Way back on the final day of 1992, I was standing in a Times Square restaurant. Wait—to be more precise, I was standing in a Times Square restaurant’s bathroom. I was leaning over a urinal, peeing away—my friend in one hand, my notepad in another. I was working on a story for the ol’ college paper about the big New York City celebration, happily urinating away when …
Oops.
The notepad—filled with etchings, brand new—fell into the urinal, which was overflowing with the yellow liquid of 1,000 souls. Suddenly, I was faced with the greatest decision of my young journalistic career: Stick my hand in the urinal and pluck out my piss-drenched notebook, or walk away and cut my losses.
I debated.
I debated some more.
I debated some more.
I closed my eyes, reached down my hand and grabbed the pad—piss dripping from its corners. I turned both ways, made certain no one was looking, dried the thing off and exited.
Good times.
