Mornin', Spooners. I had planned to let you guys up with the bathroom stories, but Kristie wants to keep the thread alive so hey, I'm game.

Most of you know that at one time I was married to an R&B drummer and spent a couple of years working as a roadie for the band. Set 'em up, tear 'em down. Find a way to amuse myself in the meantime. I danced my ass off, of course. With Lightnin on the drums, who could sit still? I also functioned as the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission Early Warning System. First sign of suits at the door, I'd signal Bert Rodney and the boys. After six months on the job, I knew every note that everyone was supposed to play, when they were supposed to play it, and how loudly. So I was the throwdown sound checker, too. BR would signal me from the stage. Hand to his ear: Loud enough? Thumbs up or thumbs down.

It was during my tenure with BR and The Shames that bathrooms really came into focus for me. I'd never thought much about bathrooms before. They were always around, except for sometimes when they weren't, but I never saw them as anything other than a place to take care of certain business. During my years as a roadie, I discovered they were much more multi-functional than that.

Most rhythm and blues bands don't play the upscale joints. Once in a while we were booked into Fitzgerald's or Rockefeller's, the latter being about as high class as you can get in Houston. True class. The building which houses Rockefeller's is the original Heights Bank Building, erected in the early part of the century. It's such a cool building. Heights Bank has since moved into something far more modern, but some enterprising soul with soul turned that old building into "the" place to party in Houston. All the original architecture is intact, including a balcony that runs all the way around the building at the second level. It's a great venue for a rocking club. The vault is the band's dressing room, can you dig it. To reach the stage, you walk through the massive steel door.

But Rockefeller's is the exception to the rule. Most of the time we found ourselves in biker bars, neighborhood bars, motorcycle swap meets, and Chumley's. There is no classification for Chumley's. Chumley's attracted all kinds. Ya never knew who or what you were gonna find in Chumley's.

Like I said, bathrooms were really coming into focus for me at this time in my life. I discovered that the bathroom in each one of these joints was actually my home away from home, since most of the clubs didn't have dressing rooms for the band. I needed a place to change clothes, powder the nose, and hide from the TABC.

It's a good thing I'm not squeamish. Sometimes I had to wade in an inch of water just to get in the damn bathroom. And there was the bathroom at that little place in South Houston which had shag carpet on the walls as thick as fur. I itched every time I went in there. The ambiance was additionally enhanced by the nightly depositing of fresh vomit on some part of the wall or floor. Ahhh, the aroma. Nice large chunks of somebody's dinner, fermenting in alcohol, drying on long pink fur. Yum. People did some serious drinking at that place.

Bathroom lines often became a problem for me. The Shames had a large following and lines to the "Ladies" were not uncommon. Positively the fastest moving bathroom lines anywhere: biker bars and motorcycle swap meets. Those chicks don't fool around. You get in there and piss and get out of the way, you hear? None of this lolly-gagging around, pulling up your pantyhose, fastening your belt, tucking in your blouse. You unzip your jeans while you're waiting in line. Then when a door opens you charge in, close the door (or not), piss, and get out. You'd better NOT have those jeans zipped when you come out of the stall. You can do the buttoning-up bullshit outside.

One of my most memorable bathroom lines occurred at the Cadillac Bar in Galveston. It's not there any more, but it was a swingin' place for a few years. Fairly ritzy for Galveston. All the high-dollar chicks hung out there. One Saturday night Bert Rodney had just blown me away by dedicating to yours truly the most killer rendition of "Black Magick Woman" I've ever heard. He can play the intro to that tune like no one else in the world. Not even the guy who wrote it.

Yes, they're an R&B band, but every now and then Bert flashes back to the '60s and throws down some tune to cremate you right where you stand. Sometimes he'd offer up Hendrix, sometimes Dylan. He pulled "Black Magic Woman" out of his bag for me that night, and even though I was about to pee in my pants, there was no way I was leaving until the last note sounded. Reaching the bathrooms I found a loooooong line. Oh, no. Legs crossed, I craned my head around to see how long I was gonna have to wait.

"What's going on?", I asked the lady in front of me.

"Oh, that's the line to the men's room," she said. "I'm just trying to get around it."

"The men's room? A line?!?" I was incredulous.

"Yeah. Can you believe it?

"What in the world is going on with them?"

"Oh, some girl's in there giving free blow jobs," she said.

Ever the quintessential secret agent, after returning to the stage I reported my findings to the band.

I think the bathroom line that takes the cake, though, is one I encountered at Chumley's. As previously mentioned, Chumley's crowd was a bit of a melting pot. Everybody from Bad Boy Biker to Joe Sixpack to Mr. and Mrs. Average America would be sitting elbow-to-elbow at Chumley's, throwing down the alcohol and grooving to the music. It was a sleazy place, not maintained very well, but it was the only beer joint within 12 miles. Way out in the country. So folks came from near and far to party there, regardless of conditions.

The ladies restroom at Chumley's was rather small. Only two stalls. It was just as long as those two stalls, too. No extra room anywhere. And there was almost always water standing in the floor from overflowed toilets. One night I tried to dash in there for a quick deposit and found a line snaking out the door all the way back to the pinball machines.

"What's the hold-up?", I asked.

"I don't really know," the lady said. "There's something going on in the bathroom."

I went around the line and walked up to the bathroom door.

"What's up?", I asked the person holding the door open.

"There are two people in the bathroom," she said.

"Yeah? Well, are they hurrying? 'Cause I have to piss like a mule."

She kinda laughed. "Heh, heh. I don't know. I think they're screwing. Don't know if they're hurrying or not, though."

"Screwing? Como se dice "screwing" en Ingles? You mean like GETTING IT ON in the bathroom?"

"Yeah, that's what I mean." She laughed out loud.

Well, that was just too fucking much, as far as I was concerned. The nerve of those assholes! Tying up the only two-holer we gals had when there was the whole fucking parking lot out there! Surely one of the horny bastards had a CAR. There were picnic tables in the back. There were trees and high weeds. And they're screwing in my bathroom while I wait in line with a bursting bladder? I didn't think so.

I turned to the laughing lady. "'Scuse me, could you let me by, please?", I asked with a big smile.

"Sure!" She moved aside.

I pushed my way into the bathroom. The obligatory toilet water glistened on the floor. Three ladies stood there, looking down, mouths hanging open. I followed their gaze. Sticking out from under the stall door were two pair of boots attached to two different sets of legs. They were going at it. I looked at one of the ladies.

"These people are screwing in here?", I asked.

"That's what it looks like," she said.

"And you're just standing here *watching*?!?"

"Well, they're not through yet," she replied.

"Oh, yes they are."

I jerked the stall door open. "Hey, guys, take it outside, willya?" I nudged one of the boots. No response. I nudged again. "Hey, there are people waiting to pee here. Take it outside."

"Okay, okay," came a muffled voice from under the grimy toilet bowl. "Can't you give us a minute?"

That was when I lost my temper.

"You get out or I'll drag you out, naked ass and all, and piss on your head."

I grabbed hold of his legs and started pulling. The other ladies joined me. We had them about halfway out the door, dragging them through the filthy water, before they decided we were serious and gave up the struggle. We kicked their butts out with their pants still down.

Play it again, Bert Rodney.