Tag Archives: The Man-Sittin’ Project

“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”: Behind the Iron Curtain

Man, these C.R.A.P.’s are getting further and further apart, aren’t they?

Well, we’ll have to make sure we change that, won’t we?

You bet your ass we do.

Pat's to the Sofitel's Geno's

So, if you’re unfamiliar with these entries, the C.R.A.P. is a detailed review of public places to take a dump here in the City of Brotherly Love and United Hatred for McNabb (and occasionally elsewhere) and is reviewed according to several specific criteria: Cleanliness, Remoteness, Access, Privacy. All of which of course equals “C.R.A.P.”.

Some people find the categories a little redundant; they say, “hey Kids, aren’t access and remoteness sort of the same?”, to which I usually say, “hey, go write your own shit, Dear Abby; I’ll handle mine”.

As the kids (not to be confused with The Kids) say: do you.

And so, without further ado-doo, the latest C.R.A.P.

The Kids Don’t Get It Sends You Some Shit From Hotel Palomar, With Love

Turn the wrong faucet on and LAVA COMES

The Hotel Palomar is pretty Smurfing ballsy. They opened their swank hotel right across the street from the King of C.R.A.P. the Hotel Sofitel. When I first saw the glossy doors of the Hotel Palomar open for business, I knew it’d be trouble for my ass. These two places co-existing on the exact same block, mere feet from each other, was like having Pat’s and Geno’s for your ass suddenly open. Most times when I’m downtown, I’ve still opted for Hotel Sofitel; at this point, I go there so often the hotel staff has hand towels waiting for me once I’m done.

But on this fateful day, I took the plunge(r) and headed to Hotel Palomar. With a bellyful of butt batter, I sidled up to the new hotel, which looks impressively impregnable from the outside. Fortunately, I’ve impregnated a lot of places in the past.

Wait, what?

Your mission should you choose to accept it? To do the same. In the meantime, let’s take a look at what I learned inside. Armed with a spy camera (my Palm Pre) and this morning’s Starbucks multi-grain bagel and grande hot chocolate, Agent 002 was ready for her majestry’s service.

  • Cleanliness: The Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms were pretty spiffy. The stalls are all painted a dark blue, and the floor and the walls are adorned with blue tile. The whole place feels like a psychological experiment; it’s as if the blue color is dark and foreboding enough to make you spill your country’s most guarded secrets and last night’s turkey chili with almost hypnotic ease.To add to this intrigue, two other details curiously stood out:

"Think Nothing But Blue Skies": It's the "think baseball, grandmother" of pooping!

Stalls, prepared to be classified as "K.I.A."

Observation #1: immediately inside the restroom wall was a huge framed picture with the phrase “Think Nothing But Blue Skies” repeated over and over again (see the adjacent picture). As I snapped a series of pics of the frame, I stared at it several times, and before I knew it I was not only reciting my social security number, but I was so relaxed, I was already shitting on the floor. Impressive.

Observation #2: the entire time I was in there, Euro techno music was thumping overhead through hidden speakers. Oddly enough, this wasn’t that intrusive, but certainly added to the “Euro undercover mission” vibe I was feeling.

I stopped in the middle of the restroom and took stock: 3 toilet stalls to the right, about 3 urinals lining the left wall, and then a handicap-accessible toilet far in the back. The sinks were bone-white with a sloped basin and these cute little trapdoors located under the faucet that seemed to catch the water. The whole thing was very zen-like. I ceremoniously washed my hands before stepping into the stall to remove my trousers. I’ve got a license to kill, and I aim to use it before it’s revoked (again). +10

  • Remoteness: Where’s these bathrooms located, right? I mean, if it was in the lair of say, Dr. No, it’d be located through some sort of exotic venereal-disease-infested grotto like at the Playboy mansion. Here though, the public restrooms are located on the 2nd floor (clever birds) and tucked away off a hallway that resembled the ‘auction house’ in Taken–they were incredibly dark and dimly lit, with dark wood walls and, I’m sure, with a touch of a panel, a room would reveal itself that would allow you to bid on young chicks like they were concert tickets on eBay. As I walked down the hall, I occasionally passed Palomar staff, many of whom stopped eying me suspiciously once I affected my best British accent and said, “Washroom? It would appear that one of the Czech-area hookers I’m bidding on has spat upon my knickers.” With a click of a heel to the right, I walked down the hall and entered the bathroom.+8

    The Man-sittin' Project

  • Access: It’s not easy getting to the restrooms. It’s downright intimidating even. Even under my prepared guise (Name: Truman America. Age: 128. Occupation: Arts importer/exporter. Sex: Lots Marital Status: Delayed.) I found that despite my years of previous restroom infiltration, this one made me sweat it out a bit. Hotel Palomar isn’t intuitively laid out; there’s a bar/restaurant to your right, a check-in desk up to the left, and a yawning hallway ahead of you that leads to elevators and a shark pit I think. This process would be much, much easier with the aid of a Bond girl with a scene appropriate name like “Delores Brownbottom”, or “Candy Deucedropper”. I shut my eyes at one point and strode forward with an icy resolve. My secret? blueskiesblueskiesblueskiesblueskies. +6
  • Privacy:Once again, with the removed location, the sound-dampening oak walls, and the ink-blot test blue stalls, the Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms are a secret ass-gent’s ideal HQ. I felt like I could not only take the “silencer” off my butt when I let loose, I probably could have also contacted M back at HQ and told her of my progress thus far. I’ve actually been to the Hotel Palomar 3x, and each time I’ve been pleasantly surprised to see how empty the bathrooms are every time. After awhile you even start to fall into the groove of the place; I sat as I shat and dreamed of racing through halls with Candi Deucedropper trying to locate toilet paper, or Russian bomb blueprints  (or maybe Russian bomb blueprints printed on toilet paper?) while toe-tapping to the overhead tune of “This This THIS Is For the ReVolUtiOn” by that hit group “Progrom”.

    Agent, you are cleared to use lethal force!

But I mean, f-ck man, after awhile I just wanted to boogie, so at some point, with a wipe (shaken, not stirred) and a whistle, I got up and waltzed back into the bright, searing Philadelphia sun.+8
  • Total C.R.A.P. Score: 32
The only drawback I could find? Now whenever I hear the phrase “blue skies” I immediately shit myself.

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