2003-02-09

I�m going to have to slow down. Or shift into a lower gear or some such metaphor. My brain isn�t working like normal. I have decided, after last night, to swear off substances that modify my consciousness. Well, I might keep beer. And Vodka. But nothing else. I don�t care what drug du jour I�m offered, I will politely turn it down and go nurse my Shirley Temple. I went out Friday went dancing and had a good time. Saturday was more like an agenda evening, although I was oddly, without one. I didn�t realize that it would be an agenda evening until we were well into it and I was feeling a bit out of it. Well, out of it is the wrong way to describe what I was feeling. I was way in to it, and no doubt today�s dullness and lack of working metaphors have to do with holes in my brain. I�d taken the happy little pill because I was a touch bored and we were not going dancing until later this evening, after we had met up with everyone. Once everyone met up we stayed at the bar and chatted. I was more in tune with what was going on with myself. I felt very connected to my life�s processes. Breathing was a joy. The way my chest expanded to allow the oxygen into my lungs, the bellows action of my abdomen providing the impetous. The water tasted, well, wet. And I could feel it going down into my stomach. Bottles kept appearing for me, and I kept drinking. Relishing the way it rushed through my mouth leaving it clean and vibrant, how it hit my system The water hit my stomach like a cool morning on the beach, and I felt it metabolize, lubricating my body, along with the oxygen. The sensation moved further down, encompassing my intestines with a vibrancy and pleasure that I wasn�t sure was possibly. Pretty much the only time I ever think about those intestines are when they are cramping up. This was the opposite of cramping, more like a relaxing. They had extracted what nutrients they could from the slice of pesto pizza I�d eaten at lunch, they had completed the task assigned to them and now were done, the little assembly line shutting down for a while, to go home to wives, children, or whatever it is those little bacteria do after hours. I vowed to never give them a hot coffee enema, although maybe they�d like it. Get some Shade Grown Mexican or Ethiopian and let them have a pleasant buzz. It�s hard to say. Right then, I loved those little creatures. I wanted nothing but the best for them. A quick check alerted me that my bladder was full. I traipsed off to the restroom, my urine fascinating me, the way it started out the evening as fresh cold water, but thanks to the miracle that is my liver, it was now 4% organic and inorganic compounds heated to body temperature and expelled, melting the ice that filled the urinal trail. Back to where it started. I could have cried it was so beautiful. I returned to ignoring my friends. As I stood there, the elevated table providing me some support I noticed a rather curious feeling in my bowels, a sort of fullness. The intestines were completely silent now, those Bacteria had put the kids to sleep and were resting after a hard days digesting. Something was happening down there, something momentous. It was all starting, right at the base of my spine, a tingling in my tailbone. There was a sense of urgency, but also of calm. The feelings built to a crescendo, a crashing, joyous burst that, if audible resembled Handle�s Messiah, the finale of Carmina Burrana, or Charles Durning�s leap in Hudsucker Proxy all at once as I suddenly shit my pants. Every nerve in my body twitched. My friend Carlos asked me what was up. I tried to explain to him the wonder of the human peristaltic process. It came out, �Dude, I shit my pants�. I was wearing jeans, and underneath them a brand new pair of boxer briefs, and while there was some urine, it was by no means the flood it could have been, thanks to the fortuitous bathroom break moments before I gave birth to that brown baby boy. I calmly left the bar, a smile plastered on my face that gave no hint as to what was plastered all over my ass. I had a pair of gray chinos in the car (that fortunately would go well with the black shirt I was wearing. Plan B people) that I grabbed along with a towel from my gym bag and, apologizing to the circling hordes wanting parking that I was not leaving, I escaped to a pay toilet to clean up. Using ineffective mittens created with cheap abrasive toilet paper and then my gym towel with some soap and water I cleaned myself up. I felt so tawdry in there, wiping my ass and all. Plus I was embarrassed by the sensation, the warm sudsy water from the dispenser on the soft oft washed towel caressing my goose pimpled skin in the chill harshly ventilated air as the floor gurgled with the rinsing agent. Slipping on the pants sans underwear was also a new experience. The lights flashed, warning me that my time was almost up, so I quickly dumped the soiled briefs and the towel in the trash, collected the jeans and left. Walking �commando� back to drop the jeans off in my trunk (along with a liberal dosage of Frebreeze, that, despite promises didn�t work as intended) was a repeat of toweling off. I was afraid that I�d need to get a room. Rejoining my friends in the bar, there was much discussion of the incident. I�ll never live it down. The lack of underwear gave me a strange confidence, like some strange sensual secret I dared others to find out about. It made me a bit of a tease. It at least snapped me out of the introspective loop I�d been in for the first half of the evening, and it livened up the post fecal portion. I woke this morning to extreme embarrassment and several rude voicemails. And that, pretty much, was the weekend.

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