I went to many concerts at the Capital Centre back in the 80s. I used the men’s bathrooms often. Thankfully, I never encountered one that bad. At one concert (The Who?), the guys shared the bathroom willingly - they’d use the urinals and let the girls use the stalls.
Sheri
Second-hand story, but verified by many observers.
Opening day at new SF Giants stadium a few years ago. Long lines for the men’s room. No trough, like they have at Candlestick.
Guys get tired of waiting. Grown men start whipping out their accessory and peeing into the sinks, on the walls, everywhere.
Another good reason that men don’t have periods. Oh, the humanity. I don’t even want to imagine it.
First story (not so bad). Driving from Omaha to Ohio with my children, we are passed on the highway by a speeding state trooper. When we pull in to the next rest area, we see the trooper’s car there, but think nothing of it. Entering the bathroom with my daughter, we are greeted by the sight of a woman, lying on the floor, knees spread, about to give birth, assisted by the trooper. No attempt was being made by the staff to get a blanket, steer people around her…I always imagined how terrible it would be to be born on the cold, hard dirty bathroom floor with hundreds of strangers walking by.
Second story…band camp. Camp starts on Sunday…group before us left Saturday afternoon after their week at camp. Porta-potties aren’t emptied until Tuesdays. Porta-potties are not just full, they are crowning. By Tuesday, there is a swarm of teenagers waiting for the fresh Porta-Potties to be off-loaded from the truck. Funny thing was, when we left on Saturday, the P-P’s weren’t disgusting…perhaps the band before us was just larger, but we always assumed they were just full of sh**!
Well, I never went into this bathroom, but here’s my weird story.
I’m taking a couple of summer classes at San Antonio College and have a break between the two. So, I’m hanging out at the student lounge, reading a book and eating something from the vending machine. The men’s bathroom is about twenty feet away from where I am.
First, I see two snickering and giggling boys in their late teens enter, gripping their backpacks. I notice them, wonder “what the frick have they got going on”, and return to my book. Within a couple of minutes, I start hearing noises from the bathroom. The kind of noise you get by rubbing a balloon vigorously. Still not knowing what to make of it, I return to my book. Then, a distinguished older man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, pushes the door open and walks through. He stopped about two thirds of the way in the door.
“I can’t believe you’re doing that in here!” he exclaimed.
By now, I’ve put my book down and I’m training my eyes on the door. No one else in the busy student lounge seems to have noticed the goings-on. The distinguished man goes on in and emerges a few minutes later, shaking both his wet hands and his head in disbelief.
The balloon rubbing noises continued a little while longer, and finally the two emerged.
One of them was wrapped from head to toe in Saran Wrap. The other was not.
I had to admire their work ethic. The Saran Wrap guy’s clothes were compressed against his body by the clear clingwrap. They hadn’t covered the very top of his head, so his brown hair seemed to fountain out in a kind of new age topknot. His partner looked sweaty and satisfied.
They left for the escalators, the Saran Wrapped man walking with his feet carefully splayed apart, and the other guy following behind like a well worn chaperone. I still wonder where they were going.
And that would be…what?
Reoch
Two words: “Sky dumps”
My ex was a “don” in a first year student residence (an upperclassman who is there for advice, to enforce rules and generally make sure there are no major shenanigans going on). My ex got a call from a don on a neighbouring floor who needed help – the guys on his floor had been doing “sky dumps”.
They would climb to the top of the stalls, balance on the top edges of the walls sort of straddling them, and see whose “dump” would come closest to being “on target.”
Oh, I forgot to mention. Since it was such a “Kodak moment” the freshmen doing “sky dumps” were also taking pictures as they went along. Something for posterity, I guess.
“Oh, I forgot to mention. Since it was such a “Kodak moment” the freshmen doing “sky dumps” were also taking pictures as they went along. Something for posterity, I guess.”
—It’s only a matter of time till one of them runs for office and those photos wind up in the National Enquirer . . .
I knew I could rely on Dopers for good potty stories!
Things that a straight man were not ment to know.
I’d just like to point out that I always flush when I’m ready. :rolleyes:
I’ve got a couple. The first is the Bathroom That Gave Me Bashful Bladder: The notorious, unlamented KingDome in Seattle had among the worst bathroom ratios of any public building anywhere. And of course, since the King County Stadiums Authoirty was so cheap, instead of proper urinals they had one of …
those. Those troughs. Forty feet long. No partitions. About eight hundred men on line.
Me: 15.
By the end of the day I thought I was going to turn into Tycho Brahe. It was years before I could use anything other than a stall.
And then the second experience didn’t help. At the former Tracks in Washington (I can’t remember what it’s called now, but it’s a big dance club on a scary block of Southeast near the Navy Yard), they had the customary urinals—
back-to-friggin-back.
So in order to pee, you had to stand there at the urinal, staring into the eyes of the guy usng the opposite urinal. Normally I’d have just used a stall, but those had no doors and were conveniently located facing the restroom door.
At 20 I just wasn’t quite prepared for such things… Now, of course, I realize what a wasted opportunity it was…
(At the same bar, my friend “Jane” went to use the ladies’ room while I was freaked out by the men’s. She’s finishing her business when up pops a head over the partition: “Hi! My name’s Kerry and I think you’re cute. What’s your name?”
A frozen Jane replies:
“Mud.”)
[Chandler Bing voice]
Hey Squanto, could you put any more corn around that lake trout?
[/Chandler Bing voice]
On the other hand, the most FUN public bathroom was at Limelight, a very chic NYC club in the early- to mid-1980s (it’s still around, but I don’t think it’s chic anymore).
It was well known as a drug supermarket, but no one FORCED you to buy or take anything. All the bathrooms were pretty much unisex; decorated like lounges in a very deco French whorehouse. People doing various shy-making things in various stalls; everyone freely giving out clothing and makeup advice and compliments, flrting wildly . . . The bathrooms were often more fun and sociable than the dance floor.
At the risk of exposing my neuroses for the world to see, I would like to share my favorite recurring bad dream: I am in a public bathroom, like in a school or something, and none of the stalls have doors. There’s about two inches of brownish water covering the floor, and I’m wearing no shoes.
I usually have that dream when I’m sleeping and have to go to the bathroom. Usually I wake up, avail myself of the clean, dry facilities in my apartment, and all is well. 
Oh brainychick, I feel for your dreaming brain. Nifty alert system, though
I’m sorry, I just can’t stop laughing at this! That image is going to be stuck in my head for a long time.
:o
On a train-ride in China…
I was on a sleeper car, somewhere between Jinan and Shanghai, and had to get up in the middle of the night to go. It was mandatory lights out on the train, and I blind-fumbled my way with outstretched arms down the car to the bathroom door. Now, if you haven’t been, China doesn’t hold to the western concept of toilets and bathrooms. The only bathroom available was a Chinese style, which was simply a round hole in the floor of the car. I saw this during a brief flicker of light from a rare passing light (they had shut the bathroom lights off as well apparantly). I made a valiant try at squatting down on my heels, holding my arms outstretched against the walls to support and balance my self, and managed to empty my bladder everywhere in the compartment except that tiny little hole in the floor due to the constant rough jostling of the rickety car on the warped train tracks. I fumbled my way back into my berth, pausing only to remove my now damp shoes and pants and socks, and wept myself to sleep 
Traveling in China? Schedule your bladder needs appropriately. And bring a flashlight.
I get a similar dream from time to time. I call it “The Night of the Trainspotting Bathroom Dream: Part 26” For some reason, I’m often a child or young teenager in the dream.
I think the most awkward bathroom story on my part was the time that I was at the library (D.C.—the Martin Luther King branch) and really needed to go. Unfortunately, each stall had a homeless occupant stretched out and snoozing on the floor. I had to wake one of them up and ask her if I could use the toilet, and believe me, she was NOT happy to give up her place on the floor. Not something covered in your standard etiquette column.
Don’t even make me think about the Porta-Potties at gay pride each year shudder
eve, sorry for the hijack, but i have to tell you this. the one and only time ive been to the limelight was new years eve 1984, to see johnny thunders. my oh-so-hip NYC pal brought me.
as he gelled his hair and applied mascara, i dressed to the nines in the ultimate of swank for my one-horse town, a clean pair of painter’s pants and a lurid hawaiian shirt.
we got to the joint and, as the bouncer looked at me with undisguised horror, i noticed that i looked REAL different than everyone else.
as it was the height of goth style in new york, i was the ONLY person not dressed in black in the whole club, with the exception of a lovely gentleman wearing a wedding dress. oh, the humanity!
really really cool club, though. thanks for listening!