Nope.

My mind periodically imprisons itself with useless cyclical information.

For nearly six years, Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” has randomly run through my head. The song “Sleigh Ride” is the first tune off my lips when whistling or singing. I frequently sing-song my thoughts to the tune of “Camptown Ladies.” And now, “galactic cheerleader.”

Several years back, I’d read a scholarly article on the uniforms and personal grooming of the crew of the USS Enterprise as exhibited in the Star Trek: TNGtelevision show, and how the changes in the uniform and grooming bespoke of cultural and personal changes that the characters were exhibiting. The article suggested several fascinating undercurrents of story line that could be traced merely by noting the uniforms of the characters. In particular, Counselor Deanna Troi’s comparative analysis sticks in my head, even beyond Captain Picard, because of one turn of the phrase the writer used: Galactic Cheerleader.

Early on, Counselor Troi appeared to be little more than a Galactic Cheerleader. As fans know, however, Troi eventually became a formidable officer and even manned the bridge.

Oh, God. I knew I was done for when I read it. It had just the right amount of verbal cacophony, just the right amount of visual hilarity. That is not going to be a useful phrase, Julie, I thought.

I did a fair job of putting it to death eventually and had forgotten it, but as I pressed my mind to think of useful space terminology, it wasn’t “supernova” or “cosmos” or “space ship” or “solar flare” that came to mind. It was Galactic Cheerleader.

Hands poised on my keyboard, ready to write my own version of what could possibly equal the Magna Carta, and all that came to mind was Galactic Cheerleader.

I find it less funny.

My friend decided to try his hand at s’more’s pie. I had asked my co-worker Kristin, from which the recipe originates, if it was a difficult recipe. I hadn’t looked at it closely.

“No,” she said. “It’s easy.”

The following email arrived the day he was set to host our meeting:

I just tried to make that S’more pie for dinner tonight. I thought it was something I could quickly whip up on my lunch break. Not only did it take two hours to do but I almost had to use the fire extinguisher skills I learned the other day. Seriously, I had every smoke alarm in the house going off! It might be salvageable but we’ll see. Tell you more later.

That seemed a little extravagant of an experience. I pursued the matter.

Him: I’ll have to tell you all about my adventure with the pie.

Me: Won’t your adventure be revealed when it comes time to eat it?

Him: Kind of. I was able to remove most of the mountain of charcoal. It will be like eating a real s’more. Burned parts and all!

Me: Oh my. I’m just telling you now, I’ll probably blog it. Short of cutting my fingers off, you can’t stop me.

Him: That’s fine. I have some “suggestions” for Kristen regarding her recipe!

Me: That surprises me. It’s not like you to suggest improvements. (That was sarcastic)

Him: I know. But when her recipe almost burns my house down I might suggest a few changes.

Me: An asbestos crust?

Him: That’s one way to look at it.

 I’m not going to let this go.

Wrong.

There is no end to the inanity.

The three, two women and a man, ordered coffee with their dessert as they finished out their lunch. It took a bit of work in attempting to establish that the two women wanted cream in their coffee while the man did not. The women wanted to continue chatting with each other as well as ordering, which can be frustrating. It would be better to momentarily pause, place the order, and go back to the table and resume chatting. But no.

“So, you would like two coffees with cream, and one black,” I asked.

“Let’s see…a coffee with cream, one black, and one with cream.”

“Three total, though, correct? Two with cream, one without.”

“She’ll have a cream — you want some cream? sugar? — do you have sugar? — and I will have cream, too, but he won’t but he’ll have sugar — you want sugar?”

This went on for a few rounds until I finally made my way to the coffee pot and prepared two with cream and one without. I took them out to the table and set them down, denoting which was which.

“This is the black, and these are the cream,” I said.

“It’s just cream?!”

“Well, they also have…uh…coffee in them…”

Seriously?

“Oh, yes, good, good.”

I hadn’t realized I was dealing with literalists; foolishly I had assumed that, like the understood “you” of grammar, there was an understood presence of “coffee” in play. Really, why would I bring out two cups of cream? Would you go to your mechanic after getting an oil change and panic if he said “it’s all new oil” because he didn’t say whether or not he had encased that oil with your vehicle?

The world is facing a very wordy future if we start to lose the beloved brevity of implied understanding.

I stood there, in the restroom, looking at a strange little mat on the floor around the toilet. What in the world is that for? I wondered.

I pondered its usage.

It looked a bit like a stress mat that gets put on the floor to help save the feet of those who have to stand all day, but it was so small and so close to the exterior circumference of the toilet that it couldn’t be meant to stand on. Your knees would almost have to bend backwards due to the toilet bowl. Besides, if you were a guy and you found yourself standing so long in front of the toilet that you needed a stress mat, you had more to worry about than tired feet.

I couldn’t figure it out. I asked my coworkers. We figured, eventually, that it must be like a diaper for the toilet, some kind of absorbency device. Once we came to that conclusion, however, and began to comprehend why there would be a need for such a thing, there was a long period of silence.

“That’s gross,” I said, and we all went back to work.

Later, in talking to my friend about it, I was made privy to some unwritten understanding about men’s restrooms, their general state of cleanliness, and why such a mat might be necessary. When my friend got to the part about how any distraction — even advertisements all over the wall — could lead for the need for a mat, I cashed in my chips.

“I don’t want to know anymore,” I said. “I can’t see how it can be so difficult to concentrate for just that little bit of time and keep things where they need to go.”

He began to explain a variety of scenarios as well as what are apparently cultural and accepted norms in men’s restrooms.

“Please stop talking,” I said.

“It’s easy to get distracted…”

“You need to stop talking.”

“Sometimes, depending upon the setup, everything doesn’t always end up where it should.”

“You absolutely need to cease vocalizations.”

That conversation, incidentally, happened at an Applebee’s which, as he told me upon returning from washing his hands, now had these mats, too. “I’ve started to see them a lot when traveling for work as well,” he added happily, as if this were some sort of male triumph of freedom in the restroom.

What is this — a kind of epidemic?!

I had to know more, and so I embarked on a journey through Google to do some research. I found a site that was selling the mats, with a little helpful video. I also found the video to be unsettling, particularly where he demonstrates how the mat can easily be folded up in your hand and tossed in the garbage. After a round of dry heaves, I closed the tab on my browser and vowed never to return.

I would rather mop a floor than touch such a thing.

Toilet diapers. A trough for the trough.

I don’t know.

It just seems weird.

1. Insulin
2. Tattoo Removal
3. Hearing aids/devices (thank you, iPods)
4. Bed bug eradication
5. Foot and ankle clinics