The 720 California 4th Floor Men's Room Blog

And so we come to the end

2011-08-10T16:28:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, after three years roaming the hallowed halls of 720 California, Potty Blogger is clocking out and moving on to a new place of employment.

It has been a privilege to serve you during this time.

This blog has pointed out the obvious, introduced new vocabulary, helped reduced the volume of stall emailing, and even inspired pilgrims to make the journey to our fair headquarters.

But most of all, it has been about community. The common bond that occurs when a group of people see something mysterious in a men’s room and think, “Is a human being really responsible for that?”

Did we accomplish everything we hoped? No. There is still no bidet on the fourth floor. And we never did get a toilet with the incredible sucking power of this little baby. But I like to think that together, we made beautiful music together.

I bid you farewell. The whole blog is yours to continue to explore and enjoy, but here are some of my favorites posts from the past three years.

10. The ol' switcheroo

9. What the hell is THAT?

8. I need you to suck more and tumble less

7. Please close the gates of hell behind you

6. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a turd burglar

5. Soundtrack etiquette

4. Fourth floor makes a statement

3. Black (and Brown) Tuesday

2. Front loader

1. My E-level Vietnam

Executive hands, rejoice!

2011-08-03T13:51:00.000-07:00

Luxury has arrived at 720 California and of course its first stop is Fourth Floor Men’s Room.

When you think about it, it’s kind of amazing that the baby-like skin of executive hands was ever subjected to the coarse and clumsy paper towel. But now that has been remedied once and for all with the installation of the Dyson Airblade.

Plan a field trip to fourth floor. Snap a picture of the amazing technology. But don’t linger too long--important hands need dryin’.

Jack Nicholson spotted in third floor men's room

2011-07-28T09:09:00.001-07:00

ALERT: Turd on the Loose

2011-06-17T11:16:00.001-07:00

Just received the following email: "Inconceivable crime scene, handi stall on 4."

I grabbed my reporter's notebook and headed in.

It appears that a turd crawled out of the penthouse bowl (leaving half of its body wedged under seat, it's "legs" dangling off the edge of the bowl) then dropped to the floor, scooted across the tile into the Peter Brady stall, shimmied up the edge of that bowl and then dropped itself into the neighboring toilet.

* THIS IS A DEVELOPING STORY

A very particular brand of hygiene

2011-06-08T10:46:00.000-07:00

First floor men’s room is a hit-or-miss proposition. Steps from the lobby, it’s usually in pretty good shape since it has that “we want to make a good impression on our guests” thing going for it.

But it’s also the bathroom of choice for nervous-tummy job applicants. And the pre-interview deuce is not a friendly deuce.

Yesterday, the first floor penthouse stall provided a strange glimpse at one person’s particular brand of hygiene—a single paper towel left on the seat.

What sort of OCD makes a person say, “I can’t make a poopie unless there is a thin barrier of paper towel between my left buttock and the toilet seat”?

The fourth floor makes a statement

2011-06-02T09:49:00.000-07:00

The poopers on four are not going down without a fight.

It’s almost as if somebody read our last blog entry about third floor and E-level vying for the title of “most vile” and decided that fourth floor, as the namesake of this blog, needed to get back into the mix.

Yesterday, they did so in a big way.

It started when a co-worker appeared at my office door, his face ashen and his voice shaky.

“Have you seen it?”

“Seen what?” I asked.

“Fourth floor. Penthouse stall. I can’t...”

His voice trailed off. He shook his head and shuffled away. He looked broken.

I grabbed my reporter’s notebook and headed in.

When I opened the door, there was an eerie silence. I was surprised not to walk into a wall of smell. Usually, when a tipster alerts me to a “must see” crime scene, you can pretty much tell what you’re going to see as soon as you open the door. But this was something else. Something more...mysterious.

I walked slowly toward the penthouse stall, my footsteps echoing in the empty(?) men’s room. The door to the stall was almost closed, but I could tell that it was not latched. I tapped it gently with my foot and it creaked open.

“What the hell happened here?”

The toilet was gagged with toilet seat covers—a bouquet of 20 or more, shoved in to the toilet as if to hold back the fires of hell. This was not neat work. The paper was crumpled and matted and showed signs of panic.

Strewn about the floor were another dozen toilet seat covers. Fallen solders. Some pristine and others mangled.

In the corner, a clutch of ten covers, huddled together. Almost as if they’d crawled into the corner to stay warm before expiring in a heap of dead tissue.

And the toilet seat cover holder? Still one or two sticking out of the cardboard, but the edges were jagged and torn. Like a pulpy flesh stump, fresh from an emergency amputation.

My eye went down to the toilet paper rolls. Surely this carnage was an act of desperation--a man who found himself without any other option and called upon the toilet seat covers as a last line of defense. But no...two relatively full rolls of toilet paper sat there, untouched. Mocking.

I stepped closer to the bowl and quickly realized that down at the roots of this tissue butt-plug was a dark and unhealthy chocolate brew. I backed away.

What kind of madness posses a man in his dark hour of need? Yesterday, we got our answer.

3 vs. E

2011-05-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

Given the number of new employees at 720 California and the corresponding increase in readership, the staff here would like to address a common misconception about this blog.

This blog is NOT just about what happens in the fourth floor men’s room. Nay, this blog embraces the culture of ALL the restrooms at 720 California. It’s a state of mind rather than a destination.

In fact, if the international war crimes tribunal could only select one 720 California men's room to put on trial for crimes against humanity, they would have difficult time choosing between 3rd floor and E-level.

Both offer numerous examples of depravity and human suffering.

Third floor men’s room is the home toilet for a profoundly unhealthy workforce that does not know how to flush. It may also be the toilet of choice for a the Big Mac'r himself AND a co-worker that has the ability to shit out of his front. (Unless, god forbid, that is the work of the same mythical creature.) The walls are also a nauseating color, but that’s a little like criticizing the drapes a crime scene.

On the other hand, E-level is the scene if some of the most horrific dumps ever viewed ("...that's not a backpack") and I'm still convinced that there is a corpse rotting in one of the lockers by the door. And there's the ever-present danger that you might get pancaked into the (sole!) urinal by an eager pee-er quickly rounding the corner.

I give the slight edge to E-level based on two factors: the 24-hour "always open for business" schedule and the fact that lunch is regularly delivered to all who work on that floor.

Fire fighters know that a any blaze with a readily available fuel source and plenty of time to burn is a dangerous combination. That, my friends, is E-level in a nutshell.

Short toots

2011-05-25T14:39:00.000-07:00

* Thanks to the mobile phone force member who texted Potty Blogger to let him know that a pair of dirty bike shorts were on the floor of the fourth floor men's room. (The tag in said shorts says "child's medium," suggesting that they belong to a certain partner whose name is on the building.)

* The big stall? You can call it "corner office" if you'd like, but we refer to it as "the penthouse" on this blog. Vive la difference!

* To the serial "chocolate sprinkler" who seems to be a new regular in third floor penthouse stall--we admire the precision of your craft. It's almost like you are gluing individual nuggets by hand, but of course that can't be the case. Can it?

* "Weak Tea" - a turdlet that has been left to brew in an otherwise clean bowl. (Full turds and a longer soak can lead to "strong coffee.")

* Remember to give a quick look, men. When you stand up, if any part of the seat is smudged with a brown substance, it's probably not chocolate cake. Do the next guy a favor and wipe down gym equipment for the next guy, OK?

* Thanks to the reader who recently recounted the tale of a friend whose "square fart" could not escape his round anus and had to be manually dissipated by an emergency room doctor. I don't know if this is true or what it has to do with the men's rooms at 720 California, but it's a magnificent story.

I need you to suck more and tumble less

2011-05-18T08:51:00.001-07:00

Here at 720 California, certain toilets on certain floors have long had difficulty digesting a full “meal.”

But with a recent hiring explosion, something has happened to the water pressure in the building. When you add another 200 poopers into the mix, even the most robust plumbing system is bound to shudder under new demands.

As a result, the toilets in the stalls have developed a new coping mechanism--to give the appearance of function, they have adopted a tumbling regimen where once they sucked and swallowed.

This results in some odd creations.

For example, just yesterday, after a bit of business in the penthouse stall, I grabbed some toilet tissue, cleaned up and tossed it in the bowl. But when I hit flush, it did not suck the contents into the bowels of the plumbing system. Rather, it tumbled my turdlets and the wad of toilet paper into a cyclone, mashing them together in what can only be described as an everlasting gobstobber of shit. (See above photo.)

As fascinating (and oddly beautiful) as that is, the toilet’s job really isn’t to create fecal art projects, but to dispose of waste.

Three flushes later, I said goodbye to the gobstobber and left a fresh bowl for the next visitor.

Building superintendent, if you are a reader of this blog, please consider turning your knobs and dials to give our toilets a little more suck and a little less tumble.

Please close the gates of hell behind you

2011-05-16T13:40:00.000-07:00

The struggle over bathroom soundtrack etiquette is well documented on this blog.

Out of respect for your co-workers, do you clench and try to minimize the amount of butt music during a #2 session? Or do you let fly, believing that you are entitled to anally whistle any tune you’d like during your time in the saddle?

It is, as they say, a personal decision.

But one thing that we can all agree on—the sounds of the men’s restroom should really be contained in the men’s restroom. But that’s difficult when a co-worker decides that the doorway to said men’s room is the best spot for an impromptu meeting.

Let me explain.

I was recently ensconced in the penthouse stall on three, working on a particularly troublesome bit of business. (Damn you taco truck!) Upon entering the men’s room, I had noticed several colleagues congregated around the door (a strange location to “hang out,” to be sure) but knew that the door itself provided a modicum of protection to all parties.

Mid deuce, I heard a co-worker open the door and, standing in the transom, begin a conversation with one of the gaggle outside.

My instinct to protect the innocent kicked in, I instructed my body to “cork it,” assuming that the chatty co-worker was simply making quick small talk and that he would close the door behind him so that he could conduct his own business.

I was wrong.

The co-worker began an extended conversation about a work/client thingy. I can’t tell you the details of this critical convo; the act of corkage takes a measure of concentration that prohibited me from fully listening. But I do know that the door remained fully open, potentially exposing my siren call to the entire third floor.

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Somebody squeezed past him, did some urinal business and left—and yet the conversation continued.

A good three minutes later, I was just about to yell out “fire in the hole!” when the co-worker wrapped up his very important meeting and moved into the stall of last resort for a little quality time himself.

This is not OK, men. Talk inside. Talk outside. But pick a lane.

Fortunately, I was able to complete my transaction, wash up and leave. And while I was tempted to grab the trash can out of the kitchen and prop open the door so my co-worker could experience a taste of his own medicine, I suspect that the gesture would have lost on him.

Let’s keep those doors closed, men. Danger lurks within.

Front loader

2011-02-25T14:57:00.000-08:00

Over the years, the men’s restrooms at 720 California have been home to the mysterious (the backpack that was not a backpack), the confusing (where is that guy’s anus?), and the assaultive (a smell you can see.)

In this game you can become jaded. There’s a temptation to think that you’ve seen it all.

But then, mankind surprises you.

Apparently, one of my co-workers can crap out of his wang.

That’s the only way I can make sense of doo-doo on the front lip and underside of the toilet seat.

Yes, we have seen evidence on the front half of the bowl before. In that instance, our intrepid readers helpfully suggested that the culprit probably pulled a “reverse cowgirl” on it.

But this is something else all together.

This seems to be the work of a high-pressure nozzle producing a continuous stream. That stream then meandered up the front edge of the bowl, under the lip of the seat, and then burst forth with a final frosting on the top of the rim.

In other words, this guy seems to be able barf caca out of his penis.

We are through the looking glass, friends. I have no words of advice how to live in this brave new world.

There is a front loader among us. All hail, front loader.

Hello, Peeper

2011-02-17T13:19:00.000-08:00

When conducting your #2 business at work, what is the one article of faith? The thing that you can count on unequivocally?

Is it, "While I'm sitting here expelling solid waste from my body, I can be reasonably sure that the walls will not open up next to me so that some stranger is eye level with my bare ass cheeks."

Well, you would be wrong.

Twice. TWICE in the last month, I have been in the penthouse stall, minding my own business (literally) when the toilet paper dispenser next to me SWUNG OPEN at the aforementioned ass level so that some unseen janitorial hand could replace the toilet paper.

And on one such occasion, the peeper also got a pretty good look at my tiles in a Words with Friends game I was working on. (This is safe zone, friends. No judgment for multi-taskers.)

So beware, friends. The very WALLS are not to be trusted. Privacy is dead.

Either my company employs a guy that can create the brownest, thickest lougies ever made...

2011-02-17T11:00:00.000-08:00

or else somebody took a dump in the big boy urinal on three.

A foul stew

2011-01-07T13:34:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, dear readers. Sorry for the hiatus. Back in the saddle at 720. Literally.

A frightful scene to start the day in the third floor penthouse stall. Usually, an early morning stop in the big boy stall is an unmitigated joy--a freshly cleaned canvas, plenty of room to stretch out, and no waiting.

But this morning, a foul stew waited. And while I did not make careful inspection, I would guess that it was mainly beef and not a lot of vegetables. Maybe a potato or two.

It’s a new year and there are lots of new bottoms roaming the halls, so let us reiterate common courtesy rule #1 here at 720—once you have completed your business, turn and inspect the bowl, if there is anything in there but crystal clear water, flush. Repeat as necessary until the bowl is completely clear.

I wish that was the worst of it, but less than an hour later, I found myself back in third floor men’s room and, apparently, something had died in there in the intervening hour. And whatever “thing” that had passed, my nose suggested that it had voided itself completely before uttering its final breath and that it was also on some sort of rapid decomposition progression.

Anyhoo, men. It’s a new year. Let’s remember that colon health is not only a gift to yourself, it’s a gift to your coworkers.

Too warm. Too intimate.

2010-08-30T20:52:00.000-07:00

It’s happened to all of us. You sit down to start your business and find the seat is still warm from the previous occupant. (And not the good kind of warm.)

Sure, it’s a little creepy, but you deal.

But I had an incident recently that made me realize that a little bit of knowledge changes the whole equation.

I was heading into the men’s room and approached the stalls. As I did, a colleague exited the penthouse stall and said hello. I exchanged pleasantries and then had to make a quick decision which stall to enter.

Normally, with three opens stalls, it’s a no-brainer: I go for the penthouse. But in that split second, I thought, “I don’t really want to sit in his warmth. Too intimate.”

And so, I made an immediate left turn and ducked into the Peter-Brady stall.

Apparently, ignorance is an important quality in sharing a bathroom with co-workers.

Out of order

2010-07-28T14:41:00.001-07:00

The Peter Brady stall on three is out of order, as you can see from the lovely sign posted by a concerned co-worker. (From the looks of it, a copywriter...or the world's worst art director.)

THIS is the kind of fellowship we must applaud! Yes, the sign-maker is likely the culprit who "out of ordered" the stall. But he WAS kind enough to alert you before you stepped inside.

What makes this even more special is that, unless he's one of those I-can't-poop-without-my-red-and-black-pens-and-scotch-tape type of guy, he had to exit the men's room, make his sign and then return to the scene of the crime to post it. THAT'S the kind of concern for one's fellow man that is short supply these days.

And so, we applaud you, sign maker! Yes, your unnatural turd seems to have broken the toilet, but you have made up for it with your friendly gesture.

Abandoned toothbrush

2010-07-26T11:06:00.000-07:00

I can think of few places LESS sanitary to leave your toothbrush than 720 California's third floor men's room. (On its best days, third floor men's room smells like a urine-soaked foot. And that's immediately AFTER it's been cleaned.)

So imagine my surprise when I found a toothbrush sitting on the sink this morning. Ironically, a paper towel was placed underneath as if to protect it from the germs on the counter.

But the owner of the toothbrush was nowhere to be found. All three stalls were empty. It has been abandoned.

I just checked. It's one hour later and the toothbrush is still there. Actually, that gives me hope, because it means that there's at least a chance that the owner will NOT reclaim it and stick it in his mouth.

We've asked the question before whether or not it's even safe to brush your teeth in this environment. But I think we can all agree that it's NOT safe to store your toothbrush here. Nothing that has been exposed to the elements in a public restroom for an extended period of time should ever be put in your mouth.

Potty talk goes mainstream

2010-07-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

The blog used to be THE forum for discussing bathroom issues at 720 California. But readers have grown frustrated. Try as we might, we have been unable to truly influence a change in potty behavior.

One employee recently took maters into his own hands and sent the following email to the entire agency:

To the 3rd Floor non-flusher(s):

You know, it’s everyday now. Can’t use that last stall because you didn’t flush. That one is not equipped with a motion sensor, so please don’t just walk away.

Just a reminder, whoever you are, the handle on that stall is neatly positioned so that you can just kick it with your foot. No touching! Very good.

Please do all of us the favor.

Thanks.

You have to admire his pluck, but he must know that he is shouting in the wind. The third floor penthouse stall has long been the building's most popular location to commit a terrible crime. (After all, the third floor may house the most unhealthy bunch of people ever assembled.)

Even if the culprit is not a third floor resident, the cry for help is still likely to fall on deaf ears. After all, the community of poopers responsible for this, this and this is certainly not going to be swayed by a simple email.

False alarm?

2010-06-25T10:29:00.000-07:00

So there I am, sitting in the penthouse stall. (Yes, I’m aware that a large number of postings start this way. There’s no shame in regularity.)

The Peter Brady stall was occupied by a fellow traveler, also in mid-business.

The door to the restroom opened, a new contestant entered and headed for the stall of last resort. He locked the door and sat. Less than a minute later, he rose, did not flush, exited the stall, breezed past the sinks and exited the restroom.

Of course, I was curious. I finished my transaction, flushed properly and went to inspect.

As I suspected...nothing. The bowl was clear. He wasn’t really in there long enough and there was a complete lack of audio evidence.

But it means that a co-worker just popped into a stall for a minute without a colon-ary reason. Was it a false alarm? Or did he just need a “Calgon, take me away!” privacy moment to get away from it all?

Whatcha doin' in there, bud?

2010-06-24T15:42:00.001-07:00

A regular reader sent this photo to potty blogger with the following subject line: "3rd floor men's room. DE-LUX stall, 2:35 p.m. today"

And the message that accompanied the photo: "Victoria's Secret. She's hiding in the toilet seat cover box."

Thanks to the mobile phone force for bringing this to our attention. (We're so grateful for the tip, we'll refrain from asking if it would have killed him to flip off the douchey hipstamatic effect on his phone so we could actually make out the image.)

There's something disturbing (and wonderful) about a co-worker taking what is, essentially, soft-core pornography into the stall with him. Leaving it for the next patron kicks it up a notch. Placing it in the toilet seat cover box takes it to 11.

Thank you, generous sicko. Thank you.

This is not a gift

2010-06-16T13:07:00.000-07:00

Men, let's review what I like to call "the spectrum of generosity."

At one of the spectrum--leaving a magazine in the stall (a respectful distance from the bowl, of course.) This can be a delightful surprise for the next visitor.

At the other end of the spectrum--leaving any sort of human remnant in the bowl. This is never a delightful surprise for the next visitor.

Also toward the "unwanted" end of the spectrum--a warm, used toilet seat cover. (See above photo.) Yes, the bowl was clear and I thank you for that. But if you were conscientious enough to discard your human waste with a flush, would it have killed you to make sure that seat cover also made the trip?

Instead, upon entering the penthouse stall, I was treated to a perfectly preserved relief of your ass cheeks. And, since your initial flush had ripped of the seat cover's paper (also known as "the dangly") there was no anchor to pull the object down with an additional flush.

My only option was to use my hands to dislodge your leftover--an option I soundly rejected and moved on to another stall.

Remember, men. Flush...look...if not ALL clear, flush again. Repeat as necessary.

The workaholic

2010-05-21T09:28:00.000-07:00

We all work pretty hard here at 720 California. And space is at a premium. (When you have 500 people doing the work of 700 in a building meant for 300, that’s just the way it is.)

But some rules of polite society must be maintained.

Recently, a co-worker approached me and said, “I have a photo and a story.”

Honestly, nine times out of ten when somebody says, “I have a photo for the potty blog,” it’s usually so unspeakable, that I can barely process what I’m seeing. (The evidence traditionally breaks down into three categories: horrific splatter patterns, hard-to-fathom anacondas or odd shapes.)

But the co-worker’s story wasn’t about some unusual fecal topiary, it was about a head-scratching experience that he’d had in fourth floor men’s room.

The co-worker (hereafter “our hero”) was conducting his business in the stall of last resort. He noticed a strange glow emanating from the stall next to him (the Peter Brady stall.) Then he heard the clackity-clack of fingers on keys and the “WHOOSH!” of an email being sent.

Now I realize we’re all super important people around here. But is anything really so urgent that you need to take your laptop with you into the bathroom stall? That email really couldn’t have waited five minutes? (Probably only 2 minutes if it was the day that the Indian food truck stopped by for lunch.)

Our hero sprung into action, pulled out is iPhone and snapped the above picture--evidence of our workaholic.

We know your shoes, friend. We are coming for you to do an intervention. You and those that conduct business around you (and yes, despite what the “turd burglar” contingent says, it is OK to go next to a co-worker) need some peace and quiet while you’re conducting your transaction. It’s better for everyone. Trust me.

So much promise. So much hope.

2010-05-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

It's a new week. Monday, 8:45 a.m.

I walk into the penthouse stall and what do I see? Two fresh rolls of toilet paper.

Jackpot!

It's a small sign, but one that gives so much hope. It makes you feel like anything is possible. Like I have all the tools I need to do great work. To make a difference. To drop a Monday morning monster.

Yes, by 10:30, it will probably all go to hell. And with today being the day after Bay to Breakers, there's sure to be some...interesting contributions today. (Not so much because of too much Sunday liquor--that's par for the course for the men of 720 California. It's the exercise of running/walking/stumbling through a 12K that I fear will wreak havoc on the bowels of my co-workers.)

But right now, the world is our oyster. Let's try and make it great, shall we, men?

Second floor men's room, you make me sad.

2010-05-10T16:37:00.001-07:00

A year ago, you could ask anybody at 720 California, "What is the best men's room in the building?" and everybody would give the same response:

Second floor.

But there were signs that all was not well in paradise.

And last July, we went so far as to say, "The king is dead."

Now, as further evidence of how the mighty has fallen, desperate patrons of the second floor have taken to posting signs above the urinals.

Take a look at what is currently affixed atop the big boy urinal on two:

The sign maker employs a photo of an adorable young scallywag to ask visitors to "pay it forward" and beg them to "flush after you piss." There's even a helpful arrow pointing to the button on the auto-flusher.

I'll repeat that last bit--the button on the auto-flusher.

The auto-flush urinals was one of the reasons that you WENT to second floor in the first place! So that you didn't have to use your hands! The "auto" in "auto-flush" is SUPPOSED to mean "automatic" which implies that no manual effort is required.

It's sad to see a former champion beg.

Have some dignity, second floor. You used to be great.

Back in the saddle. Literally.

2010-05-10T15:58:00.000-07:00

I have returned.

Despite my request to potty blog full time, my employer does require me to do actual work from time to time. My travels have kept me away from 720 California for a few weeks, but I'm happy to be back.

Not that anything ever really changes in 4th Floor Men's Room. As if to prove that point, a regular reader recently sent me this bit of art that was taped to the wall of the penthouse stall:

Certainly, this drawing captures a mystery that has plagued many a 4th Floor visitor--where exactly is this guy's exit? And how exactly does Picasso paint on the underside of THE SEAT?

But this found drawing isn't from last week. IT'S FROM TWO YEARS AGO. Clearly, our mystery blaster has a long and distinguished tenure here at 720 California.

Or could there be more than one? Does he teach classes? Is there some sort of secret brotherhood?

Anyway, it's good to know that no matter how long one is away, some things stay the same.

It's good to be home.

Pretty in pink

2010-04-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

What's up with the frou-frou new urinal cakes?

Seems like they'd be better suited for the urinals in the ladies room, don't you think?

It's actually a bit distracting to go on something so beautiful. It's like peeing on the sunset. It doesn't feel right.

Can we just go back to good old-fashioned, manly BLUE cake?

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a turd burglar

2010-03-25T09:06:00.000-07:00

This week, a co-worker accused potty blogger of being a turd burglar.

There are many definitions, but my accuser’s claim was that on Monday of this week, I entered the third floor men’s room, saw that the penthouse stall was occupied and then slipped into the stall of last resort to conduct my business.

That’s right. My crime: making a transaction while a co-worker was in the middle of one himself.

Let’s be clear, I did not try to use the same stall as my co-worker. I did not barge in and say, “I must make my deposit in here, right now. Please stand aside.” No, I used a separate stall all together--and even left the Peter Brady stall vacant as a buffer between us.

But my accuser is part of a small (but vocal) minority that believes if you see a co-worker using ANY of the stalls, you should politely excuse yourself and travel to another floor. They believe that the very act of sitting down while another gentlemen is mid-business, robs the first gentleman of the ability to perform. Thus “the turd” has been “burgled.”

This belief is akin to those remote tribesmen who believe that having their picture taken results in the loss of their soul--it is, of course, ridiculous, but different cultures must be respected.

However, respect is one thing and tyranny is quite another. When a small group begins to lob charges of turd burgling willy-nilly, it smacks of McCarthyism. The mere act of accusing someone of stealing your ability to BM creates an atmosphere of fear and distrust.

My grandfather fought in WWII. My father served in the National Guard. I...work in a very challenging professional environment and sometimes have to be in front of my computer for several hours. My people have EARNED the right to make a number two when they want, where they want.

You do not need to fear me. I do not want to steal your turd. Poop in peace, my friend. We are brothers and we both want the same thing.

Actually, I’d rather not have one of your BMs on my coffee table

2010-03-23T13:47:00.000-07:00

Most of you, dear readers, are good people. Decent. Hard working. Respectable. (Well...decent and hardworking, anyway.)

But some of you are freaks.

I know this because some of you send me all sorts of horrible filth. Yes, I do appreciate a good tip about a crime scene here at 720 California. No, I don’t need you to send me an iPhone snap of the two-footer you dropped in the Mission this weekend.

What is interesting is that you really can’t judge a book by its cover when it comes to this stuff.

Just this week, one of the sweetest, loveliest, young-lady co-workers here at 720 California shocked me by suggesting--out of the blue and with no context, “You should do a coffee table book of toilet bowl shots. Weird shapes. Gruesome splatter patterns. But arty, you know?”

Um...OK.

Is there really a demand for such a coffee table book, dear readers? Can you really see that one in the bargain bin at Barnes & Noble? And who, exactly, is the intended recipient of that gift? “Hey grandma, you’re super hard to shop for, but I think you’re going to love my Christmas present this year.”

I'm sure granny will love it. Because it’s arty, you know?

Big Mac'n

2010-03-19T09:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I came across something pretty disturbing.

Somebody Big Mac'd in the penthouse stall on third floor and did not remove the burger.

(For those of you who may be less familiar with potty parlance, a "Big Mac" is when you make some number two, stand, wipe, drop the TP into the bowl and then realize that you're not quite finished, so you go in for a second session--creating another "patty" on top of the toilet paper "bun," as it were.)

Men, there's no shame in creating a double-stacker. But it's not something you need to share with others.

We've been over this many times, but apparently, it bears repeating: Stand. Flush. Check the bowl. If it is not COMPLETELY CLEAR, flush again. Repeat as necessary.

New janitor

2010-03-19T09:43:00.001-07:00

I know it's confusing, bud. But the nubbin does not go down in the hole. It's blue side up.

Gents, please don't try to flip it over right-side up with your stream. Let's leave this job to the professionals.

Executive multitasking

2010-03-04T13:06:00.000-08:00

Walked into fourth floor men's room yesterday afternoon and found the Big Boss at the big boy urinal.

He had one hand on the wheel and was holding a piece of paper in the other hand, which he was reading.

That's why his name is on the building, folks.

Found your pen

2010-02-23T09:37:00.000-08:00

A regular reader sent this photo with the following note:

"This pen has been on this urinal in the 4th floor men's room for the past 3 days. Why hasn't it been claimed? Why was it left there in the first place? Who the hell knows."

Many good questions, dear reader. Perhaps a co-worker has left it there to marinate for a few days and will return to claim it. (Note to self: don't absentmindedly chew on pens found in co-worker's offices.)

But in the meantime...bonus points to the person who can knock it into the urinal using only their stream!

A seated vacation

2010-02-15T13:17:00.000-08:00

Yes, it sucks to be at the office on a holiday.

But a fellow pooper has made the party more pleasant by leaving his copy of Travel & Leisure next to the toilet in the penthouse stall. And he even left it a respectable distance from the crapper* to make sure that it wasn't tainted by backsplash or dribbles.

No, I didn't pick it up. I have too much self-respect for that. But the picture on the cover was nice and reminded me that somewhere, someone is sitting on a beach, enjoying a nice frosty alcoholic beverage.

* I originally typed the word "commode" here, which I believed to be a synonym for "toilet." However, the interweb just schooled me that a commode is, more accurately, a piece of awesome bathroom furniture. And with that, my 2010 Christmas list just got a new number one.

...and a side of asbestos, please.

2010-02-01T14:47:00.000-08:00

As if there weren’t already plenty that makes third floor men’s room the worst men’s room in the building, it appears that a heretofore unnoticed air vent is belching asbestos into the far right sink.

It’s a powdery gray material. I’d almost be willing to guess that it’s dryer lint--but I can’t believe that the dryer in the basement vents out over the third floor men’s room sink. Although, that might explain the rain forest-like climate in there.

Just what we all wanted in a quality bathroom experience--cancer falling from the sky.

Wall of smell

2010-01-26T09:29:00.000-08:00

Some 720 California men's room experiences are so searingly painful that it takes several days to find the words to describe them.

Last Friday was a bad day for the third floor men's room.

Smell is about context. Your brain can handle a horrible odor if it can make sense of it. For example, if you enter a morgue, your brain is ready for the stench of rotting corpse.

But when you walk into a men's restroom, your brain doesn't know what to do with a tangy, smoky barbecue smell. And then you realize--nobody is cooking ribs in this location, rather, somebody's colon is profoundly broken. It is not a smell that can be produced by the physically fit.

It was so bad, I actually had my first synesthesia experience (where one experiences smell as a color or image.) This is what I saw.

Call and response

2010-01-21T09:44:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I was luxuriating in the penthouse stall when I heard something that raises an interesting etiquette question.

I heard a gentleman enter the men’s room, approach the urinal and begin his business. Another man entered, took a position at the second urinal, and began his work.

Then, one of the contestants, released a little toot.

It was quickly followed by the second man who contributed his own toot. (True, I was several feet away, locked in the stall, and can’t be 100 percent sure it was from the other musician, but the timbre was sufficiently distinct to indicate a different instrument.)

Then, the first man threw down a new bass line, with a more complicated melody. There was a beat...and the second man made a best effort to mimic that one as well!

A regular case of dueling banjos! (If by “banjos” I mean “my co-worker’s anuses.”)

This musical dance was conducted without conversation or commentary--a wordless fart ballet, if you will.

And so it begs the question: what is the proper response when a co-worker at the urinal next to you lets a small one go? I think these two guys have shown us the most elegant way of dealing with the situation--join the fun.

Reading lights?

2010-01-20T12:31:00.000-08:00

I realize that my last call for bathroom improvements fell on deaf ears (I still believe that bidets would do more to improve productivity around here than any other measure) but I have a new thought.

Reading lights. Above the toilets.

In fourth floor men's room (and restrooms throughout the building) the row of recessed lighting is above the far wall, away from the porcelain perches. It makes it extremely hard to read while conducting your business.

And while leaving reading material for the next guest continues to be standard operating procedure (see photo above) what good is such courtesy if you can't see the words?

I doubt that facilities will install a new row of recessed lighting into the ceiling, but perhaps we could work on installing a few of these babies--how sweet would it be to have an adjustable arm on the light source next to the toilet? Or maybe we go LUXURY and get one of those lamp/magnifying glass combo thingies.

Perhaps then the gentleman who left the newspaper (see photo above) could use the magnifying glass to check the bowl and discover, "Oh, gee, I forgot to flush and there is a wad of toilet paper and man filth still sitting there in the bowl."

Taco truck + 3-day weekend = bathroom armageddon

2010-01-19T13:37:00.000-08:00

Perhaps management should schedule the taco truck visits on a Monday rather than the Friday before a three-day weekend?

The smell-ometer has recorded a new "stank parts per million" reading and it seems that somebody left something to marinate for the full 72 hours.

I too have a dream...that you people learn how to flush.

Happy New Year

2010-01-08T11:24:00.000-08:00

Yes, friends, potty blogger is back in action.

Apologies for the long hiatus. I realize that I have not posted since November, but I was traveling and it could not be avoided. And no, I was not (as some readers suggested) fired because I spent more time writing about the crapper than actually working.

We all know what a great relief it is to take some time away from the office during the holidays, but can you imagine how glad 720 California toilets were for the break? If you spent the entire year having people sit on your face and do unspeakable things, you too would cherish that week between Christmas and New Years.

And so, this week must have come as a bit of a shock for the porcelain of fourth floor men’s room. A stampede of men whose digestive systems are still in holiday mode--back to work!

Here’s wishing you a happy and healthy year of bathroom business. Let’s be kind to one another in 2010, shall we?

Homecoming

2009-11-18T13:45:00.000-08:00

As is probably obvious from the frequency of recent posting, Potty blogger has been traveling for work the last few weeks.

And while it's exciting to meet a new toilet on the road, there's nothing like coming home to the warm familiarity of 720 California fourth floor men's room. It was my first stop this morning.

She did not disappoint.

There was a partially digested deuce waiting for me in the penthouse stall. It sort of poked its head up out of the water as if to say, "Welcome home. We've missed you."

I cleared the screen, conducted my business, headed toward the sink, washed my hands and reached for the paper towel...to find them completely out.

Two for two, fourth floor men's room. Good to be home.

I shook my hands dry and opened the door and hesitated. "What the heck," I thought to myself. "Let's celebrate." I reached back, stuck my hand under the hand sanitizer dispenser, and let it take a gigantic dump in the palm of my hand.

The machines gain a toe hold

2009-11-09T09:59:00.000-08:00

720 California has doubled-down on hand sanitizer.

While we have established that hand sanitizer is not a substitute for soap and water, the powers-that-be decided to install automatic hand sanitizer dispensers near the door of every restroom in the building. Technology to keep us all clean and safe!

The near-door placement means that you can open the door, hold it open with your foot, place your hands under the dispenser, sanitize yourself and then exit the rest room without ever having to touch the dreaded (and likely diseased) door handle.

The one hiccup in the plan is that the volume knob on the dispenser seems to have been turned past "dollop" all the way over to "barf."

In fact, so much sanitizer is dispensed that you are immediately faced with a dilemma: where do go to get rid of the excess? Do you turn around and head back to the sink and wash it off? Do you make a left turn and head for the kitchen, grab a paper towel and scrape off the extra glop? Or do you wander around the office, hands outstretched, shouting "who wants some Purell?" to your co-workers?

The good news is that the company is clearly willing to invest in technology to keep us clean. Let's get on this bidet thing.

Piece of garbage celebrates one-month anniversary

2009-10-16T09:53:00.000-07:00

You know that gold crown thing that's been hanging out on top of the third floor penthouse toilet for the past month?

Earlier this week, it made a break for it.

It is no longer sitting on top of the back lip of the toilet, but has scurried into a corner of the penthouse stall. Where it has been sitting for the past three days.

When does something actually become "garbage" in a 720 California restroom? Apparently, the janitorial and maintenance staff has been instructed: "Please do not discard any unidentified item for at least six to eight weeks."

So if it this thing is yours, you might want to grab it today. Because in a few weeks, somebody is going to throw it away. Maybe.

What the hell is THAT?

2009-10-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

By now, all of us at 720 California are used to the idea that the business chamber may contain an unexpected surprise.

But the urinal is a different story.

Sure, people drop stuff in there from time to time. But when one finds a substance of an...organic nature, well, that’s news, folks.

Several people stopped by potty blogger’s work station today with some version of “Dude, have you seen that thing in the big boy urinal? What IS it?”

I have no idea. But it’s sitting there on top of the urinal cake, quietly mocking us all. (And no, I will not post a picture.)

When I first saw it this morning, my first guess was, “piece of tomato.” But when my brain failed to come up with even one possible scenario for a person eating a BLT in front of the urinal, I decided to make a closer inspection.

I wish that I hadn’t.

It is definitely “man made.” A lougie? No. At least, it does not conform to any known lougie specification as it could not be dislodged with a steady stream.

A colleague suggested “kidney stone,” and the mere thought of a co-worker dropping a stone at the urinal made me throw up a little bit in my mouth. But another colleague (whose medical credentials include two semesters as a dorm EMT in college) said that it is most definitely not a kidney stone.

So, the mystery remains. There is an unidentified foreign object sitting atop the urinal cake in the big boy urinal. If you are responsible, please explain yourself.

Nobel Piss Prize

2009-10-09T17:41:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon keg of beer on the loading dock = one colleague spending close to ten minutes at the big boy urinal. Sources tell potty blogger that audio evidence suggests a good three-to-four minute uninterrupted stream.

We salute you, urinary wonder.

Smells like nervous tummy

2009-10-06T15:51:00.001-07:00

Walked into first floor men's room this morning and it smelled like a tire fire.

Or rather, it smelled like somebody lit a tire fire, put that tire fire into their anus, let it burn for a while, and then released it into one of the stalls.

This is a chronic problem for first floor men's room for one reason: job applicants.

A job applicant arrives at our building for a job interview. He takes a seat in the first floor waiting area. He is nervous. His tummy starts to rumble. He decides to make a pre-inteview stop in first floor men's room. The results are rarely pretty.

We're out of cake

2009-10-05T17:48:00.001-07:00

Whoa.

Looks like somebody on third floor wasn't too happy about having to work this weekend. Because over the course of 48 hours, he obliterated the big boy urinal cake. (See sad finger nail-sized cake remnant in adjacent photo. That's one small slice o' blue frosting, friends.)

Our sources say the cake was intact Friday afternoon. (Hey, we've got to give the Potty Blogger intern something to do.) This morning...not so much.

A couple of observations:

1. How angry do you have to be to generate enough water-pressure to destroy an industrial-sized block of chemical freshener?

2. If your urine toxicity is at a level where such a feat is possible, you may want to drink a few more glasses of water each day.

3. What's the over/under on the number of weeks/years before the cake is replaced?

4. We've all gotten spoiled the last few weeks by having the cake in place, but it's time to start flushing again, men. An easy way to remember: if the water is still yellow, you haven't flushed.

No pilgrims, please

2009-10-03T11:45:00.000-07:00

What's wrong with you people?

Apparently, the security guard here at 720 California recently turned away several visitors who walked in off the street and asked to be let upstairs so they could see the fourth floor men's room.

Yes, this blog recently received some unexpected press and acquired some new fans. But I really don't think you need to plan your family vacation around a visit. It's a bathroom, people. And from the photos posted, you've pretty much seen the whole thing.

My guess is that our visitors didn't just want to "see" the bathroom, but perhaps make an contribution to the decor--a contribution so extraordinary that it would garner coverage here.

Let's be adults about this, shall we? I don't sneak into your office and take a dump on your floor. So maybe you could forgo your little adventure in mine?

On silverware and body pockets

2009-10-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

The other day, I headed in to use the urinal, saw that the big boy was taken and saddled up to the little man.

I shot a quick glance to my right to see who was standing next to me and was surprised to find...a spoon sticking out of his mouth.

Apparently, he had both hands on the wheel. Considering the alternate places he could have stuck the spoon, I suppose he made the right choice.

But how does one find himself at the urinal with a spoon?

"Mmmm...let me just finish up this yogurt on my way to relieve myself." Actually, this scenario is impossible at 720 California; thanks to our progressive trash policy, there is no place to dispose of a yogurt container in the men's room. Unless this gentlemen was storing the yogurt container somewhere else on his person.

I can only think of one reason you would need to take a utensil into the bathroom and, frankly, that work is best left to a qualified physician.

Let's keep the silverware in the kitchen, men.

Uh...is this piece important?

2009-09-28T19:38:00.000-07:00

Ten days and counting.

That's how long this little do-hickey has been sitting on the back rim of the third floor penthouse toilet.

Since this is a location where people like to store their Snapple bottles, at first I thought it was trash--plastic neck sleeve that had been left there.

Upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was metal (brass? solid gold?) and thought, "It looks like a small crown." King of the turds?

My best guess is that it is actually part of the plumbing--a piece that has fallen out of the works. Which is weird, because everything seems to be functioning as normal. But for how long?

My working theory is that Mr. Back Anus is somehow responsible for dislodging it. I don't know how, but there is so, so much I do not understand about that guy.

Anyway, if you decide to conduct business at this location, be forewarned: it may be living on borrowed time.

Not a substitute for soap and water

2009-09-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

This story starts 383 miles from the 4th floor men’s room, occurs in the distant past and reveals the mileage on potty blogger, but there is a point, I promise.

Nearly twenty years ago, potty blogger and his girlfriend at the time used to frequent a fast food restaurant by the name of Carl’s Jr. in Marina Del Rey, California. (Potty blogger’s favorite feature of this restaurant was the three-person booth--two seats on one side of the table and one seat on the other---where he and his then-girlfriend once took a friend who had just broken up her boyfriend, which was both funny and sad...and has nothing to do with this story.)

At the conclusion of one fine meal at this establishment, I excused myself from the table to go to the restroom. As I was washing my hands, I noticed a new dispenser on the wall, next to the soap dispenser. On the front, it said, “New anti-bacterial cleaning gel--no water needed!”

When I left the men’s room and reported my finding to my then-girlfriend, she did not believe me. There was no equivalent dispenser in the ladies room and the idea of a hand-cleaning substance that did not require water seemed preposterous to her. “You have to use soap and water to clean your hands,” she said.

What neither of us realized at the time was that I had stumbled into one of the earliest test markets for hand-sanitizer. (You youngsters out there may find it hard to imagine a world where hand-sanitizer was not ubiquitous, but at the time, nobody had ever heard of it.)

The geniuses at Purell-or-whoever-created-hand-sanitizer were test marketing the substance in men’s restrooms as a substitute to hand washing. Given the proximity to actual soap and water, this strategy, in hindsight, seems ridiculous. But marketers have to kiss a lot of frogs in the early days of product development to find the best way to sell whatever it is they’re trying to sell.

Fast forward to today and we’re now living in the Jetsons-like future of 2009. Hand-sanitizer is everywhere.

Which brings us back to the men’s rooms at 720 California.

A few weeks ago, hand-sanitizer pumps appeared near the sinks on each floor. The timing was strange, since we’re well past last spring’s swine flu hysteria, but maybe they’re just getting a jump on the fall panic.

But, gentlemen, as my long-ago girlfriend pointed out nearly 20 years ago, “You have to use soap and water to clean your hands.”

Unfortunately, the presence of hand-sanitizer on the counter has confused some of my co-workers. On two occasions, I have seen men forgo soap and water for a quick spritz from the pump.

Not good enough, men. I know it’s old fashion, but you must use soap and water to clean your mitts after you make a number one or a number two. Every time. No exceptions.

Lose a pen?

2009-09-14T09:28:00.000-07:00

What was this guy doing when he dropped his pen? Where was he holding it?

Both hands on the wheel, buddy. Whatever flash of inspiration might hit you during your session, I think you can remember it until you get back to your desk.

Change of plans

2009-09-10T17:57:00.000-07:00

“Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” – John Lennon

Today, I heard a man make lemonade out of lemons.

I was kicking back in the penthouse when I heard somebody enter and head for the urinal. He spent some time there--maybe 30-40 seconds--and then zipped up and headed into the Peter Brady stall to continue his adventure.

What happened?

Did his wires get crossed? Did his brain think, “forward pass” when the team really needed to prepare for a pitch to the tailback?

And when, exactly, did our hero realize that a urinal would not be sufficient for his needs? Did he have an “uh, oh” moment? Did the turtle poke his head out? Did he do a quick do-I-have-time-to-make-it-to-a-stall-or-should-I-just-spin-around-right-here calculation?

I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, but he seemed to handle the challenge with grace. Well played, sir.

I am not a superhero

2009-09-09T13:13:00.000-07:00

“The 4th floor bathroom needs you right now”

That, friends, is the subject line of an email that I received yesterday evening.

One of the occupational hazards of writing a blog about the men’s room in your building is that, inevitably, some of your co-workers come to regard you as some sort of Bathroom Batman, ready to swoop in and save the day.

Don’t get me wrong...I appreciate a good tip. Letters from in-building readers have alerted me to all sorts of developments--some good and some very, very bad.

But when you stumble across a crime scene, you should call the police, not a reporter.

If a co-worker--probably the one with the mysteriously-placed anus--has sculpted his masterwork in the fourth floor men’s room, call facilities. They have the equipment, training, and intestinal fortitude to deal with such art installations.

Of course, I couldn’t resist a drive-by. Yes, it was horrible. No, I cannot explain it. As I’ve said before, there is no position into which I could contort my body to paint on that portion of the canvas.

We fear the artist we cannot understand. And yet, on some level, there is quiet respect for his unspeakable “gift.”

Cake for everyone

2009-09-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

Interesting.

On Friday, this blog gets a little bit of attention from the mainstream media. On Tuesday, new urinal cakes appear in each of the bathrooms. Coincidence or power of the press?

Who cares. It's Christmas in September.

And these aren't your plain, budget cake. These have got a fancy white plastic cage around them. (Why is that exactly? What are we protecting the cake from? Are they worried that some sticky-fingered gentlemen might lean down and pop that hockey puck into his pocket if its allowed to roam free?)

Things are getting fancy over here.

Labor Day greetings

2009-09-07T12:03:00.000-07:00

First...

Three things that do not go together: 1.) three-day weekend, 2.) letting the janitorial staff take the weekend off, and 3.) selecting that weekend to make repairs to the building’s heating and cooling system.

The one stimulus that the 720 California men’s restroom bio-chemical experiment did NOT need? Heat.

Those of us who have the pleasure of working here at the office over the holiday weekend are enjoying the tart and tangy aroma of...re-heated liquefied corpse? (My nose and brain are currently working overtime to try and make sense of it.)

Imagine a hobo at a bus stop on a warm summer day. He relieves himself in the middle of the bus stop. Then he plugs in his portable microwave and begins to cook a raccoon.

It’s a little like that.

Second...

A warm welcome to our new readers.

Thanks to some unexpected press last week, it seems that readership blossomed from five guys in the building to...a few more.

All are welcome, but in light of some of the new comments and emails, some clarifying comments seem in order.

This blog is not about poop. It’s about man’s inhumanity to man. It’s about trying to make life a little better for the poor schmos who must conduct their business in this building.

We don’t do in-the-bowl photography. We don’t name names. This ain’t toilet porn, friends. It’s a community of freedom fighters.

And so, while you have every reason to be extremely proud of that 19-incher you dropped in Denmark, I don’t need to see the photo. Seriously.

With that said, welcome to the party.

For you newbies who would like a sampler plate of some favorite posts, may I suggest the following:

This is Not a Library

My E-Level Vietnam

Coincidence?

Soundtrack Etiquette

Black (and Brown) Tuesday

The saddest stick-up ever

2009-09-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

You have to applaud a co-worker who takes matters into his own hands. Evidence suggests that a gentleman on the fifth floor did just that.

In both the penthouse and the Peter Brady stalls, low on the stall walls, are two stick-up air fresheners.

As far as I can tell, this is an anomaly unique to the fifth floor men’s room. They are clearly not standard-issue.

In other words, at some point in the past, some fifth floor fellow said to himself, “This place does not smell as good as it should. I’m going to use some of my own money to purchase something that will make it smell better.”

The key here is “in the past”...because these two little stick-ups have maintained their silent vigil for more than a year. Any air-freshening properties they once possessed are long gone. All that is left is the sad little plastic disks, reminding us that once upon a time, one man dared to dream of a better world.

Now THAT'S courtesy

2009-09-02T16:14:00.001-07:00

Somebody on fifth floor has been reading his copy of Miss Manners.

Did he leave the sports magazine on the floor by the toilet? No. He thoughtfully draped it over the handicap rail, putting it within arm's reach for the next patron.

Not only did I get a chance to catch up on pre-season college football, I did it without risking hepatitis.

That's how it's done, men.

Heavy lifting at the urinal

2009-09-01T14:48:00.000-07:00

I was conducting some business in the penthouse stall the other day when I heard the bathroom door open and somebody walk in. He headed over to the urinal, unzipped and then, let out an enormous sigh:

“Urrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..”

That was followed by more deep breaths and semi-grunts.

Honestly, if I hadn’t been sitting there with my pants around my ankles, I would have thought that I’d stumbled into the Olympic weightlifting competition. (Insert your own “clean and jerk” joke here.)

What the hell was going on with this guy? Is breaking out Mr. Wiggly that much of an ordeal?

Maybe the guy has a bad relationship with his wang. Perhaps the heavy breathing was his way to summon the courage to give this whole pee-pee thing one more try. “OK, little fella. I know we’ve had our trials and tribulations. But I believe in you. I want to make this work. Here we go.”

Or maybe he was just having a rough day. We’ve all been there, big guy. Sometimes when work is a major nut-punch, you just have to let it all go in an exhale. But maybe the urinal isn’t the optimal location for self-expression.

His transaction was completed before mine, so I did not lay eyes on the fellow. But he is out there, among us. And he needs a hug. Just not at the urinal.

Is it weird to walk out of the men's room holding a box of cereal?

2009-08-07T09:06:00.000-07:00

Unless there has been a natural disaster that knocked out the power to your refrigerator so that the only way you can store your milk and keep it from going sour is by tying a string around the carton and gently submerging it into the cool water of your toilet...yes; yes it is.

Is it weird to take your dog into the men's room with you at work?

2009-08-06T14:51:00.001-07:00

Yes. Yes it is.

Pee-mail

2009-08-05T15:42:00.000-07:00

True story.

Walked into the men's room and was standing at the big boy urinal. Door opens and somebody walks in. He saddles up to the little man urinal and starts his business.

He says, "Hey," and we exchange pleasantries. He says, "I've been meaning to send you an e-mail, but then I saw you walk in here and I thought 'I've got to go too; I'll just talk to him about it at the urinal.'"

Pee-mail.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. Is it really OK to talk shop while you're partially exposed?

Is this the beginning of a trend? I mean, if me and a colleague show up to meet and we discover that we both of us have a need to make a #2, do we just file into the men's room, head to our respective stalls and conduct the meeting through the partition?"

Productivity up? Yes. Dignity? Way down.

The king is dead

2009-07-30T12:38:00.001-07:00

This morning, the smell emanating from second floor men's room made my knees buckle. As I was walking by the door.

When the plume is strong enough to work its way through the door, you have officially lost your spot as "the best men's room in the building."

We've seen this coming. But when the champ finally hits the canvas, it's a shock.

Stand and deliver

2009-07-23T13:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I walked into fourth floor men's room and discovered a gentleman standing in the stall of last resort, engaged in a little number one action.

Both urinals were open for business (no waiting) and yet this fellow decided to head into the stall and make his pee pee there.

Interesting. And curious.

Why does a guy forgo the devil-may-care breeziness of a urinal for the more serious confines of the business chamber? Antisocial? Performance anxiety?

Is he anti-urinal? Or is he just extremely pro-stall?

Did he have a bad experience where a colleague tried to make conversation at the urinal but he's a "I-need-to-focus-on-what-I'm-doing" kind of guy and so he adopted a new routine?

Was he at a urinal and somebody looked over, looked down and made some sort of comment about his physiology? (I mean, past experience suggests that we do work among men who are built...differently.)

I, for one, wanted to know this man's story. But I could not ask. He was sealed away. Apart. Distant. Alone.

Just say no to medical waste

2009-07-20T11:42:00.001-07:00

We don't write about the first floor men's room a whole lot. Since it's the facility that services that majority of guests to the agency, it's usually kept in pretty good shape.

But last week, I came across something that I have not seen on any other floor: medical waste left on the counter next to the sink. OK, so it was somebody's used disposable contact lens package, but...on the counter next to the sink? What's next, old bandages? Used syringes?

"Mmmm, this wound is healing nicely. I think I'll just leave this bloody gauze pad right here next to the soap."

Not cool. I realize that the 720 restrooms now only accept garbage of the paper towel variety, but if you're discarding something that was originally purchased at a pharmacy, maybe you take it with you when you leave? Just a thought.

Pastry chef is in the house

2009-07-20T10:45:00.000-07:00

MAJOR triple red alert in 4th floor penthouse stall this morning.

Looks like somebody was trying to frost a cake.

Seriously, dude...I really don't need to see your ganache troweled all over the seat.

On the seat! How does one even do that? Where exactly is the exit on your frosting bag? The middle of your back?

Get thee to a doctor, friend. STAT.

Bleach spill on three

2009-07-09T11:27:00.000-07:00

Bleach spill outside the door of the third floor men's room.

And all I could think was, "They USE bleach in third floor men's room?"

Nothing about the experience of third floor men's room suggests that it has ever made the acquaintance of a cleaning product as strong as bleach.

Seriously?

2009-07-08T15:35:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to sound like your wife, but would it kill you to lift the lid?

Or better yet, let me introduce you to Mr. Urinal--he doesn't have a lid that needs lifting.

Seriously, guys...earlier today, one of you walked into the fourth floor men's room, walked right past the two urinals, past the stall of last resort, past the Peter Brady stall, entered the penthouse stall, closed the door, locked it...and then proceeded to pee all over the seat.

Who does that?

Paper towels only

2009-07-08T12:13:00.000-07:00

Recently, the men’s rooms (shouldn’t the plural of “men’s room” be “men’s reem?”) in our building “went green.” That means all the trash will be recycled.

As a consequence, fancy plastic signs have been affixed to each men’s room trash cans that say “Paper Towels Only.”

So here’s my question: what other trash were people tossing in there that necessitated the sign?

“Mmm...I think I’ll finish up my lunch in the men’s room and when I’m done, I will discard my extra food waste in the nearest receptacle.”

“Honey, don’t worry about the garbage in the kitchen, I’ll take it into work with me and dump it in the rest room.”

“Golly, should I go to the bathroom in one of the toilets or in this here trash can?”

Paper towels only, men. Glad we got that cleared up.

Is nothing sacred?

2009-07-06T16:40:00.000-07:00

Everybody knows that the men’s room on two is the best men’s room in the building. There are a number of reasons—the low number of men who actually work on two, auto-flush toilets in every stall, a cheerful wall color, etc.

But even paradise has its bad days.

Today is a bad day for two.

The wall of smell hit me as soon as I opened the door. This would not be the premium potty experience I hoped for. I did a quick scan and realized that the Peter Brady stall was occupied.

Had the occupant chosen the warm embrace of the #2 stall, forgoing the relative splendor of the penthouse stall? Or was this a case of misplaced blame? Had the real offender just left the penthouse and exited the men’s room, leaving the Peter Brady occupant to take the blame for the remaining plume?

Put then I noticed it. A magazine. Open. On the ground between the two feet of the Peter Brady visitor.

We’re his hands too tired to hold the magazine while he sat? Were his hands otherwise occupied?

Men, there are few areas LESS sanitary then the square foot directly in front of a toilet. It is not a place one should set anything of value and certainly not an item that you will be taking with you, handling for extended periods of time and, perhaps, passing on to a colleague.

It was all the evidence I needed. The reader and the pooper were one in the same.

Second floor, I hardly know you.

Is this even safe?

2009-06-24T17:48:00.000-07:00

Potty blogger believes that a clean mouth is a healthy mouth. I have a toothbrush in my office and, on occasion, I use it.

But yesterday, when I entered the men’s room on third floor for a quick scrub of the pearly whites, it smelled so bad I was actually concerned about the health risks of opening my mouth.

Is it even safe to brush your teeth in such an environment? Can an odor actually eat away enamel?

To be honest, there are times when I don’t even want to open my pants in here.

Looking for a newspaper?

2009-06-19T14:05:00.001-07:00

Yes, spreading it out so that I can read multiple sections without having to pick it up is a nice touch, but this is still not a library.

We need these in every stall

2009-06-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

The case for a bidet

2009-06-12T12:42:00.000-07:00

We need a bidet in this building.

My suggestion? Let’s remove the toilet from the Peter Brady stall on four and put a bidet in there.

There are already 20 men’s room stalls in the building. And aside from the infamous “Homemade Chili Day” in 2005, there has never been a time when all 20 have been in use at the same time.

Can we not spare one stall for a premium potty experience? A small luxury to promote derriere health?

And four is the perfect floor for it--the guys whose names are on the building sit on that floor and the men’s room has high-quality, executive washroom feel to it. But it’s accessible to schmos like you and me.

Will a bidet solve all our problems? Of course not. As has been documented on this blog many, many, many times, there are some profoundly broken people in this building. A bidet will not help them. Taking a power sprayer to their undercarriage probably wouldn’t help them.

A bidet is for the rest of us. The common man. The every day dumper who just wants to get clean down there. To feel fresh.

Let us unite in this cause, men. We deserve it.

Yet another reason that second floor is the best men's room in the building

2009-06-12T12:16:00.000-07:00

Auto-flush. In every stall. That is luxury, people.

Ladies mark their territory

2009-06-08T17:11:00.001-07:00

A female reader sent the following photo. Apparently, this sign is posted in the ladies penthouse stall on E level.

It looks like the ladies of E made wanted to encourage visitors to dump on their own floor. (As we all know, E level is a favorite hit-and-run location.) But some smart gal with a pen is encouraging a protest.

Black (and brown) Tuesday

2009-06-03T13:40:00.000-07:00

Something very VERY bad happened in the third floor men’s room yesterday afternoon.

A co-worker came to me with tears in his eyes. Another emailed with the subject line “something died.” A third was so distraught, all he could do was shake his head and point.

Naturally, I had to investigate.

What I found made the Saw movies look like Mary Poppins. It was the bathroom version of torture porn. It made me yearn for the salad days of my E-level discovery.

Within the first two seconds, I realized that if I stayed in there longer than a minute, I was going to throw up.

How to describe the odor? Imagine a corpse, soaked in pickle juice. That corpse is then eaten by a dog who poops it out. That poop is eaten my another dog who then barfs it into a jar of rotten eggs. That jar is then sealed for a thousand years. At the end of that thousand years, the jar is heated up over a methane gas plume. The jar is then opened and the contents are spread on crackers made out of diseased goat pancreas.

It smelled a little like that...only turned up to 11.

Any sane person would have run screaming. But I had to look. I had to see for myself.

What I saw was so foul there is really no way to describe it in a family blog like this. Lets just say that the mystifying splatter pattern that has so thoroughly puzzled me in the past had migrated to the floor and wall. The bowl in the Peter Brady stall was overflowing with filth and, evidence suggested, the contents had made a run for it, hopped to the ground, run up the wall and into the penthouse stall where it proceeded to fill that bowl too.

If you are responsible for any aspect of what took place in third floor men’s room yesterday afternoon GET YOURSELF TO A HOSPITAL. I'm not trying to be funny and I'm not kidding. You are physically and emotionally broken. You need help.

Thursday we read from your letters...

2009-05-28T16:59:00.000-07:00

Potty blogger's inbox was overflowing this week with stories, observations and photos from you, the loyal readers.

The reader who sent the email with the subject line “2-foot long colon buster in stall number 1,” you should know that I did not open the zip file full of photos. I’ve said it before and I’ll say again--we don’t publish inside-the-bowl photography. It’s not that kind of a blog.

(The one exception to the rule: if business is discovered in an unusual location—the sink, for example—well, now that’s news. When man bites the dog, you cover it.)

One reader emailed the photo above, showing a pretty dire situation--a double roll failure in the penthouse stall late in the day. It’s a cautionary tale and a good reminder to look before you leap. If you do find yourself post-session and discover yourself without resources, seat covers are an emergency options. Or you can call for help.

Here’s a letter from one straight-talking reader:

“As I was pissing, a person was crapping. I finished pissing and went to the sink to wash up. As I approached the sink, the crapper flushed. The crapper walked by me, gave me the ‘what’s up?’ head nod and said something I didn’t catch, and walked out. Without washing his hands. Thought you should know.”

Men, we’ve talked about this before. Washing your hands should be standard operating procedure. Especially after making the poops.

There was this short and sweet gem:

“There’s no toilet brush. I find that problematic.”

Problematic, eh Mr. OCD? I mean, I like a clean bowl as much as the next guy, but do I need a brush on standby so I can scrub that sucker to a fine shine before I soil it? Probably not. Now a plunger near the toilet...that’s something I can get behind.

Here's another:

“For the retard throne on 3 (A.K.A. the only one anyone wants to use), who is the fat ass who keeps dislodging the seat cover with their mammoth ass cheeks, thus putting us skinny people at risk of falling in when the now-broken throne cover shifts mid-movement?”

Wow. Where to begin with this one?

The penthouse stall is not the “retard throne.” It is a handicap stall designed for people with physical challenges who need a little extra space.

Second, while the penthouse stall is popular, it is not “the only one anyone wants to use,” as has been covered in a previous posting. For example, some men prefer the warm embrace of the Peter Brady stall.

Third, what your are calling the “seat cover” is actually “the seat.” The seat cover” is the white tissue paper that you put down on top of the “the seat” to protect your genitals from absorbing the bacteria left behind by other guy’s genitals. (The fact that you don’t know the difference between the two says everything I need to know about you.)

Fourth, we get it. You’re skinny. Congratulations. Some guys inherited a larger frame from their parents or maybe they have a glandular problem, but that does not mean that they are hell-bent on the destruction of potty property. To suggest otherwise is slanderous and mean spirited.

Finally, we received this from a female reader who, with this, may have earned herself a spot as this blog’s lady correspondent:

“You should know that the ladies of 720 California are here to represent. The other day, I came across a confusing contribution in the ladies room. A monster was poking up above the water line, resting its head on the porcelain like a seal on the rocks. No toilet paper in sight. Did she even try to flush? And if so, did it take the toilet paper but not the deposit? The toilet is like a mailbox, ladies—after you drop your letter in, you check to make sure that it’s gone all the way down.”

Good advice, sister. Good advice.

At least two kinds of wrong

2009-05-26T18:05:00.000-07:00

This just in from the third floor penthouse stall.

Where to begin?

First of all, I guess you have to give a guy props for using a seat cover. (As we've discussed, not everybody does.) But the seat cover is a one-time-use product, my friend. When you're done with your business, discard the seat cover.

This is usually handled with a simple flush. That's what the punch out in the middle is for--think of it as a rope that helps pull the tissue, which is now damp with your butt sweat, into the plumbing below.

If a flush is not sufficient to dislodge your seat cover, help a brother out, give it a quick peel and try again. Yeah, it's a little gross to handle the tissue, but it's no less gross for the next guy. In fact, I think we can all agree, it's significantly MORE gross for the next guy.

Second, I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to finish up your Nantucket Nectar while in the saddle, but that space behind the bowl is not a designated recycling area.

Chicken and waffles warning

2009-05-19T14:36:00.000-07:00

Apparently, a large contingent from the office indulged in chicken and waffles for lunch today.

As a result, no bathroom on any floor is safe this afternoon. Proceed with extreme caution.

Soundtrack etiquette

2009-05-14T16:01:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in my last entry, loyal readers have not been shy about suggesting topics for this blog. Without a doubt, the number one request has been to cover what I call “soundtrack etiquette.”

The bathroom soundtrack is rich and complicated genre.

At one end of the spectrum, it includes the subtle hey-there’s-somebody-in-one-of-the-stalls audio cues you give when you hear the bathroom door open. Potty Blogger is partial to the exaggerated cough, throat-clear or loud sniff. But I knew a guy once who thought subtlety was overrated and would proudly exclaim “fire in the hole!” when he heard somebody enter.

At the other end of the spectrum (literally) is what I call “butt music.” Now let’s be clear: this is a sub-genre about which there are strong feelings and much debate.

Some believe that such tunes do not deserve an audience. Those people, also known as “the clenchers,” will do almost anything to make sure that nary a peep emits from their stall while someone else is in the bathroom. One colleague recently told me that he takes a fork into the stall with him so that he can stab himself in the thigh if he needs to stifle his orchestra.

But others are equally passionate in their belief that this music is the most beautiful and natural music a person can make. They do not want to hide their light, but rather, share it with the world.

When these people perform, they seem to be saying, “Hey, my time in the saddle is my time. I let myself go 100 percent. If that involves squeaks, wheezes, and toots, and you happen to hear it, so be it. Enjoy the symphony, baby.”

A healthy respect for your colonic instrument is one thing, but there are certainly some who take this point-of-view to an unhealthy, exhibitionist extreme. We’ve all found ourselves in a stall next to one of these guys--the ones who grunt, and struggle and emit sounds more commonly associated with the slaughterhouse than the business chamber. We get it, Tchaikovsky--you’re a musical prodigy with your ass flute. Bravo.

Let us all remember that musical tastes vary. One man’s gag-inducing bun warbler is another man’s symphony. Vive la difference!

Some suggestions

2009-05-12T12:28:00.000-07:00

There are certain occupational hazards that come with potty blogging.

For example, it forces you to pay attention to some pretty gruesome crime scenes. Do I want to look into a bowl that looks like it hasn’t been flushed since 2008? No. But if I don’t look into that abyss, who will tell the tale?

One unfortunate side effects of the blog is that a certain number of loyal readers have discovered my true identity are constantly suggesting topics.

“There’s a major deuce in the handicap stall. You should check it out.”

“You gonna do an entry about the super dark pee on three?”

“Yesterday, guy in the stall next to me muttered ‘help me’ while squeezin’ one out. I can give you his name if you want to write about it.”

These are all wonderful suggestions. Thank you. It’s gratifying to know that so many share my passion for the pageantry of our restrooms. But perhaps shouting ideas across a crowded office is not the best venue for an editorial pitch.

Let me introduce you to the comment section on this blog. Think if it as your tip line. You can post anonymously and I read all of them.

While we’re on the topic of suggestions, let me make one myself: wash your hands, men.

Today, I saw a colleague--somebody whom I respected--finish his business and head straight for the door.

Now, I’ve heard all the excuses, the most common one being: “I just went number one and only touched my front. If I washed my hands every time I touched Mr. Lincoln, I’d be at the sink all day.”

Men, making a number one is not a free pass from hand washing. If you’ve done anything in the men’s room, let a session at the sink be your final act. They put the basins by the door for a reason: to remind you that you should use them on your way out.

As for my disgusting colleague, who shall remain nameless, I shamed him into washing his hands. This time. But I am not on patrol 24/7. You have to police yourselves, men.

Let’s be careful out there.

The ol’ switcheroo?

2009-05-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

There are certainly no shortage of how-the-hell-did-he-do-that moments in fourth floor men’s room. I have seen things that make me question my own anatomy.

But this one...it almost hurts my feelings it’s so confusing.

I’m talking about a chocolate spatter pattern...on the front edge of the bowl.

Think about that one for a minute, will you?

The bowl had been flushed. The only evidence of prior use: three tire tracks down the front edge of the bowl.

How does that happen? I’ve been turning it over and over in my mind and the only possible explanation is this: Somebody that works on the fourth floor has had his anus and his penis switched.

I know that’s a strong accusation. I don’t make it lightly. It is simply the only plausible explanation for what I saw. One of my co-workers moved his exit to the front. I have no idea why.

If you are this medical marvel, please leave a comment and help us understand.

Thanks, but no thanks

2009-05-04T12:39:00.001-07:00

This morning, a "generous" soul left his copy of Road & Track on the floor in the penthouse stall of fourth floor men's room.

Need to drop a load but are also dying to find out how the new Porsche handled on the test track? Thankfully, there is one location where you can do both.

Seriously, guys. It's been said before, but it bears repeating: this is not a library.

Think about it. If the magazine is left on the ground close enough to the toilet so you can reach down and pick it up while you're in the middle of your business, it's in "the splash zone" and should not be handled.

Poopin’ on the Ritz

2009-04-30T20:26:00.001-07:00

Is there anything more intimate than making a number two?

It’s one of the most vulnerable things you can do by yourself and, understandably, people have strong feelings about where they make the magic.

Some of you prefer a specific floor. I’ve talked to several colleagues who swear that the only place they’ll sit down is in the second floor men’s room. “It just has a great ambiance,” says one. And another adds, “A lot of ladies sit on 2, so I don’t think it gets a lot of use. It feels...special when I make a poop in there.”

(I have been told that E level used to be a great place to conduct business. But given my recent experience down there, I have a hard time believing that.)

Most people also have a favorite stall. Some of you are penthouse people—you like the extra space that the big boy stall offers. Others prefer, the Peter Brady stall. (One gentleman who always goes for this middle chamber says, “I just like the way it makes me feel. There’s too much space in the big one.”)

I’m sure there is somebody in the building that likes the stall closest to the urinals. But since I call this one “the stall of last resort,” I’m not sure who you are or why you chose it. But hey...different strokes.

But recently I heard about a colleague’s potty preference that really made me tip my hat.

“I like to walk up and go at the Ritz.”

Bravo, sir. Don’t shit where you work. Take your business elsewhere. And not just anywhere...the fanciest toilet (see above) in a two-block radius. Wooden doors on the stalls. Marble counter tops. REAL towels (see below) with which to wipe your hands. A premium potty, to be sure.

(Of course, this assumes he meant here and not here.)

There is a story here

2009-04-20T15:47:00.000-07:00

Sitting on the ground, next to the toilet in the fourth floor penthouse stall, is an empty Safeway shopping bag.

Who carried that bag into the stall? What was inside?

Food? If so, was it consumed during a business transaction? Is this an appropriate picnic spot?

A birthday card for mom? Was it signed and addressed in between pushes? Was the stamp licked before or after the session was completed?

Extra toilet paper? Just to be on the safe side?

Or maybe…just maybe...our bag man was concerned that the toilet would not be able to handle all he had to offer and he brought a bag in with him so that he could “pack out” any extra waste. The ultimate selfless act. But when he discovered that the bowl was able to handle his deposit, he left it behind for the next guy. Paying it forward.

If only that bag could talk.

Double red alert

2009-04-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

This is not a drill.

I was just in third floor men's room and the penthouse stall is officially on double red alert status.

We're not talking about the stray, unexplainable remnant. We're in "my cup runneth over" territory.

I did not look into the eye of the storm for long for fear of losing my breakfast, but the quick glimpse suggested that the turds are about to jump over the porcelain wall and make a run for the door.

Stay clear of the area.

And if you are the chef that served up the meal that the toilet could not digest, you have a moral obligation to call facilities and report the crime. Be a man.

Disappointment lottery

2009-04-15T13:16:00.000-07:00

Before noon on a Wednesday, and the toilet paper situation in the penthouse stall of the fourth floor men's room is looking bleak. (See photo left.)

Very good chance that someone this afternoon is going to come up high and dry.

If you are the unlucky winner, remember it is perfectly appropriate to say aloud, "Ah, man! Hello, is anyone there? Can you help a brother out with some toilet paper."

If you happen to be in the rest room and hear this plea, it is recommended that you do, in fact, help a brother out. It is NOT recommended that you enter the penthouse stall and hand said brother some TP nor should you offer to install a new roll while business is still being conducted.

The proper way to deliver the paper is to enter the Peter Brady stall, which is directly adjacent to the penthouse stall. Pull some toilet paper from the roll and ball it up. Throw the ball of TP over the wall and quickly back out of the stall.

Do NOT slip the wad of paper under the wall as this action may be misconstrued. Also, in general, keeping your hands as far away from the floor as possible is a good rule of thumb.

Good luck, men.

My E-level Vietnam

2009-04-14T12:35:00.000-07:00

It’s been four days. But I’m still not sure if I’m ready to talk about it.

What I experienced last Friday in E-level’s men’s room changed me. Forever. And not in a good way.

I approached the door, ready for a quick pop-in. In general, E-level is not my first choice of facilities. With just one urinal and two business chambers, it feels vaguely un-American. Not enough choices, you know what I mean? But when a guy’s got to go...

When I opened the door, I descended into another world. It was like Lord of the Flies in there. Chaos. Anarchy. Unspeakable horror.

The penthouse stall had a library’s world of magazines strewn all over the floor. (Again, men, this is not a library.) I’m not talking about one or two sections of newspaper left behind...I’m talking stacks and stacks of magazines. It looked like somebody had been using the space to learn how to read.

The urinal was full to overflowing. And the color could best be described as “5th Floor Men’s Room Wall Color” which is not a shade associated with urinary tract health.

Then I found the turd.

It was in small stall and it dwarfed its surroundings. At first, I was concerned that someone had accidentally dropped their backpack into the toilet. Then it hit me: “That’s not a backpack.”

It appeared to be peeking up out of the bowl, head raised, daring me to come forward. “Who dares to enter my domain?” it seemed to say. “Not I,” I whispered and backed out of the stall.

But it was the smell that permeated the air that truly scared me. I did not know such smells existed in nature.

My mind raced to make sense of the experience. Perhaps a hobo wandered in off the street and into the E-level men’s room where he took his first real dump in three years.

But the smell was more than just the worst bathroom smell ever. It was something more.

I would not have been surprised to receive an all agency email on Monday saying, “Due to an incident last week, people are no longer allowed to keep human remains in their locker on E-level.”

Did I survive? Physically, yes. Emotionally, it’s going to be a long, long time before I recover.

If you or somebody you know is responsible for the crimes committed on E last Friday, I urge you to seek professional help immediately.

Penthouse alert

2009-04-09T14:41:00.000-07:00

Heads up, men. Potty blogger was just in fourth floor men's room and it appears that a crime was recently committed in the penthouse stall. The splatter pattern suggests that the victim struggled.

If you are the perpetrator of this crime, you need to get yourself checked. Today. Call the doctor's office right now. Tell them it's an emergency.

Here's a clue: If you flush and the bowl still looks like a connect-the-dots puzzle, you are not OK.

Sometimes it takes two flushes

2009-04-07T19:13:00.000-07:00

Potty blogger was at big-boy urinal today when he heard somebody finish his business in the penthouse stall and flush.

Then, a moment later, a second flush.

The gentleman exited the penthouse, saw potty blogger and said, "Sometimes it takes two flushes."

I'm betting that man is also good in the bedroom. Because he notices the little things. He is sensitive enough to say to himself, "Before I exit the business chamber, perhaps I should make a visual inspection of the bowl to confirm that my waste has been discarded."

"What's that? This toilet has not yet fully digested the meal I have provided? Well then, why don't I help it along with a second flush."

I salute you sir. You are an inspiration. Let us follow his lead, men.

Coincidence?

2009-04-06T10:43:00.001-07:00

Ever notice how the closer toilet paper gets to the end of the roll, the more it looks like a nut sack?

It does.

Especially in fourth floor men's room. Something about the light brings out its hangin' brain-like qualities.

Coincidence? Or God's awesome plan? You decide.

Exhibit A: First floor men's room

2009-04-03T14:34:00.001-07:00

A perfect example of the phenomenon described below is currently on display in first floor men's room.

This particular artist added his own special spin on it. The phrase "shotgun blast" comes to mind. And how, Picasso, did you paint UNDER THE SEAT??!?

This is a troubling way to start the weekend...

From whence black spot?

2009-04-03T09:17:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have written about this phenomenon before, but that was when potty blogger was covering a different location. At the time, I thought it could be traced back to a particular individual who worked in that building--patient zero, as it were.

So imagine my surprise when I discovered the same telltale signs at 720 California fourth floor men’s room. I still have a hard time wrapping my brain around it.

I’m talking about walking into a stall, finding a bowl that has clearly been flushed, and yet, significant...remnants remain...three inches above the water line.

Three...inches...ABOVE...the water line.

Where the hell is that guy’s exit? Given my anatomy (which I assume to be standard issue) I would have to contort myself into some pretty interesting positions to...paint on that portion of the canvas.

If your chute is within spitting distance of your waistband, you need to get yourself checked, fellas. That ain’t right.

Smells like 6:37 p.m.

2009-04-02T15:12:00.000-07:00

It's 3:12 p.m. but fourth floor men's room already smells like 6:37 p.m. Not a good sign.

This is not a library

2009-04-02T09:12:00.000-07:00

Generous or disgusting? You be the judge.

Occasionally--and yesterday was one such occasion--somebody leaves a newspaper or magazine in the penthouse stall. Sometimes it’s thoughtfully draped over the handicap handrail but more often than not, it’s left on the floor.

Is a gift really a gift when it’s left on the floor of a men’s room?

Bonus points to yesterday’s giver for the subscription cards strewn about. Just in case somebody thought, “Goodness, I am thoroughly enjoying this issue of Forbes which has been marinating in my coworker’s fecal juices…I wish there was a convenient way to subscribe to this publication.”

What about it, men? Do you consider left-behind reading material an obstacle to be avoided or a welcome discovery?

Does the publications proximity to the bowl influence your willingness to pick it up?

Are there certain titles that you’re more likely to grab, no matter what? (“I don’t care how urine-soaked it might be, I never miss a chance to flip through FHM.”)

A report from the third floor

2009-04-01T10:01:00.000-07:00

720california4thfloormensroom.blogspot.com is not about a single location. It’s really more of a state of mind. A way of seeing the world. In that spirit, we will cover the goings-on in other men’s rooms in the building.

Today’s destination: third floor men’s room. If fourth floor men’s room is Hawaii, then third floor men’s room is Beirut.

First of all, there is the flickering light bulb. It gives third floor men’s room kind of a coroner’s lab vibe. It’s dim and the incessant tap-tap-tap of the fixture trying to light prevents any quality “alone time.” It doesn’t matter if they replace the bad bulb; another always picks up the baton.

Second, we go to the wall color. “Asphyxiation blue” according to the label.

But THE distinguishing feature of third floor men’s room is that big-boy urinal is a no-hands auto-flush while little-man urinal remains a manual flush.

Unfortunately, it appears that a large number of third floor men’s room patrons are visually impaired, because nobody seems to realize that a manual flush is required on the little-man urinal. The result is piss potpourri (literally “rotten pot” in French)--a stagnant trough of urine that gives third floor men’s room that mmmmm-delicious bus stop smell.

Let us take a vow together, men: I will use my hand to flush the little-man once I am done with my #1 business.

No, it won’t solve all of the problems of third foor men’s room, but baby steps, guys. Baby steps.

(Just in case some of you don’t know the difference between auto and manual plush, here is a handy visual guide. Print it out. Put it in your wallet. Be Safe.)

Paper or plastic?

2009-03-31T11:35:00.000-07:00

True confession time, friends. Potty Blogger does not use a toilet seat cover every time he sits down to make the poops.

Don’t judge me.

Sometimes, I’m in a hurry and seconds count. Other times, I simply prefer the cold hard industrial plastic to the crinkle of the tissue paper. (Something about the paper reminds me of a doctor’s office visit. Is it just me?)

And really, how much protection does that flimsy strip provide? I mean, if the potty crabs are out, they’re going to find a way into your bottom casa, aren’t they?

Anyhoo, I would guess my ratio is probably 60-40, plastic to paper.

But the other day, I was faced with an etiquette question. Potty Blogger entered fourth floor men’s room and headed for the penthouse stall. A colleague was finishing his business at one of the urinals and said hello as he headed toward the sink.

When I got into the penthouse, I was faced with the question: do I just sit down and commence download or do I now need to make a rather elaborate show of pulling out the seat cover, making sure that my colleague overhears my effort? Do I need to send an audible signal that I am, in fact, not a disgusting pig?

I buckled to peer pressure, pulled out the cover and made a few overly-dramatic flourishes and crinkles that surely telegraphed "I am a clean teen."

My colleague left with his delicate sensibilities in tact. But my session felt like a trip to the doctor’s office. The things we do for other people.

Tuna fart

2009-03-30T15:04:00.000-07:00

Let’s be honest, dear readers. Fourth floor men’s room is a pretty nice place.

This is the men’s room that is most frequently used but the men whose names are on the building. That sort of clientele means that you’re not usually going to find a rogue deposit sitting around unattended. That’s why this men’s room is a destination of choice for those with discriminating tastes.

But even fourth floor men’s room is not immune to the occasional bio-terror attack.

This morning, upon opening the door to fourth floor men’s room, Potty Blogger’s nose was assaulted with what can only be described as...tuna fart.

Not one of those personal serving snack size cans of tuna. We’re talking about one of those I-own-a-small-sandwich-shop-down-on-Kearny-and-go-to-Costco-for-those-bigger-than-your-head-cans of tuna.

It was a smell that made me feel bad for both tuna and farts.

Be strong, friends. Be strong.

And so it begins

2009-03-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

Inspired, a new era in potty blogging begins.