Restroom, Lavatory, Powder room, The Loo, The Head, W.C., or Water Closet, Outhouse, Toilet, The John, The Crapper, Privy, Lavatory, The Can, Comfort Station, Latrine, Washroom, Cistern, or The Bogs...If ya gotta go, you're lookin' for one. I was born in 1955. By age 6, I was out and about, exploring my world. This involved rails, snails and even puppy dog tails, not to mention widening my horizons in an ever-increasing radius around my home. Boys will be boys, and boys, like girls, eventually have to pee. Most boys (and few girls) will just find a secluded spot and let it all hang out (or surreptitiously squat), nobody being the wiser (except nowadays you can be arrested for that). However, I was different. Many things had been hammered into my brain by my overbearing mother, at a very young age, and one of them was, "When you need to pee or poop, find a bathroom," lest you be labeled a heathen. Yep, my mother was a South...
Bicycle Dreams Ever since I moved out to Far Rockaway and began walking Rockaway Beach and the Beach Boardwalk, I'd been thinking about cycling. I especially watched people wheeling by, only to notice their bikes locked up just outside the Shop Fair market, easily bicycling back to my same apartment building, grocery packages hanging from the handlebars, in a fraction of the time it took me to walk there and back. And too, I'm one of those people who say, "I will only pick up these six items this time. I'll come back to the store another day for the other stuff." Yeah right. Of course, I never do. I always end up filling my little basket to overflowing with all kinds of crap and trudging back to my apartment laden down with like a thousand pounds in my backpack and carrying multiple, heavy plastic bags to boot. Every-damn-time I do that. I can't not do it. "Now if I had a bicycle...." I'd start thinking. But, with my meager...