Thunderbox Road

Happy Cinco de Mayo, America! Ay! Ay! Arriba!

What better way to celebrate Cinco de Mayo than to entertain ourselves with the latest in colorful Texas architecture, affectionately known around these here parts as the Thunderbox.

In Texas, we take our crappers seriously. It's probably the biggest reason some Texans think we should secede from the union and become our own country -- when you spew a big enough load of shit, you really need an additional place to put it all, along with a hefty dose of isolation. But seriously, you can find more info about the Thunderbox Road project and the talented artists who made them by visiting this website: http://www.thunderboxroad.com/index.html.

So without further a-doo-doo, here's a parade of our state treasures.



This little beauty was built by Ben Beckendorf. I think it boldly goes where just a few people have gone before and captures the harmonious spirit of Austin, the live music capital of the country. Hang up yer hat, Bubba, it's time to do yer doody.

(click on the images for bigger, more detailed views)





This Thunderbox was by Gwendolyn Listerman. I feel certain she has captured the majestic beauty of Texas' ranch life with these wild horses. The secret message underlying this project is not lost on me, though. When one has to go, one has to GO, and one will frequently proceed at a full gallop to get to the Excrete Seat.





This gem was made by the dynamic duo of Betty Rhodes and Greg Glowka. I think they did a fine job of illustrating farm life in Texas. Ya got yer billy goat and ya got yer rooster, and naturally, they all git along jes' fine. And since they poop everywhere you can step, they should not be at all bothered by what you do inside that kaboom box.





To enhance the meaning of coyotes howling at the moon, Tami and Charles Kegley, give us a giggle with the mental imagery of Moonin' on the Range (sing it with me now, Mo-o-o-o-n, mo-o-o-n on the ra-ange, where the deer and the antelope play. . . ). No coyotes allowed inside, though. We don't want any animals hurt in the usage of this facility.






Dotti Brundrett is probably tired of Texas rednecks, so I'm guessing she put her realistic aquarium powers to good use with the fish tank theme. Masterfully done, too, you ask me. I believe the meaning behind Dotti's choice tells us that once you're inside and doing your bidness, you will need to hold your nose or asphyxiate yourself. Really, clothespin the schnoz, folks, cuz Texas has a bad enough rep, what with that revolving door on Death Row thang.





Every man - and woman - really does need a throne. David Querbach has fashioned just the right thunderbox for ye royal highney. Go in style in a perfectly appointed mini-castle, and you'll feel like a king or a queen (or both - hey, I'm not judging - this is Austin).






Last but not least, Ken and Donna Malson really got their hands dirty with this one. Notice the intricate detailing in bas relief on the outside of the box. Their strategy was probably to make it so their customers paid more attention to their design than to what was going on down under. Of course, that's assuming there's some detailing inside -- we already know there will be some relief.



There you have it! A fun treasury of Thunderboxes from Texas. I don't ever want to hear you say I didn't share my crap with you.

Whew! I feel better!
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Canning the Muse

When my daughters were little, I used to sneak into the bathroom with my writing pad and lock the door. I'd put down the toilet seat (somebody had to do it), and get comfortable. In short order, a switch would flip in my brain and I'd pour my inky prose onto page after page of a budding novel.

It started when I was a kid, really. I knew my father spent a lot of time in the can reading (or hiding from his six children), and I began reading in there too. Writing was a natural extension of this meditative refuge and became vitally important after I became a mom. Why? Maybe I felt safe or sheltered enough to relax and let my thoughts flow. Maybe I knew my time in there was limited; I do work best under deadlines. Maybe I thought, if I'm going to write crap, I'm in the perfect place. But it wouldn't be long before the clamoring of my rugrats would swell outside the door.

Child #1: Mom, what are you doing in there?
Me: What do you think I'm doing?
Child #2: Are you crapping?
Child #3: Shhhh! That's a bad word.
Child #2: Are you still going to the bathroom?
Me: Yes.
Child #1: Gawd!

Inevitably, I'd see small fingers wiggle under the door and hear a gaggle of giggles as prying eyes strained to peek at my feet. Sammy, our fat and feisty family feline, would meow plaintively. Georgie, our Shih Tzu, would sniff the space under the door so loudly, it echoed off the bathroom walls. It's like when they see a closed door, their little kidlet adrenaline starts pumping. Since the beginning of time, this instinctual behavior has served to warn copulating cave couples that the dinosaurs were fast approaching and the continuance of the human race depended on getting the future copulators the hell out of the way.

(Clears throat) Back to the can . . . With monsters at the door, my concentration broken, and my pen poised rigidly over an unsatisfied pad, I'd grit my teeth. My writing flow would dam up, and just when I was getting to the good part! What invariably followed was the rustling and grunting one hears at a varsity wrestling match. This was the usual banter:

Me: Girls! Did you clean your rooms?
All in unison: Yes!
Me (so much for diversionary tactics): Then go play. I'll be out in a minute.
Child #1: That's what you said ten minutes ago.
Child #2: Yeah, and ten minutes before that.
Child #3: And an hour before that!
Me: Go . . . play! I . . . will . . . be . . . out . . . when . . . I'm . . . done!

The rough-housing and giggling would eventually fade away, and when I was satisfied that I once again had the can to myself, I'd delve back into my thickening plot. Oh, this is going to be so good! I'd think. Readers are going to eat this up! I'm going to be on the bestseller lists soon!

Bang, bang, bang.

Child #4: Mom, there's a giant hairy spider out here!
Me (exhaling soundly): Has it eaten anyone?
(silence)
Child #4: He's looking at Sam.

Sam was known to torture exoskeleton types, usually to his peril.

Child #4: Mo-o-om! Sam's going to get bit and have to go to the hospital and get dead!
Me (lips bunched together): Christ. I'm coming.

I would toss my pen and pad on the tile and bid farewell to my muse, while realizing that I'd sat there so long, my thighs had gone numb. I'd flush for good measure (and to reinforce the charade) and unlock the door to an audience of six -- four grinning kids plus pets, not including any giant spiders. Little devils had tricked me once again into abandoning my post!

These days, I don't normally have to hide out to get writing done, but when I'm stressed and the creative juices just won't flow, I wonder if my muse could benefit from a good canning. Once upon a time, I wrote probably half a book in there. Then again, since that manuscript still sits unpublished, maybe it really was crap after all.

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