I am Trying!

This is my third attempt to write something today. There is nothing to say! My heater doesn't work again, but that is old hat by now. Its cold out, so what. Actually yesterday the weather was quite nice...sunny and warm. I am being quite liberal with "warm," by that I mean around 40. The silly Danes actually put out the outside tables and chairs at the cafe and some of these fools were sitting at them. They were all shivering and layered in clothing as they sucked down a combination of cigarettes and overpriced coffee or tea. I decided I would just go inside...I usually wait for the season before I get in the "spirit of the season." It may be spring now but in name only. When its between 65 and 70 and sunny then I will go outside...if it gets a degree over 70 then I am going to start complaining about the ungodly heat.

I had a pretty nice afternoon in the cafe with my $5 dollar green tea (and not worth a fifth of that) and my new book, Concepts of Modern Art. I finished Cubism yesterday and did Purism and Orphism...I was "ismed" out by the end of the day. My life has been a steady march of "isms" for the last 10 years...sometimes people use "ian" or "onic" as in "Artistotelian" or "Platonic." These are adjectives though and the "isms" are nouns..."ist" being their adjective form...you have to tag on a noun to use an "ian" or "onic" as the name of a school of thought..."Marxian Politics," etc...Timism is an amalgamation of Timian ideas that portray a Timist or Timonic view of the world. The following is a bit of colloquial witticism from the Timist school of philosophy.

After I left the cafe it became immediately apparent that I had imbibed way too much green tea...I needed a restroom and quick. In Norreport there are two classes of public restroom. The underground one where you pay some poor sap 2 kroner and he opens the door for you...he is like a bathroom gnome who lives underground and gives you a riddle...if you can answer it then you may proceed...if not, well then you are plum out of luck. The other class of Norreport public restroom is more common in Copenhagen at-large...they also have these in the south of France and Stockholm. This is the high-tech, everyman public bathroom where you put money into a glorified port-a-potty and the door slides open to reveal wonders beyond your wildest imagination.

It is this second public toilet that I turned to in this hour of most urgent need...mostly cause it was closest and didn't require running like a madman through Copenhagen's trendy commercial district. I think this one costs 2 kroner as well, but who knows...when you stoop to using a pay port-a-potty you are hardly in a state where mathematical reasoning is most precise. The situation often looks something like this:

You walk, very fast, toward the location...you try to decide if you should run, or maybe even slow down. You ask yourself...if I move fast is it going to cause my body to speed up generally, perhaps causing the unspeakable to happen? There is always a moment of near-resignation..."so what if I wet my pants...I can't make it anyway, and I am not going to look like a fool running at a dead sprint through crowded streets."

This is demonstrable of the "really got to go" thinking process. You might look dumb running down a street, but not at all standing in a subway with a big pee spot on your jeans. The moment of resignation is just that, a moment.

Next comes the "near-eastern mysticism" phase. In this phase you try to relax away the urge to do biological necessity. Like a Buddhist monk you tell yourself, "ok, just calm down, think about something else, think about sports." Guys use the near-eastern mysticism approach to deal with a lot of things...it usually works for a very brief period...but at this point brevity may be all one needs to finish the journey to the final destination.

The final phase is arrival...this is the most dangerous point in the whole venture. At this point the body, in a moment of near ecstatic relief, relaxes...and then you have a problem...it is heightened tension that has kept the wolves at bay up to now. You cannot recreate any of the phases you have just been through so you have to find a new approach. This is usually "the dance." With the dance one is not really sure what one wishes to accomplish...clearly you are no longer concerned with your public image or a zen-like mastery of the physical. This last phase, arrival, is usually made worse when you have to pay to accomplish your mission in a foreign currency.

At arrival you realize that you have 10 lbs of change in your jacket pocket and it is in 4 different kinds of currency, none of which you have fully mastered. Change is flying everywhere...should you pick it up...is that a Swedish, Danish or Norwegian kroner?...why do they all need their own kroners anyway?...thats not even a kroner its a euro...why don't the Scandinavian countries use the euro?...especially if they peg their currency to the euro (now is no time for understanding euro-economics).

So you go back into the pocket...ahh, a US quarter...old familiar George Washington seems to smirk at you as if to say..."Not even the father of the republic is going to help you out of this one." Getting change out of the jacket pocket is tougher to do while doing the dance...the dance causes the pocket to move around...and, guys, lets be honest...while doing the dance you only have one free hand...the other hand is furiously tugging at yourself as if, like a hose, you can hold the flow back for just a few more seconds while your mind sorts out the math...your mind begs your body..."please, just hold on, I am doing the best I can under this kind of pressure." The dance is a one-handed, running-in-place jig to no particular rhythm.

Finally, Danish currency...you pile it into this 21st century pay port-a-potty...nothing! What in the world could have gone wrong? Its only now when you notice that only certain coins are accepted...so you have wasted money, lost precious seconds, and now the dance begins again along with the quest for the right currency. It doesn't take long this time, and lets face it, at this point you don't have long...if you get into the second "resignation period" all is lost...so you get the right coins in there and the doors slides open...slowly, of course, as if someone with a real sense of humour designed these things...you can just see them around the corner laughing hysterically at what has unfolded before them.

The door opening is always an event too, cause you have no idea what you are going to find inside...these things are "self-cleaning," right! My room was self-cleaning when I was a child. The door then shuts precariously behind you. For just a second you wonder if its going to stay shut because there is no lock. A sigh of relief...you made it! (Unless you are in California cause then untying the drawstring on your boardshorts adds a bit more drama to these trials and tribulations...that double-knot always seems like such a good idea as you leave the apartment).

Afterwards water starts running down in some carved-out section of the port-a-potty...above is a disembodied picture of hands cleansing themselves in this stream...are you kidding me? I am not letting my hands within a yard of any liquid in that thing. I turn quickly for this space-age door and it begins to open when my hand (encased in tissues) touches the handle. (Once I hit this thing while I was, you know, tending to other business, and the door starts opening...I reach back behind me in a panic trying to keep it shut while trying to manage my other situation...this is "multi-tasking" in my frivolous bohemian life for all you "real world" cubicle-dwellers).

As you walk out, you glance back at this urban cave and a thought crosses your mind..."what in the heck did I just pay for?" Were you leasing that space for a few seconds. That filthy, dark and foul-smelling little box just cost me the equivalent of two gumballs (this is how a childish 25 year old does currency conversions...from US currency to gumballs and then from gumballs into the foreign currency). Really, I am doing the city a service by using it...next time I think I'll just nestle up to the side of the pay port-a-potty and pay with a little good ole American current-cy. I will inspire protest throughout the city..."We will no longer pay for---" Thats our slogan. Where I come from we fought a revolution over taxes on our tea...I am simply extrapolating, but after we get our tax-free tea would we pay 60 cents to relieve ourselves? No, thats un-American. No taxation without representation!