Matters of necessity

Okay, I’ve noticed a whole lot of hoo-ha about the apparent sanctity of the public loos in this country. You know—what birth infrastructure you should be able to display in order to use the door labeled either Ladies or Gentlemen. (Or variants thereof.)

Yes, I understand there are some serious economic issues involved in regulating how businesses provide “restrooms”. Just as there were when the Americans with Disabilities Act required businesses to make their facilities wheelchair accessible. I also understand that it’s disconcerting to be in the process of taking care of private physical needs and unexpectedly discovering a person in that small space whose appearance doesn’t mirror yours.

But there’s something else that’s bothering me a whole lot more than which set of birth-genitalia might or might not still be on the person walking through a specific door. It’s that—in a building full of people engaged in the support of scientific inquiry, the preponderance of whom are highly educated—it’s become apparent that some fair number of them are not washing their hands after using the toilet. I hear the flush, and then the sound of the door opening and closing. No intervening use of the washbasin.

In a word: euw.

As far as I’m concerned, if you use the facilities for the intended purpose, aren’t yapping continuously on your mobile phone, don’t toss trash around the place, and exhibit basic standards of hygiene, you can pee next to me whenever the necessity prompts you.

The rest of you can basically go piss up a rope.

Feeling lucky?

You know, sometimes those guys at Google are just so quick to provide you answers, they can’t even be arsed to wait until you tell them what it is you’re looking for.

They remind me of a dog so excited by the thought of you throwing the ball that it just wiggles in anticipation.

Viz.:

Here’s the thing: since I took that screenshot I can’t recall what it was I was searching for. But it wasn’t any of the possibilities that Google threw up.

Belief systems

There’s just so much to wonder about when you come across something like this:

I guess I can understand why a state that still hasn’t reconciled itself to union with the likes of Minnesota, California and Vermont would choose to display “In God we trust” on license plates instead of “E pluribus unum”.

Evidently the Commonwealth, in its quest to dislodge citizens from their money, offers “more than 200 unique plates” that allow vehicle owners to flaunt affiliations with colleges, military branches and special interests. You can even get your company logo slapped up on a license plate. For the right emollient.

This anything-for-a-buck mindset must be the explanation for the “Don’t tread on me” plate, in 1950s oxidized mustard background with the coiled rattlesnake on it.

The Old Dominion has clearly descended from the environment of Madison, Marshall and Lee to the stomping ground of Tea Partiers.

But back to the Godly plate. What I wonder is, what, exactly, is the driver trusting the Almighty to do? Protect him/her from other drivers? Clear a path through Beltway traffic? Jam the State Police’s radar? Produce parking spots on demand?

This is a heavy burden for any deity.

Summer of no love

Oh, deep joy—I’ve just discovered that the condo pool hours (for the pool that’s directly below the only windows in this flat) are 0800-2100, every day (except Saturday, when it's open until 2200), from Memorial Day weekend to Labor Day.

For the past week I’ve been listening to the lifeguards train daily. Although they’re not splashing or shouting, if I have any window open at all they sound like they’re in my living room.

That’s my entire summer spent with no access to fresh air, then.

And now I understand why the owners have left the country.

Gratitude Monday: "Jesus, take the wheel."

It is not exactly a stop-the-presses moment if I say that the innovators who brought us the ability to produce and share online selfie videos from our smart phones have a lot to answer for. Because there is way, way too much of that dreck on the Interwebs.

However, there is cream in this ocean of souring milk, and sometimes it does rise to the top. Two examples I particularly like:

Last week a Texas woman named Candace Payne made an impulse purchase and was so tickled by it that she shared her delight on Facebook before she could even leave the parking lot:

The woman practically single-handedly broke the Internet, with her video going so viral it left Zika in its dust.  

As you might imagine, Payne has been blitzed with all manner of offers to monetize the video; she may end up with her own talk show. But she told NPR’s Rachel Martin that people have also reached out to her to say that her video with her truly infectious joy lifted their spirits at a point when they didn’t think that was possible.

And that’s a tremendous gift.

My other example is from last July, when a Tennessee woman named Veronica-Pooh Nash Poleate was troubled by reports of people being killed by sharks off the North Carolina coast. The spirit moved her on her way to church to fire up her video and remind us that if we go into the shark’s house, we can expect to be eaten.

I happen to think that “Watch the ocean from a distance” is excellent advice. Especially during shark season. Or, in the Chesapeake Bay, during jellyfish season.

One major commonality of these two videos is that both women talk about and embody joy. “It’s the simple joys.” “Let us rejoice.” This is something that it’s very easy for us to lose here in the reality of the 21^st Century. Sometimes it’s particularly easy for us to lose as we wade through the massive universe of vicious, ignorant, manipulative and fatuous user-generated content that the Web has made possible. Especially during an election season.

So today I’m grateful for Payne and Poleate, and others like them, who pop up occasionally online and remind me to look for that joy, even in places where I don’t think it could possibly be found.