Sunday, August 13, 2006

BIHKAL: John's Williamsburg Practice Space

I just returned to Toronto after spending about a week with John in New York making music. Said music was produced largely in a dank basement hole in the charming part of New York known as Williamsburg. In an exciting first for the BIHKAL series, I have photo documentation!

After finding the building, opening the front door, descending a frightening set of stairs into a Silence of the Lambs-esque basement, we find the following hallway:

What could be lurking at the top of that wee ladder? A linen closet? Surely, dear reader, you know better than that. Let's open the door (which you'll note is already slightly ajar) and see what lurks behind. It's...

A toilet!? Yes. This is the first (and I sincerely pray) only bathroom I have ever encountered that requires mounting. Also, note the size of the tiny little poop deck: approximately 2.5 by 3 feet. Comfy. Let's take a closer look:

The first thing of note is the electric meter, thoughtfully installed so that it can be easily monitored from the throne. It's tastefully framed by two roughly hewn pieces of plywood. Next, note the sink at the upper left of the picture. The sink crowds the toilet leaving two options: sit down or perform the acrobatic half-in half-out maneuver illustrated below by a man who is not John:

A close examination of the inconvenient sink reveals some unsavory looking bar soaps and a shard of mirror with the reflection of an uncommonly well proportioned young man:

Also, note the red safety scissors (!?), carefully tucked away behind the power conduit serving the non-functional light.

Below is a view of the commode, which again illustrates the incredibly cramped quarters.

We can see some reading material left on the toilet tank. What foul literature could lurk in this small cubicle of filth?

Emily Post's Complete Book of Wedding Etiquette! And a filthy toilet paper tube! And three napkins, which are the only toilet paper-esque substance in the entire area. I learned this latter fact through an intense personal difficulty that was eventually resolved by means of a bad collection of independent poetry that had been delivered to the building. Apparently that's what the scissors are for..

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