Crapspotting

Into the wild and out of my can

2008-08-25T08:47:00.001-07:00

Direct from Alaska, Crapspotting Turdespondent Mitch K. presents this exclusive report:

My family and I just spent a week on the Star Princess cruising to and from Alaska. I had never been on a cruise before, but was well aware that both the cabins and the bathrooms were smaller than a breadbox. With my eating habits, this would in no way be a good thing for me, my wife or my two kids. Odds were that they would throw me overboard after my first dump. I made sure to clean the pipes before we boarded, however, as soon as the first wave hit, I'd have to let it fly and then sneak out of the room to avoid the wrath - or so I thought.

We arrived on the ship last Sunday around 2:00 pm and I figured disaster would surely strike before midnight. By 3:00 pm, we had completed a warm up round one at the buffet. By 4:30 pm, after a fruity, rum-vodka "welcome" drink and a light beer, I had added half a cheeseburger, fries and a slice of pizza, along with a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie to the mix. It was going to be lethal, but no pre-dinner dumpage. Dinner that night consisted of at least a four course meal with a spicy cajun shrimp pastry-encrusted entree finished off with 2 scoops of butterscotch ice cream and a bite of my daughter's blue cheese from her international cheese plate. And just to make sure my schpincter would not dissapoint, I capped it all off with a double decaf espresso. I was with my brother-in-law, who probably ate more than I did during this initial run. He also had my same predicament - sharing a room with his two daughters.

After dinner, with both of our brew lights on red-alert, we were able to temporarily put them on yellow as the casino had just opened and the money was burning holes in our pockets. Had we actually made a run back to our rooms at that time, which were right next to one another, after our respective explosions, they, no doubt, would have had to have quarantined the Starboard rear section of the Emerald Deck at least for that night and perhaps for the rest of the cruise.

In any event, as we were watching my dad roll dice, Darren gave me one look and I knew exactly what he meant. If he did not find a place to drop his deuce on the double, he'd give new meaning to the word "craps." By that time, I had $25 on the pass line and another $50 at 4:1 that he'd keep his shorts clean althoug the rest of the crowd, seeing the look of horror on his face, had their money at 3:2 that he'd have to launch his boxers before he retuned to the table. He bolted to the back of the casino, not knowing if, or when, he'd find a bathroom in time, and came back 15 mintues later with a big smile on his face and looking 5 pounds lighter.

It was not the extreme relief he obtained that put the smile on his face, but the pure pleasure he experienced in unknowingly stumbling upon nirvana tucked away between the hallway between the casino and the Grand Showroom. (Yes, he made it succesfully and I netted a quick $100 after winning Darren's bet and shitting out at the table) As the photos reflect, this mini-suite of a dumper came complete with a ship-to-shore (shit-to-shore?) phone for the extended session and had leg room to spare. All that was missing was a little bed on which take an interim nap. I believe the crapper was dialed directly into the engine's exhaust system - not a remant of the scent created by the strongest of yiddish gastrointestinal systems was ever left behind. Aaron Spelling had it all wrong - this is what "The Love Boat" is all about. I am convinced that we were the only ones to stumble upon this sacred palace as it was never occupied and was always freshly cleaned, cleansed and sanitized.

Thereafter, every morning after a quick stop at the Lido Bar for a Double Americano, I took the steps one floor down, and headed for the casino, gently picking up the pace as the taste and aroma of the coffee turned my brew light a bright red, arriving just in time to evacuate the prior day's consumption.

My family and Darren's family wish to thank Princess for this hidden gem of a john.

What's Your Carbon Crap-print?

2007-10-26T18:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-22T14:10:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-20T08:26:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-19T10:44:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-04-27T13:16:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-01-17T13:08:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-16T11:06:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-01-03T20:40:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-02T10:49:00.000-08:00

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!

The Orlando Hotel - What a find!

2006-12-31T16:09:00.000-08:00

Home sweet home. Who would have guessed that this hotel offers one of the best public shitters in the neighborhood! After a disappointing and hurried sacrifice at Toast, I knew there would be another offering as the day progressed. The problem, as always, would be finding a suitable temple. A Ben and Jerry's banana milk shake at The Grove didn't help matters and by the time I had walked back to 3rd street I was at an elevated Code Red. Toast was a no go. There was no way I was risking waiting in line for a half hour or more. My wife, god bless her, suggested I try The Orlando hotel. The friendly woman at check-in didn't even blink when I asked to use the facilities. "2nd Floor, make a right, shit as long as you like," she said with a smile. Or at least the shit as long as you like part. I made a beeline up to the 2nd floor and found a glorious, empty, well-lit, three ply, single stall, shit station of the gods waiting for me. If crappers were universities than I had been given a full fecal fellowship and by Zeus I was going to take advantage of it!

For a good half hour I enjoyed absolute silence and quiet contemplation. The world outside melted away as I let my mind drift and my body do its thing. Above average toilet paper, soft lighting, and absolute privacy were all I needed to erase the bad memory of Toast. Thank you, Orlando Hotel. I owe you!

Toast - 3rd St. in Hollywood

2006-12-31T15:56:00.000-08:00

Great food, terrible facilities. For a restaurant this crowded you'd think they'd have more than one male, one female, and one co-ed crapper. The co-ed one, I believe, is a non-entity seeing how no self-respecting male can spend the requisite ten to fifteen minutes honestly emptying his bowels without fear of walking out to a gaggle of pissed off chicks. Fortunately, I wasn't in a hurry and like any good foreman I showed up at the dump site a good ten minutes before I expected my men to arrive. The room itself is dimly lit and not well kept. And if the urinal was a castle and the puddle of piss surrounding it a moat, not even Achilles would have braved its rancid yellow waters.

Toilet paper was thin and two-ply. Soap was unmemorable. Overall this place is recommended only as a last resort or if you're in absolutely no rush.

Crap Free As I Wanna Be - Will Rogers State Park

2006-12-30T13:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's two public, and one private, offerings took a toll on the Crapspotter and as of this post his bowels are mercifully yet to make so much as a peep.

The weather in L.A. is exactly as the guide books describe it and so my wife and I decided to take our little girl for a hike at Will Rogers State Park. After a light breakfast of Buffalo milk cappuccino-flavored yogurt, fresh coconut juice, two homemade chewy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and a few sips of decaf coffee with non-fat milk, I was a little concerned about my future state of affairs and considered popping a hit of Imodium just to be safe. Fortunately, both the weather and my stomach prevailed and I was able to enjoy a pleasant, anxiety-free morning of hiking with my family.

If ever there was an act of intestinal hubris this was it. So confident in my stomach was I that I didn't even bother to create a mental GPS of the park's four public port-o-potties. That the Turd Gods didn't smite me down on the spot is a miracle and for that I am forever in their debt. In my defense, however, the park does charge a $7 entrance fee per vehicle so I'm guessing that their facilities are above average. I'm not saying I'm not grateful oh Lords of the Light Brown Links, I'm just saying I probably would have been okay.

Driving home there was still not so much as a rumble so I confidently stopped by the Zen Zoo on 26th St. for Green Dragon boba lattes with soy milk.

REI Outfitters @ 4th St. and Santa Monica Blvd.

2006-12-29T16:03:00.000-08:00

The combination of pricey holiday shopping and rich, buttery foods have been tricky on the Crapspotters tender Yiddish stomach, and I found myself in desperate need of a public drop off center for the second time in one day. It should be mentioned that I don't love making in public. It's a rushed, harried, unenjoyable business that, if it weren't for a very sensitive and demanding digestive tract, I would gladly avoid. However, I sincerely believe that by sharing information on the world's best public restrooms I, and others like me, can improve our plight. Information is knowledge, knowledge is power, poop is brown and firm when it's healthy according to my mom.

Standing equidistant from Banana Republic and REI, I did a mental coin flip and opted for the latter. I'm also a member there and believe, although not too strongly, that the busier the place looks the better it is for business and that this somehow translates into good things for me. Like future discounts on items such as Xenon camping headlamps. Which if you know me at all, know how important they are to my lifestyle.

Although my supple, perfectly sculpted behind had graced the faux-porcelain here on prior occasions, I had never taken the time to really study the space. First off, and most importantly, THE RESTROOMS ARE COIN OPERATED. Not necessarily a deal breaker, but seeing as you can only get said coins from the cashiers located on the first floor, it's important to stop by and see them first. I'm pretty sure anyone who asks can have a coin, but this may not be true. If it were, why would they require a coin in the first place? Who won't they give a coin to? As my bowels were already at Code Red, I decided not to find out, smiled politely and gratefully received my ticket to slide.

On the plus side, the double stalls are both spacious and well maintained. There was ample toilet paper and my particular recepticle even had a back up roll. Both rolls were industrial size, approzimately 10" in diamater, so there's little chance of ever running out.

Somewhat negatively, the hand soap provided by the company is generic, unscented, commercial grade, and it left my hands feeling dry and unloved. I understand the economics of providing quality hand soap aren't necessarily in a profitable company's best interest, but something like Dr. Bronner's (a quirky, low-cost, biodegrable and high quality soap they already carry) would add a nice touch.

All in all, this is a pleasant spot for relaxing your sphincter. Just remember to get the coin before heading upstairs and you'll be good to go.

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place for Crapping - Banana Republic @ The Third St. Promenade

2006-12-29T10:42:00.000-08:00

Located on the Southwest corner of Wilshire and the 3rd St. Promenade, this gem of a shitter has been delighting urethras and anuses alike since opening its stall doors for business in 1999. The bathrooms are privately located down the stairs on the basement level. The toilet-paper is two-ply and soft enough for up to four wipes for even those with the most tender of turd canals.

Beware, if you have to go really badly, the men's restroom features only one crapper. A good rule of thumb for approaching this location is to assume it's occupied, that way your sphincter is pleasantly surprised if it's not.

As of this post, there are no paper towels, only air-dryers at this location. Wait time is less than one minute.