Public Urination

I faked it.

I'd never done it before in my life, but sometimes when a person is presented with an experience so new that it has never before been contemplated, under a circumstance of crushing social pressure, he may just snap as I did. And so I faked it.

I made a little noise of accomplishment, engaged an appropriate hint of a smile, replaced myself, zipped up, and turned and worked my way through the crowd behind me.

A public restroom, especially a public men's restroom, urinal section, is a tough place to get work done. I'd gone into this restroom immediately after a show to handle a protest by my bladder. I had stood in line, shoulder to shoulder with other men and boys for a few minutes, about six or so across and initially another half dozen or so deep; about two-score human males shuffling to the urinals. Conversation, per protocol, was minimal to non-existent. There was the occasional muted exchange between father and son, or perhaps a little nervous noise between friends. But the men's restroom is - for all the auditory "brightness" of its hard surfaces - a reasonably quiet place, like the inside of a cathedral during contemplative time. Little or no eye contact. Heads slightly lowered. Sniffles, scuffling of feet, movement of clothing, the small community sounds of solitary ritual.

And so, on this occasion as a teenager after seeing one of the Pink Panther movies, I inched forward. By the time I finally had access to one of the urinals, I was surrounded by male humanity, each one waiting in varying stages of anxiety for a spot like mine. I unzipped my pants, produced the required body part, and... nothing.

Peeing in public is social convention. It has to be learned. Most men probably recall the kid in kindergarten or first grade who had not yet been taught how to pee in public. You'd see this boy standing at the urinal, buttocks perhaps covered by a shirt tail, or maybe not, his pants down on the floor around his ankles. This was simply the way the boy learned to do it at home. But he wasn't home any longer. He would eventually learn to keep his pants up and perform orthodox public peeing.

Another unwritten rule might be codified "do your business and leave." The pressure to perform and exit is strong, and increases - like air pressure - with the weight of extra mass. I stood at the urinal and could feel the need behind me, the milling anxiety. Judgment, perhaps? Did they know? It was performance time, and I was cracking. I'm not sure exactly why my need wasn't sufficient to carry me through that day, but facts are what they are. I was dry.

But how could anyone know, really? As the normally alloted time, about fifteen to thirty seconds, edged toward the red-zone, I realized that I could emerge from this whole in the minds of mandom by simply appearing to have done what I came to do. And so I did.

I don't remember when I finally, actually went to the bathroom. That doesn't matter. And I've not suffered the same performance-related problem since. But I have had to ask myself a question: With the benefit of experience and better self-understanding, and being a somewhat more confident, mature adult man, if I ended up in the same situation again would I once again fake it?

Damn right I would.

Spanish Verb

Tenedorar: To fork around (with), both transitive and intransitive.

Usage: Pablo tenedora con la bicicleta. Paul forks around with the bicycle.

"¡Oye, Rosa, deja tenedorar!" "Hey, Rosa, quit forking around!"

Nick, Again

I see Nick all of the time. We chat about whatever's going on in our lives.

Yesterday he looked like it was having a bit of a rough time. This was just my obesrvation; Nick doesn't complain. He explained that he was just coming out of a bit of pneumonia and had a new appreciation for the importance of breathing. He had taken for granted the ability to and importance of breathing all of the way in and all of the way out. He observed, in a somewhat clinical fashion, that it's possible to feel little explosions inside your lungs when things aren't working the way they should. He paused to cough lightly from time to time throughout our conversation.



I'd been feeling bad about some things I thought were problems in my life: Car trouble, not as much money as I wish, missing my partner. Nick sort of helped me adjust my perspective on how much I have to be grateful for. Again.

Times Square

About a month ago, while Asher and I were visiting Stephanie in New York, we went out of our way one night to go where most New Yorkers avoid on a weekend: Times Square. The purpose of the visit was twofold; to show Asher the place, and to get some photos out of it.

We called Max in Salt Lake City and he got onto a computer and brought up the Times Square Earthcam, a fine collection of cameras in and about Times Square. Without further ado, here are the two images he captured, the first being tiny Steph, Ash, and Mark in the triangle area in the middle of the photo at 46th St. and Broadway (Cam 2), and then just to the northeast outside TGI Friday's at their cam (Cam 4).

Creation

There are those who suggest that the closest humans can get to the traditional view of the Creator God is when they assemble music or words in a unique way, in a form of practically pure creation. The act, of course, doesn't actually occur on paper. It happens in the mind. The mental creative act is often distilled on paper, and then performed with voice or instrument.



One of the highlights of my visits to the food bank is listening to Oren share some of his own poetry. Today we enjoyed both light and sober verses about Christmas, and some darker ones about war and pain. The last one Oren didn't even want to give a voice to, he just passed it to me to read silently.

He was exercising the creator's prerogative.

Nick and Legacies

I had to run into Evanston, Wyoming today to pick up a couple of things for my office. I had to stop to show my receipt to the the "greeter" (a euphemism for "gonna try and catch you stealing our crap") because a couple of the things were too big and heavy to put into bags, and so were just in my cart. He was very nice about it. I've seen this guy around before. We've exchanged light pleasantries on other occasions.



Once cleared, I dug in and started moving the heavy cart when the standard, parting "have a nice day" went from the mundane to the personal. As I was leaving he said "you look like the sort of guy who has nice days." Interesting. I had thought the same thing about him but just hadn't bothered to find a rhetorical formulation, so I told him so. We chatted a bit

He told me he'd been diagnosed with congestive heart failure some time before, and it had gotten pretty bad. But he'd survived, and since that time he'd had lots of good days. I couldn't help but feel that the quality of the days he'd had lately had more to do with his spirit than the way his body felt.

Nick (we shared names officially) told me that it was important to him that he leave some sort of legacy, in his children, with people he knew, maybe even with a stranger impressed by an act of kindness, so that when he was finally gone he wasn't really gone. And so Nick has ended up in this humble blog, for however long it lasts.

And a little bit of him has ended up in me.

Teaching, Shaping, Equipping, and Synthesis

I had a chance yesterday (and will again next week) with my buddy the local Highway Patrol officer to sit with our local kids all day, session after session, and teach them about a very narrow aspect of public safety, the local 911 system.



These kids are smart. They largely accept most of the things we tell them, but there are a few little skeptics and questioners out there. I must confess a certain special affection for those who want to know a little more or who are prepared with some sort of sensible (by juvenile standards) challenge to something I've got to share. Maybe it's because I've had a few of those kids in my own family. Maybe it's because my best relationships have involved somewhat contrasting views on some issues. The woman with whom I plan on spending the rest of my life and I talk for hours, and I learn the most when I'm required to articulate my position in the context of her intelligent examination.

We're not brainwashing anyone in these classes, and our future looks bright when I see these smart little stinkers smiling back at me. Especially when I see the edges of a question form on a face, a question that links something given with something already possessed.

That Which Remains

This bowl was overflowing with candy the day after Halloween.



We're a tiny Sheriff's Office, and kids have come by during Trick or Treating ever since I've been around. So we always have tons of candy for October 31st, and lots of "leftovers" after.

The first to go in those heady days in very early November are the chocolatey and peanutbuttery things; the Reeses, Kit Kat, Snickers... you get the drift. Also popular for those moments when you can't even look at the chocolate without suffering involuntary uvula twitches are the gummy sorts of candies such as the Dots and Twizzlers.

But eventually all the "good stuff" is gone. At that stage, the office scrounge is left looking at what you see here.

Tootsie rolls and pops.

Oh, they're not bad. In a way I feel sorry for them, just like I did for the chubby kid when we were picking kickball teams, or as I felt for myself during "girls' choice" dances of my early teen years when I was sprouting my most spectacular acne.

But it's easier to pass by the bowl now without feeling those pangs I felt just a few days ago.

Like A Squirrel

Long time, no blogging.

With work, midterms, and trips to New York and California with Steph, it's just been a busy, busy time. I feel like a squirrel getting ready for winter. And I'm so thankful. Life is good, my partner is well, my kids are fine, they still need me at work, my brain is not yet pudding.

I am blessed beyond anything I deserve.

Randy and the Rainbow

I was driving down the highway in the rare early fall rain and saw the flashers of the car in the highway. I wondered what was going on for a moment. Then I saw the tractor in the water. A man was in trouble and the car was Randy's. Randy had gone into the cold, murky agricultural ditch water to help. He was up to his waist.



An ambulance came. A wrecker. Friends and neighbors. The whole world. We're a tiny community and one person's big problem results in lots of helping hands.

And I had a real treat as I drove home, wet, and the sun gave us one last "look what I can do."