may be beyond my expertise. For, on the one hand we have art, civilization, technology, and the Snuggie. On the other we have war, hatred, violence, and the G.O.P. These things all speak for an unlimited dichotomous potential within each of us. Whatever the case may be, in my personal opinion, there is one thing that supports the idea that we are something special: bathrooms.

Bathrooms, as we call them in the States, are a uniquely human phenomenon. I feel that they represent the most tangible evidence that this “quintessence of dust” is more than the sum of it’s parts. Our apotheosis rests upon this development. The need to rid oneself of unusable waste is common to all life forms. It is quite unavoidable. In fact, this autonomic function is in the best interest of our species’ survival. While this activity is shared by humans and goldfish alike, there is one major factor that distinguishes us: we are embarrassed by it. Homo Sapiens find this act awkward and distasteful, and go to great lengths to keep it private. Thus the development of the bathroom. This creation alienates us from all other life on the planet. I can’t imagine a giraffe being ashamed of defecation. But humans are, and rightly so, in my estimation.

In fact, I am a crusader for the cause of bathroom privacy. My idea of a perfect bathroom would be a concrete bunker tucked away under a mountain, locked by a steel door three feet thick, with eye recognition security locks. It would be hermetically sealed, and soundproof. The exhaust fans would be made out of military grade turbine engines. Brahms would be piped in through state of the art speakers. A virtual-reality panorama would encompass the walls, projecting idyllic settings and pastoral imagery. Unfortunately I must accept crude, scaled down versions of this inspired creation for now. But there is one thing I cannot accept. One disgusting concept that I will attack with every fiber of my being until the day I am flushed out of this life: the public restroom.

Mother Nature can be a cruel and fickle mistress. One of the vilest tricks in her repertoire is sending us the urge to expel waste when we are in a public place. When this happens to me I have an internal argument between myself and my psyche. The former I will call Brandon, and the latter, Brian.

Brandon says, “Oh man, I have to go to the bathroom.”
Brian replies, “Are you insane? Do you not realize that we are in a public place, and your only recourse would be to use a communal toilet?”
“I am only too aware. And you know that I’m with you on this, but I’m afraid I have no choice.”
“What are you, a Calvinist? Of course you have a choice! Your will is free!”
“My will cannot conquer the laws of nature; I must comply. What if I get a bladder infection by waiting?”
“Dammit! You are right, of course. Stupid corporeal shell!”

And so, the point is conceded and I must obey my body’s call. It feels as though all eyes are upon me as I make the walk of shame away from the safety of the herd and venture towards the hell that awaits. I wax melodramatic and think of myself as Sydney Carton on his way to the guillotine, guilty of a crime I did not commit. People look on in shame at my inability to wait. Yet I am no scoundrel; I do this to better myself, and all of humanity. I hold my head up high, stumbling over my own feet, and approach my doom with bitter fatalism. It is a far, far better thing that I do…

The first obstacle is the door, and I break upon it like a Persian at Thermopylae. The soiled handle fills my vision with malevolent menace, like Scrooge’s door knocker. Only this time, it is not a spirit which animates it, but bacteria. I imagine the germs becoming macroscopic and writhing around on the surface of the handle. I usually prefer to kick the door open, but this can carry the wrong message to the ill-fated gentleman who has the misfortune of exiting the lavatory at this precise moment. It is safer to use a shoulder, or an elbow. Once inside I urgently reconnoiter the situation. The line of urinals spread out before my vision like distorted cubicles of filth. If they are empty, my situation is greatly improved. I can complete my task with impunity, getting in and out while humming the “A-Team” song and returning to the outside world in great haste.

If, on the other hand, they are occupied, my options become limited. The stalls are a tempting escape because of their privacy, but they can contain an insidious peril. Evidence of pervious barbaric occupants fill me with loathing and I become nauseated. But I will use them if I have to. In a worst case scenario, there are people both at the urinals and in the stalls. If this happens, then the privacy of the stalls is no longer a comfort, as a dystopian symphony emanates from therein, creating a cacophony of horrific sounds. And the urinals filled with other men, standing in close proximity are at best a consolation prize. But if there is no other course of action, I must approach the crowded urine receptacles. Sometimes there are dividers between them, which I see as proof of a benevolent universe. If there are no dividers, I cast my vote for a malevolent one, for I must stand shoulder to shoulder with brutes who have no conception of how awkward the situation is. My mind races to find some thought to take me away from the disgraceful present into a happy place of imagination. I desperately try to ignore the fact that I am surrounded by penises and liquid waste.

This mental exercise is not foolproof, because there is an unspeakable act which can drag me out of my reverie and down into the pits of Tartarus. I speak of course, of the act of speaking to one another while engaged in this activity. I don’t understand this trend. Can’t we pretend to be alone? What is the advantage of conversation during this time? It’s not a social event, for God’s sake! I can’t concentrate under such stressful conditions. And to exacerbate the situation, most of the troglodytes who engage in this behavior talk about things I can’t relate to.
They say, “Hey, did you see the game last night?” or something that showcases their bad taste, like “Dude, I’ve had way too many Keystone Lights.”

My God, I think. How can I condescend to speak to such a savage?
So I say something like, “Actually, last night I watched an episode of Star Trek, wherein Spock’s brain was stolen by space hookers. And under no circumstances would I ever drink a lower tier, watered down, light, Domestic beer!”

This usually confuses the person long enough for me to make my escape. I wash my hands desperately, trying not to touch anything directly except for soap and water. I kick the door open with abandon, and dash back into the civilized world. But the journey back to the crowd is difficult as well. I left the bathroom in great haste, and didn’t fully dry my hands. Now I don’t know what to do with them. I didn’t have a chance to inspect myself in the mirror before I left. Is my shirttail caught in my zipper? Do I have toilet paper clinging to my shoe? Was there any spillage? I scan the crowd, looking for any sign of disgust or amusement. I have an irrational fear that they will think that I performed the more heinous and time consuming activity whilst in there. I NEVER will EVER do that in a public restroom, come what may. This is an unfair accusation. Finally, I can’t take it any longer, and cry out, “I’ve only just urinated. It was mostly water.”
T
oo late I grasp the fact that this has made the situation much worse than silence would have. Now it is clear that I have discovered the definitive thing that separates human beings from the lower life-forms: neurosis. What a piece of work is man…

Of Mice and Mothmen

Mothman is a central figure in my life. Or rather, what Mothman represents figures heavily in my existence. Mothman was a name given to a mysterious creature allegedly seen in and around Point Pleasant, West Virginia in 1966-67. Eyewitnesses said that this “thing” was roughly man-shaped, winged, and stood seven or eight feet tall. It was described as being dark brown or gray and having the ability to fly. But the most striking feature seemed to be it’s large luminous red eyes. In addition to Mothman, people in that area reported seeing a number of strange things during that time. There were swamp creatures, UFO’s, aliens, mysterious men in black, androids, and a host of other dubious visitors. People from all walks of life had strange encounters over the course that year, with experiences alternatively clustering and dying off randomly. The area was abuzz with otherworldly encounters, and this soon reached the ears of John Keel in New York.

Keel was a journalist and self-proclaimed “Fortean investigator.” (Fortean being a term used to describe a host of unexplained phenomena occurring throughout time.) He had investigated UFO sightings and encounters with strange creatures around the world. Now he was drawn to Point Pleasant like a moth to a flame. He spent the better part of the year investigating these events, and experiencing his share of bizarre interludes. Strange sights and sounds bombarded Keel and kept him on edge during his stay. Phone calls from strangers with odd voices and other ambiguous signs seemed to portend an impending doom. According to Keel, these sinister forces told him that the world would end when the President lit the national Christmas tree. On December 15th, 1967 at the precise moment when LBJ fulfilled that Christmas ritual, the 700 span bridge linking Point Pleasant to Ohio collapsed. It was filled with rush hour holiday traffic, and many of those who plunged into the icy depths were witnesses to the Mothman.

Keel would come to see this tragedy as a culmination of all the nefarious activity, and blame it on “pan-dimensional” tricksters. These beings, he claimed, for reasons unknown to us, have been toying with humanity for thousands of years. They manifest themselves as creatures from our collective subconscious, having appeared as monsters, elves, gods, fairies, and aliens. Mr. Keel would later write about these events in his magnum opus, “The Mothman Prophesies.” It is imperative that this book not be confused with the horrific film of the same title. These two works have virtually nothing in common. The movie became a colossal failure and waste of time by departing from the accounts of the people of Point Pleasant, and missing the point of the story. The account recorded in “The Mothman Prophesies” has been described as a Fortean Holy Grail, and proof of paranormal activity. Yet many others would describe it with the appellation “bullshit.” Whatever the case may be, this Mothman fellow has taken his place in the abstract pantheon of my subconscious mind.

In my private study, or gentleman’s parlor, one will find a number of things. There are books stuffed into bookshelves, littering the floor, lying under furniture and stacked in corners. A number of swords bedeck the walls. There is a coonskin cap, a British military rifle, busts of Shakespeare and Beethoven, a map of Middle Earth, Russian Orthodox iconography, a large collection of pipes and tobacco, a 1970’s Lord of the Rings poster, a Willie Nelson bandana displaying a pot leaf with the words “first aid” written upon it, flasks, decanters, and tankards, and a poster. This poster is a replica of the one hanging in Agent Mulder’s office in the “X-Files” television show. It features an obviously fake flying saucer hovering over a dark forest, with the words “I want to believe” written in bold white letters. This is the first of three major slogans of my life.

When it comes to those things which cannot be proven, those outside the realm of science, I am an agnostic. I neither believe nor disbelieve, but I want to believe. The unknown is one of the most powerful forces that has shaped and continues to shape humanity. Life is a complicated, baffling, sometimes unfortunate business that plagues us so-called sentient life forms. In certain instances some feel it is imperative to look beyond the world of our senses. When tragedy befalls us, as it did in Point Pleasant, we immediately look for something to ease our grief or give meaning to what has happened. For one person, reincarnation takes away the pain of losing a loved one. Others take refuge in their belief of an Elysian paradise in the world to come. And for a select few, aliens or “pan-dimensional” beings carry the burden of why. When one cannot know, one must believe. And in order to believe, one must have faith. Yet, even if one has faith, one can never really know for certain until one crosses the threshold of death. Beliefs, whether true or not, can bring great comfort to those who suffer.

After my baptism into the world of Mothman, I became an evangelist of sorts, spreading word of this eerie phenomenon to all who would listen. Most would not, so I had to settle for those who would humor me. My interest was due in part to my ravenous curiosity of that intangible “other,” and partly due to my sarcastic humor about the human foible of irrational belief. My initial obsession with “The Mothman Prophesies” lasted for about six months. I told others about it, and encouraged them to read it for themselves. Becoming an irritating Mothman disciple, I soon made everyone within a ten mile radius aware of the events described by Keel. But like most of my eccentric interests which flare up randomly and burn out with time, my fervor for this topic soon abated. I had given up on Mothman.

Two years later the savage beast would rear its ugly head in my life again, this time most unexpectedly. A series of problems were plaguing our family at that time. We had known tragedy and loss. Our family was beginning to splinter in almost unimaginable ways. At an awkward social event featuring members of my fractured family, I decided to indulge in intoxication. When Shawna drove me home later that night, I apparently became very strange and melancholy. According to my longsuffering wife, I saw an owl in a tree and started babbling about Mothman and aliens. I claimed that they were connected to the ultimate questions of existence, and what Douglas Adams termed, “Life, the universe, and everything.” I pleaded with these unseen forces to reveal themselves to me in a tangible way. Somehow connecting Mothman with our family tragedies, I began to weep and sing “Bring Him Home,” from Les Misérables. Shawna focused on getting me home and away from the general public. She made perfunctory non-committal noises in response to my questions. Upon arriving at our domicile she retired to the powder room and away from my insanity. When she emerged I was nowhere to be found. After a thorough search of the house she looked outside. I was standing in the back yard in my underwear with my arms outstretched to the sky. Like an overweight postmodern Jesus I stood in a cruciform position calling to Mothman to come and take me home. Scandalized, Shawna dragged me into the house and attempted to comfort me as she fought her own dismay. This ridiculous chain of events was made all the more strange by the fact that I’d not thought of the Mothman in nearly two years. The next day whilst scanning the world news online I came upon an obscure piece of information that had failed to make the headlines: John Keel had died. This bizarre coincidence unnerved me, and made me think that perhaps he was on to something after all. I cursed Mothman and his gang of pan-dimensional tricksters, and vowed I would continue Keel’s work and confound theirs. But reality and a short attention span forced me to put this quest on hold for the time being.

Another perennial obsession of mine is Hamlet. I would argue that it is perhaps the greatest work in the English language. One of my favorite quotes, and consequently the second great slogan of my life, is, “there are more things in heaven and earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” It is indeed foolhardy egotism to claim to know everything about the world. Those who are certain that there is nothing beyond the world of the senses are mirror images of those who claim to know that there is. Horatio was more rational, and less passionate than any of the other Danes in the play. Perhaps this is why he was the only one to survive. He didn’t fully engage in Hamlet’s obsession, nor did he fully discount it. This leads to my third and final slogan, which is a quote from Voltaire: “doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.” Standing among the dead, Horatio surely found no comfort in the fact that his philosophy of via media had saved his life. While the others were all dead, they had died in passionate belief. He kept his head and became the lone survivor. So who is more enviable, those who avoid certainty and escape the pitfalls of fanaticism, or those who fall victim to it and enter the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns?

The Postmodern Hero's Journey

The hero’s journey takes on many forms, as Joseph Campbell can attest. I went to the grocery store on Saturday. This is the worst possible day to go. Going to these stores on Saturday should be forbidden, like visiting Altair IV. Yet it was the only day that Shawna and I could go together, a necessity in our household. If either one of us go alone, the other person is bound to be disappointed at the selections (or lack thereof) made in the other’s absence. She has a propensity towards under-shopping, while I always come home laden with vestigial treasures of no relevant value.

Going to get groceries is a traumatic experience for me. It is a tragic journey, fraught with peril and suffering, whose end is always lamentable. One major reason is because we go to Wal-Mart. This behemoth, formed out of capitalistic wet dreams, bestrides our narrow world like a colossus. I feel that even ancient Vikings transported to the future to gaze upon the tactics and effects of this company, would ask them, Why so much raping and pillaging? It goes against everything I claim to believe in. So it follows that, as a Socialistic champion of the proletariat, I find the very idea of supporting that chain heinous. But as a lazy (and poor) idealist, Wal-Mart seems to be a good option for our grocery needs. I see myself giving an intimate nod to Uncle Fidel, who knows that revolutionists almost always depart from their ideals once the war is won.

Entering the store makes me feel like a class traitor. I come from a line of working class manual labors. Sure, being a librarian and freelance writer may not carry as much weight down at the docks as a construction worker, but it’s the thought that counts. Once inside, the crowds induce claustrophobia, transforming me from Michael Collins into a snobby social commentator. I remark that Wal-Mart forms the nexus of postmodern pilgrimages, where the faithful come to bow and pay homage to a force beyond their control. I stand like Jesus at the temple, telling Shawna that the poor woman buying a carton of cigarettes with her month’s income has given more than the aristocratic cougar with her cart full of expensive energy snacks. Inevitably, it comes to pass that my wry social witticisms contribute little to our progress, so I leave my lofty perch and move on. I resign myself to the fact that Wal-Mart brings out the worst in me, and that I am no better than a Nazi sympathizer in 1940’s Poland.

Our expedition begins in the non-food half of the store, which is separated from the grocery section by a Berlin Wall of cheap clothing. First stop is the “health and beauty” section. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and Wal-Mart is the god of commerce. This used to be one of my favorite sections when I had long hair. For a few years I was under the delusion that growing my hair out and sporting a long beard would disguise the fact that I was incredibly fat. On the contrary, all this did was to produce an inexplicable upsurge in Ozark Sasquatch sightings. But in happy oblivion I would pour over shampoos and conditioners with a critical eye, to ensure that my “man-mane” was treated to the best. Now that I’ve lost weight and cut my hair, the sojourn in this department only hastens my inevitable debilitating boredom. Yet even though I become extremely bored and agitated while Shawna is looking at those wares, I like to think that I am a good husband to buy shower supplies for. I object to bar soap on personal grounds, and prefer the body wash alternative. I do not need a separate AXE “douche -bag” shower gel, because I rather like the smell of my wife’s Japanese Cherry Blossom. So, at this point, I am a traitorous, snobby, claustrophobic metro-sexual who is rapidly losing interest in this outing. We must hurry if I am to make it out alive.

Soon I am lifting a preposterously large bag of dog food into the cart. This fills me with trepidation. We have four dogs, yet live inside the city limits. Our menagerie also includes a cat, Guinea Pig, parakeet, and the ghosts of several generations of fish. The only thing more absurd than housing such a variety of creatures is purchasing food for them. Ingenious marketers ensnare countless multitudes by selling pet food as if it was for the humans. I have observed the sanitary habits of my dogs, and can vouch for the fact that their taste is not discriminatory. Savory steak and Alaskan salmon bear no higher regard than their own feces. Yet, if you advertise, they will come. And we do. The food is expensive, with portions than could only develop by projecting America’s ravenous tastes onto it’s pets. The enormous bag stuffed onto the lower rack of our cart presents a problem at the check out. It is too big to place atop the conveyor belt. It is too awkward to carry. One must wheel the cart around so that the checker can scan it. But you can’t do it until after the cart is empty, so the timing is difficult. The robotic process of scanning and bagging each item must be interrupted to accommodate one purchase. And I hate making the checker’s dreary job any worse.

From there Shawna urgently distracts me away from the guns and shooting accoutrement to go look at the home furnishings. She always asks me to stay with her, and I always decline. I need some release from the pressure of gazing upon things that I don’t care about. I tell her I’ll be right back, and then venture into the toy section. As I scan the isles for the latest toys I am filled with conflicting emotions. First I have a bittersweet nostalgia for the lost days of my youth. Looking at the plastic manifestations of heroes that he’d worshiped through the television set would inspire joy in young Brian, and produce a great fear that his parents would not buy them for him. In addition to the nostalgia, I also reverberate with another emotion. Like an old man, I become angered by the cheap quality and undecipherable subject matter of modern toys. Where the hell are the He-Man toys? I am lost in a reverie until a child wanders into the isle. This is a game-changer. Children frighten me. In a post Dateline world, it is not safe to be alone with a stranger’s child, even if you are harmless. I don’t know how to respond to them, or how much interaction is acceptable. Great difficulty is found in trying to communicate with those who can’t appreciate my wit and historical references. In addition to that, children are usually unsanitary, and I don’t want to run the risk of being touched by grubby fingers or catching pink eye. As a childless adult, I find being alone in the toy department to be problematic at best. If Shawna is with me, I talk loudly about getting a toy for our “son’s” birthday, to give me an excuse to be there. She never plays along, so my time is limited. In the end, it is far safer to visit the electronics department.
I love this section. Being a pop culture junkie, I enjoy sifting through the various electronic productions. I avoid all of the latest gadgets though. I have the same relationship to technology that Congressmen have to prostitutes; they are only means to an end, and I don’t want to know anything about them. The audio-visual section is where I feel most at home. There are old movies that have been haphazardly resurrected into DVD format just to sell at a humiliatingly low price. Along with these are “straight-to-video” gems like Anacondas 3, starring David Hasselhoff. I stay away from the CDs however, because of the fact that Wal-Mart commands them to be censored. I am a strong proponent of free speech, and like my gangsta’ rap with all the F-Bombs and racial epithets intact. So I usually grab a cheapie movie, a new release, and maybe a television show, then head back to reunite with Shawna. I find her with candles, curtains, and other material manifestations of my boredom. When she sees how many movies I’ve got, she asks me nicely to put some of them back. This is a gamble I always take, on the off-chance that she will let me keep them all. It’s better to start high, and then negotiate down. After the formal diplomacy is concluded we are ready to cross Checkpoint Charlie, and enter into the wasteland known as the grocery section. It might as well be the Thunderdome, as Master Blaster wouldn’t draw any more attention here than the other shoppers.

I enjoy getting groceries. It is always nice to fill the cupboards with new things. But there are always so many people vying for space that I become filled with fear and rage like a newly captive astronaut on a planet full of militant monkeys. Take your filthy paws off me, you damn dirty ape, my mind screams when the natives get too close. People are shoving past me in desperate bids to get their particular item before they are sold out. Children are hanging off carts precariously and screaming like demons. Morbidly obese people like my former self, who can barely muster the effort to breathe are loading up on sugar and MSG. And those of that set who aren’t quite so upwardly mobile weave their motorized carts through the isles with a sweaty anger. The perpetually confused elderly have no problem standing in one particular spot for an indefinite amount of time, as if waiting for the Grim Reaper to come to them, so they can save on gas money. Average people look embarrassed and nervously go about their business with their heads down, as if they were shopping in a house of pornography.

I look around and observe my fellow man, paying very little attention to what I am doing. For some reason we always make a list, only to subsequently forsake it in the heat of the moment. A weird compulsion to get things in pairs overpowers me, like I am preparing for a culinary Noah’s ark. Oh yes, I explain to Shawna, we will need two bottles of mustard to sustain us when the floodgates open. Filled with hypocrisy, I condemn Shawna for parking the cart in someone’s way, while later I block the isle as I am lost in contemplation over the preferred spelling of “ketchup.” Cat Soup, I muse, what an abomination.

The whole process is stressful enough without the biggest fear I have when I am in the grocery store: contact with people that I both know and dislike. There are certain people whom I separate myself from intentionally. Just because I know these people doesn’t mean I want to see them. It’s not that I am embarrassed for them to spot me; it’s that I hate having to talk to them without prep time. I can’t make a game plan; there is no escape, no choice of whom you will see. Then I’ve got to be disingenuous and waste time asking and answering questions that neither of us cares about. Oh, you got a new car? Let me guess, it’s better than mine. How lovely. But it somehow makes people feel significant in the grand scheme of things to see acquaintances and ask them “how are you doing?” I don’t care how they are doing. By the time we get three isles under our belt I am ready to go home, and have no time for social nuance. Turning them over to my wife, I abandon the cart and go on blitzkrieg raids to get the rest of what we need and rush said items back to the cart. I don’t know why we are so afraid to leave our carts unattended. Why on earth would someone steal groceries from your cart while surrounded by the exact same groceries on the shelf? What motive could they possibly have? Are there anarchists who have nothing better to do than to upset the status quo by removing items from stranger’s carts?

When we are finished, and thoughts of hearth and home bring tears to my eyes, we must face the checkout lanes. I promise to make a sacrifice to Vesta, if she will get me home before dark. At a typical Wal-Mart Supercenter there are at least 150 checkout lanes, five of which are open. The “20 items or less” lanes are filled with con artists whom I believe could be carrying upwards of thirty items. Unfortunately, I can’t prove it without making a scene. So I prefer the tobacco isle, which is mostly business. I always wonder audibly how much I could get teenagers to pay me for a pack of cigarettes, and then am rightly chastised.
The awkward contact with checkers is regrettable. There are times in my life when I am forced to come into close proximity with strangers offering me a service which force me to make idle talk. Usually some sort of pain is involved. Be it the dentist, the barber, the tattooist, or the grocery clerk, it is extremely difficult for one to think of something to say to make the situation more comfortable. They are obviously unhappy, but are being watched by a smiley faced Big Brother, which forces them to engage in mundane dialogue as if we are old friends. “Did you find everything all right?” they ask, as if there was anything that could be done about it at this point. I like to upset the balance of the normal inane conversation, so I will say something like, “Who is your favorite Traveling Wilbury? I bet it’s not Jeff Lyne, is it? Nobody likes him.” Like the 15th century Dutch workers throwing their sabots into the machinery, I can minutely sabotage the status quo with my erratic questions and non sequitur ramblings. This makes me feel less awkward, and injects a little benevolent chaos into the poor laborer’s day.

When the transaction is over, for good or ill, we leave the store laden with perishable treasures and eternal preservatives. But the arduous journey across the parking lot brings fresh opportunity for seething anger. As I take my empty cart to the designated receptacle, I dodge discarded ones strewn across acres of pavement by lazy bastards devoid of souls. I don’t understand this. If these people had enough items that they needed a cart, then they have walked miles through the store pushing it’s heavy burden. Now that the cart is empty, they can’t walk a few extra feet to dispose of it properly. Normally I am against the death penalty, but there are a few cases when I become a Texan. Talking during movies at the theatre and leaving one’s cart haphazardly rolling through the parking lot are offenses worthy of death in my estimation. Murder is regrettable, but what kind of sick twisted person leaves their cart out in the open where it can do damage to the vehicles of innocent bystanders?

As I drive home I think about my quest. I wonder which wandering loner of ages past I could compare myself to. Am I like Caine in Kung Fu, or Dr. Banner in The Incredible Hulk? Maybe I have been fated to become a latter day Odysseus, endlessly wandering from peril to peril, and never finding my way home. Or perhaps I’m Frodo, involved in a great quest beyond my control. When Odysseus finally did get home, he had to battle all those suitors and the haters who had given him up for dead. When Frodo returned to the Shire he had to battle small-time thugs and a disgraced wizard. And when I get home I have to face my own final battle: putting up the groceries. These revelations stir deep emotions within my soul, and I am on the verge of an epiphany when Shawna alerts me to the fact that I am driving on the wrong side of the road.

Sing in me, O Muse, of that man of twists and turns: driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Wal-Mart…

The Trail

As Shawna and I walked down the Frisco Highline Trail one delightful autumn evening, my thoughts began to stray. She had been talking to me, but I became distracted by the scenery. In a field beside the trail a horned cow grazed lazily in the golden dusk. Looking at it made me think of King Minos and his ancient Kingdom of Crete. I mused upon mighty Theseus battling the Minotaur, and wondered how I would fare in such a conflict. The odds were not in my favor. I have enough trouble finding my way around without a mythological monster lusting after my blood. But just as I was about to give up on a hypothetical version of myself fighting an imaginary creature in a long forgotten empire, the sun broke through the trees! It was setting! I immediately realized that the sun was in the West. By that I deduced that the opposite direction was east. And using these two pieces of innovative scientific inquiry, I decided that we were either going north or South. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I thought that maybe I could find my way out of a labyrinth after all. Then I started thinking about the movie Labyrinth, and saw in my mind’s eye David Bowie dancing around flanked by Muppets. His blow-dried hair, feline makeup, and codpiece enhanced trousers filled my vision. The image is both comical and disturbing. It was at this time that I realized that I’d stopped listening to Shawna some time ago. I felt bad, and resolved myself to be more attentive.

She was talking about her job and the unbelievable stresses involved with being a teacher. It is an underestimated and unappreciated profession. The amount of raw data she is required to impart to her first graders is staggering. So much effort, training, and money is needed for even a modicum of success. This brought to my mind how much Shawna has put into her profession, and how I coast through life just ahead of Jeffery Lebowski. A revelation like that causes a person to feel guilty. And I don’t like feeling guilty. I’m not so good at penitence. This year I gave up church for Lent because the season is such a downer. So I needed to deflect my culpability away from myself and onto some scapegoat. The needed target coalesced out of what Shawna was talking about. My mental crosshairs fell upon the phenomenon of home schooling. Now before you gasp, and rush your calico-clad clusters of children back home to watch reruns of “19 Kids and Counting” hear me out. This rant is not against those intelligent well qualified, independent souls who are more than capable of teaching with the best of them. But I have come into contact with countless children who are victims of poor homeschooling. There are people who are barely qualified to tie their shoes who have suddenly become expert teachers without the benefit of experience or education. The ones that bother me the most are those who do it from a warped religious idea that sending your children to public school is as good as feeding them to Satan. Robbing children of the structure and socialization of the public school system because a voice in your head (that you think is Jesus) tells you so is morally reprehensible. Yes, there are bad things about public schools and dangers that threaten every child. But if you insulate your children from all the difficult realities of life, then when they fly free of the nest they will crash with Icarian speed. These people are doing their children a great disservice, and spitting in the face of teachers everywhere. If my wife needs an operation, I don’t operate on her myself because the doctor believes in evolution. Leave it to the professionals for God’s sake.

By the end of my mental rant I had managed to get angry, stop feeling guilty, and stop listening to Shawna all at the same time. I then refocused my attention back to her just in time to see her become ridiculous. She was raising her legs higher and higher with each step and pumping her arms like a savage. This unnerved me, as we were in a public place. Upon seeing my dismay, she informed me that it burns more calories if you walk in that strange manner. But I was out for a leisurely nature walk, not to film an exercise video. The consequences of my doing any strenuous activity in public are all about the perpetual motion of my midsection, followed by retching from innocent bystanders. I told her she might as well be goose-stepping. She then asked me what goose-stepping was, so I demonstrated. I began marching around Willard like a rural Eichmann. She laughed nervously, looking around, and the mutual embarrassment ended in a stalemate. But this again, caused me to think.

Why do they call it goose-stepping? I have never in my life seen a goose walk in that manner. And furthermore, why would the big bad Nazis choose a goose of all animals, to imitate in their marches? Surely bear-stepping or wolf-walking would be more appropriate. I tried various animal/step combinations and found no clear winner. Those damn Nazis, they truly were evil in producing this conundrum to haunt the world sixty years later. They looked rather stupid when they walked in this manner. I imagined columns of storm troopers goose-stepping at Nuremburg in all their finery. March it up boys, Ike and the boys are coming soon. This picture led me to delve down another trail of miscellaneous thought.

In my opinion, the Third Reich had some of the coolest costumes the world had ever seen. They made the Second Reich look like garbage by comparison. And don’t get me started on the First Reich. What immaculate uniforms and attention to detail. How smart were their side puffy pants and shiny boots? The blacks and grays, whites and browns, offset by the occasional red made for a formidable appearance. And what about the leather trench coats of the Gestapo? I could not understand how the vilest empire in modern history could have such fashion sense. These men were living manifestations of evil, but they looked good. I thought on this for a while, and then had an epiphany.

Look at the modern fashion industry. It tempts young women into believing that to succeed you must be willing to be a sexual slave, vomit on command, rip out all of their natural hair and replace it with extensions, and place oversize gelatinous bags atop their wiry frames. They kill baby animals for clothing embellishment. They hook their models on heroin to keep them thin, and discard them when they reach the ripe old age of twenty. They take tiny bits of material and sell them for money that could feed entire nations. It was then that I saw the connection: evil and fashion go hand in hand. I don’t know why the universe has formed this unusual rule, but it does. The ruthless cutthroat capitalism that feeds this industry is not unlike the fascism that powered the Nazi war machine. It is no wonder that the fashion industry’s ideas of the perfect body match the figures of those who endured the concentration camps.

Once again, I had drifted off topic with righteous anger. I thought of injustices throughout history, and the evil people who had caused them. The figures floated through my head like the sequence in a movie where the main character remembers various things that others had said to prove a point. I thought of Hitler, Nero, Skeletor, Cheney, the Noid, and whatever beast took over George Lucas’ mind after the Jedi’s Return and Indiana’s last crusade. I was so livid I could barely walk.

But then we were almost home, and I started thinking about what kind of snack I wanted when we got back.