Clog Bloggin’
For whatever reason I’ve been thinking lately about how for those who have lived a relatively trauma-free life, some of the most terrifying moments are those that come as the water rises in a clogged toilet. I’m sure everyone has experienced this at some point. You do your business and finish and as you’re in that sort of post-void, care-free, zippedy-doo-dah glow you look over to realize the water is quickly rising.
Why is this moment so horrifying? Perhaps it’s just the idea of the impending mess an overflow will cause. Deeper still, I think it’s the idea that (if you’re not in your home) you are not only going to make a mess, but also have to reveal to the owner of the bathroom that you made this mess. While pooping. You have to bring attention to your own act of defecation - something so many people have anxieties about. (ie: “Oh my God, what if they smell it?!?!?!?!”) All of this in spite of the fact that on most toilets (in fact, maybe ALL toilets? I haven’t done the research.) all you have to do is kneel down and turn the little knob all the way in one direction. This shuts off the supply of water to the toilet, not solving your clog problem but at least stopping any flood.
I remember being at my friend Mike’s parents’ house and using their bathroom. I don’t know what went wrong, but I suspect I used too much paper. You can’t blame someone for doing a thorough job. Regardless of the cause, I flushed and foolishly took for granted that everything would go as planned. As I was washing my hands I realized that plans were, in fact, desperately off course. I got to skip the horror of seeing the water rise. The water had already risen and in a few seconds would be pouring out of the toilet bowl. I quickly did the old turn-the-water-to-the-toilet-off bit and got it to stop right at the brim. Mike’s family had a plunger right next to the toilet, a fact that brought me little solace, as my trials were far from over. The water had filled the bowl to the point where introducing a plunger would displace it enough to spill out onto the floor. I stood there for a long time pondering what I should do. I was quickly reaching what my anxieties told me was “too long” of a time in the bathroom. Surely the Nelson family was huddled outside with their ear to the door, wondering if I was masturbating or talking about how bad and inhuman my poop smelled. I made the decision: I’d place some towels down around the toilet, plunge the bastard, then fold up the wet towels and leave them there and never say a word about the whole ordeal. I did exactly that. No one said anything about it. Plus, it wasn’t like there was shitwater spraying all over the place. It wasn’t even shitwater! All of that was gone. It was the paper! THE PAPER! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!!!
Perhaps the most ghastly bathroom experience of mine came right before my first “real” show with my first “real” band. We’d played talent shows and things of the like, but never a show where there were several other bands playing with people actually coming to watch those bands. It was a big deal for us. As we set up our gear the nervousness got to me and I decided that pooping was could not wait. I went into the bathroom and did it, and much like the time at Mike’s parent’s I looked over while washing my hands to see that horrible swelling of water. This time I reached down to turn the water off and the knob was broken off. I couldn’t use my extremely minor plumbing knowledge.
“Quick! Siphon the shitwater into the sink! But, I don’t want to get shitwater in my mou—Wait, I don’t even have a hose! NO!”
It was over. It was going to flood. I was going to have to go out and say, “I know we’re about to play a show, but I just clogged the toilet (after shitting, by the way…did I mention I was shitting?) and now there’s water (which, come to think of it, had my poop in it) everywhere and some stranger is going to have to enter the cloud of my stink and deal with it.” Out of nowhere an alternate option popped into my head. It was terrible, but at this point I was merely reacting. I could reach into the toilet and pull out the clog. I made a snap decision, and when faced between a tiny bit of embarrassement or submerging my hand into shitwater, my brain chooses shitwater. I did it. Worked like a charm, in fact. I washed my hands thoroughly and played a great show.
“Hey, maybe I should stick my hand in my own diluted waste before every show!”
That was in 1999. Since then I’ve shared that story several times, and nearly every time I’m met with a groan and a confirmational inquiry: “You seriously unclogged it? With your hand?” I understand that it’s a somewhat gross story, but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. It wasn’t until recently that I asked some questions and found out why I got this incredulous response: People thought I’d clogged the toilet with my shit, then reached in and broke apart that shit with my hand. WHAT!? First of all, that’s disgusting but second of all — this happens?! I don’t think I’ve ever made turds so tremendous and strong that they caused a clog. It’s always been a paper-based incident. I mean, wow! That’s a feat. To think there are people who expel something so viscous and voluminous that it stops the flow of water? I’m reminded of Bruce Lee talking about how water was so powerful it can penetrate rock. I think it’s safe to say Bruce Lee never got a glimpse at some of these turds. Maybe if even just the band on the Titanic would have stopped crying over their violas or whatever and hunkered down they could have patched up the damage the ice berg did, right? Or even those women and children.
I haven’t had any scares recently, so I don’t even know why this is on my mind. Maybe that makes me a gross person. Who knows? Just remember when the terror strikes you need to kneel down, find that knob, and save yourself. And if for some reason that doesn’t work, reach in and dig your way to salvation.
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