Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Investment Bankers Might Not Be Human

Ladies, I suggest you vamoose from this here page for a calmer locale. I intend to speak of the secret world of manly things, a realm shrouded in shadowy secrets greater than those of the Mona Lisa's coy smirk or why urinal cakes are blue and taste so good.

Damn it, too close to my topic!

Communal restroom etiquette: comic gold to the stand up funnyman, but Serious Business to the considerate individual. Yesterday, while in the 20th floor men's room of 333 Bush, I ran into a situation that will haunt me to the end of my days.

The sound of urine hitting the porcelain wall of a urinal is a well known and comforting note (as we are all men here reading this now certainly you know that). World-class flautists have tried to capture the captivating resonance of it for decades, to no avail. Only the real deal will do.

While sitting down and dropping the kids off at this posh highrise's pool a man entered the bathroom and began his...recital, shall we say. All was going well, at first. The pitch was high and steady and the judges were already lining up to give the man a Grammy. Then, disaster.

*BLOOP*. What the fuck was that?

Imagine the sound of a rock with the approximate mass of a child's fist being dropped into a small pool of liquid and that was the sound I heard. I froze. Who wouldn't? Probably a lot of us freeze anyway when we're on the crapper and somebody enters the restroom. Playing possum doesn't take away any of the perceived shame from this natural act, but we'd like to delude ourselves into thinking it does.

Anyway, seriously, what was that sound? Did this man just painlessly pass a gall boulder? And then there's the etiquette matter: do you summon up the courage and ask "hey, is your urethra OK after that, man?" or do you just keep on trucking yourself, in private?

I'll send this scenario in to Miss Manners and get her opinion.