Listen to Jon Ray perform this poem:

Your afflicted demeanor is like a nostril full of stoned boogers.
Everyone’s rolling their eyes, hoping you’ll realize how much it blows.
You keep looking for the dispirit squad to throw a pity parade in your honor,
But the Mayor of Pensive Plaza just changed the stops on his vascular organ.
The jig is up.

Don’t you know there’s a Hispanic man who walks on water?
With a guacamole thumb up your ass shouting, “Rise up!”
Stop being scared. Jump overboard, find your footing, and cast a fucking net.
Only the chickens of the sea have their guts removed with a can opener.
Arriba!

For too long your sex drive has idled behind station wagons with their blinker on
Tell the next girl with a prurient look in her eyes
To hop up, strap in, and hang on,
Then rev your engine in the carpool lane of wantonness.
Vroom!

Stop feeling guilty for wanting to unlock new doors.
Just because you slide your key in something,
Doesn’t mean you have to call it home.
There’s a reason that hotel rooms don’t have knockers.
Unless you paid extra.

Don’t slump, waiting for concussed passersby to beg for resuscitation.
Stand tall like buildings in Dubai, spitting loose change from your mouth.
Bend down and blow blazing persistence into the lungs of a woman in black undergarments.
If she remains cold, drop her on a microwave turntable, & return when she’s ready to be cooked.
Not everything raw is a delicacy.

Do not travel with women from the lost and found who have never flown coach.
They carry too much baggage and usually belong to someone else.
Do not dress artificial trees up in tinsel, while flushed with eggnog, and call it love.
Just because something is shiny, doesn’t mean it’s real.
And you’re drunk.

The love you seek is wrapped up like birthday intestines
Already tucked inside you, absorbing salutary wishes and getting rid of all the crap.
So, stop worrying about making every meal one of substance.
Just know that too much eye candy and not enough nutrition will make your soul vomit.
Burp, when necessary.

People who rely on alien constituents for happiness are like over-hard eggs.
They’re spending their short lives screaming under the weight of a greasy spatula.
Go out and sing Sleepy Brown into the privates of the city.
And if you end up naked with a stranger, tell them they put the Oreo in your twisted Frosty.
Then cook ‘em breakfast.

Listen to Jon Ray perform this poem:

You asked to sit in the smoking section of a Luby’s Cafeteria,
Then produced a cigarette with a five o’clock shadow and argued its health benefits.
I thought we’d come for banana pudding and Jello.
I stared, tasting secondhand smoke, then went out for air.

I erected blanket forts over each of my television sets without you.
Forever channel surfing,
I tried picking up digital channels with an analog receiver.
You were my converter box.

There is a place by the water where, silhouetted by city lights, we found each other.
It‘s now a courters’ cemetery in the television syndication business.
TV Guide tombstones read:
Can The Love Boat rise from the dead as Friends?

I burned every word we ever spoke onto rainforest scrolls
And rolled them out on super logger trucks to find perspective.
With scented markers I connected all the things you said to all the things I felt.
My credence, that once smelled sweet, tasted toxic.

I thought reticence would be a balloon between your gravitation and my thoughts,
But, like X-rated movies with the smut removed, fiction fills the gaps
And I long for more substance between our poorly executed dialogue.
It’s hard to deal with unreciprocated consideration.

I grab two coffee cups on torrential mornings
And sit in bed, pretending you’re swimming under the pathos.
When you fail to surface, I imbibe cold frenzy,
My mind racing with thoughts of misplaced focus.

Your bubble bath is sitting lonely in its bottle.
I use it to make Confucius beards
And ponder what that netty-blue-mesh-thing hanging on a string meant.
All I can remember is how good you look in soap stubble.

Should I take an eraser to all the writing in our margins?
Was I illiterate, reading the wrong words between the lines?
If we meant what we said back then? How can I unmean it, now?
Is your friend suggestion the writing on my Wall?

When I Googled how to remove your red wine from my white carpet
They said, “Blot the memory with paper and pen.”
Combine what actually happened with how you want to remember it in a bowl.
Sponge the stained area with nostalgia.
Blot dry with clean reverie.

For safe measure, I consulted a Rug Doctor who said,
“Our tapestries are harmed most by what we can’t see.”

Our past was never black and white,
Maybe our future is painted in complementary colors.
As for our now,
It’s hard to think of us as less than lovers on the fray.

I read books the same way that a dry sponge absorbs water. I like to read slowly, focusing on the meaning of each of the words and as I am educated or enlightened by those words I begin to swell and see the overflow of their meaning seep into my everyday life. Usually this means finding clever ways to segue into a topic related to the book I’ve just read and then quoting from said book as a way to display my enthusiasm for the subject I am currently enveloping myself within.

The odd thing is that this sensation of wanting to share my knowledge about a particular book or subject matter is, very often, only present while I am reading the book and shortly there after. Once I start reading a new book, then I opt to speak about this new book rather than the former, as it is at the forefront of my mind, and the previous book’s subject matter becomes knowledge catalogued away in the back of my brain, occasionally breaking free at content appropriate moments.

My current topic of conversation is one that I’ve been openly discussing more and more over the last three weeks. The last time I discussed this topic so frequently was when I was in junior high and a leader in my church’s youth group. The subject being the Holy Bible, its scriptures, and their meaning. I just finished reading Esquire Magazine editor, A.J. Jacobs’ book, The Year of Living Biblically, a fascinating and hilarious account of his “humble quest to follow the Bible as literally as possible” and one of the most interesting case studies I’ve ever read.

In his book, Jacobs attempts to live by the rules and laws of the Bible exactly as they are written without figurative interpretation (including Leviticus 19:27 “Ye shall not round the corners of your heads,” resulting in an out of control, biblical flair of a beard following 13-months of not shaving). What was interesting to see was how Jacobs’ demeanor regarding the scriptures, religion and spirituality in general changes over the course of his biblical experiment. He goes from a state of near-solid agnostic cynicism to a quasi-divine state of spiritual gratitude in just over a year’s time.

What I noticed about Jacob’s experiment and what I’ve started to notice about my own behavior, since reading his book, is how easy it is to start believing and practicing many of the things that each of us reads. In his book, there are moments where you get the sense that perhaps Jacobs is starting to truly believe some of the passages in the Bible he is studying. In a couple of places, I started to believe right alongside him, which was a scary thought seeing how I walked away from organized religion almost ten years ago.

When he returns to his typical New York lifestyle after the 13-month experiment, shedding his beard and finally kissing his wife, Julie (who should be commended for putting up with A.J.’s biblical alter-ego “Jacob” for so long), he walks away from the experiment changed, moving a few of his biblical rituals into his everyday life and showing an appreciative attitude for everything around him, an attitude that was not present at the start of his book.

What I have to ask, then, is this: How easily are we, as intellectual beings, swayed in opinion by merely opening ourselves up to a concept or idea and keeping an unbiased and open mind, while inundating ourselves with it’s message? I, for one, felt infinitely more spiritual over the past three weeks, while reading this book, just studying the Bible vicariously through Jacobs’ words. The only other time I’ve been convinced of the Bible’s truths was during a 3-4 year period where I was immersing myself with the word (”God’s word.” The Bible) on a daily basis, while leading Bible study in my church’s youth group. In retrospect, it was spirituality by proximity. I believed the Bible because I was so immersed in its teachings and only its teachings at the time.

When I left the church and began studying other forms of spiritual enlightenment, thus broadening my perspective, I realized that truth could be found in many texts. The more I looked back on my stint with Christianity, the more I realized that the reason it went wrong was not because the Bible does not hold many moral truths (it does), but because the church I was involved with was adding their own agenda to the Bible’s interpretation. Jacobs writes towards the close of his book, paraphrasing rabbi, Robbie Harris (one of Jacobs spiritual advisors for his book), “You can start to worship the words instead of the spirit.” Which I think is true. The spirit of religion is the real truth, the words can be twisted and used to promote personal agendas.

One of the biggest problems I have with organized religion is that many practitioners give the Bible their own slant to help push their personal or denominational agendas. Many churchgoers are completely oblivious to the teachings of their own religion as they are actually written, much less other religions or even other denominations of their same religion. Many feel they are spending time in the word on a daily basis, but are really just accepting someone else’s interpretation of the Bible. They are narrowing their spiritual perspective, by not coming to their own interpretation, shunning, or perhaps exercising pure ignorance towards, any other point of view.

As I read along with Jacobs’ book, what I found so fascinating was how brilliantly he narrates his biblical journey with an unbiased point of view. Offering insights and opinions from a wide variety of biblical followings, while adding the perfect amount of his own form of bumbling, OCD, comic relief, he never forces any conclusions on himself or his reader. Jacobs ultimately closes out his biblical journey by saying, “The Bible may not have been dictated by God, it may have had a messy and complicated birth, one filled with political agendas and outdated ideas—but that doesn’t mean the Bible can’t be beautiful and sacred.”

After reading The Year of Living Biblically, I can’t argue with Jacobs’ sentiment. But, I think that you could just as easily replace the word “Bible” in that statement with any number of books, texts or ancient scrolls and it would still read just as accurately.

It is easy to get caught up in the latest fad of thought, spouting phrases and quotes from your latest intellectual discovery. It is easy to start to convince yourself that your viewpoint is right if you study only one side of any particular subject matter for too long. What we should try to do more often, instead of drawing our conclusions so quickly, and what The Year of Living Biblically inadvertently reminded me to do, was to look at everything with an objective eye and study both sides of a story before drawing your conclusion. If we would all take this approach with everything from religion to politics to comparative shopping, we’d probably be living in a world much more at peace with itself, and be saving thousands of dollars by buying store brand cola. If nothing else, it’s worth a shot.

On that note, I’m going to slowly wean myself off of the vicarious spiritual high I’m currently on and dive into Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion to balance myself out. To close with God’s word,

“The first to present his case seems right, till another comes forward and questions him.” -Proverbs 18:17

(I can’t believe I’m quoting Bible verses on this blog! Jacobs’ book was just that good and really got me to reexamine my thoughts on religion. And while I won’t be heading to Sunday school any time soon, I have certainly shed some of the bitterness Christianity left in my mouth.)

Where do you stand? Step inside someone else’s shoes and walk around a bit. When was the last time you approached your opinions and beliefs from a completely different perspective?

P.S. As I’m sure you’re still Googling yourself constantly, A.J., thanks for a great read!

It is not easy to be my parents

During high school, I ran away from home constantly. I hitch-hiked to South Padre Island when I was sixteen. Hitch-hiked from Raleigh, North Carolina to Dallas, Texas and all around Colorado when I was seventeen. Was constantly in trouble at school for hilarious pranks, like passing out fake notices on school letterhead, organizing what can only be considered as “anarchist rallies of student pride,” creating an online web site called SLONCHA dot com, that gave every student a reason to rebel, and generally being a nuisance to my high school’s administration. Throw in the fact that I skipped a full 73 days of school my senior year (that’s close to an entire semester) and you will have a tiny window into the hell I put my parents through by being what I liked to refer to as “eccentric.”

A blast to the past

Given the fact that I’m currently writing a book about growing up with alcohol, which happens to chronicle many of the more unpleasant times my parents and I had in the past, I’ve been rummaging through a lot of old journals, photographs and nostalgic memorabilia for writing inspiration. So, when Grant at Austin Carnivore posted some old notes from his journal today on his blog and after seeing all the trouble that this kid was getting into this week, I decided it would be a grand idea to post a small gem from my past.

The Parent Trap

At the close of my junior year in high school, I was sent to The Summit Education Center for passing out a bunch of forged notes on school letterhead stating that there was going to be a school-sanctioned “National Shorts Day” where all students would be allowed to wear shorts to school (something that was prohibited, even on 100+ degree days, by the DISD school board).

National Shorts Day came and went and I took the fall for it all, being shipped off to a detention center to finish out the year. When my parents decided to take my car away (even though this was such a hilarious thing to be suspended for that I felt it should go entirely without punishment), I decided to hit the road. While on a family vacation in North Carolina, I, being the self-obsessed person I was (and still am?), pointed my thumb out and was on my way. After 8-weeks on the road, summer had ended and being only mildly rebellious, I had returned to school at The Summit, where without a job or a place to live I was presented with the following:

After 8 weeks without talking to my parents they came to The Summit on the 1st day of school and told me they wanted to talk. The reverse (see below) is pretty much what I would have to do if I moved back in with them. Having no money, and no place else to go, I moved back in.

*Click here for full-resolution

You can click on the above set of guidelines (which has a beautiful layout and border) to read them in full. Some of the rules set forth by my parents are down right hilarious. And they aren’t hilarious, so much because they are ridiculous (although, a few are), but they are hilarious in that I was such a wildcard these things actually needed to be pointed out to me.

I love my parents to death, now, and have a great relationship with them. I got a kick out of a few of these rules, though (most notably, Rule #9). I am probably going to have the worst child in the history of the world. My parents will get their revenge in this very subtle way, I’m sure. The full parental guideline transcript is below (with my added notes in italics):

Guidelines between Jon Ray and his parents concerning his behavior at home, at school & in his community.
August 22, 2001

Jon, while we prefer to have you home during the course of your last year at high school, if you choose to leave or run off again, or if you do something that is totally unacceptable to us, you will not be able to come back and live with us again. We’re at the “one strike and you’re out” stage now. Hopefully this will not come into play. We both hope that your “summer away” has indeed taught you some sense of responsibility, as you stated that it had to your Dad at the Summit on the first day of school.

Here are some general guidelines to keep in mind while living at home:

1. Show respect and common courtesy to all of your family members as well as teachers, adults and the population in general. (”the population in general” I love that!)
2. Go to individual and family therapy. (This was actually helpful. Having someone that has no other option but to listen to you ramble on about your life is amazing. I assume this is why people buy dogs.)
3. In general, keep in touch with your mom and dad concerning your plans for every day. Spend the night at home most nights. Home no later than 11 p.m. on school nights. Keep in touch as to your where-abouts when you’re out and about. (I am still amazed that there was a time when I would be home and in bed before midnight. I don’t think it’s happened since this document was created.)
4. Keep your room and your bathroom clean and do other chores that we ask you to do at the time we ask you to do them. (this is pretty standard stuff, although something I still haven’t mastered, moving on.)
5. Don’t create trouble of any kind in school. And no more passing out of any kind of printed matter unless OK’d by your parents or your principals and/or teachers at school. (it’s funny to think that there was a time when you would actually pass physical printed material out to people instead of just posting it on your Facebook wall)
6. We do not want you to drink at all, but if you find yourself in a situation where you do, keep any drinking to a minimum and at no time are you to drive after drinking. We will be on the lookout for any signs of intoxication or for any word of intoxication. (this is basically the premise of the book I’m writing)
7. Obviously, don’t do anything illegal. (I love that it was necessary to point this out…and it was necessary at the time. i had no grasp on reality and assumed you could do whatever you wanted.)
8. Do better on your grades — You are easily capable of maintaining a “B” average. Do yourself a favor and, at least, try for it. (Don’t get me started on the downfall of standardized testing and my boycotting of it. That’s an entirely different post.)
9. No use of the computer for purpose of forgery of any kind or for any purposes that would be objectionable by your parents. It is not to be used for any personal web page construction. You may, if you choose, use it for the construction of legitimate business web pages for the purpose of earning money. You must notify your Dad of any web page construction that you might be doing. (This is in response to the FBI being called in to talk to my friend and I about the portal website we built parodying our high school, it’s staff and giving students a way to vent their frustrations and talk trash about everyone, while posting funny things in our controversial “guestbook.” The FBI was concerned that we were posting pictures of other students without their permission. This was before Facebook and the social media/blogosphere boom. The mere thought that the FBI was brought in for this is absolutely hilarious in retrospect. And I also find it funny that these parental guidelines are now being posted on my “personal web page” which I constructed myself.)
10. As was true before this contract, you must keep paying your Mom and Dad to help reimburse us for the extra car expenses and auto insurance payments that were in effect through April of 2001 (This is a subtle way of saying, GET A JOB!).

And there you have it. I was a little snot when I was a teenager and to some extent, I still am. I was able to follow these rules for a little less than a year before moving out of my parents house for good. Once I was out and they didn’t have to worry about me 24 hours a day, we became fast friends and all of the above became water under the bridge.

But, later in life, I would have to go head to head with corporate America’s dress code policy and would find myself exercising the same rebellious nature that I’ve always had. But, in retrospect, I think that was just the entrepreneurial spirit trying to break free. I just needed a creative outlet to put all of that energy into.

So, the moral of the story is that kids will be kids. But, if what they’re doing to get into trouble is funny, they shouldn’t be punished. Right? ;)

I prefer to do it in the middle of the night. It’s just easier that way. Less questions being asked. Fewer people staring. Judging. Not that they have any reason to judge.

What I am doing is perfectly legal under any conventional set of laws. And it just so happens that it brings a smile to people’s faces. Or, at least, I’ve always imagined that the recipients are elated at my creative packaging and wit.

Until someone informs me otherwise, I don’t plan on stopping. Just think how you might feel if you were to receive one of these on your doorstep, unannounced? Would it not peak your curiosity? Perhaps, even temp the corners of your mouth to lift upward and out to either side of your face? And why shouldn’t they?

It’s not every day you find a coconut, unwrapped, addressed to you via random selection from a phone book, and then mailed in the middle of the night from a 24-hour Automated Postal Center. You might not have even realized that the coconut is the only fruit that can be mailed without any kind of outside wrapping or packaging. After all, this type of message delivery, along with tying notes to owl feet, is rare.

How would you display this coconut—the one gifted to you by an anonymous boy wearing a hoodie and tie? Would such randomness be worthy of Christmas lights and tinsel? Or, dare I venture, a curled ribbon? And what will patrons walking in and out of your office, or past your living room mantle say about your out of season display of joy?

Eventually, the national news will pick up this mysterious story of the Coconut Mailer, an unknown person who leaves Automated Postal Machines brimming over with geographically incorrect fruit, each adorning a positive affirmation like, “Your hair looks perfect today,” or “That shirt makes you look smart.” And there you will be, slamming said coconut repeatedly over your computer monitor, breaking it in two, and smiling, while you announce to no one in particular, “I’m going on break.”

You deserve it.

Want to get handwritten mail from the Coconut Mailer (me). Click here and send me your deets. No spam. Only postcards, fruit, and other assorted goodies.

She would be here in two hours and still the house was filthy. Mobile homes caught in the wrath of a tornado had looked tidier. And of course she was coming this early. It never failed that she would show up, unannounced, at the most inopportune times.

If I timed everything perfectly, I had just enough time to wipe down the microwave, replace the clean dishes in the washer with the dirty ones still in the sink, and then literally, heave through a laundry list containing many other matters of tidiness. In, now, less than two hours, she would be in my apartment putting a micro lens over every shelf not dusted, carpet not vacuumed, and toilet not scrubbed—oh, Jesus! I still needed to scrub the toilet!

I hated when she visited—rarely speaking, yet without fail, cleaning, again, everything that I had already crossed off my list. Scouring every nook and cranny with a fine-toothed comb. Was I not allowed to live my own life? Was it not enough that I not once had complained about her (ahem…lazy) new husband, even though he had promised to fix my hallway light fixture, only to never complete the task at hand?

Just because I wasn’t keen on folding or hanging my own clothes gave her no right to walk into my closet and organize all of my clothing by color and brand name. Even if it did make it easier to find my work shirts in the morning—have I no dignitiy?

It isn’t that her opinion matters all that much to me. I just can’t stand that disappointed look she gets on her face, when she has to toss out month-old leftovers from Denny’s, or knocks one of my socks against the counter, now hardened and hollow sounding, mildewed beyond repair.

So, I scrub counters with a sponge and ovens with a brush. I knock away cobwebs from crown molding and trash lint balls from the laundry room. I alphabetize movies by director and books by author. I mop once to make the floors clean and again, to make them shine.

When she finally knocks on my door, this woman who has expected so much of me, who I feel obligated to impress. When she lets go of that door-knocker and we are face to face, I can relax, knowing that my home—the one I live in and call my own—will be the cleanest apartment she cleans this week.

When all of the housekeepers from the building gather downstairs in the basement at the end of the day to catch up on their telenovelas, sip horchata, and gossip about who in the building has the most disgusting apartment, they will not mention my room number. I will be in the clear.

But, maybe, just maybe, they will bring me up in conversation, speaking pleasantly about what a tidy and well put together young man I am. Each of them will tell tales of past trips to my apartment, marveling at how they could see their reflection in my bathroom counters.

One housekeeper will recount the time she was carrying a candy bar in her shirt pocket, while walking into the bathroom, when it jumped from its wrapper and onto the floor. “The bathroom, it is already so clean, I just eat it off the floor.” And at that, they will all raise their glasses and toast my apartment number, singing my praises and laughing.

For hours they will talk about me and how mine is their favorite apartment to clean. Then, as they do every week, they will draw straws to decide who will be lucky enough to clean my home the following week.

The winner, holding her long straw high above her head, will dance about in delight, “I am very much lucky, today!” And they will all laugh as she tells them of the needlepoint she will be able to finish while cleaning my apartment. “Señor 214 has the cleanest apartment I have ever seen. He pay us to sit around and wait for the dust to collect. He is perfect person!”

And knowing that—that I am a perfect person—will put a smile on my face and make the waking up early, the hours and hours of preparation, the constant Googling—How to change the dryer lint cage. How to get red wine out of white carpet fibers. How to wash glasses without leaving water streaks—all of this, and the one hundred twenty dollars a week I pay for a housekeeper to come into my apartment, will be completely worth it. They will never know what a slob I really am. I will have fooled them. I am perfect.

When she called him, she was nearly in tears, her voice jettisoning between cracked frustration and a hopeless whimper. Why was it that the people and ideas she had invested so much time into had only resulted in dead-end paths? What was the point? Where was she supposed to go from here?

After she had exhausted her situation and talked it into the ground, he invited her over to his building. It was unseasonably cold out and a recent rain was now crystalizing over everything it had touched earlier in the day. He filled the backseat of his car with blankets, pillows, coloring books and crayons. In large silver thermoses, he poured piping hot chocolate—extra chocolate, extra marshmallows. Then, drove to the parking garage roof and left the heater running.

When she arrived, they embraced for a long time, his slow, deliberate breaths calming her, as they rode the dimly lit elevator to the roof. She tried voicing one of her many frustrations, but after staring deep into her eyes, showing he would listen forever if she needed him to, her worries seemed to melt away.

The two of them walked out onto the roof, the collected water now frozen solid. “What are we doing here?” She asked. His ideas, hopelessly romantic, he answered, “I thought we could dance.” And so, with the lights of the city skyline bouncing off the slick reflection of the ice, the two of them slid about, falling countless times, and attempted to do something, anything, that resembled dancing in some frame or fashion—each failed attempt beautiful.

When it got to be too cold—both of their cheeks red, breath hot on the other’s face—he grabbed her hand and they retreated into the hatchback of his car. Now, comfortably insulated with old quilts, pillows, and sheets sporting cartoon heroes, it was the perfect fort. A giant sleeping bag designed so they could be near each other—pouring cup after cup of hot cocoa.

He wanted to set up a white picket fence around his car and live in that moment forever, taking special note every time she smiled or laughed. She was beautiful when she smiled and he couldn’t help but find happiness in her joy.

Tomorrow she would go back to the other boy. Try and work out her problems with someone else. Make herself available for that perfect guy she just hadn’t, yet, found. But, tonight, there were kittens in capes to be colored blue and children’s books to be read aloud. Tonight, there was hot chocolate to drink and, oh yes, popcorn to be tossed into each others’ mouths. Tonight, she could tell him anything and he would listen, intently. He would love to hear her.

So, they stayed in the backseat of that car for as long as they could. Eyes locked. Inhibitions lost. And, in that moment, it was perfect.

I’m walking up the stairs of the local bookstore and see a girl who would be drop-dead gorgeous if she lost seven to ten pounds. She is looking at a novelty mustache that I once saw the lead singer of White Ghost Shivers wear in Waterloo Park. The mustache is much larger than any normal mustache would ever be, thus adding to its hilarity. I see her giggle, which makes me giggle and she is instantly more attractive. As I walk by, I’m careful to angle myself so that she can not get a clear view of my rear end. I have been sitting down in the coffee shop working on my computer for hours and my ass is sweating more profusely than usual due, in part, to the bottomless cup of coffee I have been sipping and the vinyl seat coverings, which do not breath. She looks at me and I try to will her to eye contact, an attempt to dissuade her eyes from inspecting my pants for coffee induced sweat stains. She looks at my ass. Of course, she does. Dammit. I should have worn jeans. My ass sweat does not show up as much when wearing jeans.

I scurry off, hoping that a quick escape will push her attention back to the novelty toys hanging on the wall. Rubber ducks sporting the clothing of popular human occupations such as fire fighter, police officer, train conductor, etc are far more interesting than the sweat accruing on my lower back and unmentionables. Why am I sweating so much!? I walk into the bathroom and immediately inspect the rear of my pants. The sink counter is high and I have to stand on my tippie toes to get a good look at my butt in the mirror. Good. No visible sweat marks. A man with long dreadlocks and a sport coat walks in and catches me looking at my own ass in the mirror. He needs to wash his hands, so I walk to a urinal and pretend to be taking a piss. Now, the dreadlock man walks up to the urinal next to me to take a piss beside me. Why on earth did he wash his hands before taking a piss!? This makes absolutely no sense.

I am standing at the urinal, not actually urinating, but pretending to urinate. There is no music in the bathroom. There was music out in the store. The Bee Gees. They were playing the Bee Gees in the store. But, in here, it is silent and I know that he can hear that I am not peeing. I wonder if he can tell that my pants are not unbuttoned? Does he think that I am a freak for standing in front of a toilet for more than thirty seconds, now, without pulling out my penis? Wait. Why is he looking at the area where my penis would be were I actually urinating? He is the freak. I am normal, just a guy, resting in front of a urinal. Using this time to ponder the meaning behind the hand-printed text on the wall.

Above the urinals someone has written, Fuck you in black ink. In blue ink, someone crossed out the you and has written Me! in it’s place. But, in red ink, someone else (or maybe the original Fuck you writer, now with a different pen) has written Ok!, thus, implying that he (or if a woman has happened to infiltrate the men’s restroom, she) is open to an arrangement where he/she would be having sex with this new restroom wall author. The meaning of the original text is completely changed, though, when a new author with what appears to be a Sharpie marker, or other felt tipped pen, has written on top of the Fuck you Me! and altered it to read Bock Me! Which, at first, makes little sense, until you run a Google search for Bock Me and then realize that this person is obviously referring to the Super Bock Appreciation Society, whose mantra and mission statement reads, “Respect and cower down to the power of the bock!” and appears to refer to a Portuguese brand of strong pale lager from the Unicer brewery which produces a range of beers under the same name.

Slightly to the right of this real world bathroom Wiki is written the word, observe and as I ponder its meaning in all of this, I realize that the dreadlock man thinks that I am trying to look at his penis and no doubt, has interpreted the sweat on my forehead, not as coffee induced perspiration, but instead, some sort of sick sexual nervousness. This man is probably the original Fuck you author and now, it is obvious, although far from the truth, that I am the Fuck Me! author and my eyes drifting towards observe are a blatant proposition for anything goes bathroom sex. Jesus. I divert my eyes and stand there, not urinating, hoping that this whole thing will blow over. Hoping that this man will leave and allow me to walk away, unscathed. If I can just escape this terrible bathroom mix-up, I’ll walk back onto the bookstore floor and find the over-sized mustache girl. Maybe, I was wrong, she doesn’t need to lose ten pounds. She probably has a winning personality that makes up in spades for any physical flaws. She’s probably one of those girls that would find a sweaty ass funny. Hilarious, even. Oh, just let me walk away from this man in a sport coat and dreadlocks and sandals. This man is wearing sandals with jeans and a sport coat. God. He has probably just come from some bathhouse orgy and is now looking for some one-on-one action.

Just my luck, here I was, only minutes away from falling in love with over-sized mustache girl and now, our life together; the couch cushion forts; the love notes hidden all over each others’ small apartments, the shared toothbrushes; the awkward sex that is alright because we are in love; the eggs and toast in bed; the being under-dressed to a really dressy restaurant because it is our anniversary and we want to feel like adults, even though we don’t know how to be adults, yet; the small wedding we will pay for with a series of bake sales; our three freckled children, who will not be allowed to eat fast food until they are ten. All of this has been compromised, because of this dreadlock having, sport coat with sandal wearing bathroom rapist. If only I get out alive, I will propose to over-sized mustache girl on the spot. We will write a book about the whole experience and our book tour will kick off, right here, in this very bookstore, where our love first began.

The sport coat sandals man zips a pair of Lee jeans and walks out of the bathroom without washing his hands. He is living in a bizarro world, where one washes their hands before urination. He walks out the door to find another victim. I am not his type. He prefers a man without a beard. Thank God, I am not his type. I wash my hands, even though, technically, I have not used the restroom facilities the way they were intended, and thus have no real reason to wash my hands. It is flu season, though. The man with dreadlocks is probably a carrier of the main airborne flu strand. Or, like that monkey in that one movie, carrying something even worse than flu. Something that will surely wipe out mankind. He has decided to spare me from vicious rape, but wants me to know how displeased he is. He has surely willed disease ridden germs all over my body. I wash my hands, furiously, singing Happy Birthday in my head twice to be sure that all of the germs have been destroyed, annihilated.

I need to find over-sized mustache girl. I need to tell her how I survived utter madness so that I could find her and make a life with her. I need to tell her that it is important, necessary to sing Happy Birthday in your head, twice, while washing your hands, so as not to contract the flu or a myriad of other diseases. I need to make sure she doesn’t let our kids eat McDonald’s until they are ten, maybe twelve years old. I see her round the corner, heading into children’s books. I don’t have a ring. Will she be offended if I propose with one of these novelty rings that light up and make your eyes roll into the back of your head when you are on ecstasy at a rave? Has she ever taken ecstasy? Is she on it now? Will she want to form a massage train or ask if I have Vick’s Vapor Rub in my bag? Should I go buy some vapor rub?

I round the corner and there she is, squatting in front of the teen reader bookshelf. She is squatting, her ass crack hanging out for all to see. In this squatting position, she looks as though she might need to lose twenty pounds, not ten, and I wonder if she has a gym membership. If we get married, will I have to pay for her gym membership? Is she the unmotivated type, who will only workout consistently if I hire her a $150/hour personal trainer? Do I have that kind of money? I will have to take on an extra client just to help this woman lose the weight that is, no doubt, slowly clogging her arteries and killing her. Can I really be with a woman who is so selfish as to die young, leaving me to raise our three children all alone? How can she be so thoughtless!? How could she expect that I would want a life with anyone that cannot take care of themselves? God, she’s probably the type of girl that smells strange after a workout, no matter what amount of deodorant is applied. She’ll have to use a special kind of deodorant, the kind that gives you breast cancer. Oh, great, now if she doesn’t die from obesity, she’ll surely die of breast cancer. And what about her ass sweat? If she can’t control her underarm sweat, her ass is going to sweat profusely, as well. We will have to buy her special pants to conceal that disgusting ass sweat. Our life savings will be spent on padded pants, designed to absorb her uncontrollable toxin excretion. Our children, embarrassed when she stands up after watching them at soccer practice, will quit sports, start hanging with freaks, develop a crack addiction and never get into good college. They will not even find a community college that will accept them. Never mind. I can’t take this. I cannot do this to our children. I cannot believe she would do this to our children!

I race down the stairs. I need fresh air. I feel claustrophobic. The walls are closing in on me. There are too many books, too many opinions, too many people judging me for not wanting to marry a fat person. I make it to the front doors. They slide open as I raise my hand in their direction, willing them open with my mind. I make it outside, there is a cool crisp air that instantly makes me feel like there will be other women out there; women without perspiration issues. Women that do Pilates. I am bent over, out of breath, but recovering with this new air, new life filling my lungs. And then, I see him. He’s smoking a cigarette and watching me bent over and out of breath. The man with the dreadlocks, sport coat and sandals is standing there, blowing smoke rings in my direction. I need a savior. I need Jesus. I need the over-sized mustache girl. Maybe, she wasn’t all that bad. Maybe, we should have a life together. I wonder if she smokes?