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Fred P. Ott's
on the Plaza occasionally hosts rock shows, or at least it used to, and anyway it's a great joint for drinking and carousing and puffing cigs on the patio. Last night at Ott's, I spotted a handful of local musicians, and Sonic Spectrum
music guru Robert Moore was hosting a general trivia night. That's enough to qualify it for a Where We Pee post, methinks. And we're off!
The men's is fairly sterile -- not much graffiti, and bearable odors. Technically, it's a two-holer, with a urinal and a toilet, but who are we kidding? This is a one-man bathroom. There's a reliable lock on the door, and the urinal and toilet are just too close to each other -- no divider, either -- for a man to be able to comfortably relieve himself next to a stranger. Obviously, if you're with a friend, that's a different story. You should double up in that situation, in the interest of time. I once co-urinated in here with a friend, and when we exited, some dingleberry who had probably stumbled over from Blonde (RIP) leaned over to his friend and called us "faggots." I like thinking about the thought process behind statements like that: Two men + bathroom at same time + door locked = FAGGOT.
Oh, hey, look, up by the ceiling: Cake sticker!
The women's is right next to the men's, and, yes, of course I snuck in there. Who do you think you're dealing with? It smells like my dead grandmother's bathroom in there, and kind of looks like it, too, minus the tampon machine on the wall. It was clean, though. They are decent cleaners at Ott's, I'll give them that. Something about being in the ladies' room made me feel all funny inside. Like, part of me wanted to get out of there quick, but another part of me wanted to stay forever. This sensation may or may not be attributable to being raised Catholic. Oh boy. Let's just end it there.
And this has been Where We Pee. Tune in next week!