It should make all of my readers out there happy to know that my phone call to my apartment complex did not go unheeded. They called me back the next morning and apologized for the inconvenience. They said they had had quite a handful of other problems with “these guys.” As I drove home that night I was sure that there would be a bathroom in working order when I returned home. Unfortunately the solution to the problem was not as simple as I had anticipated, and only received half of what I was hoping for: The bathroom was working and the door shut (kinda), but “order” was perhaps setting my sights too high…

Yes, I use a set of bull horns for a towel rack. Also, they turned the toilet diagonally, which, incidentally was not enough for the door to clear the bowl, so the installer simply bashed the door against the bowl several times until there he had broken and splintered a notch out of it. This actually wasn’t especially effective either, as the door still rubbed quite severely upon closing.

I wondered if I should just keep my mouth shut about the whole thing, but as I tried to come to grips with the lack of symmetry in my bathroom  I realized that the sink, counter, tub, mirror, and every wall in the room are all at right angles. It’s actually rather disconcerting to void your bladder into  a skewed receptacle; not overwhelmingly so, but more than you’d expect.

I placed another phone call, and “the guy” actually showed up at my doorstep just a few hours later. I usually do very well with accents originating in the American south (I hail from that vicinity), but this fellow’s drawl was a force to be reckoned with. I divined that his LSU hat was probably more indicative of his regional allegiance than his place of higher education (although it could be both). He came in and confirmed for me that the problem was not his fault. I heaved a great sigh of relief. This revelation was of great comfort to me since I had secret machinations to covertly brandish a butcher knife and lure this hapless plumber into my dwelling in hopes that I might have my sweet revenge.

Ah. Not his fault. Well that’s good for everyone! Apparently the apartment complex just gave him toilets to install, and these were just the wrong shape for the bathrooms. It seems like there were a lot of places this could have been caught and avoided before my door was smashed on a crooked toilet and I was in danger of forfeiting my security deposit.

The plumber offered to turn the tank so that it was “more parallel” with the wall. That phrase was in quotes because while the tank may have been a bit closer to parallel with the wall, this made the angle it formed with the already diagonal toilet more obtuse, and thus made it look even worse. Also now you couldn’t get the seat to stay up because the tank was now angled. His parting advice, which he repeated (by conservative estimate), a grand total of 8 times, was to have my apartment complex reverse the direction of the bathroom door…

I was close to despair that night as I thought back on all the wonderful times I shared with my old toilet. You just never think a good thing like that is going to end, you know? I think I would have taken more pictures and really let it know how much it was appreciated, but now it’s gone and I will never be able to do so.

My spirits became somewhat more buoyant as Julia and I realized that there was a mysterious object placed on our porch…

No, not the pumpkin. That’s been there for a while. I’m referring to the box with a toilet on it! Does it contain yet a third toilet for our apartment in the space on one week?! Tune in soon for the third and final chapter of this ongoing saga.

The toilet was invented a long time ago. Early civilizations in present-day Pakistan, India, Scotland and Rome all apparently decided that having a receptacle for their waste was better than the alternative. Well done mankind.

As a man in the 21st century, and a resident of what you could safely call “Middle America” I realize that I’ve taken this significant advancement in technology somewhat for granted. We have entire rooms dedicated mostly to toilets and their associated fixtures, and you really don’t realize how good you have it, until something goes horribly awry…

This past week held an event such as this. The apartment complex put out a notice that they would be replacing all toilets this week with newer, nicer, sleeker, and (most importantly to the complex) “low-flow” toilets. This essentially means the complex has a lower water bill, and I have to wash the toilet bowl more often.

The toilets arrived with much pomp and circumstance as a gigantic trailer was parked in our parking lot/on our lawn, containing the dozens of these porcelain thrones. A small doubt crept into the back of my brain as I thought I might have foreseen a problem, but it was finals week for me, and the intricacies of the human circulatory system occupied far more of my cognitive bandwidth.

My concern was this: The bathroom in my apartment is very small. When one closed the door, the door only cleared the toilet by maybe a millimeter. I’m not exaggerating. In the summer, when it got very warm, the thermal expansion of the wooden door and the porcelain toilet actually caused them to rub together ever so slightly. I wondered if the plumber would take this into account upon his installation of the new unit, but, “Hey, he’s a professional plumber, this is what he does for a living so nothing will go wrong!” I reasoned. I was wrong.

The toilet is actually smaller than our previous one, but apparently installing it so that the door would close was too much for the installer. When I arrived home, I was met with this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes. The bathroom door now could not close. I was perturbed; I’m spending how much per month to have a bathroom door than can’t be closed?! Julia was ne’er to pleased either. As I started to ponder how expensive a good “hanging-curtain” would be to install, I realized that toilets are a wonderful invention, improving sanitation and adding to the length and quality of the lives of billions of people, but they aren’t nearly as enjoyable when you can’t have that little bit of privacy.

I made a quick (though a bit humorous) phone call into the front office explaining my predicament…

The results will be covered in Chapter 2:

This week I did something I haven’t done in years: I wore a tie. The last time I did this was (if I remember correctly) at my friend Bryan’s wedding. I don’t count my wedding because, as my groomsmen can attest, Men’s Wearhouse gives you some sort of hybrid, slip-on tie.

I don’t particularly enjoy wearing ties. Sure, at times they do afford you a certain level of sophistication that can make you feel a lot cooler than you probably are, but they make me uncomfortably aware that there is something tied around my neck reminiscent of a leash. This is the first of a laundry list of grievances I have with ties. They also get in your way while washing your hands, visiting a urinal, brushing your teeth, and if there’s any wind at all. They can become ensnared in car doors, bushes/any sort of decorative floral arrangement, or the hands of small children or potential assailants. They also make me warmer than I care to be. They can be tricky to tie and take up precious time while you’re getting ready, even if you know what you’re doing.

I don’t know why anyone would decide that a long piece of cloth around his neck is a good idea. It’s actually a brilliant piece of marketing. A quick Wikipedia search revealed that the necktie has its roots in the Thirty Years War when the French thought that some of the clothes of the Croatians were wearing were quite fetching. I lost interest after that, although I did go on to learn that I hope to someday sport an ascot. This would be mostly for the shock value, and what I’m guessing will be an increased chance of being handed a glass of warm brandy in front of a roaring fire in some lavish lounge. It also seems a safer and more comfortable option to dress up ones neck…

This is from a few weeks ago (note it was still intramural soccer season and I have yet to snag a post-match shower), but I thought it would be Blog-worthy. It’s what happened when it was determined to be my turn to do the dishes, while Julia decided it was also dreadfully necessary to mop the kitchen floor. Some would say we compromised, although, she pretty much went about her task without much modification…

In honor of my current institution’s traditional growth and subsequent comparison and grading of mustaches during the now passed month of October, I’m choosing to both voice my deep-seated love for the ability to grow facial hair (and those who choose to do so), while also voicing my frustrations at not being able to participate this year due to my newly found marital status. As it turns out, sleeping on the couch ranks just slightly lower in Eric’s Exhaustive Ranking of All Possible Experiences (patent pending) than having a delightful (though thoroughly off-putting to the female gender) facial adornment. Sigh. Someday…

- Penultimate

- Ostensibly

- Turbot (and Sturgeon)

- Pontificate

- Sequelae

First of all would like to apologize, to those who constitute this blog’s regular audience, for the gross lack of recent posts: Robert, I’m sorry, it’s been a bear of a week.

Now that we’ve taken care of all of that unpleasantness it’s time to open the proverbial release valve and vent just a few of the myriad thoughts I’ve had in the last week (Yes, it’s myriad, NOT myriad of, but now is not the time to delve into my staunch views on proper grammar).

I’ve been thinking a lot about Halloween lately. Possibly because today is Halloween, and people kept talking about it this past week. I had a conversation with a guy who knows people who spend several thousand dollars each year on supplies and decorum for a haunted house that they set up in their backyard. Apparently they make much of it back by charging admission but then donate all the admission money to local charities. I wondered if they’d ever considered just donating thousands of dollars to charity and then taking a nap. It would be easier, they’d still get that wonderful sense of philanthropic self-satisfaction, and they’d get to take a nap at the end of it.

Last night I went to a Halloween/Birthday party for a dear friend’s younger sister. I wanted to continue my streak of dressing up in a costume highlighting a current social or political issue (last year I went as a bloodied and battered “Stock Market”) by going as “Swine Flu,” but the Halloween store had no pig noses… Thus I was forced to attend the party dressed as an “Adult Chaperone.”

Amidst the din emitted from the droves of gaudily garbed youth, I became contemplative (which I seem to always do at the most inappropriate of times). I don’t really have any deep-seeded issues for Halloween, but I think the “holiday” has perhaps lost its way. This isn’t too surprising considering that it’s some sort of modern bastardization of an ancient pagan celebration; we’ve managed to somehow divert more relevant or potentially meaningful celebrations, right? Christmas has become a holiday of mass consumerism (or perhaps just a “season of giving” to the naive or irreligious cynics), Thanksgiving into a celebration of gross overindulgence (both calorically and in the amount of money spent by advertisers for the NFL and day-after shopping binges), and Easter, now involves lots of candy and a rabbit.

But Halloween doesn’t have such an illustrious past. Perhaps it’s why I’ve always just expected less of it. Looking back, I have such fond memories of the day. It was the one time it was socially acceptable to dress up like something really scary or funny, while collecting the most candy possible. As I grew too old (I thought) to dress up, I reminisced on those halcyon days and cherished those moments of innocent carbohydrate mongering.

However, in the last week I’ve realized that my notions of Halloween have either been entirely wrong, or are horribly outdated. Either way, I again feel like a cranky old man. Judging from the media, my jaunt through the Halloween store and my chaperone detail last night, Halloween is no longer a chance to come up with a scary or witty disguise for the purpose of procuring sweets, but a chance to dress incredibly garishly, like a prostitute, or my favorite, an incredibly garish prostitute. As a helper at the aforementioned  party I was to award points for those with good costumes in the form of stickers; I had to ask almost every kid what on earth they were supposed to be.

Strange Kid: Hey! Can I have a sticker for my costume?! Please?!!!

Me: Well… what are you supposed to be?

Strange Kid: Uh… I dunno. I’m like maybe some kind of emo-ballerina? Give me a sticker!

Me: Hmmm. Well…

Strange Kid: Agh! I even wore this to school today and everything! C’mon!

Me: Well, I mean, that really doesn’t matter now does it? I mean, how am I supposed to know if this is that big of a stretch for you?

Two things: When asked what your costume is, you should have to answer with a vague question. Also, while I suspected her costume wasn’t actually that much of a stretch for her, I gave her a sticker just to get her to leave me alone. Yep, I too can be lazy on Halloween…

Perhaps I should chalk this up to the immaturity of kids, except that now that I’m an “adult” I’m expected to spend what should be a holiday for kids at big parties getting hammered. I suppose this is just another sign that I’ll probably end up living in Montana by the time I’m 35. Oh well, at least I can still fall back on my other holidays that haven’t been so corrupted by a society so ineptly preoccupied with consumerism and inebriation: Just a few more months until Saint Patrick’s Day and Cinco de Mayo…

This is probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

This past weekend I did something I haven’t done for a long time. I rode a bicycle. Not only did I ride a bicycle, I rode 60 miles for the “Ride for Refugees” in effort to raise money and awareness for refugees and displaced peoples across the country. When my friends told me of the event/encouraged me to sign up I thought to myself, “Why Eric! You’re just the sort of fellow who enjoys exercise; you would be perfect for this!”

My confidence was equally stoked when I was loaned a sleek and shiny black racing bike which consisted mostly of carbon fiber (perhaps filled with helium) and was literally worth more than my car. I was also given a cycling bib (bibs?) which seemed to provide necessary padding to my backside and a sleek looking helmet which I assumed would allow my head to cut through the air with such ease that I would quite literally be in danger of breaking the sound barrier with my own two legs. Yes, suddenly without much effort on my part, I began to give off the air of looking distinctly like I knew what I was doing.

I now realize I had fallen prey to what I suspect is the one thing men find most alluring about so many of the hobbies we choose to invest time and money in: Anything that requires a lot of specialized (and therefore expensive) gear. There’s a reason MacGuyver is a household name. I think I can speak for all men when I say that deep down the appeal of MacGuyver was not his possession of an untamable mullet, but that he was always prepared for every situation with little more than a pound of sugar and a newspaper.

We menfolk enjoy being able to go into any conceivable situation and know that we own something that will give us a decided advantage over the forces which oppose us (ie. the outdoors, alien invaders, other men, etc.). This scenario should illustrate nicely what I’m getting at:

Guy 1: Oh no, it’s suddenly raining and I’m outside and getting soaked!

Guy 2: Hahaha! Oh mother nature, thine efforts be in vain! I happen have a waterproof jacket that folds to the size of a business card that I can whip out at any moment, preventing any moisture from ever actually contacting my body!

Guy 1: Say, do you have anything you could let me use? I’m becoming ever so wet! Perhaps you possess something that could not only keep yourself dry, but also others around you; an umbrella, for instance?

Guy 2: Haha, no! If I had an umbrella I wouldn’t be able to feel such thinly veiled superiority to you as your underwear becomes soggy. Plus, I now have an extra hand free with which to point an laugh at you.

Guy 1: Wow. That is nice.

Guy 2: Tell me about it! I also get wireless on this thing…

I think this is the reason that golf is so wildly popular. As far as I can tell, a hundred years ago, golf was not nearly as widespread as it is now. Clubs were handed down from generation to generation and were just a small step up the technological ladder from stone-age tools. However, this simply couldn’t last. As men we also feel the biological imperative to improve whatever is around us, making things bigger, faster, lighter, stronger, and more powerful simply because they can become so. Once the clubs started to become specialized and stylish, the interest in golf began to grow. Men who became casually interested in the idea of whacking a small ball into a hole several hundred yards away were suddenly aware of how woefully unprepared they were for such an endeavor. Grandpa’s wooden clubs didn’t have quite the zip that Steve’s new metal clubs did.

Now there are golf clubs made of exotic forms of glass that can hit a ball farther and more accurately than ever before. We also have golf shirts, golf pants, golf hats, golf sunglasses, golf club bags, golf carts, golf gloves golf tees, golf ball markers, golf shoes, a whole host of special golf balls, the golf channel, and golf pencils, all emblazoned with the marks of different brands vying with each other for their patrons’ hard earned cash as well as walking ad space. With such an array of gear that is so specific to a certain pastime, it’s no wonder that so many men cannot get enough of it. It’s practically shooting fish in a barrel.

Which brings me to the sport of fishing: Can we really call it a sport anymore? We now have fishing boats, with special fish finding radar. Then there’s a small contingent of scientists who have figured out exactly what shapes and movements attract fish, and all of the lures are pattered after their findings. These lures are then coated with all sorts of pheromones or chemicals that make the fish even more eager to bite onto the end of a high-test monofilament line that could prevent an F-18 from taking off (if tied correctly). Then the only stressful part of your fishing day was the potential for eye strain off the water’s glare, which we’ve managed to eliminate through special polarized fishing lenses that seemingly allow fishermen to see through the water. Frankly dynamite looks a the more sporting option at this point. I feel it evens the playing field for the fish at least. If the fish have a bit of luck and you’re also an idiot, they just might take you with them…

I suppose all of this just goes to say that no matter what kind of gear or equipment you have and no matter how much cooler you think you look in your getup than all of the other guys, if you really have no clue what you’re doing you probably will be found out for the fraud that you are. My cycling prowess was found to be counterfeit around mile 20 of my ride. It was at this point that my very thighs screamed for relief and I was forced to admit that the fact that I’m a quasi-avid runner had left me woefully unprepared for the task at hand. I seriously hadn’t ridden a bike in 11 years, and I was making use of a lot of muscles that were ne’er too pleased about it.

Also, I’d never realized that cycling is a sport that can quite easily kill you. This was made apparent to me as the course was shared with many fast moving vehicles and the roads often seemed to have small to nonexistent shoulders. Also it was raining off and on from about miles 30 to 60 which did wonderful things for the general grip of my slick yet narrow road tires. Yes, I’ll admit, I don’t know if I’ve ever done anything quite so dangerous, especially when taking into account my total lack of experience coupled with my complete ignorance of proper road cycling behavior.

However, in the end I found a bit of my “rhythm” as well as a bit of a second wind as the day rolled on. I finished mile 60 with a whimper, my thoughts split between the refugees I had initially set out to aid, and my painfully sore bottom (which is still so, despite it being 6 days later). It’s taken me a while to really process all of my thoughts from the fateful day, but I think I’ve now successfully catalogued the most coherent (or appropriate) of them for you in the above ramblings.

Despite it all, I’m moderately interested in getting cycling as a hobby (they say your butt doesn’t get so sore when you do it regularly), but I’m afraid it will have to duke it out with the rest of the pastimes in this world that interest me, and my wallet probably can’t take the hit of buying all that sweet sweet gear. Maybe if I sell my car…

The day is bent and broken as it is made to bear,

such heavy clouds, desiring deluge, pouring forth amidst the air.

The warmth with which it bathes us and its sweet leavening light,

all choked out prematurely; stormy harbinger of night.

For each day’s life is fleeting and numbered are its hours,

but days as these have fewer yet; they’re stolen by the showers.