Hello Larry!

"What's this then? Another pig-ugly MP making a fool of himself with some scrawny old hooker, I see."

The character of Mum from Absolutely Fabulous, "Hospital" episode (1994), remarking on a photo in a London tabloid of aging party girl Patsy Stone being caught by the Fleet Street press in a compromising position with a member of Parliament

No, actually, it's just the case of a U.S. senator making an ugly hooker of himself with a pig.

Why I've chosen to wait until now to write about the mishaps . . . er . . . missteps . . . no, wait . . . ah, yes . . . mis-taps of U.S. Senator Larry Craig and the tempest in a tearoom at the Minneapolis Airport may be something of a mystery to us all, most of all yours truly. This is the sort of sordid thing I love to write about--dirty sex! public humiliation!--because, as they say, those who can't do (or seem to be lacking the opportunity of late), put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, and comment away.

I started this post in late August and only now, a month later, am managing to finish and publish. We could chalk up my distraction to starting a new job and a new life and perhaps still dealing with the residuals from an old job and life. We could also claim that I was showing admirable restraint by refraining from writing about the misadventures of Latrine Larry out of some sort of respect for his tender feelings. But, really, we know me better than that, don't we? I'm determined to show him as much consideration as he showed the rest of America in voting for all those anti-everything measures in Congress over the the last two-and-half decades of public service.

What I think it comes down to, though, is that La Larry's story kept changing (and changing and changing and changing) so much so that I was having trouble keeping up. I'd write something, and then the facts would change ("I'm not gay!" "I'm resigning!"), and then I would stop to laugh for a few days. Then I'd go back to the blog and the "facts" would have changed again ("I'm not guilty!" "I'm not going anywhere!"), and I'd begin the laugh track again. So perhaps you can better understand what I've been up against. Really, it's all Larry's fault.

Honestly, though, despite (or because) of the fact that the Lady Craig doth protest too much, it's difficult for me not to think of Larry being a member of the Royal Order of Flaming Homos, precisely for this reason: The guy's got more twists and turns than a 20-year-old twink on the dancefloor. "Look at me!" "Wait! Don't look at me! I'm not ready! OK, now look at me! No, wait!" If that doesn't scream "I'm not gay--I'm fabulous!" I don't know what does.

Overall, though, I do have some mixed feelings about the two-for-tea imbroglio. I mean, on the one foot . . . uh, hand . . . I'm embarrassed for Larry Craig, and I'm ashamed for men everywhere. I've never understood the aphrodisiacal qualities of men's rooms or just about any quicker picker-up place deemed suitable for a snappy toss or a furtive ejaculation. I mean, there's a time and a place for everything, but if you must engage in public trading, at least choose a locker room, a sauna, a shower, or a steamroom--they are infinitely sexier and nominally cleaner. Warm water, steam, heat, guys in towels, and a vague whiff of birch and/or Pine-Sol in the air--what's to disagree with? Other than some old-fangled morality and a few sensitive natures that I can't be bothered with, I mean.

But a men's room? A men's room is often just stinky and disgusting--and that's the maven of all things aesthetically appealing in me talking, not the dour mistress of morality mouthing off. I've commented on this before--men's rooms are often smelly and dirty, and there is this propensity by some men to pee all over the seats and floors of most stalls and urinals, a behavior that completely baffles me (no, why don't you clean it up?) and makes me reach the conclusion that, with aim this poor, it's amazing the human race has survived at all.

With this in mind, I can better understand Mary Larry's "wide stance." I wouldn't allow my trousers to drop on a urine-soaked tile floor either. However, I also believe I wouldn't feel the need to share a little "shoe sympathy" with the guy in the next stall just to get through the horror.

On the other foot/hand, though, to each his/her/its own. I'm perplexed that it's still against the law to solicit sex in a men's room or anywhere for that matter, that it somehow offends someone's morals somewhere. Puh-leez. Corporate greed, stupid people on reality TV, and suburban lawncare offend my morals. I don't see them going away anytime soon.

Seriously, how does the situation differ from soliciting a one-night-stand in any public place? If you were to enforce the law across the board, singles' bars and Jimmy Buffett concerts would be forced into immediate shutdown mode.

All in all, it seems like a rather victimless "crime," this lavatory lothario business. Thus, it's a challenge for me not to think of what happened to Poor Larry as entrapment--although, as it's been pointed out by greater legal minds than mine, entrapment happens because of intent to perform the act in the first place.

Still, just imagine going to happy hour hoping for a little horizontal hubba hubba. You meet someone nice and seemingly responsive--they're toe-to-toe with you in that grand game of footsie--and you ask them to come back to your place. Then, all of a sudden, they whip out a badge and indicate that you should follow them to nearest police station. It all seems a bit unfair and quite unsatisfying, unless you're one of those wishin', hopin', and prayin' for a little sex-in-prison action.

Plus it all seems a bit ridiculous that some drinks, a little conversation, and poor lighting in a nightclub should somehow legitimize a pick-up that could just as easily happen in broad daylight, in silence, while completely sober. After all, isn't this supposed to be a Web 2.0 world? Aren't you supposed to be able to get everything you want, when you want it, how you want it, and where you want it? No lines, no waiting, no face-to-face, 24/7, with whipped cream, bran muffins, and warm leatherette? Why, then, viewed in this light, Larry Craig is something of a sexual visionary, a veritable Twitter of the tawdry, a Flickr of f#?!king around. Go ahead. You know you want to. Reach out and touch MySpace.

Nevertheless, none of this commentary should be taken as my giving Senator Craig or anyone else a free pass to do in public whatever he or she so chooses. I'm all into live and let live, play and let play, horndog and let horndog, but I for one would just as soon not be distracted by dubious offers and questionable advertisements while I'm trying to do my business in a restroom. On the rare occasions when I happen to have an oxygen mask and an industrial-sized container of Janitor in a Drum in my back pocket and dare enter a men's room, I really want to focus on the task at hand--as Lawrence Welk would say, ah 1 an' ah 2--rather than someone putting a hand to my tackle.

No, ol' Not-Gay-Larry's gonna have to pay his 10 cents to use the bathroom like everyone else. And I won't be making change for him, should the exchange of money be misinterpreted by the police.

After all, that sort of behavior may be OK on the floor of the U.S. Senate, but it's obviously not OK in a public toilet.

* * *

While we're down in the toilets, I should also state that I don't get why they put a web address and a telephone number on those rubber splashguards they place in the wells of urinals. Really, do I want to find out more about a product I've just pissed on? Am I supposed to make a note of this? With what exactly? You see what trouble you can get into for dropping some paper on the floor in a men's room.