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harrowing public toilet experience
Wednesday, February 2 2000
I skipped out of another mind-numbingly basic ASP lesson, to the consternation of the Director of Engineering. He told me my avoidance of the lesson was "not recommended," and when I said I still didn't want to attend, he came back with a meaninglessly inappropriate sports metaphor. But it turns out that I actually should have attended the lesson; it covered the new "standards," things I usually don't learn about until well after they've been established.
In the evening Kim and I decided to do a traditional dinner of American comfort food at a place that randomly caught our interest the other day, The Newport Bar & Grill in downtown Ocean Beach. It's a large, unpretensious restaurant trapped forever in the mid-80s. In Downriver Detroit, such a place would be popular among retirees and folksy family-values families. In Ocean Beach, it's more a pitchers & sandwiches joint popular among young men in need of a cheap place to take a girl for a pleasant first date.
I ordered the calamari sandwich, which was delectable. Kim, on the ever-predictable other hand, was much less satisfied with her steak, sending it back saying it was too tough and that she wanted it "very rare." I don't know how she managed to eat as much as she did of the bloody slab they brought out next. She tried to show it to me, but I didn't want to develop an aversion to beef at this late stage of my life.
We had no complaints at all about the pitcher of Sierra Nevada, which was so fresh it tasted something like grapefruit juice.
My favourite workplace bathroom is now the men's room on the 22nd floor. Usually no one comes in during the entire time it takes to relieve myself, but today was an exception. This lawyer nestled himself upon the throne in the adjacent stall and proceeded to take the noisiest shit I've ever heard. From the sound of things (and, mind you, I had my ears blocked), he probably lost a few golf-ball-sized turds and a several lung full's worth of pungent Plutotian atmosphere.
Tell your harrowing tales of the next door stall.
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