Sometimes, a Little Crazy Keeps You Sane

Take three sugar cubes and a couple croutons wrapped in tinfoil. The sweet and the salty. First these, then those, and enjoy. Eight hits packed in five little squares. I watched a friend drop them by hand with what looked like an eye droplet on a set of sugar cubes just months earlier. Little pellets of a water-like substance inflate at the tip until the weight of its combined mass gets too heavy for the droplet to hold on. Quickly into the sugar cube before you can even blink, the liquid shoots down and disperses itself through the tiny particles of the white sandbox. A bucket of water down the side of a sandcastle, then ocean washed away. In the hotel suite, they ate it, and escaped to the hallway. No rabbit hole, just a billboard of comedian Carrot Top grinning in the lobby.

Vegas Morning

Daylight crept through the covers of my sheets and pulled me back into the quiet, still air of the late afternoon, my Vegas morning. I followed the line of light that had split through the hotel curtains and looked outside. A barren expanse of dust and construction littered the ground below. Almost nothing was alive from this side of the pyramid, except for the crane machine shifting dirt from one pile to another; just toys in the sandbox. It was time to leave.

A Hug from Below (draft)

 
The drive from Las Vegas to Orange County had sapped us of whatever energy we had left.  When we finally arrived at my brother’s house, all I wanted to do was park myself in front of the flat screen TV on his brand new brown plush couch that from afar looked sort of like a cross between a fat furry cat and Jabba the Hut.  Scattered across the coffee table in the living room were various consumer-report-like magazines detailing the latest technology gadgets for our buying pleasure.  A couple giant remote controls with homemade labels neatly demarcating between the “DVD” and “Greg’s TiVo” sat atop like new age paperweights in the “digital era”, and based on my brother’s magazine subscriptions, I wondered what else in his house could possibly be “digitized”. A clock mounted above the television read the time in four different geographical locations.  There was a Roomba buzzing around his floor, an automatic vacuum cleaner the size of a small dog that somehow “digitally” knows when it’s time to go for walk. Perched next to the TV I noticed his Xbox 360 complete with two wireless game controllers, and a case of DVDs with more Michael Bay action flicks than I’d ever admit to owning.  Did the home entertainment system really necessitate the purchase of Pearl Harbor starring Ben Affleck?  “But I got it on sale, it was such a great deal!” my brother said.
 
Of course, none of my friends gave a shit: geeked out home entertainment rooms were now the norm, another carrot that hung in front of all yuppies-in-waiting.  Nothing we had previously seen before prepared us for the truly remarkable first encounter we would never forget.  In the bathroom on the toilet seat sat Toto, the digital washlet “designed to provide a clean beyond compare”.  We stared in amazement and conjectured the possibilities like stoners reading from a fast food menu at one in the morning.  None of us ever really had our asses “sanitized” before.  From the day our mothers took off the training wheels and released us free willy, “wipe and go” was all we needed to know.  Now, a new dawn began to rise, replacing the old ways with a freshness that smelled of flowers—thanks to the air purifier feature that magically turned farts into a nice, personalized fragrance.  We fought over who would go first. 
 
When it was finally my turn, I entered the bathroom with the anxious glee of an infant happily getting his diapers changed and butt all powdered up.  Toto immediately detected my presence and lifted its lid, calling for me to shelter my bare buttocks from the draft by sitting on its preheated seat cover.  More than merely a glorified ass sanitizer, Toto aimed to be my friend.  I sat down and hunched over in anticipation of what Toto would do next while reading the instruction manual. Elbows deep in thigh, eyes deep in thought, a modern day Rodin sculpture reading a book while taking a dump. My ass never knew such luxury. The bathroom looked deceivingly normal. Little green towels folded too nicely to use hung in front of me. A spotless giant glass shower door complete with golden shower nozzle flanked me to my right. The white plastic garbage can tucked away between the toilet and the shower stood empty. There was nothing sinister about the setup, only the best in guest amenities and a charismatic host named Toto.

Immediately to my left beside the toilet paper dispenser, a small rectangular control panel displayed Toto’s statistics, or “shitistics” as I so cleverly dubbed.  There were a few big main buttons that appeared to cover all basic washlet functionalities in addition to several smaller buttons that tailored the cleaning experience to my specific needs.  In stark contrast to the control panel’s off-white color scheme was a big orange button simply labeled “stop”; should Toto ever turn on me, I would know exactly where to press.  The next button had a little blue man with a dotted line either descending from or ascending towards him.  Judging by the “rear cleansing” label, I assumed the ambiguous line to represent the flow of water upwards.  Intriguingly, the “front cleansing” button had a little pink woman with the dotted line ascending towards her in the opposite direction.  I wondered aloud what that meant for me.  Finally, the last button simply read “air dry”.
 
With the press of a button, Toto began to do its business as I had done mine. A confused look shot across my face as the cool stream of aerated water pulsated between the imaginables without prejudice, oscillating slightly just enough to keep things interesting. I felt vulnerable at first--and perhaps even a little ticklish--but this too Toto knew. I started playing with the settings, exploring the creative genius behind the many men and women who had devoted countless hours to the sole purpose of washing my butt as beautifully as possible. I could imagine the late nights brainstorming:

"What if it pulsated and oscillated and massaged you simultaneously?"
"How about a front cleanser!"
"Can we make it do figure-eights?"

Minutes passed in pampered bliss. Half toilet, half time machine, Toto induced a giddiness that reminded me of car wash detours on the way home from soccer practice, simpler times in which seven year olds fought over fruit snacks while appreciating the majesty of the giant man-made machine wash. As I sat there trying to figure out what I had just experienced, I realized I had exhausted nearly every function Toto had to offer but one: the air dry. It was the perfect punctuation to the Toto experience. The warm air flowed from beneath, massaging away whatever fears lay dormant in the bowl. I rose up anew, ready to continue doing whatever it was I was doing ten minutes earlier. As I walked out through the doorway reflecting on those last few moments on the toilet, Toto flushed behind me, and gently closed its lid until next time.

a short bio, sort of...

in 6th grade, i had a color printer, a 56k modem, and more freedom from adult supervision than my children ever will. and as most curious, prepubescent 11 year old little boys would have done, i printed "special" full page fold out calendars for my friends to enjoy--at $10 a pop.

when i was in 8th grad, my buddy Ify and I didn't have enough money for the bus ride home, so we walked across the street to the local hospital to ask people for quarters. as we were waiting for patients to reemerge into the waiting room--few carried loose change or wallets for that matter under their pocketless hospital gowns, an oversight on our part--Ricki Lake suddenly came back from a commercial break on TV to announce the death of Chris Farley, my then childhood hero. years later, i learned that he died of an overdose of cocaine and heroin. my love only deepened.