Back in the late 70s I thought of myself as a lover not a fighter (remember the key phrase there is “thought of myself”).
I was more interested in laying down some sweet Jimi Hendrix’s riffs on my guitar for the ladies than I was getting into some ugly confrontation that was bound to leave me with a hole in the seat of my bell bottoms and blood all over my “Keep on Trucking” t-shirt.
And now, as the fifth decade of my life begins, I like to think that is true as I still try to avoid fights (once again “still think” is the operative phrase).
However, recently, even I couldn’t avoid mortal combat, this time with a locked bathroom door — and it just goes to show that the best work I do with hands still involves the guitar.
After a mid-day fiesta of local Mexican fare, I knew a pit stop might be in order. However, much to my chagrin, when I arrived home to what was supposed to be a little “alone time” I found the bathroom door was locked and no one was on the other side.
I knew this could only be the work of one of my hateful children who knew my routine far too well and would go to any lengths to keep me from any moments of the happiness and peace a king gets when he spends time on his throne.
Perhaps it was the outlandish decrees I have made while perched on that throne that inspired such a dastardly plan. Decrees such as: “Could you bring me the new Golf Digest or could you slip my socks under the door?” have often been bellowed while I was king of that porcelain castle.
Something had to be done quickly to reunite the captain and commode.