The kids are all right

A few months ago, I had an opportunity to start a new stint at 720 California.

Much like the anticipation of seeing an old girlfriend, I wondered…would my cheeks remember the cool taste of 4^thFloor Men’s Room porcelain? (Yes, sometimes I lift the seat and sit right on the rim; the heart wants what the heart wants.)

It was like riding a bike. A sweet, sweet bike…that gathers up all your fecal waste and spirits it away. 

But I was also curious about my new poop-mates. In the time since I left, the denizens of 720 California had gotten younger and (ugh) healthier. I wondered if their impact on the facilities would be as, uh, dramatic as year’s past.

And at first, I was disappointed. My first months back, it appeared that millennial buttholes where, in fact, different. I assumed that all those years of having their butts wiped by mom and dad, well into their 20s, had turned their anus into a pristine field of dreams.

But then, in May, something happened. I walked in to 4^thFloor Men’s Room and smelled something horrific—a good old-fashioned 720 California assault on the senses. And sure enough, a look into the Peter Brady stall (that’s the middle one, new readers) confirmed the crime. A Jackson Pollack-esque splatter that gave me HOPE. 

In the subsequent months, my coworkers rallied like a team trying to make up a fourth quarter deficit. Stinks that should be labeled hate crimes. Full bowl blowouts. Under the seat danglers. Prolonged grunt sessions to get the devil out. In other words—the sites and sounds we have come to know and love from the 720 California men’s rooms. 

This generation is gonna be just fine, you guys. And whether that’s because of the green juices or the kale or their knowledge that social security will be insolvent well before they retire, their gastrointestinal distress is on par with the GenXers and the Boomers before them.

Poop on, young friends. Poop on.

Sometimes you want to poop where everybody knows your name

There's an old saying: "The heart knows when it's home."*

Well, so does the sphincter. 

Yesterday, this veteran potty blogger took a seat on an old friend--the toilet in the penthouse stall in the 4th floor men's room at 720 California.

And just like how your pupils dilate when you see a loved one from your past, my body had a similar response to sitting on the familiar plastic. (And I'm not talking about my pupils. You know what I'm referring to, right?)

It was like now time at all had passed. The give (me) and take (toilet) was as enjoyable as every--like two childhood besties at a reunion, laughing, completing each other's sentences, and reconnecting after a prolonged separation. 

What drew me back to my old stomping grounds? Nostalgia. Familiarity. Comfort. After all, just like that wise old TV-show taught us, "sometimes you want to poop where everybody knows your name."

Tomorrow is promised to no one, but I feel like there may be more opportunities for us to spend time together in the near future. I hope so. We have some catching up to do. And I'm anxious to learn how the men of 720 are treating my old pal. With the respect it deserves, I'm sure.

* Honestly, I have no idea whether this is an old saying or not. I made it up.