I dart into a bathroom at the northwest corner of Ueno station and hang my three hundred yen, clear plastic umbrella on the peg to the right of the urinal – the deliciously subtle notched aluminum peg that is to the right of the urinal. What a surprise. I would like to meet the designer who made the decision and campaigned enthusiastically for a triangular wedge sliced from the top of a circular peg. Employing such a minimal, yet bold intervention is enough to cause one to stand stationary in awe despite the possible misinterpretations of loitering at a urinal. Further, the missing triangle is positioned precisely one triangle's width away from the front of the peg and two triangle widths from the wall from which it protrudes. The depth of the notch is precisely one third of the peg's diameter. These decisions, coupled with the material choice of dull, brushed aluminum provide a contentment possibly only rivaled by the happiness of total bowel evacuations taking place nearby. I am in love with this missing triangular notch, where it came from, what it left behind, and where it went. The fact that the surface from where the wedge has been removed is smooth and shiny as compared to the peg's dull, brushed surface creates a feeling of unexpected fulfillment not unlike cutting a perfect slice of birthday cake. When I complete my reverie and am finally ready to leave I reach for my umbrella and it is gone. I am stunned yet again. What is one supposed to do in such a situation? I try to remember that this missing umbrella is only one umbrella lost today, which is nowhere near my record of four in one day. Perhaps the accidental thief is a lefty, or an intentionally ambidextrous thief, or in liege with the peg designer. Still, it is a small price for such an experience, although I have a feeling that this particular bathroom will cause me to lose many umbrellas in the future.