Slowly Going Bald

The latest. You know what to do:

Clickety-click.

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Dear Overstock.com Woman,

I already wrote you once, but you didn't respond. I've decided to keep going, however; after all, I sent several letters packed with good advice to the president, who pretty much ignored them, but I don't regret writing them.

So…

Do you like … stuff?

I have DVDs and stuff. Do you want to come over and watch a movie? No pressure, though.

I found online that your name is Sabine. This, I have to say, is awesome. Just … awesome.

So, give me a call or something. You know, if you want, or whatever.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

P.S. Could you wear pigtails when you come over? Is it wrong to ask that? Sorry. It's just, well, it'd be cool if you did. Again, no pressure.

P.P.S. Also, is it okay if I invite some friends over to take photos/videos to prove that you came over? Thanks.

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Stop referring to the receptionist as "Horse-Face McGoo."

Stop signing e-mails to my boss with "I wish I knew how to quit you."

Stop cc-ing aforementioned e-mails to the entire company.

Stop calling the printer "a defiant slut" when it runs out of toner.

Stop making vaguely sexual innuendos when replacing toner in said printer.

Stop telling people that holes worn in the crotch of my jeans and boxers allow me constant external access to "my downstairs rec room."

Stop introducing myself to new hires as "Billy Zabka" and/or "The Impresario."

Stop telling new hires that the 7th-floor bathroom is haunted by pirate ghosts.

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Several states are considering implementing new laws or expanding current ones that ban protestors at funerals. The reason? Rev. Fred Phelps, of Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan. Phelps and members of his congregation have been picketing funerals of servicemen and -women who have died in Iraq with signs reading, among other things, "Thank God for dead soldiers." They reason that God is punishing America for its tolerance of gays, and as such is exacting the lives of the troops as the price for openmindedness.

Couple of quick hits:

• Every Christian in the country right now needs to tell the next 100 people they see that everything about Phelps is a violation of any semi-reasonable view of God. They need to decry him, and they need to do it now. Don't just shake your heads at this guy; most people, and I'm one of them, think that Christian conservatives are (1) hypocrites or (2) bomb-building zealots. I dare you to change my mind.

• Every Christian in the country right now also needs to issue a retroactive apology and denunciation of Phelps. Why? Because he's been doing this for years. This is the guy whose church traveled from Kansas to Wyoming to picket Matthew Shepard's funeral with signs reading "God hates fags." What he's doing now, praising his version of the creator for the growing body count in the Iraq war, is abonimable, but to pretend that this is the first time he's done this is foolish.

• And Mr. Phelps, if you're reading this, I don't exactly think God harbors hate for anyone, and probably doesn't use the word "fag" all that often, but I don't think he likes assholes like you that much. There are people out there trying to do real good and just live a day at a time, and you make them want to abandon their faith and everything they grew up on when you turn God into your bigoted big buddy. You're killing your religion, Phelps.

For his part, Phelps claims that such laws target his First Amendment rights and discriminate against his religion. I'll let the courts rule on that, because I really don't think it should be an issue. Phelps, you soulless piece of filth, you shouldn't be at those funerals to begin with. No mother should ever have to bury her son, especially not with your vile face screaming obscenities from 50 feet away. Do you really expect people to respect your faith when it's so repulsive?

Whatever. No one really cares, or if they do, they just assumes this'll blow over. So go on, go to Cabela's and Wal-Mart and Cracker Barrel and just pretend this never happened. I'll go with you. It's what we're good at.

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A.k.a. Training Day 2: This Time We Couldn't Afford Any Talent:

Clickety-click.

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After no small amount of pressure from multiple sources, most notably The Sis, I've begun reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It's right there on the side of the page.

It was pretty much unavoidable. Any comments, whether encouraging or mocking, are welcome.

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Watching short films by Jan Svankmajer before going to bed. A really, unbelievably, cataclysmically bad idea.

Who knew dreams could be that disturbing? I remember a group of ninja assassins that called themselves The Magnificat, and there's something about golf clubs, and I think I did G.O.B.'s chicken dance, too.

Stupid Czech surrealists. That's the last time I make that mistake.

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Because sometimes it's just easier to regurgitate things than to constantly come up with content to feed you vultures.

• First up: Chewy has a blog, and is even on MySpace. I guess it was just a matter of time.

• Speaking of things long ago and far away: Forbidden robot love.

• One of the coolest blogs in L.A.: all about the death and the Dahlia.

• Apparently, conservatives are happier than liberals. This seems pretty obvious, since liberals are more likely to be unhappy with recent election results and the status quo and push for change, while conservatives like hunting and tax cuts. Or something.

• I literally could not be more excited for this movie.

• If you live nearby, you should swing by Second Spin on Ventura. Really cheap TV-DVDs. Like stupid cheap. Everyone else, just do it online.

• The bloody, entwined shirts of Jack and Ennis have been bought for $100,000. In related news, Anthony Rapp's autographed copy of Rent went for a disappointing $10 at Starbucks.

• And how could I forget mildly retarded Batman?

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Happy Weathers Wednesday, everybody. I hope you're all wearing pink shirts today, and if not, better luck next week. If you are wearing the required gear, give yourself 5 points; give yourself an extra 100 if you're a karate master cut like a god.

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Is there an age beyond which old men are required to wear hats like this? There's an elderly guy at my office who's a faily worthless drag on our efficiency, and he wears caps like these every day. If it turns out that I'm going to be required to wear one of these when I'm too old to serve a societal purpose, I'd like to request that someone kill me or something beforehand.

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Something New

A Good Woman

Firewall

London

Night Watch

Winter Passing

Dirty

Unknown White Male

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Not that good. Don't waste your time.

Clickety-click.

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Being both weak-willed and hard up for cash, I allowed myself to be persuaded one summer in high school to pursue a seasonal position as a door-to-door salesman. A friend dragged me to a meeting at an office building a couple miles from my house, where we filled out applications and waited. We were led down a narrow, low-ceilinged hall that smelled like the '70s to a tiny conference room where a few other people, also applicants, were sitting around a table. The head of the small company came in and told us we'd be selling home security systems; as he talked, three or four of the eight or so applicants drifted out, though my friend and I, too dumb to leave and too fascinated by the whole experience, stayed. Other salesmen came in and joined the presentation; one of them was a jerk about 26 years old who disagreed with me when I voiced the opinion that people could always so no to what we were selling. He enlisted me in a role-playing exercise, where he tried to "sell" me while I kept refusing. He eventually said, "Your family's safety isn't worth a few dollars a day?" And I said, "Not right now, it's not." He said my response wasn't reasonable. I don't know where that guy is now, but I hope he's stuck in a dead-end sales job and weighing his suicide options.

Anyway, my friend and I actually went on a ride-along with these guys the next day, and it's only the fact that we were both strapping young males that probably kept us from getting assaulted in all kinds of heinous ways. These guys must have been pretty desperate to build their sales force, too, since there's no way a pale, sweaty, weak-voiced high schooler is going to close the deal on a stranger's porch; I couldn't sell a candy bar, so intruder alert systems were definitely out of my league.

Anyway:

The best part of the whole stupid ordeal was that first awkward meeting when we filled out applications. We were there for quite a while, and they ordered pizza for me, my friend, and the two or three other people who were dumb enough to stay. I'd noticed the secretary on my way in: Cute in an adult way. So when the pizza arrived, the oldest salesman there (think Shelly "The Machine" Levine) took some pizza out to her. Upon his return, the boss inquired, "Did you give her a slice?" And the old man grinned a little, mimed a humping gesture, and said, "Oh yeah, I gave her a slice."

And that's when I realized I'd rather swallow a knife than be a salesman.

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Based on a few recommendations, and the fact that it's from Bryan Fuller with Tim Minear listed as executive producer, and that I can't seem to buy enough canceled TV shows on DVD, I picked up Wonderfalls a little while ago and worked through all 13 episodes in a week or so.

It's no Dead Like Me, which is kind of like Six Feet Under without the pretension, but Wonderfalls is still worth the time. It follows the exploits of a sardonic 24-year-old girl named Jaye, who works in a Niagara Falls gift shop and hears voices from small fake animals who counsel her to perform random acts that usually wind up helping people.

"Hold on, now," I can hear you all saying. "That's a chick. Is this a chick show? Is this a show about chicks with feelings? Is this a quirky comedy? Does the chick have supernatural powers with which she fights the forces of darkness? If the answer to any of these is 'yes,' I'm walking, okay? I'm out."

To which I should say, shut up. If you really can't handle anything even mildly different than Dr. McDreamy or whatever pile of crap Ray Romano is bound to release upon us soon, then this show isn't for you. It's not brilliant, but there are some genuinely well-made moments here. After only a few minutes, it's easy to see why only 4 episodes ever made it to air. The show would have been better off on a premium cable network, but even there, things are tough; Fuller's Dead Like Me only lasted two seasons on Showtime.

I get that maybe my synopsis maybe isn't that clear, but the show's worth watching, anyway. Add it to your queue, or keep an eye out for a used set. With only 13 episodes, it exists as a kind of stand-alone story or miniseries, neither completely open-ended nor perfectly contained. Just see it, okay?

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"The Denial Twist," The White Stripes

"My Doorbell," The White Stripes

"If I Had a Boat," Lyle Lovett

"What a Crying Shame," The Mavericks

Also, I realized tonight while watching TV that I can pretty much recite every line of dialogue along with Die Hard. Inspired by this, I devised the following quiz. See if you can fill in the blanks to complete the lines from the movie:

"Come on baby, come to papa, I'll kiss your f_____ dalmatian."

"No f_____ s__ lady, do I sound like I'm ordering a pizza?"

"Glass? Who gives a s__ about glass? Who the f__ is this?"

"Yippee-ki-yay, m___f___."

For every quote you get right, give yourself a point. Five bonus points if you get them all right. No cheating, now.

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There's a pretty good band out there called The Cinematic Underground that I feel I should point out. Kind of Radiohead-ish, but in a good way. They've got an album called "Annasthesia" that's worth a spin. The title track and "My Dear Self" are highlights. The whole thing is the brainchild of a guy named Nathan Johnson, who also scored the indie Brick, written and directed by his brother, Rian.

Anyway, in the spirit of supporting independent music and broadening your horizons and more than a little ICB, you should check them out.

This one's for you, Chris Hawaii. Goo goo ga joob.

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Apocalypse, we've all been there; you know the drill:

Clickety-click.

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It's almost like I know what's going to happen without seeing the movie.

And is writer-director James Westby trying to worm his way into my subconscious by using the same font favored by Wes Anderson? Because, if so, it just might work.

Anyway, click here for the trailer.

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Then look no further than this video, which, no matter what anyone says, is extremely funny.

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"Cheap Seats," hosted by the Sklar brothers.

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Knowing that many, if not all, of you are reading this because you just can't get enough of this eager young man's foolish declarations concerning film, I went ahead and created a category just for the Top 10 lists of recommendations I've occasionally offered over the past couple years. You can find them by clicking on the folder marked "The Recommendations" on the left side of the page, under all the profile jazz.

Learn it, know it, live it.

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Thanks to the wonderful folks at YouTube, I can share with you the glory that is Sean Cullen, singing the tale of the chimp and the woman. Are you sitting down? You should really be sitting down for this.

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At this time last year, I was several months into what would turn out to be a 9-month run at a cubicle-shaped hell out in Thousand Oaks. During my time there, it was virtually impossible to watch Office Space or episodes of "The Office," both U.K. and U.S. versions. From the constant meetings, to the pointless busywork, to the socially inept and assuredly lonely manager with a lazy eye that creeped all hell out of me, it was a dark time indeed.

On Valentine's Day, my boss distributed pink slips of paper to everyone in my sub-department, on which we were to write notes to each other, which would be passed out later by my boss. I was at a complete loss as to what to write; I hadn't quite come to the point at that office where'd I'd risk a sexual harassment suit just to be fired and have some peace in my life, or I would have turned in some pretty brutal notes. And besides, what was I supposed to write to copy editors? After "You sure to edit some good copy" and "Your dictionary skills are great, I guess," I ran out of ideas.

My boss passed out the cards along with a special card from her for each one of us, and the cheap, cycloptic, spinally malformed woman couldn't even cough up a Starbucks giftcard. I threw the whole mess away.

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In the spirit of the day, I've decided to let you all superficially judge me, or at least give me feedback while you do it.

Click here for the window.

[I ripped this off from The Mad Cowboy. If he lived closer, I'd give him my wallet.]

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Pepperdine grads that used to live with me should probably skip the opening paragraph. Just a heads-up.

Clickety-click.

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I suppose I should take this opportunity to welcome you to the new site, which has pretty much the same stuff as the old site, except for shiny new colors.

On the left, underneath my profile, you should see some file folders. This is where my review archive and running list of every film I've seen will be stored. It's exciting, I know.

Over along the right side, you'll find links to all the sites I linked to on my old site, with a couple of new additions. I'm a fairly boring man with a healthy respect for routine, so not much has changed.

As far as leaving comments on this here blog, you should be able to do so anonymously by clicking "Post anonymously" on the comment form. This is not an invitation to actually leave a comment without signing your name. I just wanted to let you know that I don't believe you have to sign up for either an eponym blog or a reader account to post comments. Let me know if you have any problems. And, as always, anyone leaving a comment without signing their name will be considered a coward or a fool, whose remarks are of no significance.

I guess that does it for now. Look around, and try not to break stuff.

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Dear Overstock.com Woman,

Do you want to come over and hang out? We could just watch TV or something, if you want. Or, you know, whatever.

Just putting that on the table.

Sincerely,

Daniel Carlson

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While on a hunting trip in South Texas, protecting local families from the dangers of roaming deer and doing his best to pointlessly slaughter wildlife that had heretofore done him no harm, Vice President Dick "Go F*** Yourself, Senator Leahy" Cheney shot and injured a fellow hunter.Cheney's victim, millionaire attorney and old person Harry Whittington, was "peppered" on his right side with Cheney's shotgun pellets, many of which are actually granules made from the powdered bones of unwed mothers that Cheney sprinkles over his Total every morning, and as such probably didn't just cut Whittington's skin but actually made him feel as if the very fires of hell were tickling his groin. The owner of the property, Katharine Armstrong, said that Whittington is a regular visitor to the property, though this is the first time she's seen him hunting with the vice president.For myself, I can't say whether the shooting was indeed an accident or if Cheney was trying to get rid of Whittington in a surprisingly literary manner, but still a pretty cold-hearted one, even for Cheney. He probably should have just waited for Whittington's mother to die and then taken him fishing. Works every time.

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Which Wes ANDERSON character are you? by life_as_a_decoy
Your name
Your favorite color
Favorite letter
In your free time	you like to writeyou like to smokeyou like to drawyou like to get revenge
Your age
You are
Quiz created with MemeGen!

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R.I.P., Arrested Development. It was good while it lasted, and it ended on a high note. I laughed for 2 hours straight last night, and was driven by one particular joke to laugh until I about cried.

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Like Harrison Ford, I'm getting arthritic:Clickety-click.

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Lucas is on HBO right now, and as I sit humbly before the television and offer thanks it for its myriad and often bizarre but nonetheless always engaging offerings, I can't help but wonder:Where are you, Kerri Green? The Goonies and Lucas, then bam, nothing. You auburn-haired temptress of the mid-'80s, where'd you go? If you live in L.A., we should go to Peet's or something.Just throwing that out there.

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I've decided to start a band. Probably just straightforward indie pop but with hints of steel guitar. Currently accepting applications for the following positions:Lead guitarRhythm guitarBassDrumsKeyboardsPedal steelI will stick with vocals and the triangle. Possible names include Horace Greeley & the Chubby Chasers, or Prince Mongo & the Krystal Chiks. Needless to say, those are up for debate.

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I got home from work after midnight, and turned on the TV to unwind for a few minutes. I had left it on HBO, and as the screen warmed up I saw that a movie was just starting: Consenting Adults, from 1992, starring Kevin Kline, Kevin Spacey, and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, and directed by Alan J. Pakula, who has fallen from the mighty heights of All the President's Men and The Parallax View to stuff like The Pelican Brief and The Devil's Own.Anyway, I had no idea of the film's plot, but decided to watch for a few minutes to see if it lived up to its late-night HBO slot and pseudo-sensual title, or at least had some violence or Casio scoring or something I love about '90s movies. I admit, I'm a sucker for the glossy junk movies of mainstream American cinema from the early to mid-'90s. How can I resist it? From lazy-eyed Forest Whitaker working a really bad Southern drawl to the predictable but inexplicable presence of Mastrantonio, who was in pretty much everything from 1989-1995, it's just too good/bad/good to pass up.It took a hard left turn about half an hour in, though, as Spacey tried to convince Kline to swap wives, only to take advantage of Kline's insane lusts to set him up for murder. Turns out Spacey hired a lookalike for his wife to sleep with Kline, and then Spacey killed the lookalike and pinned it on Kline. Spacey then moves in on Mastrantonio, and Kline tries to fix things. He tracks down Spacey's non-dead wife, and in one of the film's dumber plot turns, they actually talk for a while before Spacey leaves her alone to get Louisville Sluggered to death by Spacey, who's been tracking them both.Yada yada yada, Kline corners Spacey and Mastrantonio at Spacey's house and kills him. I had really hoped Mastrantonio would be in on the set-up, and that Kline would wind up dead at the house or dying in prison, but Pakula, a little too trusting of Mastrantonio's character, had a happier ending in mind.Which brings me to this:Am I the only one who thinks of Scott Bakula when I hear the name Alan Pakula? It's like I can't help but do it. When I see "Pakula," I don't think of movies, I think of Sam Beckett stuck in time. Weird.

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Because, well, sometimes the Internet gives back to you in unexpected and wonderful ways.This is Steve:[Click it to play, people.]

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Um, hooray for Oscar Wilde, I guess. Or something.Clickety-click.

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First Coworker (reading from a press release): "The Man Who Conned Oprah."Me: Well, that's what she gets for picking bad books and contributing to the dumbing-down of America.Second Coworker: She's not dumbing down America.Me: She's certainly not smarting up America. She's dragging it all down. (Pause) Oprah is the talk-show equivalent of Toby Keith.

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I'd like to take just a brief moment to extend warmest wishes and deepest thanks to the NFL, who censored several lyrics from the Rolling Stones' halftime show at Sunday's Super Bowl XL.We live in a dangerous time, and it's not going too far to trim a lyric here or there to ensure a family-safe viewing environment. I applaud the NFL's decision. Their bravery turned what would have been a grotesque display of elderly men into merely a lamentable one that was safe for family audiences.Other family-oriented moments from the broadcast included Jessica Simpson pouting her lips and feeding pizza to a 12-year-old boy and numerous beer commercials extolling the camaraderie alcohol gives to people, especially the added benefit of including children in the drinking. [Check out the ads here.]Thanks again, guys. I'm sure your actions are motivated by the interests of the nation's families, and are in no way influenced by giant, faceless corporations. Kudos.

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I ripped off this photo from The Sis, because it's just too good/insane/awe-inspiring not to share.The mind reels at the slogans they didn't put up:"Find a partner, form a single-file line, and prepare for an eternity of torment.""In the event of the apocalypse, crouch under your desks and cover your heads … as if hiding will help.""Swimming means the buddy system, people. That includes swimming in lakes of hellfire."

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Today's winner for Headline That Scares Me Beyond Explanation:"Why I Still Breastfeed My Eight-Year-Old Girl."I mean ............... what?

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A video that's worth sharing.[If it doesn't load, try going here first.]

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EXT. NEWSPAPER OFFICE — HOLLYWOOD — DAYAnother beautiful day in sunny Southern California. The blue sky is tinged with gray smog on the horizon.INT. NEWSPAPER OFFICE — HOLLYWOOD — DAYThe newsroom buzzes with typical late-afternoon activity. A twentysomething hipster with corduroy pants and a fauxhawk, JASON, walks down a row of desks carrying a file folder. He stops at the last desk.Sitting there is a pasty, tired-looking young man, also mid-twenties: DAN. Dan balances a ham sandwich on his knee and browses the Internet.JASONSo, what'd you think of the game?DANI liked it.JASONWhat do you mean, you liked it?DANI mean I liked the game. It was good.JASONSo you're a Steelers fan?DANNo, not really.JASONNo?DANCouldn't name a single player, much less positions, stats, etc.JASONSo why'd you like the game?DANI don't know, it was a good game.JASONYeah, you said that, except how can you think it's good if you didn't even care who won?DANI don't know. It was just good, is all.JASON(beat)Did you watch the game?DAN(instantly)No.JASONNot at all?DANNo.JASONHighlights? Recaps? SportsCenter?DANNo, no, and only in front of men I've just met so they'll think I'm normal.JASONSo nothing?DANWell, Yahoo had the final score and footage of the commercial with Jessica Simpson, so I feel I got the full effect of the game without having to actually, you know, sit through it.JASONHuh.DANYeah.JASONWell …DANYeah.Jason stares at the folder in his hands for a moment.JASONWell, I should get this over to …DANYeah.JASONBut I'll see you later.DANYeah.Jason walks away.[END.]

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"She Will Have Her Way," Neil Finn"Bad Reputation," Freedy Johnston"Sloop John B," The Beach Boys"Veronica," Elvis CostelloJust thought you should know.

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I already wrote about this the other day, and some might say it's hypocritical to caution against the spread of these parodies and then turn around and endorse one. And I agree. It is, among other things, pretty hypocritical.But I dare you not to laugh.

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This white guy doesn't know what he's talking about:Clickety-click.[UPDATE 2/7: Check out the comments. I'm a racist again.]

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I've already written in other places about the festering boil on the face of cinema that is End of the Spear, a Christian-made and Christian-aimed story about missionaries in 1950s Ecuador. But a new meta-wrinkle has developed: Apparently fine with the clumsily handled content, some conservatives are protesting the fact that Chad Allen, the film's lead, is openly gay.Hands down, my favorite reaction comes from one Kevin T. Bauder, who wrote on his blog (which seems to be more poorly designed than average, even for a senior citizen) that "it would probably be wrong to firebomb" the houses of the film's producers. "But what they have done is no mistake," he continued. "It is a calculated strategy." Congratulations, Mr. Bauder. You win the award for Most Likely To Replace Pat Robertson For Sheer Bats**t Insane Statements. Your prize is to be mocked by the rest of society until you die.I think may favorite part of this whole thing is thinking back to 2001-2003, when Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy took over theaters, and Christians latched onto the story as (what else) a religious allegory. I guess no one bothered to tell them about Ian McKellen.

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Dear Mr. President,So.I know it's been a while since I've written, and even longer since we hung out (thanks for that "fishing" trip in Wyoming, by the way, it was awesome), so I know this letter must come as something of a surprise. The last time I wrote to you, I admit, I was upset. I give, and I give, and I give, and this is what happens. I need something in return, you know? Relationships work both ways. I told myself after my last letter that I wouldn't contact you again — well, maybe a call on your birthday, but that's just the menschy thing to do no matter what — but I just couldn't help myself.I watched your State of the Union address the other night, and was about as underwhelmed as you'd expect. What, you want points for saying "America is addicted to oil"? Welcome to 1970. You don't get a nod for honesty or credibility just for stating a fact that everyone knows. We're aware of the problem; now tell me what we're going to do about it.And sure, I could go on about your ridiculously over-positive predictions of our future, like how we can reduce our dependence on Middle Eastern oil by 75% in 20 years, and how you failed to acknowledge the inevitable belt-tightening and compromises that significant economic changes will require. But I break our mutual silence to highlight a much more disturbing portion of your speech:Human-animal hybrids.Yes, to anyone reading this who may have missed the president's aimless speech a few days ago, that's a direct quote: "human-animal hybrids." The phrase is buried in your one paragraph about medical ethics (thanks for using three sentences out of an hour-plus speech on the topic; I'm sure you covered the big stuff), and I have to admit, it's even got me confused, and I'm a pretty smart guy.Human-animal hybrids? Human-animal hybrids? Seriously? Human-animal hybrids? I don't even know where to begin.I guess I should just come right out and say it: Thank you for finally mentioning the most important topic in medicine today. When I started at my current job last fall, I wouldn't sign up for any kind of benefits package until I was assured by several members of the human resources department that our health care provider didn't participate in human-animal hybrid experimentation. I believe that it's a grievous sin and a signpost of our nation's moral decay. Thank you, sir, for coming out against these abominations of nature.In conclusion, sir, thanks again for pointing our country in the right direction, and using your annual forum to address the nation about our most pressing concerns.Sincerely,Daniel CarlsonP.S. Have you thought about keeping the human-animal hybrid technology under wraps and using it for military purposes? Personally, I can think of no better way to spread the righteous fire of freedom and democracy and apple pie and porn and baseball and automatic transmissions to the unwashed Iraqi masses than on the wings of flying monkey-men. Let me know what you think. —DC

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Coworker: Walk the Line is better than Crash.Me: Getting punched in the face every day by a hobo is better than Crash.

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I have the good fortune to work with some fairly laid-back people, and though some of them can come unglued pretty quickly in stressful situations, for the most part it's smooth sailing. Unfortunately, this attitude of general pleasantness carries over with some of the men whenever they go the bathroom, which is down the hall. I, it should be pointed out, don't like to talk that much, or at all, when I'm in the bathroom, even when I'm washing my hands, but especially, especially, when I'm actually emptying my bladder. (I haven't yet had the misfortune of someone trying to talk to me while we're sitting in adjacent stalls, since this is an office and not a dorm bathroom, but I'm not ruling the sick possibility out just yet.)As I walked into the bathroom one day I knew I was being closely followed, and as I sidled up to the stall, sure enough, my boss took the urinal next to me. Then he starts going, and he starts talking to me, as well, and all I can think about is (1) how much I don't like making small talk while my pants are unzipped, (2) how I really have a hard time going around other people, especially when they're trying to engage me in conversation, (3) how now I'm not going, since I'm gun-shy and trying to talk and having a difficult time squeezing out drop one, (4) now that I can't go, I wonder if my boss can tell I'm not going, and if he's wondering why I can't go, so now maybe he's just continuing our meager conversation on a superficial level while most of his thoughts are actively trained on just why I seem to be standing in front of a urinal doing exactly nothing, (5) what does it say about me that I allow myself to function daily with this level of neurosis, (6) [fill in the blank with some general doubt about my personality].But he finished, and I managed to go, and that was that. I even managed to act like talking in the bathroom was something I enjoyed, or at least felt comfortable with. But as I washed my hands at the sink farthest from my boss, I realized that next time I had to go, I'd check the crowd first. The men's room one floor down is almost always empty.

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