Wednesday morning, and the weather is “nipply.” I put on layers, none of which cover anything closer to the center of the earth than my waist.
So when I arrive at my destination, I need to pee. Chilly weather has the effect on many people. It always had the effect on me, even before I became an aged old fart with prostate cancer who shaves his balls.
I drop my guitar on stage and head for the head. “Round the corner, make a left!” hollers the sound man who doubles as the poor bastard who has to clean up after events.
I make it okay. Really, unlike Bob Dole, wetting my pants isn’t an issue. Yet. Besides, these jeans are older than most of the audience and I’m protective of their coloring. The metal Jordache badge over the left rear pocket can still cut my cuticles when I reach for my wallet, which is why I never pay for drinks.
This is the sign I see as I whip out the dragon to splash the moccasins. It freezes my flow in mid-stream. “Gender friendly bathroom”? I guess that means, Guys: Put the seat back down when you’re done, and lift it before you start. In the opposite order.
Y’know, it would have more credibility if the original sign spelled “friendly” correctly.
* sigh *
Shake. Zip. Wash hands in cold water because in the state of Florida for some insane reason public rest rooms don’t have hot water taps that work. Think about that when you visit restaurants and read the mandatory signs advising employees that they must wash their hands after wiping their asses before returning to the kitchen to prepare your food.
The sound check goes smoothly. The gay stagehand tells me he likes my jeans. I tell him he should see what’s in them. No I don’t. I don’t return to the gender friendly rest room, either.
Showbiz. Why did I ever leave it.