damonjustisntfunny.com

During a recent visit to the United Kingdom I was reminded of a charming and altogether little publicized facet of British living, which I had pushed to the nether regions of my memory (for reasons which will become clear). It all came rushing back to me (literally) upon my first visit to the loo in my London hotel room.

British toilets, at least the consistent majority of those visited by me in the six or seven months of my residence there, are very peculiar. I would not suggest that American toilets are necessarily superior but I am puzzled as to how it is that such a small change in construction lends itself to a completely different toileting experience. A far less pleasant toileting experience, I may suggest, for those who prefer a dry bum at the end of a trip to the john.

In terms of engineering: the British toilet possess two distinct difference from its American counterpart: [1] a greater distance between the water and toilet seat; [2] significantly less water surface area. You can see this illustrated in a clever drawing below:

On a positive note, it would appear that a British toilet uses less water per flush; however, one’s feces reaches terminal velocity on the trip downward and, upon arriving at the small drinking-glass-size reservoir at the bottom, sends the majority of the toilet’s liquid content skyward, which quickly retraces the distance most recently traveled and arrives promptly at one’s bum with scattering force.

When I was a resident alien, in lieu of establishing a routine that permitted me to shower after each bowel movement, I asked how it was one avoided this exciting rush. The answer, given by many: lay toilet paper across surface of the water, thereby breaking the turd’s fall and reducing the splash effect.

And I did. And I didn’t question it.  And all was good, if not peculiar, until I returned stateside and forgot all about it.

My most recent trip across the pond reminded me that while we may speak the same language, our toilets do not. Of course: I am not the only individual who has experienced this “ass splash” — aside from the tens of millions of Brits who bear this cultural burden every day, a quick perusal of the internet unturns others with a similarly displeasing experience. From a more generic pondering to a comparison between british and german vessels, many greater men and women have attempted to tackle the beast that is the british bathroom.

All in all I have learned some important lessons, which form a syllogism (of sorts): [1] I don’t like water, urine, and feces splashed all over my bare ass; [2] British toilets are stupid; [3] but not as stupid as german toilets.

This is how it happens:

I’m reading this article in the New Yorker and it mentions this cellular phone that one can buy, unlocked (i.e., no twenty-three year contract), for $50. The author, Patricia Marx, describes this Motorola Motofone F3 as an antithesis to the iPhone — it doesn’t even have a color screen — and this intrigues me.

Suddenly I want one. Read all of this post »

One year has passed since my last posting. It certainly doesn’t reflect good blogmanship that this much time has elapsed, but it does indicate that I have had very little to complain about in this last year. Which is also a bit of a problem — for it can be frustrating having nothing to rail on and only good things to say about my life and the people in it.

Read all of this post »

At a Burger King in the JFK airport, two days after Christmas, I asked:

“Could I please have: pancakes, a large order of hash browns, and a croissant with egg-product on it? And just egg-product: no cheese-product or meat-product. Thank you.”

The woman behind the counter pushed the corresponding buttons on the register and, dutifully, spoke my order aloud: “Pancakes, egg-on-croissant, large hash brown. $6.24 please.”

From my wallet, I removed and then handed to her: one fifty dollar bill and one quarter totaling $50.25 in American currency.

She handed me, in return, $4.01. Read all of this post »

Having recently finished my Opus Magnus Podcatitcus I find myself occasionally in need of new and interesting ways to spend my free time in-between doing laundry, going to work, and eating eggs. As anyone with an internet connection will attest, there is nothing quite as time-consuming, or life-force-draining, as surfing the internet via search engine and news aggregator for nothing in particular (which is not particularly easy to find, I have learned). Click here, and then there, and then type in a keyword or two and suddenly you are in an unknown and yet to be explored realm of information, photos, videos and only you know what else.

Or: so you thought. Read all of this post »

I have always known I was not the only one.

In the first grade one of my best schoolboy friends was a Damon. I was not, however, threatened by his imposition on my namesake for he was skinny, and small, and had blonde hair, and always wore a St. Louis Cardinals hat (even when he was sleeping). And although he was the only one in class with the complete and working set of Thundercats action figures, everyone called him Damon J.

I was just Damon. Read all of this post »

While I recorded my interview for The Front Porch on June 14th; it was aired on NHPR on June 19th, at 6:30p EST. If you missed the show live, you can still hear the audio online (my part begins at about minute 15:30 and goes to the end):

Listen to MP3/iTunes Stream | Listen with Windows Media Player

You can also read the show notes from NHPR.org.

One amusing anecdote regarding my interview on NHPR: a friend of mine from college (fellow New Hampshire-ite and bike tourer) was in a bar in Berlin (NH) and during the course of a conversation with a stranger came to discussing his bicycle trip across the country. The man said, “Did you hear that crazy guy on the radio who had only kissed like five girls and went on a bike trip out west?” My friend said: “Why yes, I have, he is a friend of mine.” And, of course, the man’s inner prejudice was reinforced, specifically: that all bike riders are whackos and that we all know each other.

Which is only partly true.

Read all of this post »

Despite my earlier boasts of confidence and braggadocio, I arrived at NHPR a complete and utter nervous disaster. In my jubilation at having won a spot on the radio to promote In Search of #6, I overlooked one valuable piece of advice that I will now share with you: never tell anyone you are going to be on the radio. It is much too stressful. Read all of this post »

If you were to judge a city based on the average depth of the tread on its vehicles’ snow tires, Anchorage would fare terrifically well — the typical two-door Nissan has tank treads that could pull it up a side of an ice wall. If, however, you were to judge a city based on the cleanliness of its streets and vehicles by measuring the total amount of road dirt and pebble in tons, then, perhaps, Anchorage would be mentioned only as a footnoted last place — there is only one color that outlines Anchorage in April, and that is “dirt grey.”

If I were to create the definitive criteria for judging the cities I have graced, however, neither of these measures would serve to address that which I feel is important. Instead, I would demand that a city be judged not by its inhabits, its poverty rate, its crime, its abject visual horror, or its job availability — a city, as far as my eye can see, should be judged solely on its proximity to snowcapped mountains.

Anchorage, Alaska, makes the list.

Read all of this post »

I have written a book and I would like to share it with you. It is a travelogue and memoir titled In Search of #6. Written and performed by me, Damon Timm, it is available for free online to read or download as an audiobook/podcast (podiobook).

Read all of this post »