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!