Before I move on with the continuation of my ever-popular crapperseries I’d like to clarify something. The reason I am writing these is not to get some compassion for the misery that I and my countrymen had to go through. Even with the lack of modern conveniences millions of happy and meaningful lives were lived in the USSR. Many scientific breakthroughs were made by people who after work went back to their crappy communal apartments. Many cultural masterpieces were created by people with no running water in sight. Millions of children were conceived while someone else was sleeping in the other corner of the same room. On the other hand, there are miserable people leaving in the mansions with 6 bathrooms and loads of toilet paper. What I am trying to say is that life conditions are important but even more important are families, friends, surroundings, etc. When everything else is peachy, the toilet paper shortage is not so relevant.
Now back to the subject.
Outdoor Plumbing.
Outdoor plumbing is an oxymoron.
There wasn’t any plumbing outdoors. In most of the rural areas and old parts of town for their natural needs people visited an outhouse. Regular outhouse looked kinda like this sans the raccoon, heating and funny signs. It was normally situated above the giant hole in the ground which sometimes was pumped out à la “Dirty Jobs”. (notice the abundance of the French words in my blog). I am not sure how the rest of them were emptied but I’ve never heard about septic tanks until I got here. Some of these were regular “squat” types and the other ones had a way to sit down on a toilet seat. If you ever get to visit one of these I recommend to not look down the hole. Just take my word on this.
People who owned these outhouses kept them clean and tried to insulate them from cold. I’ve never seen a heated one, that doesn’t mean there wasn’t any. During the cold times of the year these places did not encourage prolonged sessions with a funny book.An old army joke talked about having to have a partner while going to the bathroom above the Arctic Circle: one will do his business and the one other will stand by with an axe in case the first one had to be separated from the toilet. In these areas liquids freeze before they hit the ground.
As I’ve mentioned above, many toilet facilities were of the “squat” type where you’d find a hole of various shapes (with some evil crap inside, don’t look down) and sometimes there were markings where to place you feet. Feet placement was also guided by disgusting stuff on the floor. You just had to try not to step in the unknown hazardous waste (not all people have excellent aiming skills and that’s all I’m going to say about that). When I was in the army our outdoor facility was a huge concrete building with 40 to 60 holes in the floor and a 20 yard trough for #1 (I’ve heard that Chiefs stadium has some of these). In the morning, when 300 people visited it at the same time my eyes would tear up, and not because I was so proud or whatever. It wasn’t a smell anymore, it was a wall of ammonia-laden mist. Surprisingly,within few minutes, the smell became bearable and you could go on about your business. To sanitize the out-buildings they spread some kind of powder similar to mix of DDT, dry Clorox and Lysol. I should also mention that the building had no doors and partial walls so all the warmth was generated…sorry, I told you not to look down there. When we were on a mission they just dug a trench and surrounded the area with tarps (no roof). Notice that the squat toilets did not discriminate against handicapped, elderly and pregnant women. Just imagine doing it with any of these conditions. I still have great balancing skills. Sometimes people rebelled and improved the age-old design as shown in exhibit to the right. Sometimes it was more ingenuous than that but this will give you an idea. Notice that there are no dividers. Enjoy the company!
If you are feeling deprived of the genuine squat toilet experience, some schmuck is promoting a device to convert your nice, comfortable throne into a squatting nightmare. It will cure your depression, impotence and make your hair grow back. I, on the other hand, will enjoy some time in one of my two bathrooms with an issue of “Consumer Reports”. To be continued.
P.S. This blog is not responsible for trauma caused by your attempts to climb up on your toilet. Do not try this at home.
A little worm asks his father:
-Daddy, why do some worms get to live in apples and oranges and we live in a pile of shit?
-Because it’s our Motherland, son… Old Soviet Joke
When I was boarding a plane to Los Angeles last Wednesday I knew all about my destination.
It was full of aging hippies…
…who wear Birkenstocks year round…
…overrun with crime (I am pretty proud of this shot right in front of the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre)…
…chronic diseases…
…about to be washed out by a tsunami…
…infested with illegal tax preparers…
…where fat people are discriminated against while being taunted with snacks…
…and skinny people are being put on a pedestal.
But somewhere during my five days in LA, my American dream got kicked in the groin. For years I was arguing with my friends on both coasts that I live in a better place, full of parking and almost devoid of traffic, safe and with good schools, reasonable and affordable, while still having a chance to see recent Broadway shows and dine at ethnic restaurants. After every trip I returned home complaining about the crowding, overpriced real estate and horrible traffic everywhere I went, feeling good about the rush hour slowdown on the highway we refer to as “traffic” and my relatively minuscule mortgage payment.
LA made me realize how badly I was mistaken. My friends were right, I live in a Podunk town, in a boring provincial backwater where the foodies are taking turns revisiting the same 10 restaurants and 3 markets; where the same 6 women (and probably men) are at the top of all dating sites (albeit under different handles); where finding a date with at least two degrees of separation from your previous one is almost impossible; where any chain restaurant opening is an event worthy of TV news coverage and traffic congestion; where the only bragging rights are “at least we are not Tulsa or Omaha”. Indeed we are not.
At the same time there are wonderful magical places where it’s almost always warm and sunny but you can look up in the mountains and see the snow; where at any given time more women are dressed in heels and bikinis than the whole statistical female population of the KC Metro Area; where the people are always in a sunny mood and free of depression or PMS and are happily smiling even while being arrested; where the 52-week donut project would take 52 years and still will not be able to eat a donut at every one of them; where the restaurants from all over the world are open even in the areas that are not scary without bars on the windows; where the oranges and lemons grow in people’s backyards instead of the allergy-inducing trees that are planted here for some mystical reasons; where the produce is not an imitation food sold here; where fat people are magically drawn outside to ride bikes or walk or run so even their over-consumption of donuts or cakes from a Cuban bakery around the corner is not detrimental to their health; where driving up and down the mountain roads makes one feel like James Bond; where you “can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile”.
So I told my daughter to pick a college in California, the only place where my American dream can make another run for it.
Maybe I can take a ride on the “Possibility bus”…
…or just mount my Focus on top of a school bus…
…I can trow down my magical money blanket on the sand…
…or pour my lifetime savings into a yacht…
…just so I can see this…
…or this…
…and this…
…and I will wait as long as I have to.
httpvh://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4J0HD_82hw
P.S. I don’t need to know why it’s so great to live here and why it sucks in California. Trust me – I know. And learn about hyperbole.
This post should be titled “I have a camera too, you know…”. There are people in this town who are really good at taking pictures, and then there is me. I don’t set an aperture and exposure on my camera, I just push the button. That doesn’t make me any less eager to share my photos. Plus I have better captions.
After a cup of malted milk, the only thing you want is some square-dancing. The kid seated next to the door looks like he is doing community service, the girl standing on the right stuck her tongue out; must be thirsty for some of that milk.
Sometimes people rebelled and improved the age-old design as shown in exhibit to the right. Sometimes it was more ingenuous than that but this will give you an idea. Notice that there are no dividers. Enjoy the company!
