February 26: Brandon Was Here

What is it about a bathroom stall that makes it such an appealing place to express one's thoughts? I was five-years-old the first time I sat on a thin piece of tissue paper in a public restroom. It was at the beach in San Diego and the floor was covered in sand and water; at least I hoped it was water. The cinder-blocked room reeked of seaweed and urine, but I remember hoping that the stench was permeating from the next stall over. I sat on the ice-cold, metallic toilet with my short legs dangling over the edge; not long enough to reach the sandy pee-water. I could hear the waves lap the California shore as people came and went. The open stall didn't provide any privacy so I was constantly being interrupted by surprised guests.

Aside from my concern of sliding off the toilet into urine, it was a pretty enjoyable experience. There was something fun and exciting about waving to people that thought they were walking into an empty stall. It was my first time sitting on a metal toilet and being able to listened to the ocean at the same time. Something was missing though. Something wasn't right. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time, but I realized what it was the next time I found myself sitting on a public toilet with a permanent marker in my pocket.

I don't remember the circumstances of having the pen because I was still very young, but as soon as I sat down, I instinctively reached my tiny hand into my Oshkosh B'Gosh pocket and grasped the Sharpie. Without thinking, I pried the cap off and wrote "Brandon was here" on the wall to my right. Wow! What a feeling! That was twenty-two years ago next Thursday and I haven't looked back since.

My penmanship has really improved and I've even learned to write legibly with a pocket knife. When I leave my house, I always make sure I have my wallet, keys, cell phone, permanent marker and sharpened Swiss Army knife. I can write in all capitals, bubble-letters and even mysterious ciphers if I feel so inclined.

I am no longer restrained to writing just my name either. I've since moved on to poetry and I occasionally draw pictures of penises and naked women. I don't know, I guess you could call me an artist. I push my political views on future users of my stall. I draw swastikas and homophobic caricatures. I leave phone numbers of ex-lovers and arrange times for people to meet and have latrine-intercourse.

I don't know what it is about a good bowel movement brainstorm, but it makes me feel better about my direction in life and where I am at any given moment. Any problems I'm experiencing are instantly erased when I carve my initials into a metal toilet paper holder. I don't have anything against Jewish people, gays, blacks, or Mexicans, but when I write a discriminatory slur in permanent marker while sitting with my jeans around my ankles, I get a sublime sensation that nothing else can duplicate.

I'm not always the first one to write something on a wall but believe me, I let my opinions on the other pictures and insensitive remarks be heard. Sometimes I'll add my own detail to a picture or I'll simply cross out a line in a poem. I've visited stalls from my past only to find my artwork defaced and because I put so much thought and effort into each of my marks, I let the delinquent know how upset I am. I use expletives and racial slurs to get my point across and it makes me feel better to know that somewhere someone has just been put into his place.

So, the next time you're in a public stall, look for my work. You'll notice it by its superiority over the other crap (no pun intended) on the wall. If you happen to have a blade or a marker on you, by all means, leave a nice message. After all, I consider my art the original Facebook wall post and I would love to receive a like or a comment.


This post was inspired by a Dane Cook routine.