What else would we start with? Unfortunately, we have no pictures of the wonderful lunch at The Mermaid restaurant in Saugatuck. I’m sure you’d all love to see Louis’ Spicy Buffalo Chicken Sandwich w/Fries (or mine), Karla’s Shrimp Bowl, Amy’s salad, Janene’s veggie burger and whatever Steve and Jef ordered. So the committee apologizes for the lack for visual imagery regarding lunch consumption.
Ed: The following was posted as a comment in reply to my blog post about social norms when standing at urinals, and does such a fine job of taking me to task that I felt it worthy of its own post. Enjoy.
From the mind of Louis:
There is a key word in the phrase “public restroom”: public. Public is defined as open to all persons. Yet ever since middle school I have heard the rumors of an unspoken rule of no talking at the men’s bathroom urinals.The excuses are many, but most defend this sacred notion (as Ted does) that once a grip on the tool has occurred silence is customary. While the positions are similar, I hate to burst any man’s bubble but you’re not teeing up a golf shot. You are engaging in an activity every other healthy member of our species has embraced since our genesis. There are no mysteries or questions when approaching another at a urinal. It’s basic. And if you happen to recognize the person who is in mid-stream, a greeting is perfectly fine.
I have unfortunately strong powers of observation, which cause me to (occasionally) see things at more than face value, and (usually) to over analyze them. It’s a quirk, no doubt, and probably not to my credit, but it is what it is. Just a little background as warning that you may want to stop reading now, lest you venture into the neuroses of the author.
For half of you that read this, I need to provide further background, because the physical location of this tale plays a significant role, and half of you have never been there: the office men’s room.
Note: This is the first part of a series about the amazing contributions I’ve made to the American economy and a sort of biography of the things I’ve been paid for.
That’s where it all started for me, in the Great Oaks neighborhood of Rochester, Michigan. Back in the days when there were multiple editions of a newspaper each weekday, morning and evening. And of course, morning deliveries on both weekend days; the list of Sunday-only subscribers added a sizable boost to our family’s take.