On Becoming a Pro-Wrestling Referee

I love professional wrestling, or "sports entertainment" as it is sometimes referred to. Saying this always feels like a confession. This particular form of entertainment is considered anathema to almost everyone I speak with. In my cerebral circles it is almost unheard of for an enlightened person to be an enthusiast of something like this. In addition to the lofty disdain from my peers, I also get the same tired response from the rest of the rabble: "its fake." Those who ejaculate this answer from their pedantic maws act as if they've just solved Fermat's last theorem. It's as if neither I, nor anyone else, has ever heard that response before. This litany is nearly as old as Luther's Catechism,but those who spout it think that they are the first to ever think of it. Thus, alas, it is something that every wrestling fan must deal with.

Words are very important, and one should take great care with their meanings. When they say that professional wrestling is "fake" they are correct in that the results of the matches are predetermined and that the performers take great care to not actually injure each other (although wrestlers do get hurt, sometimes severely). It would be more accurate to describe it as "scripted." This puts it in the same realm as everything else on television, even the so-called reality shows. There are programs on television that are advertised as reality, but are heavily scripted, and little more than vehicles for savvy proselytizers to dupe their marks. Quack quack. Professional wrestling takes the innate human desire for voyeuristic ritual combat,adds over the top theatrics, and draws its fans into hypothetical participatory involvement. The characters are larger than life, and represent human virtues or flaws writ large. At least, this has been the case in the past, but the industry is evolving. We now live in the "reality era" of professional wrestling, and many of the ludicrous theatrics and caricatures are fading away. In the vernacular of the biz, kayfabe is dead.

I personally am a huge fan of kayfabe. For those not in the know, kayfabe is the portraying of staged events as real or true. Wrestler A does not actually hate wrestler B, and wrestler B is not actually acting upon the orders of the Ayatollah, for example. When famed heel-turned-hero "Stone Cold" Steve Austin broke into rival Brian Pillman's home, causing Pillman to pull a gun and begin firing, we knew that it wasn't real,but we loved it anyway. More than this, if it had been real, I wouldn't like it. I have no desire to see grown men beating the shit out of each and causing actual bodily harm. I want to see a theatrical vehicle for exaggerated human conflict and know that it is presented with a wink. Professional wrestling is a guilty pleasure that takes me out of a world of real conflict and unpleasantness into a simpler one that is predictable and safe (at least for me watching at home). It requires a suspension of disbelief, which I feel is a healthy pastime.

This type of entertainment also invites spectator participation. Fans will acquire countless shirts from their favorite superstars, dress like them, and experiment with wrestling moves themselves. They will create and hold signs at live events, both elaborate and tatty. When people immerse themselves in this, they are trying to become part of the hero mythos that these wrestlers embody. Perhaps one day archaeologists will unearth Gilgamesh t-shirts and Enkidu action figures beneath the ruins of Uruk. Everyone wants to be a part of something larger than themselves, and identifying with heroes (or villains) is a chance to break out of the mindless routine of daily life.

The average height of a pro-wrestler is 6'2", and many of them are much taller. They are in peak physical condition, and go to great lengths to maintain these body types. I am 5'8" and of a slightly portly build. These genetics and my lifestyle preclude the career of wrestler for me, but there are other alternatives. I have decided to become a professional wrestling referee, at least part time. I have a background in acting, am easily distracted, and can count to three. Also, I have a great wealth of knowledge of the sport, and as mentioned in earlier blogs, a difficulty separating reality from fiction. It would be a great chance to be in the middle of the action for someone with no real hope of being the action itself. In addition to this I would get to wear real clothing, which is a win for everyone involved. It also seems to me that the occupation of referee is a noble calling. They are there to give the matches a sense of authenticity. Referees make sure the wrestlers aren't hurt, and when they are, call the match (and paramedics) accordingly. They are a vital and integral part of the business, but go to great lengths to stay out of the limelight.

In the amateur leagues, it would be a part-time weekend gig. Once I complete the training I would have to drive to random small towns across the Midwest to referee matches in high school gyms and community centres. This is professional wrestling at its purest, with no lights, pyrotechnics, or television cameras. The crowds are infinitesimal, and the action is close. There is something rather charming about his circuit, far removed from the polished, mega-million dollar industry that towers over it. That being said, my ultimate dream would be to get discovered and go to ref for the WWE. If this were to happen, my life would be one upon the road.

There is something tragically romantic about a life on the road. Or maybe I've just read too much Kerouac. I don't relish the idea of being away from my wife and modest living accommodations for such long periods of time, but the glory of becoming a traveling entertainer has a strong pull. The life of a postmodern gypsy isn't an easy one, but I find it strangely appealing, despite the fact that I'll probably hate it. It seems I must reinvent myself every few years, and this is Brian's latest iteration. In any event, it makes for an interesting daydream, which is all I ask for most of the time. I will have to make a playlist, including such songs as "Turn the Page" by Bob Seger and Jackson Browne's "The Load-Out." I'll need to get a Viking's hoard worth of underwear, and framed pictures of my beloved to put on the nightstand. However, if this becomes a reality, I would want Shawna to somehow travel with me. I think it would be the penultimate accomplishment for someone with a teaching degree and years in education.

It probably won't happen, and there is a strong possibility this obsession will burn out before it takes tangible shape, but for now it's real. I am preparing to attend a beginner's camp for pro-wrestlers (even refs have to get the gen eds out of the way), and will have a better idea of whether or not this is a good vocation for me. It is indeed a dangerous business going out your door, and this road may go ever on and on, but I'm willing to give it a try.

Also, to my eternal shame, I don't know how to play chess.

This is the first post I've written since 2011. Even then the blogs were just reheated versions of things I'd written earlier. When I look at old writings of mine I want to vomit, and wipe them from the face of the earth. When any amount of time has passed, all I see are mistakes and hokey devices. I suppose I'll leave them though, and add new pieces to the collection. I only hope that future Brian doesn't delete them either. By the same token, I hope that future Brian has transferred his katra to an indestructible android shell, thus achieving immortality.

Nuts

I have a toxic relationship with pistachios. They are probably my favorite nut, and I find their taste to be most exquisite. I could eat those little purplish/green jewels for hours. But I also have some major problems with pistachios. First of all, they are very expensive. There are no dreary off-brand tins of pistachios like there are of other nuts. One must pay a relatively high price for this food product. Apparently Iran is the world’s largest producer of pistachios, and I think they are gouging the market. This infuriates me much more than their nuclear enrichment program. I don’t eat uranium. Maybe 'Bamer, (my term of endearment for the President, pronounced “bomber.”) should make me the ambassador to Iran. Perhaps I could find common ground with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Mahmy, (my term of endearment for Ahmadinejad, pronounced “mommy”) can deny the Holocaust, but he can’t deny that pistachios are tasty treats.

There is also another major problem with these nuts; they are very hard to eat. One must expend a great amount of effort to free the nut from the shell. Sometimes I will pry with all my might, and be unsuccessful in opening one. Other times I hurt my fingernails trying to dig in there and get them out. After a time, the effort involved seems to outweigh the benefit of the tiny nugget of food I get in return. Primitive Brian would have hampered the evolution of early hominids. They thrived on getting the maximum energy output from the minimal effort in regards to food. While the other proto-humans were eating bananas at their leisure, I would be sweating and straining for one pistachio. I never give up on a piece. If I have to smash it with a hammer, by God, I will have my nut! Sometimes there are shells with no meat inside. I will not talk about that circumstance, for it adversely affects my blood pressure.

Another problem with eating pistachios is having to find a receptacle for the empty shell pieces. Sometimes I just grab a handful and take them somewhere else to eat them. I sit down to relax and eat, only to find that I’ve brought nothing to put the empties in. After a long hard day all I want to do is enjoy a snack and perhaps a snifter of alcohol. To suddenly find that I’ve nowhere to put the unusable portions of my food is a nightmare. Sometimes I will simply place them on a table or counter, with the intention of throwing them away later. Inevitably I forget to do this. The next morning I will find the empty husks littered across the table like bones on a forgotten battlefield. My first response is to curse, and my second response is to have a craving for more pistachios. And then the tedious cycle repeats itself. These are some of the reasons why I both love, and hate, pistachios.

I mentioned bananas earlier. I don’t wish to convey the message that I don’t like bananas, far from it. I also have a toxic relationship with them. I like the taste of bananas, but prefer them to be slightly pre-ripe. I like the firm texture as opposed to the mushy texture of ripe ones. But I have a problem. Bananas are perhaps the most phallic of all foods. Eating a banana invariably seems like culinary fellatio. It is impossible, at least in my mind, to avoid the connection. Now, be it known that I am no Freudian. I am also in no way homophobic. In fact, I have been accused by many of being too comfortable with my latent homosexuality. But when I eat a banana first thing in the morning, this is the last thing I want to think about. I can usually make it through ¾ of a banana before I gag and have to throw the rest away. Such a disability stems more from a terrible gag reflex than anything else. This can only be avoided by cutting up the banana into small pieces like a child. Potassium is good for you. Bananas are good. I frequently enjoy them with peanut butter. I also have a toxic relationship with peanut butter.

I love peanut butter. I much prefer eating it to regular butter. I don’t like peanuts, but I like their butter. There is only one problem I have with peanut butter; I don’t like to eat it by itself. I can only eat it on, or with something. I feel really bad about this. I love peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and honey, peanut butter on pancakes and waffles, peanut butter and apples, and peanut butter and bananas. But I can’t eat it raw. I see other P.B. aficionados like my Mother, Sister, and Wife, eating it raw and I feel bad. It makes me feel like less of a “real” peanut butter fan. If I were a “true believer” I could eat it by itself. It gives me shame in the face of others who go all the way. Not eating peanut butter seems like an affront to George Washington Carver. I don’t want to spit in the face of one of the great African-American innovators. Its overkill, I know. Also, raw peanut butter scares me because I feel like it constricts my throat, and if I don’t drink milk immediately, I might die. It still makes me sad though.

Its like Woody Allen said, “I can’t listen to too much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.”

Summers in the Catskills and Battles in Space

"Well, as an old military commander once said, 'sometimes you've got to roll a hard six," said Brian to someone who was seeking advice.

"It wasn't an old military commander. It was a fictional character from Battlestar Galactica," interrupted Shawna, ruining my conversation.

"Commander Adama was in the military Shawna! Who do you think commanded the last battlestar after the destruction of the colonies? Patton?" I replied. But it was too late, the rich advice I was passing along from the grizzled old space dog fell on deaf ears. Just because he wasn't "real."

On another occasion I was speaking to someone who had recently traveled to Ireland.

"My mother's family comes from there, the McCartys. They came over during the potato famine."

"Really? What part of Ireland were they from?"

"Ballykissangel. It's Gaelic for 'Valley of the Fallen Angel.' It's near Kildargen, north of Dublin. I used to go there in the Summers. There was the pub, Fitzgerald's, operated by Assumpta Fitzgerald, the shop run by Kathleen, the garage owned by Padraig, and of course the young English priest Father Peter Clifford. It's a beautiful area, and it's so tragic what happened to Father Clifford."

"O dear, what happened to him?"

"Well, he fell in love with Assumpta, but was torn between his duties as a priest and this passion. When they finally decided to be together she was electrocuted under her pub and died. Damn shame."

At this point Shawna once again came to the 'rescue' of the person I was talking to.

"Brandon has never been to Ireland. Ballykissangel was an Irish TV show, and all of those characters are made up. There was no tragic affair between a priest and a publican, and no one rally died. They were ACTORS," she revealed. Only her long experience teaching first-graders equips her to deal with me. I expect her to be canonized one day for her travails.

"Their love was real to me," was all I could muster, reflecting on the painful memories.

These are but two of many instances that have led to two serious accusations against my person. One, that I am a pathological liar. Two, that I don't know the difference between reality and fantasy. Both of these are blatantly untrue.

First of all, I am not a 'pathological' liar; I am a 'recreational' liar. My lies are not used for nefarious purposes, but to entertain, or illustrate a point. It is rather like the parables of Jesus, which weren't necessarily literally true stories, but they helped the common man understand what he was trying to say. Not that I'm comparing myself to Jesus; we may have similar beards, but he had six pack abs and performed miracles. If I could turn water into wine, I would lack nothing in life.

Secondly, it's not that I don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, it's that I find the difference negligible. So I haven't ever met William Adama or Peter Clifford. But I've never met Richard Nixon or Julius Caesar either. All we have of them now are stories. They have no greater reality than fictional characters that exist on TV and in books. Oh, sure people have 'met' them or 'seen them in person,' but everyone knows that eyewitness testimony is notoriously flawed. I tend to agree with Graham Greene, in his book Travels With My Aunt, when he is reflecting on the death of his relative called Joe Pulling:
"What did the truth matter? All characters, once dead, if they continue to exist in memory at all, tend to become fictions. Hamlet is no less real now than Winston Churchill, and Joe Pulling no less historical than Don Quixote."

Thus, I will continue to live in this fashion for the foreseeable future. At least until my family has me committed. I recently purchased a Kellerman's staff shirt and decided that I was going to take a summer job at the resort. Only one who studies with Johnny Castle can truly master the art of dance. In an online class recently I spoke of a notorious university test known as the Kobayashi Maru, which tested how students responded to a "no-win scenario." I did not add that the university in question was Starfleet Academy, which won't be established until 2161. When I met someone who happened to be a molecular biologist I told them that I'd interned at International Genetic Technologies, Inc., or InGen. I did not add that this was the corporation founded by John Hammond in Jurassic Park.

Sometimes I am purposely lying for pleasure, but the funny thing is, sometimes these things are real to me. The human mind is a very strange thing indeed. If I become emotionally or intellectually attached to a fictional character, they become real. They are not tangible, provable beings, but they have an existence all their own in my head. In fact, sometimes I can relate to them more than I can actual people in my life. If I'm honest, its probably because there is an impenetrable barrier between us, while with real people, there is no buffer. If this makes me an eccentric, so be it. I would rather be mad than mundane.

Comida Comedy

"Do you want some sliced cucumber?" I asked magnanimously.
"We don't have any cucumber," She responded.
"Of course we do."
"No.we.don't."
"Then what the hell do you think I've been eating all week?"

With that, Shawna led me to the fridge and pulled out the vegetable in question. I felt vindicated. Surely the tactile contact with a physical item will verify it's existence.

"THIS IS A ZUCCHINI," she explained, as if to a child,"It is completely different. It looks different, it tastes different. This needs to be cooked. Didn't you notice?"

I pondered this new information for a moment, as my thought processes clicked.

"Well, I thought it tasted a little off," I begrudged.

Foods can be a great source of drama in my life.

For example, I don't like to smell a different kind of food than the kind I'm currently eating. It seems vulgar and unnatural. This is especially the case if I'm eating dessert and smell a main course, or vice versa.

Last night we decided that we wanted to try a new Mexican restaurant in town. I had just gotten home from work and was loath to change clothes, but it seemed better than to go in my shirt & tie. We were just going to get take out, so I didn't want to go through the effort of putting on an entire ensemble. The t-shirt was easy enough, but the pants I grabbed at random were button-fly. The button fly jeans piss me off because they require so much more effort, yet, they are safer than zipper-fly jeans. After the excruciating effort involved in buttoning my jeans, the thought of shoes and socks terrified me. I settled for flip flops, even though it was raining and chilly.

"Shawna! What are you doing? We need to leave now!" I always get in an incredible hurry immediately after I am ready.

"You told me to look up the phone number," she said.
"There's no time for that, we'll have to risk going in without prior knowledge."

My dash to the car which included crossing the Red Sea in flip flops, (Or thongs, as Grandma calls them. As in Brandon, are you wearing your thongs today?)which was an unpleasant experience. My hurry always takes a hiatus when I get to the car. I have to first find an appropriate song to begin the journey on. As I have over 14,000 songs on my ipod, it takes some time. I finally selected a song (I usually just skip through until I find one by Rush), and we were off.

I have been watching a lot of "Top Gear." It's a popular British show about fast cars, technology, and general British antics. Unfortunately, since I've been watching it I've wanted to replicate the daredevil maneuvers of the professional drivers. I spun the tires and fishtailed my hot-rod '95 Monte Carlo. (It is not a hot-rod) After a derisive look from my co-pilot, I began to maintain a more proper pace. It corresponded with a slow part in the song anyway. And my car probably needs a little TLC before it can compete with the Lambos on the show. Maybe an oil change. Or some oil period. I am not an expert.

The Mexican placed was closed. I'd wasted too much time.
"Son of a bitch," I exclaimed, questioning the parentage of an inanimate object, "now what?"
"Sonic?"
"My car window doesn't roll down."
"Taco Bell?"
"We would have to go in."
"So?"
"I'm wearing flip flops with a coat."
"So?"
"It's very uncouth," I tried to explain, knowing I'd lost. We went to Taco Bell.

I hadn't been to a taco bell in a long time. And I haven't ever been sober. So this was a new experience. Everything was bright and new. An unfamiliar menu made me extremely nervous. The "Big Box Meal" caught my eye.

"What is that?" I asked Shawna.
"The Big Box Meal, it looks pretty good."
"Is it for a person or a group?"
"I don't know. A person, I think."
"But you don't know. Have you ever had it?"
"No, Brandon."
"Then you aren't an expert."
"I guess not."

With that, I knew I would have to engage the natives. I always feel that it's my duty to inject a little whimsy into the lives of those in the service industries.

"Excuse me sir," I began, "That Big Box Meal, what is it?"
"Uh, it's a meal in a box. It comes with everything in the picture," he droned.
"Does the box come with it?" I asked eagerly.
"Yes."
"Is it meant to be eaten by one person?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Is the serving recommended for one person, or for a group?"
"Uh, most people just get it for one person I guess."
"So if I get one for myself, I won't look like a voracious rhinoceros?"
"I don't know. You could share it with as many people as you want. I don't care personally."
"Excellent. I'll have one just for myself, and whatever the lady would like."

Shawna looked at me with the sad attachment that people who work with chimpanzees feel. We moved on to the drinks, and I explained to her about the physics of the ice and liquid ratio. She pretended to care, as she often does. I went to the condiment section and exclaimed with surprise and joy that they had new flavors: salsa verde, and fire roasted something-something. I grabbed fistfuls of each.

When the order was called up I was filled with conflicting emotions. There were two boxes, which I was happy about, but they weren't in a bag, which was problematic. I was going to have to speak to the man again, and he was a very tough audience. But I had picked out so many condiments and napkins that I couldn't possibly carry them.

"Excuse me once again, could I trouble you for a bag? I need a more clandestine way to carry out all of the condiments I'm taking," I explained with a 'wink-wink, nudge-nudge,' kind of smile. He did not respond, but just gave me the sack.

When we got to the car, I asked Shawna why the man was so unresponsive.
"Please don't talk to the workers. We've been through this. Even people that know you don't know how to take you. You say everything in such a deadpan voice that they don't know you are joking. And your vocabulary is a little eccentric for them."
"Ah, so my perfect deadpan delivery, and vocabulary genius are too much for their feeble minds, eh?"
"Something like that."

After we spent fifteen minutes finding the right song, we went home, and enjoyed our boxes. I only used 25% of the salsa packets I'd taken.

Dolph Lundgren and Philip Seymour Hoffman

A teenager in a JROTC uniform came into the library this evening. I recognize him, but he doesn’t come in very often. I noticed his nametag, which read “Lundgren.” Immediately my mind went to that great Nordic god and pop culture icon Dolph Lundgren. And although I hate it when people do it to me on account of my last name, I asked him if he was related to Dolph. To my surprise, he said “yes, he’s my uncle.”

Now, I know what you are thinking, he’s being sarcastic, right? That was my initial assumption. But two things about that haunted me. First of all, he didn’t say it in a sarcastic manner. He is a very polite young man and a junior military something-or-rather. Secondly, I seriously doubted whether or not that this kid would know who Dolph Lundgren was. To test this hypothesis, I asked every other kid in the library if they knew who he was. None of them did. Only private Lundgren (or whatever his rank was) knew. This scored highly in his favor. I neglected my duties at the desk to go and question this child further.

I asked him where Dolph was from, how they were related, how tall he was, what his middle name was, etc. etc. He seemed to know what he was talking about, and clarified how he was related. It seems that his grandparents adopted Dolph and raised him as their own. (Not here in MO of course). This sounded truer than if he would have said that Dolph was his father or something. At this point in my research I became very excited. I interrogated him severely, using every means at my disposal. The water fountain was too far away to make water boarding a possibility however. At this point the kid seemed to become offended by my demeanor in not believing him.

I told him, “Look, it’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that if it’s true, it’s one of the most amazing things ever. And I don’t want to get my hopes up if it isn’t true. If I could have some mutual connection with Dolph Lundgren it would make me extremely happy.”

He looked at me strangely and stuck to his story. I then went back to my computer and did what no serious researcher should ever do: went to Wikipedia. The article said nothing about adoption, and mentioned Dolph’s parents only.

“Aha!” I shouted, “Liar,” I cried , as I ran back across the library to confront the hapless youth. “Dolph wasn’t adopted. He lived with his parents, you errant knave!” I cried. “That’s not true,” he insisted, “he lived with my grandparents. Where did you get your information, Wikipedia?” Somewhat chagrined, I lied to him. “Of course not boy, I am a librarian. We don’t do research that way,” I bluffed. He wasn’t buying it. “Well, tell me the website you went to,” he demanded. “I don’t answer to you,” I proclaimed, as I left again. Then I decided to look up some other sites, including dolphlundgren.com and IMDB.

It turns out that Dolph went to live with his grandparents at the age of 13, because of an abusive father. This was becoming eerie. Some of the pieces were actually starting to fit together. My mind was racing, my heart pounding. Could it be that I was staring at the nephew of Ivan Drago? The kinsmen of He-Man himself? I searched my conniving brain for a way to prove or disprove the kid’s announcement. Just then, as if sent by Providence, one of our regular patrons walked in. This man shares my name, and then the similarities end. He is an African American gentleman, over six and a half foot tall, and a naval soldier. The wheels began to turn.

“Brandon,” I said, “Can you come and help me with something?” “Sure thing Brandon,” he replied. I led him over to the teen area, with him towering over me in the likes of Zeus himself. The teens eyes all looked up, and their jaws dropped. They thought that they were in some serious shit. “Well, Mr. Lundgren,” I said with great cockiness, “This is my friend Brandon. As you can see by his uniform he is a bona fide military man, and thus your commander. If you lie to him, you will be de-commissioned.” Young Lundgren protested that it’s not the way things worked in JROTC, but I silenced him. “Tell him, under your oath as an officer, that Dolph Lundgren is your uncle,” I commanded. The boy looked up at the soldier and told him that it was true. Dammit! I thought, this is getting likelier by the minute. I tried one more time. “Okay, forget the fact that he is in the military. Look at him. Do you see how huge he is? He could take Dolph Lundgren. Are you going to lie to this man?” “I’m not lying,” he said,” I’ll bring you a copy of the adoption papers. My jaw dropped; it seemed that we’d come to an impasse.

I thanked Brandon for his help, and was left alone with the teens. As Brandon left he whispered to me, “De-commissioning is what they do to ships, man.” I got up in the face of young master Lundgren and said, “Listen to me. If you are telling me the truth, it’s the most amazing thing I’ve heard all day. If you get Dolph Lundgren to come in this library and say ‘I must break you’ then I’ll give you whatever you want.” “But I haven’t even met him,” he protested. “I don’t care. If you have a connection to Dolph Lundgren, bring him here, and make him say the line. Then I can die a happy man.” The boy said that he would see what he could do, and left, probably frightened. I emailed Dolph’s agent and asked him, but I probably won’t get a response. If the kid brings the adoption papers in, I’ll probably pass out.

Also, there was a creepy guy in here who looked exactly like Philip Seymour Hoffman, during one of his ‘beardy’ phases. He was trying to submit a book he’d written to the library, and writing poetry for our page. I probably should have kicked him out, but I was in the middle of a noble quest. Thus, two celebrated Hollywood actors entered the Willard Branch Library this evening, in one way or another.

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?