It was odd enough at this Phoenix bar that when you stand there in the bathroom with tool in hand you are looking out at the many patrons and they, if they care to, are looking at you, thanks to a window that probably seemed cutting edge socially in 1993 but now was just a design flaw (“If you see me, forgive me if I don’t wave”).

But it wasn’t the “Look who’s peeing” feature that bugged me the most. There, in the corner between the last sink and the first stall, was a man selling cologne, cigarettes and condoms. He also had a tall stack of paper towels balancing carefully on the counter. For some reason this bar with $5 beers and everyone dressed as if they belonged in an Old Navy commercial decided it needed a restroom attendant. I can see this happening in Scottsdale’s pretentious bars (which is all of them save for the one Applebee’s that got in before the city council passed various zoning ordinances prohibiting establishments that allowed everybody in). But here in downtown Phoenix, where a Suns jersey is an essential part of a refined wardrobe, it just didn’t make sense.

And as soon as I walked in, I knew I was hosed. Normally I don’t check my wallet before entering the men’s room. It’s just not a place you worry about cash on hand unless you’re one of those losers who actually need those breath drops that sell for about 50 cents per drop (and if you have ever put money in one of those machines, no, it wasn’t your imagination, everyone was watching you thinking, “What a loser”). But now I was mentally going through the contents of my wallet because those paper towels were hardly going to be free. According to the Universal Guide to Acceptable Tipping, anyone handing out paper towels gets a buck. Which is right up there with the porter at the airport who gets a buck for lugging one of your overstuffed bags to a conveyor belt. No problem, that guy earns it. But a buck for a paper towel?

I did the math very quickly. If six guys take a whiz every hour, this guy is making more than management at Wal-Mart (that makes sense because the attendant is obviously smarter than anyone who chooses to work at Wal-Mart). If 12 guys need to use the restroom per hour, he’s up with secretaries and junior accountants. But this bar had more than 20 beers on tap. The attendant had to raking in at least $60 an hour. For paper towels. And if anyone used that stall right next to the dude, he’s probably paying $5 as an apology. Then there was the profit from the cigs, cologne and condoms. Not that I would trust condoms purchased from a guy who spends eight hours in a men’s room, but that’s me.

When I stepped to the urinal, the only other guy in the restroom left, handing the attendant a buck after the attendant handed out a paper towel. For a guy working about as hard as someone writing dialogue for Robin Williams (“OK, right here you just adlib again”), he was making pretty decent coin.

I went through the options. I could zip up and head out, bypassing the sinks and the towel guy altogether. That, however, would violate the most important Man Bathroom Commandment: Thou shalt feel free not to wash your hands only if you are alone, or if the only other men are in stalls and cannot see you; otherwise, lather up.

I could linger at the urinal enjoying the view and hope someone else will come in. Then I could follow them to the sink and as they head over for the towel-dollar exchange, I can duck out, wiping my hands on my pants (yeah, I could live with that). This was a viable option until, about three minutes later, no one had yet come in and my stream was long gone. The attendant probably was thinking, “That boy either has major prostate problems or suffers from performance anxiety, so maybe if I look away he can finish his business and I can get his dollar.”

OK, I was out of options. It’s not like you have a lot of choices in this kind of situation. I zipped up, headed to the sink and longed for a bathroom where paper dispensers were not human. Come on, am I alone here? Aren’t we a society accustomed to getting out own paper towels? Over the years I’ve figured out even the most intricate of dispensing systems, even the ones that malfunction and you have to reach up very carefully, fingers disappearing inside as they search for a bit of paper to extract. I’ve even overcome situations in which there was no paper to be had at all, grabbing a few paper seat covers (surprisingly absorbent but they disintegrate when wet, so make sure you grab a lot of you need them).

Bottom line: I can figure out a way to dry off my hands without paying a buck, thank you very much. As I washed my hands, I glanced at the attendant who had by now taken a towel off the top of the stack and was holding it on his lap, his body language saying, “If you want a towel you’re going to have to get it from me, and it will cost you a buck because it is only right and it beats working at Wal-Mart.”

I turn off the faucet, turn to the attendant and hold out my hand. He gives me the paper towel. I thank him, turn, dry off my hands, toss the towel and walk away without looking back. For a guy who just handed me a paper towel, Mr. Attendant can go ahead and bore a hole in my back with his stare.

Besides, what kind of businessman is he anyway? If he really wants to make a killing, he should go into the toilet paper business.

OK, so Rev. Ted Haggard, head honcho of a very large group of people who agree there really isn’t much to do on Sunday mornings so why not go to church, admits he bought methamphetamine but didn’t use it.

At this point the only folks who are going to believe that are the same who are convinced that one unearthly being can see everything they are doing and yet not be totally freaked out. However, I can see where Haggard is coming from. I can’t count the number of times I have returned from the grocery store to find a large box of Cookie Crisp in my bag. What the hell is this sugary kids’ cereal doing here? If I may make an outdated reference to a regrettable film series, that’s not mine, baby, I swear it. So I put it in the pantry should those who prefer that sort of thing drop by. And usually within a week or so, that box of Cookie Crisp is gone.

Bill Clinton started this whole “That’s not mine, baby” excuse when he said he didn’t inhale. Not quite grasping the concept, I can see Clinton putting the joint to his mouth and blowing out each time the doobie came to him. It puts him in the same intelligence class as those who kill themselves while cleaning their own guns, but it didn’t stop him from being president.

That’s proof that the Austin Powers defense (which I just coined) can be successful. Others might want to think about using it.

President Bush: “I did send troops to Iraq, but it was to sell cookie dough for our annual Armor for Hummers fundraiser.”

John Kerry: “I did say stupid kids wind up in Iraq, but only because admission standards at Baghdad U are slightly less stringent than at Arizona State.”

Wal-Mart: “We don’t pay our employees a living wage, but, uh … hey look, lower prices on plasma TVs!”

For now, I’m giving the benefit of the doubt to Rev. Haggard, who apparently bought and ignored meth monthly. The world would be a better place if that kind of common sense reached every woman who has shopped at The Gap recently.

“Leggings? What the f-? Why did I buy these damn things?”

I just saw the story where research scientists, who no doubt have spent years gathering various esteemed degrees in school, spent several months gorging lab rats on wine and the mouse equivalent of deliciously fattening food. They found mice that were interminably drunk wre much better off, as if that's something new.

This does not bring up the questionable use of research time by scientists (well, it does, but I don’t feel like addressing it at this point). But it certainly makes one think about lab mice and the luck of the draw.

Imagine the conversations that take place on any day inside the mice-only break room at Science Inc.:

“Whoa, what are all those tubes sticking out of your head?”

“I’ve got conscious neurotransmitter probes today.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not the worst part. They’re probing my pain centers.”

“Oh, ouch. Chet, what are you working on?”

“Cancer. Lungs, pancreas, liver. Dissection is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Sorry, man. Hey, you mind if get that get-well card back? Bobby has something that may be curable.”

“No problem.”

“Hey Chuck, you doing anything?”

“Huh, wha’? Me? Oh, you bet. Eating and drinking and eating and drinking. I am so sloshed right now there are, like, five of you. It totally sucks, dude.”

“You’ve got to be joking. Most of us are terminal and you’re whining about gluttony?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was this close to the test of how much sex will kill you.”