What's Your Carbon Crap-print?

The other afternoon, I had just finished lunching with a friend on Main St. in Santa Monica. I had a mixed meat panini and a diet root beer of some kind. Ostensabily, both easily digestable. Wrapping up lunch, I walked down the street to the Starbucks to do some writing (the one on the corner of Main and Hill). Feeling strong, I ordered a full on cafe mocha with real milk and set up shop. No sooner had I guzzed down the last drop then my stomach began to gurgle. Ironically, my ancient semetic genes are equipped to survive in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights, but unable to handle a mild dose of caffeine and sugar.

I was code red.

I quickly threw my laptop in my bag and hustled over to the bathroom. A frequent guest of this SBUX, I knew what to expect: a single stall, ample toilet paper, and the requisite piss puddled floor. No big deal. I could handle it. What I wasn't prepared for was the Mommy and Me line comprised of no less than two Yoga Moms and their four little girls. I was screwed. There was no way my stomach could hold out this long.

My car, luckily, was only a few blocks away, and my house, gratefully, was less than two miles. I could hold out. I must. Racing home, I tried to preoccupy my mind with the thought of how many others there must be like me right now. Those fellow intrepid shitters, yearning for the toilets of their homecourt, pushing their car to borderline illegal speeds and maneuvers. And then it hit me-- How much gas was being wasted daily by people who drive home to shit? With the lethal combination of burrito joints and clogged highways in L.A., the numbers here alone must be staggering. And at what cost to the environment? Due to poor and overly crowded restroom facilities, what begins as an innocuous, carbon free gas in our ass can quickly turn into a gasoline based pollutant. This is a job for Al Gore. I am calling him now.

The Magic Crapdom or The Not So Happiest Place On Earth

Mark F., a Crapspotting correspondent, sends in this field report:


The other morning, my wife and I decided to surprise our three boys with a school day trip to Disney. Keeping up the ruse as long as possible, we treated this morning like any other so as to not arouse suspicion. My normal school day pattern is to to drop them off at school then do my own “Drop Off” either back at home or at work. On this day, however, there would be no return trip home so I decided to let my bowels work their magic at The Kingdom.

Parking in the main structure throws you out to the tram area where you are then transported to downtown Disney. We entered California Adventure Park where my kids immediately needed to use the urinals. The facilities in the entry area of this park are very useable, clean and relatively new. Knowing that Disneyland prides itself on the cleanest public and private areas, I assumed the facilities in the park would be as good if not better than these outposts and I pressed my luck.

This was a mistake.

I believe Walt would roll over in his bed of dry ice if he could see the current state of facilities As we moved from the Gold Rush ride over to Mr. Toads Wild Ride the long delayed cappuccino finally took effect and I bolted for the nearest john. What I ran into was not pleasant! Toilets that were un-flushed; toilet paper stuck to the seats and rims of the bowls; urine on the seats…etc It was so bad that I was faced with the question of trying to pop out a quickie in this disgusting venue or hold it in for home, which was still 75-90 minutes away.

As I'm sure you can appreciate, I chose to hold it, a choice that really threw my cycle out of whack. I pride myself on being both regular and consistent and this late afternoon disaster upset the balance of my entire weekend.

My recommendation for future travelers is to either take care of things at home or find an area in either park that is newly designed. I feel that the Disney team tends to keep those areas up to better standards.

Avalon Hotel -- Beverly Hills

As promised, the traveling crap show is back.

Last night I went out to the 90210 to meet a friend for pre-poker drinks and a bite to eat. After a plate of marcona almonds, assorted olives, half a burrata flatbread, some spicy chinese-esque chicken, and ceviche on potato chips, I knew the third act was almost upon me. Not quite ready to go, I did a reconnaisance run to the john to prepare for a future drop off.

With pleasant recessed lighting and inviting, warm orange'ish tiles, I felt instantly at home and so did my sphincter. I settled into the stall earlier than expected, disappointed that I didn't have the foresight to grab a paper or magazine from the front desk. The high fiber nuts mixed with the seafood provided all the combustion I needed and I was out of there unexpectedly quickly. Kind of a bummer as the zen atmosphere clearly agreed with me.

On the way out, I was pleasantly surprised by the premium white mulberry hand soap. All in all, this place is quite a find. More of a destination shitter than a casual drop off, but definitely worth the trip.

Mea Crappa

Dear fellow shitters,

Please accept my humblest apologies for my absence. It has been far too long and my remorse runs as deep as my runs.

I only realized how important this site was when I was at the Borders Books here at the 3rd St. Promenade just the other day. It was then that a harried, middle-aged woman rushed in, asking where the bathrooms were. The disinterested employee on hand curtly replied that they were out of order, and went back to alphabetizing, or whatever it is they do there. This poor woman was dying. Like a crap-filled Violet Beauregarde, I could see that her head was about to explode from poop.

And so I did what I do best, and calmly directed her to the Old Navy across the street where two perfectly acceptable bathrooms reside on the second floor, just left of the elevators. If this woman wasn't about to burst from feces, she would have hugged me on the spot. BUT THE STORY DOESN'T END HERE! Another Borders customer heard my sage advice and thanked me as well. It would come in handy, he said. And that's when it struck me. "Crapspotting," is an allegedly humorous blog, but it's way more than that. It's a true public service. There are not nearly enough quality public restrooms in this world, the least we can all do as benevolent human beings is to share our knowledge. After all, knowledge is power. And power is being able to poop in peace. Conversely, by way of Modus Tollens, this may very well also mean that peace is poop masquerading as power. But I flunked logic in college, so don't hold me to that.

LET'S DO THIS, PEOPLE! POOP AWAY! SHARE THE KNOWLEDGE! WASH YOUR HANDS!

Whole Foods, Partial Shit (Wilshire and 20 Something)

Back and I'm brown! And a little runny, but not bad enough that you should worry.

Oh yeah, Whole Foods. Great store. Love the fresh produce, the knowledgeable staff, the fine charcuterie selection, but damn I wish taking a smash there was a more pleasurable experience.

Both the men's and women's rooms there are singles, allowing only one participant at a time. Which is great if you're just ducking in to empty your bladder. If, however, you've just downed a 12-piece spicy rainbow roll with brown rice and a chilled yerba mate iced tea, you're probably going to want/require a little more time to yourself. Which is tricky when you know there's an anxious hoard of fiber-filled and eager anuses milling right outside the door.

So I did the socially correct thing and rushed only to find that the aforementioned hoard existed only in my head. And so I ducked back in and finished. It was nice.

Eat like a Samurai, Shit like a Ninja (The Angeleno Hotel)

A friend of Crapspotting sent in this review of the newly restored Angeleno hotel. While I can neither confirm nor deny his spotting, I harbor no mistrust towards my fellow man, stranger though he may be, and firmly believe all crappers are innocent until proven guilty.

"Dear Crapspotter,

I hope you're happy-- Ever since I started reading your blog, I cannot walk into a public restroom without thinking of you. On that note, I dropped a healthy dump in the co-ed bathrooms of the Angeleno Hotel (Sunset/405) last night. One distinct advantage I found--the music inside the restroom was very loud, and might mask any particularly violent ablutions (is that the right word?).

Sincerely,
Turdmeister X"

Thanks for your submission, Turdmeister X. I knew Turdmiester V, and if, as you claim, you're twice the man he was than you're one hell of a fellow.

I was initially reluctant to post your review as a co-ed bathroom of any sort seems immediate grounds for dismissal. However, even though "ablutions" isn't a word, you've plead your case passionately, if not always gramatically, for this location and I accept it. Indeed, you've hit upon one of the principal prerequisites of any great public depository: "Air Coverage." The option to snap, crackle, and pop while pooping is truly an unalienable right. So even though the toilet you cite here is egalitarian in nature, the fact that you can discretely drop bombs over Baghdad without fear of retaliation gives this place a gold star.

Venice Beach Ports-O-Heaven

The Crapspotter would like to sincerely apologize for his lack of recent reviews. He genuinely hopes that this irresponsible, and frankly unacceptable, dearth of reporting didn't leave anyone (or anything) hanging. He would also like to thank everyone for their letters of concern, and assure each and every one of you that congestion at the tunnel was not an issue. Rest assured, postings aren't the only thing that have dropped!

That said, Hello Venice Beach Port-O-Potties! Located where Venice Blvd. hits the beach, these nomadic outposts of poo are the bomb! Immaculately maintained and serviced, when I entered my personal temple I was instantly greeted with the sweet smell of jasmine (hibiscus?) air freshener. Need I say, delightful?! Gazing into the azure blue, possibly chemically-treated pond below, I spotted nary a wayward turtle and was relieved to know my little guppies would grow and thrive in relative safety.

Toilet paper was as abundant as bandwagon Chicago Bears fans, and I treated myself to four wide-open passes right up the middle. If this wasn't gracious enough, upon exiting this Holy Sepulchre of Shty I was tickled pink to discover a sink of clean, fresh-flowing water to cleanse and baptize my now sullied hands. Not to mention soap and paper towels! Are you kidding me? The Rose Bowl Ports-of-Pestilence didn't even have toilet paper and the Venice Beach ones rival those of Burke Williams? Oh well, the god of the light brown goo giveth, and he taketh away. But today he giveth and for this I am thankful!

As of this posting, wait time is <1 minute.

Echigo (pronounced Echigo)

Above all else, the Crapspotter looks for one thing in his casas de crap— easy accessibility. Because no matter how soft the toilet paper is, how pretty the dim, recessed lighting makes my already gorgeous visage appear, or how enticing the slightly yellowed, abandoned sports page on the floor might be, none of this matters if you can't get your ass on the seat. Quickly and inconspicuously (more on this last point later).

To this end, Echigo is the golden mean. In the over thirty times I've eaten at this super delicious sushi joint (just east of Bundy on Santa Monica) I've never had to wait to go to the toilet. Granted, their digs aren't fancy, but as I said, who cares? Crapping in public isn't about style, it's about substance. And it's about anonymity (like I said, more on this later). In fact, as far as I can tell, I'm the only person to have ever taken a crap here. Isn't that amazing? Think about it. Chances are I'm wrong, and there are in fact thousands of others who have shit here before me, but what if I'm not? Wow, how cool. Echigo's shitter exists only for me. Stew on that one, Descartes.

So if you're ever in the mood for the most incredible omakase lunch special $12 can buy, or simply need a reliable place to dump your mochi, Echigo is the place. And as far as the anonymity goes, you'll crap peacefully knowing that I'm the only other person to patronize the joint.

Rose Bowl Port-O-Potties

In what is certain to become my most unnesessary, blatantly obvious review, guess what? The port-o-potties at the Rose Bowl suck monkey ass!

After 93 years of hosting this event you'd think that the staffers would have discovered by now that people don't dig waiting in line for over an hour to use the crapper. And that people like toilet paper. A lot. This can't be stressed enough. People really, really like wiping their asses with toilet paper. You see, here's the thing-- tailgating food has a very short half-life and demands constant monitoring. Proximity to easily accessible port-o-potties with short ques is a must. A good rule of thumb for event organizers is that the amount of time spent waiting in line should never be more than 1.5 times the amount of time it takes to injest the food. i.e.-- A sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast burrito is injested in two minutes. 2 multiplied by 1.5 equals 3. In this example, the maximum wait time to crap should never exceed 3 minutes. So simple! Notice that this formula does not include digestion time as everyone's stomachs are unique and no standardized, scientificaly-validated data exists on this. Yet.

This is stupid. Anyone who's ever been to this game knows exactly what I'm talking about. And anyone who's ever considered going would be wise to fast for at least 24 hours before doing so.

You owe me a new pair of underwear, Rose Bowl! You friggin' turd gobblers!