I’m looking into making toilet paper. It’s not an option unless you a bum and gotta use newspaper. It’s not an option. Like, it’s an option if you wanna drive a car. It’s an option if you wanna use a straw. It’s an option if you wanna wear a pair of Nikes or Reeboks.
I never saw the light of day at Bouley. I remember I would bring home a roll of toilet paper a week because we got paid so little, if at all.
I walk into rooms and I don’t know why I’m there. I’m like, ‘Why am I standing in front of the toilet now?’
I’m shy. I can go on a trip for days and not go because I won’t sit on a toilet seat on a plane. I’m certainly not going to go on somebody’s lawn. Could you imagine, in a cocktail dress?
The first thing I did when I decided that I was going to dive into the world of poop was look at who was doing stuff in that world. The first I came across was the World Toilet Organization. So one of the first things I did was to go to their annual show in Moscow.
I’d like to say I’m a very silly man. But I’m not that silly. I’m not throwing any diamond ring down a toilet.
The fact that I live in New York, a city that thrives on accessibility, might explain why I was slow to grasp the appeal of Alexa. Here we have bodegas on every corner, most open 24 hours, in case you need to pick up a roll of toilet paper or a bottle of hot sauce in the middle of the night.
When I started as a color man in the booth with CBS, I would make footballs out of a roll of toilet paper.
Sometimes, when the neighborhood is silent and the sky is aswarm with the stars and the mind is swirling like a flushed toilet, a person gets to doubting himself. In the hardest times, the stand-at-the-kitchen-sink-and-stare-into-the blackness times, I put on Bob Dylan’s ‘Tomorrow Is a Long Time.’
I, made in England, felt excluded, miffed, resistant to the idea of even visiting India, a position of increasing absurdity as, one by one, backpacking friends returned from the place with the standard anecdotal combo of nirvanic epiphany and toilet horror.
