Rear Window, or Tinkle, Tinkle, Little Star

They say that Martin Luther had his moments of reformation revelation in the bathroom on the toilet where he spent a lot of time, allegedly because he was frequently constipated.

It could be true, though I’m guessing the second thing off the printing press after the Bible was Hamburg Hotties or some other such publication so he could have had other reasons for his me time.

But I doubt the dole German had a window behind the toilet to distract him. Let me tell you, it is most unnerving to get rid of the extra Miller Lite when your dangling your tackle and you notice the partygoers below milling about and the duct tape chord meandering from a nearby plug out the aforementioned glass.

I found myself in that very situation last Friday night upon accompanying some friends to a graduation soiree held by parents of a friend of their son.

Why would you put a window, a rear window, if you will, right behind your behind where and when you park it on the porcelain? Sure, it can air out the place. And sure, it was on the second floor. And sure, you can see if anyone suspicious is in your large driveway while you drain the snake.

But there’s always a chance, given the right lighting conditions and angle, that they can see you, too. Or, should you be a mobster, with your back to the window, you’d be a prime candidate to be shot on your throne.

It is kind of fun, though, if you’ve had a little too much beer at a party, to look down on the people below while you tinkle, a human aquarium bubbling below. Hey, they put up newspapers and even TVs above urinals now, so there is precedent for such distractions.

Besides, it was just one more quirky thing about this gathering. But I suppose anyone’s group of friends can seem strange to an outsider, especially a get-together of nice suburban white folk.

Hey, since I am one of them, I know of which I speak. We like to wear baggy shorts and flip flops and the “wild” guys have those wacky Hawaiian shirts. And at about 40 the men and women start to look way too much like each other. Which is why the guys tend to grow beards.

We are the people who made Hootie and the Blowfish a hit. And we still listen to the music of are youth way too much.

I can admit it. That’s me, too -- some of the time. Just some of the time.

At this shindig, I felt a bit like a guy in a Steely Dan song, only a shade less creepy than those characters. You know, they call Alabama the Crimson Tide, call me Deacon Blue. That kind of guy -- but not going near the hot 17 year old cheerleaders there for the band, like they would in a Steely Dan song.

Actually the band, although made up of teens, was there for the Mom and Dad as it only played 70s music - some lite funk and tourist blues, but mostly hippy type 70s music, and, truth be told, I hate hippies. If I had kids and they liked the Grateful Dead, I’d be having random drug tests every other week (which I guess would mean they wouldn’t be so random).

Looking at the crowd, I would liken their kids’ band to them being at a party in their youth and them playing Glenn Miller music and digging it. Nothing wrong with big band music, mind you, but still.

One of the dads requested Mustang Sally, so he could sing along. He had a goatee. He also asked me if I saw Miles Davis in concert, as I had a Miles Davis T-shirt on (with really baggy plaid shorts -- I, too, can be very white).

Actually, I had seen the grump genius trumpeter, but the shirt was from a museum exhibit. He seemed disappointed with that news. (Since Davis has been dead for quite some time, it was sort of an odd question.) I would rather he sang a Ramones tune, but I am glad he didn’t do Buffett.

Odder still, to a slob like me at least, was how immaculate the garage was at this place. Not a cobweb in sight. Concrete so scrubbed you could eat your pasta salad off it. A scant few tools and bikes hung on the wall. A solitary set of golf clubs lonely between the table of food and the other one with the chilled wines and keg.

I worry about people who have such tidy garages -- and I would see another one later that night, one replete with a TV even.

Maybe it’s all part of the package, self-cleaning, even, along with the requisite shades of beige decor. But too clean is what causes allergies, OCD, and is how I imagine the homes of serial killers to be.

What did set this house apart, though, was, since it stands in an unincorporated part of Elgin, Illinois, there wasn’t the sameness to the designs of the neighbor’s places.

In fact, down the block there was a garish fountain on the front lawn, seeing it which is what probably made me have to go to the can in the first place.

And the house with the party was a sort of faux California/southwest style, that salmon stucco finish you see out that way, but which must seem pretty incongruous in February out on what used to be a cornfield.

As for it being a house party, though, remember, white people very rarely dance. Too bad. It would have been a nice night for it. Van Morrison even has a song about it, one most of them probably know.