Takin' it to the streets
Back in the mid '90s (yes, last millenium, kids), I ran with a crowd made up of artists, off-center musicians, writers, and people who weren't really creative but were fun to drink with. This was back in the days of Singing Mammogram, the most avant garde musical project of my life (the "band" was often just me with my geetar and a cheap microphone), and we used to gig at Churchill's in downtown Flint.
There was another band that was often on the bill with Singing Mammogram, an all-girl punk outfit called, over the course of the band's life, Shirley Jones, Company Corn, and Pasketti. The girls in Pasketti, Rose the singer/bassist, Michele on guitar, and Kat, drummer extraordinaire, all shared a house off Third Avenue, which they nicknamed "Mathewson Island." The fourth roomie, a gal named Bailey who was younger than the rest of us, didn't play in the band, but was always present and fun at the ensuing band parties.
We were all gathered on Churchill's one night when neither Pasketti nor Singing Mammogram were gigging, and that just meant more time for all of us to guzzle the pitchers full of watered-down diarrhea that passed for draft beer. Bailey, in spite of the fact that she was not yet 21, was keeping up with us, guzzle for guzzle. By the time the lights came up and we were unceremoniously pushed out into the street by the waitstaff, who selfishly wanted to go home because it was closing time, everyone in our group was feeling mighty jovial, and nobody was ready for the fun to end yet.
It was a chilly night, probably in early spring, but we had no desire to disband, so we stood talking and laughing and being generally obnoxious out in front of Churchill's. It was at this point that Bailey made the evening her own.
She announced, loudly enough to be heard in Grand Blanc, "I have to pee!" Then, instead of heading to the door of Churchill's and begging for readmittance, as I expected, Bailey headed for the road. She stood in the middle of Saginaw Street and dropped her drawers.
I, for once in my life, tried to be the voice of reason, because this couldn't really be happening, could it? "Bailey," I shouted, trying not to choke on amazed giggles, "you can't pee in the street!"
Bailey continued her pantiless squat and said nonchalantly, "Sure you can, I do it all the time!"
And then Bailey commenced to peeing in the middle of the main drag in downtown Flint. I watched in morbid fascination as her strong and admirable stream puddled around her funky dress shoes and then drained off into the brick grid of Saginaw Street. Bailey seemed to be relishing the fact that she could actually surprise me, and was obviously taking her time so that she might savor the moment. After the last drop was squeezed out and had become part of the ambience of downtown, she stood up and re-pantied herself.
Not two seconds after she'd smoothed out her skirt, a Flint City police car came around the corner. He drove past slowly, giving the evil eye to the throng of us still actin' stupid in front of Churchill's, and drove right through Bailey's Lake O' Piss.
I will never, ever feel embarassed about having to pee in the woods again.
There was another band that was often on the bill with Singing Mammogram, an all-girl punk outfit called, over the course of the band's life, Shirley Jones, Company Corn, and Pasketti. The girls in Pasketti, Rose the singer/bassist, Michele on guitar, and Kat, drummer extraordinaire, all shared a house off Third Avenue, which they nicknamed "Mathewson Island." The fourth roomie, a gal named Bailey who was younger than the rest of us, didn't play in the band, but was always present and fun at the ensuing band parties.
We were all gathered on Churchill's one night when neither Pasketti nor Singing Mammogram were gigging, and that just meant more time for all of us to guzzle the pitchers full of watered-down diarrhea that passed for draft beer. Bailey, in spite of the fact that she was not yet 21, was keeping up with us, guzzle for guzzle. By the time the lights came up and we were unceremoniously pushed out into the street by the waitstaff, who selfishly wanted to go home because it was closing time, everyone in our group was feeling mighty jovial, and nobody was ready for the fun to end yet.
It was a chilly night, probably in early spring, but we had no desire to disband, so we stood talking and laughing and being generally obnoxious out in front of Churchill's. It was at this point that Bailey made the evening her own.
She announced, loudly enough to be heard in Grand Blanc, "I have to pee!" Then, instead of heading to the door of Churchill's and begging for readmittance, as I expected, Bailey headed for the road. She stood in the middle of Saginaw Street and dropped her drawers.
I, for once in my life, tried to be the voice of reason, because this couldn't really be happening, could it? "Bailey," I shouted, trying not to choke on amazed giggles, "you can't pee in the street!"
Bailey continued her pantiless squat and said nonchalantly, "Sure you can, I do it all the time!"
And then Bailey commenced to peeing in the middle of the main drag in downtown Flint. I watched in morbid fascination as her strong and admirable stream puddled around her funky dress shoes and then drained off into the brick grid of Saginaw Street. Bailey seemed to be relishing the fact that she could actually surprise me, and was obviously taking her time so that she might savor the moment. After the last drop was squeezed out and had become part of the ambience of downtown, she stood up and re-pantied herself.
Not two seconds after she'd smoothed out her skirt, a Flint City police car came around the corner. He drove past slowly, giving the evil eye to the throng of us still actin' stupid in front of Churchill's, and drove right through Bailey's Lake O' Piss.
I will never, ever feel embarassed about having to pee in the woods again.
Katy Barzedor proclaimed this to be so at 12:25 PM
9 of you felt the overwhelming need to say somethin':
Well, I hope you're smarter than Bailey and stood at the TOP of the incline. . .
And WHERE, praytell, are the pictures of THIS event? Don't you have a Bailey-peeing tchotchke in your office?
My sister says (and I have to take her word for it because frankly, I want to see a girl pee as much as I want to see William Shatner naked - not that it wouldn't be ENTERTAINING) that women, regardless if they're at the top of a hill, bottom of a hill or balancing tip-toe on the top of a flagpole, cannot pee outside without getting their socks wet. Ladies? Is this true or is she full of mac and cheese?
LadyBug -- that Janis doll is pretty versatile. I'll see if I can't honor your delightful request! Maybe I can even mock up the bricks of Saginaw Street, for authenticity. Because authenticity is important when you're depicting peeing tchotchkes.
Dazed -- How about seeing William Shatner peeing?
Your sister is correct in that we have little control over the direction of the entire stream. Peeing outside -- that's really the only time I have penis envy. But I have managed the outdoor pee with dry shoes intact. It was probably a miracle or something else I was too drunk to notice.
A friend of mine, we just used to call her Lucious, or Lush for short, well we all used to go out bar hopping and being rude little shits all the time.
She had great legs and would wear super short dresses and alot of times no underwear. So we are driving around and she has to wizz pretty bad, so her friend pulls over the firebird we are all squished into and she climbs out through the open window, hops into the road, walks right into the headlights of the car, spreads her feet apart, pulls her skirt up a tad, and just pisses right there on the road.
Cars driving by us and everything, she just stands there peeing staring at all us in the car in the glare of the headlights.
Then she hopped back in and we went to a park and climbed sides in the dark.
I still wonder what those people driving by us thought was going on.
With the correct pelvic tilt one can pee freely while keeping one's footwear pristine and dry. And should you have any questions about peeing or pooing in the great outdoors, might I recommend _How to Shit in the Woods_ by Kathleen Meyer. This has been a public service announcement...
Wow, Jess, sounds like Lucious doesn't have a bashful kidney. Here's hopin' somebody took a picture.
Dazed, I'm pretty sure your siter is full of cheesy mac. My canoe partner, Carol, has made outdoors peeing into an artform, and I have yet to see her with wet, yellow socks.
Lush doesnt have a shy anything ever. I could never do that. I cant even pee with someone else in the room. I cant pee with the door open. Tho I can pee with a cat standing on my lap. Go figure.
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