Pissing In the Ocean

Some of you may remember my first blog wherein I chronicled the misadventures of The Rockway Institute and my decade-long obsession with golf. The Tute is no more and the golf bug has flitted on to natter in the ear of a new victim leaving my psyche a green field for new neuroses many of which have started to sprout.  Though I can never adhere to a theme for long—or person, or job, or POV—were I to start a third blog I would definitely write of the travails of having to work a toilet at sea level.  God! What a gripe.  Gravity is essential to a good flush and here at the edge of the San Francisco Bay we got nuthin’.

I’ve often remarked that when I bought my loft I gave insufficient (read: none) consideration to my charming lateral lisp and find myself having to pronounce my address, composed entirely of words beginning in S, endlessly to the amusement of every jackath who needs to know where I live.

I can live with the lisp.  The toilet is another matter.  On arrival here, I quickly acclimated to the sight of my neighbor pissing behind the building along the railroad tracks each morning.  He and his dog out for their morning stroll marking their territory.  I thought him rude at first. Then I got to know and like him and adjusted my opinion to eccentric.  Now I realize he is simply practical. 

I’m considering getting a dog.