There’s only one bathroom at my regular job. When I say that, I mean one bathroom for everybody. It’s not like there’s one mens room and one ladies room; one bathroom period.

Try to imagine the frustration this causes for someone with hardcore coffee addiction coupled with a miniscule bladder capacity. The body is done with the morning coffee and goes all gangbusters to get rid of it, so naturally, you make haste to the can only to be greeted by the stabbing rejection of a locked door. Then, even though you’re about to explode, the pain in your lower abdomen blurring your vision, you have act casual like, “I really just came sprinting out here at top speed to read this fascinating article here in the paper. Hmm, what will ultra-perky Reese Witherspoon do next? No that isn’t fear and desperation in my eyes, they always bulge like that. Yeah, have a good one.” But it’s too late, people are already looking at you like you’re some kind of lunatic as you pace wildly trying to hold it wondering what, for the love of holy muther-trucking crap, could be taking whoever is in there so freaking long.

This horrible state of affairs is by far the highest, boldest item on the ‘cons’ list about the place. For the record, there is a ‘pros’ list which is actually longer than the ‘cons’ list and features all important things like “Free Pretzels” and “Good Pay and Benefits”. So I’m not really complaining (well maybe a little). I mean, it’s no dream job, but I’m lucky to have it.

When I feel the need to escape this ordinary madness, I shuffle down to the local Barnes & Noble during lunch break. It’s a brand new location, so the canned, gentrified, “we want you to believe this isn’t really a giant chain store but a hip, local shop” feeling is omnipresent and only amplified by the new age butchering of jazz classics wafting down from the sound system. Regardless, it’s still a pleasant atmosphere and browsing the literature section, thumbing through a few pages of Murakami or Miller or Bukowski, making a mental list of the books I want to read and the authors I have yet to discover, is boundlessly relaxing (not to mention that if I have to go I can just roll into the men’s room with no hold up). It’s a way to gain complete if only temporary separation from bustling banter of the workplace, because unless another Harry Potter book comes out, there’s no possibility of running into any of my coworkers there. This kind of reminds me of something I think Zeldman wrote once about how “most people wouldn’t go to art school if the classes were free”. Too true.

In the end I guess this entry never really came any kind of point and had more to do with Bitchin’ than Camaro, but these are my days. Besides, I’m a Mustang guy. And who remembers the Dead Milkmen anyway?