E-mail: Brian7Morris "at" hotmail.com Archives March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 current Blogs Mandapants farkleberries Uranium City Records The C.M. Sienko Foundation Storyteller Musings Solotarian Views Lynne Wiora Tek Poker News Blog Some Biscuits Evil Eye Emporium Niggling Doubts Pressure Release Sara as Mommy runswithscissors Defective Yeti Afternoon Delight trancejen The Terrarium Bird Nird Slipperily Tofu Hut Stereo Gum Links Fixed Gear Gallery Get Crafty This is Grand Featherproof Books Gapers Block Chicago Bird Watching	No one must know my terrible secret... House of Noh! Sunday, July 25, 2004 I just found a new apartment. I’m pretty happy with it, but I’m a little dubious that all the gross pigeon poop is going to be cleaned out of the screen door before I move in. My landlord seems like an upstanding dude and I think he’s going to be a good landlord and all that, but he’s a bit hard of hearing. The conversation (and this is pretty typical of all our conversations) went something like this: Me: Before I move in, could you clean up all this pigeon poop out of the door? Him: What? Me: All these pigeon terds in the door, could you clean it up!? Him: What!? Me: (pointing) PIGEON FECES!! Him: No! No birds allowed! Me: (defeated) Okay. As I discovered when I looked through the place, my new apartment comes equipped with a truck stop style toilet. Me: Hey! Sweet toilet! Him: What? Me: (pointing at it) This is a truck stop toilet!!” Him: What!? Me: “TRUCK STOP TOILET!!” Him: “Street parking only!” Me: (defeated) Okay. I call it a truck stop toilet because it doesn’t have a water tank sitting above the bowl, instead, there’s just a pipe coming in from the wall with a Atari joystick kind of handle sticking out the side - the kind that germ-o-phones can flush with their foot (thereby transferring germs off the floor of the bathroom onto the toilet handle where other people who flush the toilet with their hand then transfer to the bathroom door handle - a germy, vicious (but perhaps not unjust) cycle which I hope there will be none of in my new apartment truck stop bathroom). When I first saw the truck stop toilet, I was elated. Because, hey, truck stop toilet! But shortly thereafter I was cast into doubt: did I really want to live in a truck stop? But then I was elated again, because I realized that just because I have a truck stop toilet in my place, that doesn’t necessarily mean my place is a truck stop - there’s no chicken wire over (all) the windows and, hopefully (but I‘m not making any promises), the amount of urine on the floor will never reach “puddle” proportions. Anyway, the announcement of my new truck stop toilet will come as good news for all who stayed at my place and encountered difficulties flushing due to what could be described as poor toilet tank maintenance on my part at my old apartment. But on that score, isn’t it laudable that I, like any good anarchist, did not enforce my power directive over the individuality of my toilet and instead came up with a method to flush the toilet occasionally, in harmony with the current state of the toilet? That’s what I used to be able to say before Chris S. found the new gasket on the top of my refrigerator that I was going to use to fix my toilet before I got distracted by something else. (Chris S. actually displays quite an aptitude for uncovering these sorts of this things - summers ago, when he visited me in my shack in Quincy Illinois, he refuted my claim of not having any hot water in the shower being a “zen training activity” as being, in fact, the result of lethargy on my part by carefully reading an ancient crinkled to-do list on my refrigerator: the box next to the tiny “call gas company” entry, sadly, having gone long unchecked.) Additionally in my defense, my old toilet was always operational, that is, if you followed the protocol and used the chopsticks (provided) to manipulate the gasket at the bottom of the tank. This process was fully explained during your orientation, along with the sources of some of the various piles of filth, what basins not to drink out of, what potted plants are not edible and which ones are delicious, and why - under no circumstance! - to EVER open my freezer door. Some people paid attention during orientation, but some people just laughed and joked around and ho-hummed and rolled their eyes - you know who you are - but you troublemakers, when you were stuck in the bathroom, just you and your stinky terd, you with no idea about what to do with the chopsticks in order to flush the toilet - those good students who paid attention during orientation: they were the ones laughing then! Brian 2:06 AM Comments: Post a Comment

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House of Noh!

Sunday, July 25, 2004

I just found a new apartment. I’m pretty happy with it, but I’m a little dubious that all the gross pigeon poop is going to be cleaned out of the screen door before I move in. My landlord seems like an upstanding dude and I think he’s going to be a good landlord and all that, but he’s a bit hard of hearing. The conversation (and this is pretty typical of all our conversations) went something like this: Me: Before I move in, could you clean up all this pigeon poop out of the door? Him: What? Me: All these pigeon terds in the door, could you clean it up!? Him: What!? Me: (pointing) PIGEON FECES!! Him: No! No birds allowed! Me: (defeated) Okay. As I discovered when I looked through the place, my new apartment comes equipped with a truck stop style toilet. Me: Hey! Sweet toilet! Him: What? Me: (pointing at it) This is a truck stop toilet!!” Him: What!? Me: “TRUCK STOP TOILET!!” Him: “Street parking only!” Me: (defeated) Okay. I call it a truck stop toilet because it doesn’t have a water tank sitting above the bowl, instead, there’s just a pipe coming in from the wall with a Atari joystick kind of handle sticking out the side - the kind that germ-o-phones can flush with their foot (thereby transferring germs off the floor of the bathroom onto the toilet handle where other people who flush the toilet with their hand then transfer to the bathroom door handle - a germy, vicious (but perhaps not unjust) cycle which I hope there will be none of in my new apartment truck stop bathroom). When I first saw the truck stop toilet, I was elated. Because, hey, truck stop toilet! But shortly thereafter I was cast into doubt: did I really want to live in a truck stop? But then I was elated again, because I realized that just because I have a truck stop toilet in my place, that doesn’t necessarily mean my place is a truck stop - there’s no chicken wire over (all) the windows and, hopefully (but I‘m not making any promises), the amount of urine on the floor will never reach “puddle” proportions. Anyway, the announcement of my new truck stop toilet will come as good news for all who stayed at my place and encountered difficulties flushing due to what could be described as poor toilet tank maintenance on my part at my old apartment. But on that score, isn’t it laudable that I, like any good anarchist, did not enforce my power directive over the individuality of my toilet and instead came up with a method to flush the toilet occasionally, in harmony with the current state of the toilet? That’s what I used to be able to say before Chris S. found the new gasket on the top of my refrigerator that I was going to use to fix my toilet before I got distracted by something else. (Chris S. actually displays quite an aptitude for uncovering these sorts of this things - summers ago, when he visited me in my shack in Quincy Illinois, he refuted my claim of not having any hot water in the shower being a “zen training activity” as being, in fact, the result of lethargy on my part by carefully reading an ancient crinkled to-do list on my refrigerator: the box next to the tiny “call gas company” entry, sadly, having gone long unchecked.) Additionally in my defense, my old toilet was always operational, that is, if you followed the protocol and used the chopsticks (provided) to manipulate the gasket at the bottom of the tank. This process was fully explained during your orientation, along with the sources of some of the various piles of filth, what basins not to drink out of, what potted plants are not edible and which ones are *delicious*, and why - under no circumstance! - to EVER open my freezer door. Some people paid attention during orientation, but some people just laughed and joked around and ho-hummed and rolled their eyes - you know who you are - but you troublemakers, when you were stuck in the bathroom, just you and your stinky terd, you with no idea about what to do with the chopsticks in order to flush the toilet - those good students who paid attention during orientation: they were the ones laughing then!

Brian 2:06 AM

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Sunday, July 25, 2004