Stem to Stern: The Head
This month’s column is one that I have been threatening to write, in moments of exasperation, for a long time. I have mentioned more than once in these rants that anyone running for public office should be required to have run a crew and a business before creating laws and governing for the masses. Doing so teaches one the truth about human nature and dispels the myths of idealism embedded in good intentions. When one comes to grips with the reality of human nature, one is far better suited to spend the taxpayer’s money wisely, fully aware of the wastefulness of budgeting for hollow attempts at changing human behavior. I suppose my past reluctance to address this month’s sensitive topic, stems from a fear of offending our readers. Nah! When did that ever stop me?
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People have basic needs. We all need to eat, sleep and evacuate. By evacuate, I mean use the head. Most of us were raised by loving people whose first cultural assignment as parents was to get the child potty trained. This assignment, like all academic endeavors, can be graded on a scale, the result of which will follow the child for life. Most of us do a pretty good job and some of us fail miserably. All men are not created equal. Evidence of this inequality is witnessed by anyone who has had the need to use a gas station, convenience store, fast food, or, in our case, boatyard restroom. What in the world causes people to disgustingly trash-out these facilities? What is the source of this fecal terrorism?
For many years, one of my jobs around here was restroom janitor. Customers and crew found it to be an absurdity. Larry Wilson used to laugh and shake his head. “There goes the CEO with a mop in his hand,” he would say. Along about 6:15 each evening, there I was with a broom, a mop and disinfectant cleaner. “Can’t you get someone else to do that?” was the common refrain. “No,” I would reply. “Like my dad used to quip: Those that believe the dead don’t come back to life should be here at 4:30.” The crew can’t get out of here fast enough and you can’t do this in the heavy traffic of a workday. About a year ago, I was so disgusted by the unusually toxic condition of our heads one day, that I flew into a rage and declared “I’m done.” My son Alex, alarmed at my behavior, decided that he would take over duties as slop cop. Now, I watch as he reaches the same breaking point while we compare notes and bathe in Clorox. During the course of our stint as the shitter sitters, I have developed a few observations about why people are swine.
Not all of us were raised to respect other people’s property, even when we consider ourselves honorable. One can observe this phenomenon at a concert for environmental causes. At the end of the show, a mess of cans, bottles, food trash and diapers is left upon the very ground that is the focus of the cause. When there is no consequence, hypocrisy is the rule of thumb. Look at rental cars. Trash them out, run them down four-wheel drive roads, drive them like the Fourth of July. Not mine, don’t care. While working in a boatyard, how many of us have walked the docks and seen and smelled raw sewage in the basin, flushed from the head of one of our customers? If you can’t see me, you can’t blame me. The same is true for boatyard restrooms.
Some of the problems can be attributed to an intersection of foreign cultures. Folks from other parts of the world have different habits regarding where the toilet paper ends up. Some of the mess we observe could be considered modern art, sort of a septic Jackson Pollock, from creative geniuses expressing their animal soul. Some of it defies the laws of physics. How in the hell can matter that should predictably fall from gravitational pull, end up on the ceiling? In addition to that, why would people consider a urinal for anything other than its intended mission? There is only one thing that is supposed to go into a urinal. We have threatened to install cameras in the head to gather data on the science of restroom vandalism, but that raises obvious civil rights and privacy issues.
One of the curious observations from a veteran slop cop/shitter sitter is the fact that the lady’s room in our yard is never found in this disgusting condition. What gives? Women, at least the women working here, apply their artistic skills elsewhere, like on the job. Another fascinating gender distinction is that the gals don’t go in there and spend thirty minutes on YouTube videos. Men do. On the clock, hiding. Apparently, the toilet is akin to a front row theater seat and a great place to snack and consume energy drinks to the point where we have tossed around the idea of installing a popcorn machine in there. Alex and I could then don velvet jackets and direct you to your seat with a flashlight, paying you to sit on the throne for the duration of the film. Somehow, eating where I perform bodily functions does not appeal to me. It certainly doesn’t seem to bother the masses. When things overflow, food wrappers and chewing gum are often the culprit. Yuck.
Another curiosity is the consumption of incredibly massive amounts of toilet paper. Really? I mean, how much do we actually need to get the job done? The men’s room goes through six to eight rolls a day. Again, the ladies are far more frugal, even with their additional requirement for bathroom tissue. My wife is retired from a long career in commercial property management. She tells me that a lot of guys will line the seat with layers of toilet paper before they perch themselves upon the throne, which may be the result of potty training by over-achieving parents. When they have finished texting their girlfriend or when the mindless Instagram memes become a bore, all that paper goes into the head. This would help explain the constant clogging and back-ups that occur during the workweek. I have toyed with the idea of replacing the toilet paper with rolls of 80 grit stickit sandpaper. Bet we’d use a lot less. My wife has also informed me that some people will actually levitate over the seat to prevent any direct contact with other folk’s germs. This may shed some light on some of the anti-gravity aspects of restroom messes. One possible solution to this idiocy is to hang a come-along and sanitary harness over the head which would eliminate the need to line the seat with paper. Upon reflection, probably not a good idea. Accuracy would decrease with altitude.
Paraphrasing the great Paul Simon, “The words of the prophets are written on the restroom walls, and urinal stalls.” Social and political commentary, a poetry approach with a Rudy Ray Moore flair, and clever anatomical artwork adorn the surfaces and must be cleaned each day to prevent offence to those of thin skin. Not exactly a safe place for snowflakes. I must admit, some of the editorials are well done. It would be great if those journalists and budding graphic artists would invest as much thought into their projects in the yard as they do in their evacuation contemplation. I suppose creativity originates best from a place where one can concentrate and get the creative juices flowing, if you’ll forgive the inappropriate metaphor. Josh, our yard manager, worked in and out of quite a few boatyards before finding his home here. He tells me that our restrooms are cleaner than most and that some of the trunk-slammer yards along the coast are disinfected each evening by contract services with powerful, chlorine-infused pressure cleaners. Ceiling, walls and floors. Sounds like the final solution for yard owners who have had enough.
There is a lot of preposterous discussion about bathrooms these days in the home of the brave, however I believe we can all agree that keeping them clean is a no-brainer. It’s frustrating and I speak about this in our monthly safety meetings. “I’ll bet your bathroom at home is clean and orderly,” I whine. “Why do you insist on destroying this one? One reason: Not mine, don’t care.” It’s the same reason people leave hotel rooms a wreck. Same reason people throw fast food trash out the window of their car. Same reason a once beautiful engine room becomes a rusty, fuel and oil-soaked mess. Same reason cigarette butts cover our beautiful beaches. Same reason subsidized housing becomes a slum. Hell, you get the idea and, at this point, I’m sure you feel this embittered old goat has wasted enough of your limited free time. Know what? Not mine, don’t care!
This article originally appeared in the February 2025 issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.
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Source: https://www.powerandmotoryacht.com/column/stem-to-stern-the-head
