My eyes! My eyes!

Last night, just before the bar closed, I made a trip to the ladies' room. I opened the door and saw, directly in front of the sinks, a man's back with knees on either side of it. Loud female laughter echoed through the room. My brain refused to process the scene as I hurried into a stall.

As soon as I closed the stall door, it exploded into my consciousness: THERE ARE PEOPLE HAVING SEX IN THE RESTROOM! Jesus Christ. And in that moment I recognized the man as the singer of the headlining band.

I can't even begin to tell you how awkward it is to pee while you're hearing dialogue that sounds like "Just zip up your pants and let's get out of here."

My only comfort--as I tried to block out the visual images from my brain--was that it was a local band, and I quite naturally told every bartender, soundguy, and doorperson in the room what had transpired. I couldn't help myself; maybe it was therapeutic. And as we used to say when the s.o. was a member of a touring band: It all adds to the legend.