Echo

Since Reggie has been working so hard all week, when he left Brian and I in the elevator to run back to the car to grab videos, we thought we would treat him to an improvised tableaux upon his return…

Why You Never Use The Men’s Room No Matter How Empty the Building Looks

So this happened a few weeks ago but I’ve finally had the chance to talk about it.

It was about 7:30pm and I had to run back to the office to pick-up a book I’d forgotten. I’d been at the Starbuck’s down the street doing some writing, and as you all know, coffee has a filling effect on your bladder. So I go to the office, wait the 10 minutes it takes for our elevator to decide to do its only salaried task, and get to the 3rd floor when I realize: 1. I really have to pee badly; 2. Standing in front of the elevator, I’m exactly at the halfway point between my office and the bathrooms; 3. To use the ladies’ room, I will have to go to my office, figure out which unlabeled key on my keychain is the key to the office, unlock the door and grab the bathroom key before heading all the way to the exact opposite end of the building to get to the ladies’ room; 4. I can minimize the amount of walking distance, time and probability that I will wet my pants if I just go to the men’s room which remains unlocked at all times (the building is not as afraid of liability from a man getting raped in an office bathroom).

So being the lazy, lacking-in-bladder-control, always-waiting-until-the-last-moment person I am, I decide that since it’s 7:30 at night and there’s clearly no one else in the building except for the cleaning guys who are on the first floor, I’ll just use the men’s room. I’ll be in and out in 1 minute, no sweat.

As expected, the door is unlocked and the room is empty. There are two urinals along the wall on the right as you enter, and a single stall tucked in around the corner to the left. Since I have not yet mastered the art of peeing standing up the way some men have mastered the art of peeing sitting down, I use the stall. I do my business very quickly and everything is fine, but just as I’ve finished putting on my belt, I hear someone come in. I freeze, clearly realizing my demise of being trapped in a bathroom. I hear the man walk around the corner and then curse under his breath. I presume that he had probably entered the bathroom planning to take a dump, but then was irritated by the fact that someone was already inside the lone stall.

I figured that if I didn’t come out and he really had to go, he would probably head downstairs to one of the bathrooms on the other floors. I make a lot of noise playing with the toilet paper dispenser like I’m in no hurry to come out, and finally I hear the door open and close. I wait for a few seconds. Blissful silence.

Jubilated, I come rushing out of the stall, only to turn the corner and find that–not only has that man not left, but there are now TWO men standing in front of the urinals right next to the door to freedom, spread-eagled, weiners in hand, getting ready to take simultaneous pisses. I freeze, calculating my chances of getting out of here without a mess of embarassment, and realize that their backs are to me and they are busy trying not to acknowledge each other, so I still could conceivably slip out the door as long as both of their heads were staring straight ahead at the tiled wall.

So I quietly and stealthily move towards the door and even get as far as having my hand on the handle, but as soon as I turn it, the damn thing squeaks and the man closest to the door turns around and looks at me.

“Uh………………sorry?” is all I manage to mumble as I streak out the door and run the whole way across the building and into my office. I wait there for about 20 minutes, trying to figure out what would be the “right” time to come out in which I would be able to not run into these guys again and even worse, get stuck riding the elevator down with them. I’ve worked late on many occasions and I’ve never seen anyone else on my floor at that hour, and I’ve never used the men’s room no matter how badly I’ve had to go when our office restroom key goes missing, and of all nights, I get caught by not one, but TWO men in the men’s room.

So finally I venture out, sneaking down the stairwell to the floor below, call the elevator and hide behind a pillar until the elevator comes and I can ensure that it’s empty, then take it down and run out of the building.

While this, unfortunately, isn’t the first time I’ve (accidentally) walked into a populated men’s room, usually I walk in through the entrance, realize my mistake and quickly hurry back out. It just seemed more embarassing this time because these guys (especially the first guy) had obviously been in there for a while, and all of a sudden, I come out from INSIDE the bathroom, while they’ve basically got their manhoods exposed. I wonder if it feels like as much of a violation as it would if a girl were say, sitting in a stall with her pants down and a guy came bursting in.

Regardless, I hope those guys can’t tell Asian girls apart and won’t recognize me. There’s another Asian girl who works in the building. Maybe I’m lucky and they think it’s her.

Denver, Colorado (aka White People Galore)

The weekend before last found us in Denver, home of pristine snow-capped mountains and Rocky Mountain Oysters, which I hear are surprisingly stringy. Since Reggie and I average a major fight about every two weeks, we were due for one the week of, which put this trip in jeopardy. Luckily, we managed to pull it together in time to get on a plane with the Michigan crowd, consisting of Sareet, AD, Josh, Courtney, Hong and Amol. We were also joined by this greasy rock-star, villain-in-a-set-in-Miami-Bruckheimer-movie dude who we had to turn the plane around for because he told the stewardess that he had a machine gun in his bag, which was sitting in his lap. Hong theorized that the guy was referring to his penis, but nevertheless, we didn’t get past the runway before they took us back to the gate and escorted the snakeskin-wearing gentleman off the plane (note to self: Do not refer to my penis as a machine gun until AFTER landing at destination, at which time stewardess will be free to fully express suitable admiration).

We met up with Amol’s girlfriend Annie (flying in from Salt Lake City) and Sareet’s Max at the airport, and soon packed a clown minivan full of enough luggage to fill Gilligan’s Island and headed to Vail. Max had rented a cute little wood cabin at the resort facing the slopes which we couldn’t see at night but imagined must be beautiful. In a cursory search of the cupboards, the boys discovered a VHS copy of Executive Decision (starring Steven Seagal and Kurt Russell), which ran continuously on the TV throughout our stay at Vail.

The next day, everyone went skiing except for Reggie and I who were left behind due to bum knees. Since we’ve been adamant about some day catching a fish, we figured Colorado would provide stellar fishing, despite the fact it still displayed winter-like conditions. We hiked around the village (where we noted that we saw more black people in China than in Vail, and where I also noted that The Bachelorette’s Ryan had lived here) until we found a place that offered a guide and equipment for flyfishing for $275. We asked if it was a good time to go fishing and they told us it was a perfect time. The guide showed up and fit us in waders, making us look like burly meatpacking workers. I proceeded to do a dramatic reinactment of Charlize Theron from North County fighting for women’s rights in a blue collar man’s world, but since I hadn’t seen the movie and only knew the clip they used for the Oscar’s, I just kept screaming at Reggie to, “GET IN THE CAR!”

Mercury Retrograde made the staff of the fishing store unable to print out a pair of fishing licenses for us, so the guide had to take us to Kroger’s to try to obtain licenses. Unfortunately, the woman at Kroger’s couldn’t print out our licenses either, which makes me suspect that in Colorado, people potentially spell “print” as C-A-N-C-E-L. We finally manage to get a pair of temporary licenses, and we’re off to the river to fly fish.

Reggie and I have never fly-fished before, but the guide was great and gave us a short lesson. Fly fishing is a lot about timing–pulling the line as soon as you feel a tug and maintaining the tension, since the hooks are barb-less. We got into the water, which is the strangest sensation because I could feel freezing water between my boots and my wader, and my natural instinct when water gets into my shoes is that it’s a very, very bad situation. I managed to drop first one glove then the other in the water, so I was more or less fishing with bare hands when it started snowing. We trooped it out in the freezing cold and both managed to each catch 1 tiny fish and 1 stick. At one point, the snow was coming down heavily and the guide said to me, “You guys are crazy.” I asked him why and he said, “Because you guys are fishing while it’s snowing.” Keep in mind, everyone back at the store had told us it was a “perfect” time to go fishing.

By the time we got back to the car, neither of us could feel our fingers or our toes, but it was fun. It wasn’t as fun as it looked in “A River Runs Through It,” but I suspect that it would be a lot more fun if it weren’t, say, snowing.

Later that night, we headed out to this basement club in Vail Village that was packed in a way that tensions ran high because you couldn’t move without hitting someone (ie…a girl elbowed me in the eye trying to motion to a friend). The music was okay (good music if it were the early 90’s) and the crowd was heavily made up of Europeans and drunk hos. When someone on the dance floor farted and nearly killed everyone within a 12 foot radius, we had to leave.

I’m not a huge fan of snow because it’s cold. I don’t like it when my fingers burn. But the absolute best thing about snow, especially fresh snow, has to be the snowball fights. Outside the club, we got into an internal snowball fight that escalated into the inclusion of strangers. Alliances were formed (Midwest Alliance, Asian Alliance) and it all escalated into Protecting The Bus Stop. Friends and enemies were made that night, and at least one Legend–The Vigilante who threw major-league speed snowballs and launched a surprise attack from the roof of the bus stop–was immortalized. That snowball fight is probably in my Top 10 Most Fun Events of my life. Our drunken asses also launched a minor snowball attack on Amol/Annie and Josh/Courtney as they slept in their beds, which they very much appreciated and thanked us for with expletives.

We headed back to Denver the next day to stay at Max’s pad downtown. While everyone settled in for March Madness, a small group of us headed out to explore. We found an ESPN Zone and Reggie and I beat that boxing game where you hold these heavy-ass “gloves” and box animated guys, and the game tells you how many calories you burned. We walked over to city hall where a newsperson interviewed Reggie and I about the incoming storm (I claimed that Denver was due to get 30 feet of snow) and then we asked the twitchiest guy for directions (he left us by walk-walk-skip-skip-turned around and stared at us, then walk-walk-skip-skip-turned around and stared. He did this for a good 100 yards). Even though he could have potentially been a serial killer, his bizarre behavior made me decide to chase him, but I got tired after about 10 yards because of the thin air.

Dinner at Red Lobster followed, then a minor snowball fight and retirement at an early hour to catch a 6am flight (3 am wake up call) the next day.

One thing I’ve gotta say, when you travel with a good group, even the must mundane things seem fun.

Trip Statistics:

# of Greasy Weirdos Thrown Off a Plane: 1
# of Bags Lost by Airlines: 1
# of Major Skiing Injuries: .5 (minor cases of hurt pride)
# of Rocky Mountain Oysters Knowingly Eaten: 0
# of Times Bus Stop Successfully Protected: 1
# of Buses Assaulted by a Drunk Max: 1
# of Police Cars Assaulted by a Drunk Max: 1
# of potential serial killers chased: 1

In summary, I highly recommend a trip to beautiful and eventful Colorado.

(Sareet also has a funny and detailed recount of the weekend with photos…so here.)

You know you’ve neglected your blog for too long, when you can’t remember your sign-on information…

I’ve been trapped in the world of reality, where I want to focus on work and career and “building a solid future.” I have not been able to focus on such paramount tasks as comparing astrological natal charts of celebrities, surfing the net for gay NBA player rumors, browsing the online dating sites to see if there’s anyone I know or pondering if Elton Brand is proportionate in ALL ways. Which means it’s about time I get back to those things.

The hardest thing has been starting blog entries but not being able to finish them. This mostly has to do with, again, my employer’s annoying insistence that I work during work hours rather than, you know, not working. It’s ridiculously unreasonable. I do, however, enjoy surfing porn sites at other people’s work stations during after hours, when I’m the only one left in the office to do those evil little deeds I do. Bob in accounting likes farmhouse threesomes? Wow, I would have never known….

(I’m just kidding)

I don’t really have anything to say about the Oscars, since the only movie I saw was Crash (and I missed the first 5 minutes), so I really don’t have any kind of educated opinion. I do like Jon Stewart as the host and think that man should run for president. I would rather have a hilarious presidency than an idiotically criminal one. My favorite joke? “Bjork Couldn’t Be Here Tonight. She Was Trying On Her Dress And Dick Cheney Shot Her…” Did anyone see Jennifer Garner almost fall? THAT’S what you get for shacking up with Ben Affleck. Loser.

I am very proud of Ang Lee though. And Salma Hayek’s right boob which looked like a watermelon.

Our lemonade thing which went from a joke to a hobby to a little business is doing really well. We’re currently in 6 stores/cafes and on the set of CSI, and we’re in negotiations with a few more. The owner of the Houston’s chain just bought a case and we’re waiting to see where they go with it. Brian still regards it as a joke, but the thing has a life of it’s own. We’re selling out in all of our locations and Reggie’s being stopped by people who recognize him as “the lemonade guy” from the label. Personally, I don’t think he’s as cute as the Snapple Lady, but you know me and my love for sassy overweight East Coast mamas.

I’m taking an online contemporary business class and have an accounting class starting this week. Considering I don’t know how to balance my checkbook and failed statistics twice, it’s going to get ugly with accounting.

Mostly, I’m pretty tired all the time.