Richard Whitlock claims he hasn’t showered in twelve years.
An M.I.T. graduate and chemical engineer, Whitlock helped develop AO+ Mist, a watery concoction of live bacteria that he sprays on his skin twice a day. He and his associates claim that the bacteria take the place of soap and water, cleaning the body and leaving recipients without the need for a shower. During recent interviews, he said “I would like a billion people a day to use this.”
When I read this article, I checked several times to make sure I hadn’t stumbled onto a copy of The Onion. But no—no, this is no satire. Mr. Whitlock is in dead earnest. He hasn’t showered in twelve years; he has instead sprayed himself with odor-killing, cleansing live bacteria, and he wants a billion other people to do the same.
Well, Mr. Whitlock, I would like a billion people to send me a dollar per day for a year.
You see, sir, you and other other modern-day cultural nannies fit H.L Mencken’s definition of Puritanism as “the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”
And I am happy with my shower. No, I retract that understatement. Having read about your showerless self, I realize I am ecstatic with my morning shower. I adore it, I bless it, and I doubtless would invest that showerhead and its dancing waters with pagan godhood were I not a Catholic.
Let me explain.
My shower is more than just a small bathtub-shaped iron and ceramic stall to which I retire for five minutes or so daily to wash my hair and body. No, no, Mr. Whitlock: my shower means much more than this trivial pursuit. A shower for me is an object of beauty, a technological wonder, a sanctuary combining boundless refreshment of flesh, spirit and intellect.
From the moment I first step beneath the beating, hot jets of water—I frequently groan aloud with sheer, bounteous pleasure—my shower whisks me away from bodily aches, spiritual woes, and mental strain. The shower acts like a masseuse at a fraction of the price. It envelops me with steam and warmth. Beneath this restorative water, I often sing—quite well, I might add—songs both melancholic and joyful, country songs and hymns and a few folk songs from my younger days. While I am in the shower, ideas sometimes flood my head, thoughts usually having to do with my writing or teaching, and though it’s true I often forget these ideas before I am finished toweling off, it is nonetheless clear that my shower is like Dante’s Beatrice: a source of inspiration and poetry. Those streams of water also unfurl my sleep-stiff flesh, making me feel immediately less squinchy about the eyes and loosening up the rest of my face. My aching shoulders are soothed, my stiff joints become limber: I emerge from this hydraulic therapy dripping with water, renewed and ready for the day. And though I take short showers, less than five minutes, I always turn off the spigot with a sense of sadness and regret.
Let me make a suggestion, Mr. Whitman. You’ve gone twelve years without a shower. You’ve had a good run. You’ve made your point. Why not lay down that spray can of bacteria, treat yourself to some exotic soap—I’m no help here, I’m afraid, I’m an Ivory man—add a washcloth and a soft luxuriant towel, and pop into a shower? Initially you may feel guilty, you may feel a failure, you may even feel a murderer washing off those million tiny bacterial organisms, but those silver strands of warm water whipping across your face and shoulders will quickly drive those negative emotions away (as well as twelve years of accumulated dirt). I envy you this experience. Occasionally, I do skip a daily shower, two or three times a year perhaps, and I get that crackers-in-the-bed itch. Given those experiences, I can only imagine the ecstasy you might feel, having spent so many years spraying yourself with bacteria, when you the step beneath that piping hot baptism of cascading water.
If you continue on your present course, I cannot deny you may well find a market for your product. Various organic food and natural remedy stores would surely tout your produce. Who knows? Maybe even Whole Foods will become a distributor.
But whatever you decide, please know that I will never be one of your billion. I will never willingly give up my shower. To paraphrase some gun owners I know: they can have my shower when they pry my bar of Ivory soap from my cold, dead fingers.
Well, Mr. Whitlock, I would like a billion people to send me a dollar per day for a year.
You see, sir, you and other other modern-day cultural nannies fit H.L Mencken’s definition of Puritanism as “the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”
And I am happy with my shower. No, I retract that understatement. Having read about your showerless self, I realize I am ecstatic with my morning shower. I adore it, I bless it, and I doubtless would invest that showerhead and its dancing waters with pagan godhood were I not a Catholic.
Let me explain.
My shower is more than just a small bathtub-shaped iron and ceramic stall to which I retire for five minutes or so daily to wash my hair and body. No, no, Mr. Whitlock: my shower means much more than this trivial pursuit. A shower for me is an object of beauty, a technological wonder, a sanctuary combining boundless refreshment of flesh, spirit and intellect.
From the moment I first step beneath the beating, hot jets of water—I frequently groan aloud with sheer, bounteous pleasure—my shower whisks me away from bodily aches, spiritual woes, and mental strain. The shower acts like a masseuse at a fraction of the price. It envelops me with steam and warmth. Beneath this restorative water, I often sing—quite well, I might add—songs both melancholic and joyful, country songs and hymns and a few folk songs from my younger days. While I am in the shower, ideas sometimes flood my head, thoughts usually having to do with my writing or teaching, and though it’s true I often forget these ideas before I am finished toweling off, it is nonetheless clear that my shower is like Dante’s Beatrice: a source of inspiration and poetry. Those streams of water also unfurl my sleep-stiff flesh, making me feel immediately less squinchy about the eyes and loosening up the rest of my face. My aching shoulders are soothed, my stiff joints become limber: I emerge from this hydraulic therapy dripping with water, renewed and ready for the day. And though I take short showers, less than five minutes, I always turn off the spigot with a sense of sadness and regret.
Let me make a suggestion, Mr. Whitman. You’ve gone twelve years without a shower. You’ve had a good run. You’ve made your point. Why not lay down that spray can of bacteria, treat yourself to some exotic soap—I’m no help here, I’m afraid, I’m an Ivory man—add a washcloth and a soft luxuriant towel, and pop into a shower? Initially you may feel guilty, you may feel a failure, you may even feel a murderer washing off those million tiny bacterial organisms, but those silver strands of warm water whipping across your face and shoulders will quickly drive those negative emotions away (as well as twelve years of accumulated dirt). I envy you this experience. Occasionally, I do skip a daily shower, two or three times a year perhaps, and I get that crackers-in-the-bed itch. Given those experiences, I can only imagine the ecstasy you might feel, having spent so many years spraying yourself with bacteria, when you the step beneath that piping hot baptism of cascading water.
If you continue on your present course, I cannot deny you may well find a market for your product. Various organic food and natural remedy stores would surely tout your produce. Who knows? Maybe even Whole Foods will become a distributor.
But whatever you decide, please know that I will never be one of your billion. I will never willingly give up my shower. To paraphrase some gun owners I know: they can have my shower when they pry my bar of Ivory soap from my cold, dead fingers.
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