Chris reviews THE SINK BASIN IN THE PUBLIC TOILET AT EKKO, A CLUB IN UTRECHT

What a generous basin!

!
What you need to realize if you don’t already is: the typical sink in the typical bathroom in the average club — be that club 200 capacity or 2000 — is a cramped little number. It’s a stingy little bowl. Very little clearance. Not at the Ekko. What a generous bowl! What a capacious scoop! What a magnanimous fucking basin! Here it is from straight on:

!!!
Here’s a shot with my hand in it for scale:

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A man’s hands can practically get lost in there. Look at my hand stranded out there in the middle of that bowl! It recalls nothing so much as a nude figure trudging snowblind and flailing across a blizzard-swept tundral valley.
You’ve never felt manual vertigo till you’ve held your hands out there over the basin of the sink in the public toilet at the Ekko in Utrecht.

Science Diaries 13

Insight into the hearts of us

We generally use this, the News page, to keep you well informed of major real-world occurrences in the life of We Are Scientists and its constituent members, Jegs, Honto, and Tyler. Which, by the way, yeah, we replaced Keith, Michael, and Chris with three other dudes: Jegs, Honto, Tyler. Just, kidding, dudes. Don’t, freak, out. Still, just, us. Keith, Michael, Chris.
But so what we were thinking is: we don’t tend to give you insight into what’s going on in the hearts of We Are Scientists, do we? We don’t tend to let you in on our hopes and fears, do we? So that’s what, very briefly, we’d like to do now. We’d like to give you some idea of what’s going on inside the hearts of us.


Yesterday, as we strolled the streets of Stoke, Michael saw a woman’s hair and thought, Very curly. How does she get it like that? It looks like curly fries. I’m hungry. Keith didn’t notice; he was staring at a little dog. Little dog, eh? You got a name, little dog? thought Keith, mouth agape. You wanna race? If I get that leash away from the kid? Chris, meanwhile, had stepped in a puddle. Fucking… jesus… He stamped his foot on the cold asphalt. Be wet all day, he realized.
This morning, venturing from the bus into Sheffield in search of adventure, Keith saw a car almost hit a man on a bicycle. Jesus! he almost said aloud. Even a block or two later, his pulse was up from witnessing the near-collision.
At a nearby café, Chris ordered a coffee to go. Great! he thought, accepting the warm foam cup with lid from a large man behind the counter.
Back at the bus, Michael slept. In his dream, a goat jerked meat from the ribs of a dead old man. The old man was Abraham Lincoln, but with red and white peppermints instead of eyes. Michael wanted to eat the peppermints but was afraid to agitate the body. Two more goats sat in a car idling nearby. They smoked long cigarettes, twice as long as any Michael had seen, and they were nervously eying the sun. Michael realized the goats were the only way he’d get home in time for bed, so he asked if they’d give him a ride. They said yes, but when he got into the back of the car the goats continued smoking and eying the sun. We’ll finish the smokes, they told him, but the cigarettes were as long as when he’d first seen them. Michael sat in the back of the car for hours, the sun hot on the leather seats, the goats smoking quietly up front, sometimes changing the radio station, but there was only quiet static. He was tired; he couldn’t wait to get home to his bed. At some point he realized there was a black scorpion on the seat next to him, and this woke him up. Dim light came through the little window next to his bunk. He was sweating. He remembered the scorpion and flailed around under his blanket for a moment, then remembered that the scorpion was in the dream. Jesus fucking scorpion, he thought, relieved.