On Saturday night, we went to see Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman—the “MythBusters” guys—on their live “Behind the Myths” show tour, which stopped at The Bushnell in Hartford.
Not bad seats, right? Plus, it was a very entertaining evening, and the entire family really enjoyed the show. Heck, we may have even (accidentally) learned something.
Of course, it being a public event, there was another terrific opportunity for me to make a fool of myself, and I (being me) took full advantage.
Just before the show started, I decide to make a final run to the bathroom. I’ve only been to The Bushnell a handful of times, so when I get to the entrance/exit door of the orchestra section, I turn to the usher stationed there and ask, “Where’s the closest men’s room?”
She looks around suspiciously for a second—had she thought I asked, “Where’s the closest meth lab?”—before she leans in close and says, “There’s a secret bathroom right here behind the door, but don’t tell anyone. Go ahead.”
I didn’t expect to be so well accommodated (although I wasn’t wearing the ribbon, maybe she recognizes me as the John F. Kennedy Elementary School Class of 1979 long jump champ?), but I am grateful and duck behind the door, where there is, indeed, a “secret” bathroom. You know, if by “secret” you mean “handicapped.”
It’s not exactly a storm, but it’s a port and I have an “aye-aye” from the usher, so I go in, close the door and … “weigh anchor”? “Empty the bilge pumps”? Insert your own nautical metaphor to finish the thought, although there is no need to “clear the poopdeck,” as it were. It’s nice as far as public bathroom go—a fairly clean, accessible space with a bit of privacy. I am in and out in probably about a minute or so. Smooth sailing! Or so I think.
When I open the door, standing there waiting is a man … on crutches. And not the “I twisted my ankle” temporary type of walking aids, but the “I am permanently disabled and need these to get around so I can try to cope in a world not always welcoming to those with true physical challenges” serious type. Of course, the usher is nowhere to be seen.
I immediately want to blurt out, “But the usher told me it was okay and ushed me in here!!!” except by the look of mild disgust on his face as I walk past him, I don’t think it would matter. To him, I am just another healthy, two-legged jackass who has used a facility specifically designed for those who can’t just scurry back to their seats in shame.
Anyway, I’ve been making a fool of myself for decades—here’s a good trio of examples from my college days (from the “other stuff” tab on the navigation menu)—so none of this comes as a surprise to any of you who know me well. Hey, consider how much of my time I spend laughing at others, I damn well better be able to laugh at myself, right? Conveniently, I’m great at giving myself opportunities to do it.
Okay, here’s another good example of my own foolishness and ignorance.
Unbeknownst to some of you, the guy who has made a living writing about Connecticut (and its curiosities, jerks and more) was actually born in Brooklyn, New York. We moved to Milford, Connecticut when I was 7, but we would often go back and forth between the two when I was young. Since there was no such thing as personal electronic devices or hand-held video games or portable DVD players, I did what all kids back in the day did during long drives—look out the window at the actual world around me as we drove past.
I’ve always been a bit of a geography fan, so I read all the signs and tried to take note of the all the different locales we would pass along the route—I still call Mamaroneck “Mama Roneck” in my head every time we pass. In the warehouse of the useless knowledge that doubles as my brain, they are all logged in there, from Coney Island to Devon.
On Long Island’s Belt Parkway, there was a town that always stood out in my head, and I remember the sign for it clearly—”Shore Points, This Exit.” I assumed it was a place like “Five Points” in Manhattan (thanks “Bowery Boys“), and always imagined it to be a charming little coastal town. I never really thought about it much until years later …
When I was in high school and finally got my license and all the freedom that came with it, my buddy Milo and I drove everywhere in the greater New Haven area. One day, we were cruising along I-95 when I noticed a somewhat familiar sign.
“Hey, that’s funny,” I said to Milo, nodding to the sign on the side of the highway. “There’s also a town named Shore Points in New York.”
He looked dubiously over at me for a second. “What are you talking about?”
“Shore Points. That town’s name. It’s funny there’s one here in Connecticut. There’s a Shore Points in New York, too.”
He looked at me for a long second and when he saw that I wasn’t joking, burst out laughing, “It’s not a town. It’s shore points … you know, like points along the shore….”
Oh sure, it might be better to keep my mouth shut and be thought a fool rather then open it and remove all doubt … but what would I blog about?