Restroom Ratings » Iowa

Bonanza

Jon — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

This restroom is clean. It always has soap and papertowels and the toilets always look clean. The downside is there are only two stalls and the regular, not the handicapped stall, doesn’t lock. There is no baby changing station. I know all this because I’m a regular. Well, actually I’m more than a regular. I LIVE here. Seriously, I do. I eat three meals a day here and sleep in the maintenance closet behind the kitchen. The manager knows I do this, but it’s kind of a "don’t ask, don’t tell" kind of situation.. so don’t tell anyone. OK?

Grotto of the Redemption

Jon — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

In some ways, the destiny of Father Dobberstein was set in stone even before he became a priest. "Lets name him Father," said his parents. "Maybe that way he’ll decide to become a priest." Sure enough, a short time later Father Dobberstein entered seminary and began his studies for the priesthood. Unfortunately, Father Dobberstein became very lonely because all his fellow seminarians had to call him "Father" even though he wasn’t yet a priest. "He thinks he’s better than us," they all said, even though Father Dobberstein bent over backwards to prove his humility and good works to his jealous colleagues and the Lord.

Finally one day, humble Father Dobberstein became Father Father Dobberstein. Though proud of having made it all the way through seminary school, the stress of the ordeal had placed Father Father Dobberstein’s health in jeopardy. But unlike the real jeopardy with its neatly ordered categories this jeopardy had no right answers, no calm and steady Alex Trebek to lead the way, nor any bonus rounds to make up for points lost on U.S. Presidents’ Pets or Defunct Social Sciences (come on Father Father Dobberstein, what is phrenology? Hello?). No, when the poor Father Father Dobberstein fell ill with pneumonia one rainy afternoon in 1912, there was only he and his Lord to sort out matters of life, death and other important things which hang in the balance unless they can’t balance or couldn’t to begin with.

A country doctor came and went. "All we can do is give him a butt load of morphine," said the doctor. "This stuff is actually the cure for opium addiction and we have two more years ’till Hearst’s newspapers sensationalize drug abuse in racial terms to the point where anti-Marihuana and anti-Mexican hysteria leads to the creation of the Harrison Act of 1914, prescription medicine, the role of doctors as gatekeepers and patients as victims, treatment based on corporate business models, and the beginning of the U.S. War on Drugs.. So…if we can keep him alive and full of morphine until 1914 we’ll be okay."

But it was no good. Dobberstein got sicker and sicker, until one night he slept like a rock and almost never woke up. Then he did wake up, knowing that this might be his last day in the land of the living. He called out, "Heavenly Father, hear my prayer!"

"Who is it?" said the Lord.

"It is I Father," said Father Father Dobberstein.

"’I’ who?" said the Lord. "Tell me your name my child."

"Father," said Father Father Dobberstein.

"Yes, I hear your prayer child, but tell me who you are."

"Its me, Father," Dobberstein was heard to say. "Do you not know me?"

"Of course I know you! I know everyone," answered the Lord, by now irritated. "Don’t give me that ‘do you not know me’ crap. I know everything! I’m the Lord me-damn it, I just get tired once in awhile…a little forgetful… Now be a good lamb and tell me who the hell you are, first, middle, last. Just give it to me straight. I’m a busy man up here."

"Why, I’m your servant Father Father Danny Dobberstein and I’m going to die soon if you don’t help me."

"Oh yeah, right," said the Lord. "Dobberstein, poor kid. What were your parents thinking, with that first name of yours? Well, okay Father I’m listening. Whats eating you?"

Dobberstein explained his demise to the Lord, who heard and understood. The Lord knew all about it because he was planning to take Dobberstein’s soul from its tormented earthly life so it could hang out up in heaven with the Lord. "That doesn’t sound so bad does it?" said the Lord. "I only get this way when I drink and besides, you get 80 virgins when you get up here… Oh wait a second, I keep forgetting I’m not Allah. Only I get to keep the virgins! And why not? Shit, I made ‘em didn’t I." The Lord also explained that the flight to heaven had been reduced to four direct, non-stop hours with no layovers in Purgatory expect for unbaptized couples and unmarried babies, and all they had to do was eat grass and live an ascetic lifestyle for several generations until they got their reward.

"I want to live," Dobberstein told the Lord. "If you cure me, I will spend the rest of my life building a rock filled grotto celebrating the redemption of man through Christ. I will build it 400 cubits long by 300 cubits wide. I shall fill it with azurite, hydratite, quartz, feldspar, bauxite, hematite – "

"- Wait a second," said the Lord. "You want me to let you live so you can build a grotto out of rocks in honor of my kid, Jesus?" The Lord could hide his annoyance no longer. "Damn it Dobberstein, were the menu options not clear enough? Dial one for Jesus, two for the Holy Ghost, three for Allah, four for the Great Mystery and four for me. So, you want to build a shrine for Jesus and yet you want me to save you? Me-almighty! Well, fine I guess I can swing that. Nobody better say I’m an angry god after this!" The Lord wanted to know what substance would be used to hold the rocks in place at his grotto. Dobberstein told him about a revolutionary new mortar called cement. "Cement? Are you nuts? You are going to be throwing together one butt ugly pile of rocks for the Son of Man. Yikes I better give him a heads up. Alright, where are you going to locate this thing, Mt. Sinai? Bethlehem? The edge of the Grand Canyon?"

"In West Bend, Iowa," answered Father Father Dobberstein, servant of the Lord. His answer caused the Lord to spit out a gold tooth, a mouthful of Crappacino and half a calzone.

When the Lord finished laughing, he said, "you know what, I’m not even going to ask why you chose West Bend Iowa. I’m just going to let you live so you can do it. Just remember: if you give up on it halfway through like most of the other desperate souls who make crackpot promises, I’ve got a six pack of thunderbolt in my pocket and it ain’t the kind you drink out of a paper bag. I’ve smitten down plenty of heathens and I could easily get some extra smiting done on you. Capice?"

"Capice," answered Dobberstein. In the morning, Dobberstein awoke, his health fully restored. His nurse approached, shocked to see him well and also of sound mind. The nurse was some sort of Celt, and she new what was up with the supernatural. "You should have heard yourself raving away on the morphine last night," she laughed. You promised the Lord you would build a butt ugly grotto out of cement and cannibalized caves. It was more than the morphine though," the nurse opined with lowered eyes. "I saw one of ‘em standing o’er yer bed, heaping fairy dust in quantity to fell an ox upon yer head. Don’t worry Father Father. You not be a madman. ‘Tis them flappy Brindle Boxer People, be playin’ tricks on you! Never the less, whether it was the Lord or the Boxers you answered to, you best keep your promise."

Dobberstein was not amused by his nurse’s pagan interpretation. "Freakin’ heathen!" he cursed. "Wanna see a Father stop breathin’!"

Yet Dobberstein knew in his heart that he had to keep the promise or run the real risk of receiving a non-alcoholic, sky-born thunderbolt. In the era before CPR, pace makers, and doctors who yelled "going into v-tag!" and knew what to do, death by thunderbolt was feared by all, even those without latent heart conditions. Dobberstein immediately requisitioned his first truck load of stone from South Dakota. Tons more followed, along with the sweat, loneliness, and misunderstood dreamership inherited by any who possess the bravery to acknowledge a vision that comes to them from beyond, and the tenacity to pursue it unquestioningly to the last breath of their life. The unknown Iowa priest became an iconoclast, his vision immortalized in cement. But how many of us can say we perused our dream, however bizarre, so passionately? Dobberstein slaved away on his project for more than 20 years, eventually becoming a mute who refused to communicate with other human beings except through the use of shadow puppetry and Latin mass. Eventually, what started out as a rock studded cement mound that looked like undigested, jewel studded piles of dinosaur guano became so intricate in their climbing, asymmetrical ugliness, that they became beautiful, perfect and complete in a way that only someone like Dobberstein, the Lord and the Brindle Boxer People could ever fully appreciate.

I can tell you from experience, there are few things that look so ugly from far away that look so relatively not ugly, when seen close up. The South Dakota Badlands is one of those things, so is the Grotto of the Redemption, filled as it is with its mud colored, artificial caves and shrines loaded with white, agonized statues, fake roses and the attached prayers of supplicants. The scenes depicted by the hark-hark-a-babe-is-born angels and the life of Christ will take you from babe to carpenter to king in less than half an hour’s self guided tour all while giving you the impression that you are visiting the haunted Roman ruins of Pompeii, where everybody was frozen in time by volcanic ash at the height of their decadence. Dobberstein’s statues freeze their subjects in time at the height of their spirituality and surrounds them in isolated, crystal strewn, all-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other, heaped up, campy glee.

A functioning shrine of their own, the restroom building sits at a corner of the compound in a more familiar rectangular, modern structure but with rock encrusted outer walls that maintain the Grotto’s aesthetic and the continuity of its strange mojo. Inside, one leaves behind strange mojo and enters the familiar domain of an average, dank, park restroom, billowing with invisible but potent vapors. The animal pen-like stalls, rancid urine-smell and unique, wash-basin style urinal spurs the imagination to conjure the fabled stable where Baby Jesus was born. Don’t worry ladies, you won’t miss out on the vibe on your side of the building. Oh come of yea faithful, joyless but resigned! (And check thy nostrils at the door.)

– Justin Teerlinck

County Line Kafe

Jon — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

"Does it light up?" she said, regarding the sublime, post-post-modern wall mounted hand soap dispenser. "No," said I, temporarily lost in a legal and appropriately used as indicated allergy medication induced glassy eyed stupor. "But it looks like it could." Just before the fall of the Berlin Wall, Gorbachev called it Glasnost and Perestroika: freedom and openness, if I recall correctly. Those concepts, which were bad for communism seem to sit well with restroom trends toward transparent sanitation delivery devices. It started with plastic, tire-sized toilet paper rollers that looked like they could contain rolls of T.P. that came straight from the paper mill, but more importantly you could actually see the product waiting inside, begging for consumption. It provided a sense of security. You knew exactly how much was there. You knew the price of freedom, or at least the quantity. The trend continued with transparent hand soap dispensing, the pinnacle of which we find in the County Line Kafe. It does look as though it could light up. Simply knowing how much fecal bacteria it can kill, while gently soothing my Man Hands with its emolliating, hydrating microbotanic naturalizers, I feel like I could easily become an obsessive-compulsive hand washer if only I had the option to live forever in the single entry, gender specific restroom at County Line. Maybe the word "stupor" whatever the origin—says too much about my fascination with the transparent soap dispenser. Maybe I should be looking for professional help.

But maybe you should be careful, dearest reader. Perhaps this type of wall mounted, gravity based hand soap dispenser is like a million tiny sharpened Bermuda Triangles, waiting like a kaleidoscope to lure your innocent mind and stupefy it with antisocial hippie culture or dangerously non-conformist rock n’ roll dancing…bad dancing, dirty dancing. Suddenly the voice of a trickster burro emanates from the dispenser: "Is okay to do the dirty dancing because the soap, it clean you up. Are you understanding me, senior? Tee, hee, hee, hee, hee."

A bout of nausea hits and suddenly you are overwhelmed with peals of lewd giggles that come right from a B-movie madman. Who is the madman? Get him out of here! Take him back to the Madman Asylum. But you look in the mirror, and his face stares back at yours, the red glazed eyes, unkempt hair, the drooling, open mouth of the reefer crazed dullard! "Its him! Its him!" you cry, but him is you and your burro knows it and so do the CIA spooks that filled you so full of acid that a drop of your spit could send a thousand ravers on ten thousand trips to every loose end of a universe laid out with fraying ends of Quantum Theory. Whoa, baby. Whoa. It’ll be alright. Think Val Kilmer thoughts without Oliver Stone movies. Shhhhhhh.

– Justin Teerlinck

Little Swan Lake Winery

Jon — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

This place is somewhere in the middle of nowhere. A beautiful farm with gently rolling hills, pine trees and baby bison adorn one of the newest wineries in northwest Iowa. Live music, wine, cheese, bison meat and gifts can be obtained in a barn converted for these purposes. On rainy days its cozy. In the basement you may find the gray bearded master connoisseur amid his corks, bottles, grapes, barrels and polished steel vats. He’ll tell that starting a winery is a labor of love, especially when you keep your day job. He will tell you how some of the critters ate the macaroni and cheese from his live traps while others did not, how the birds ate half the grapes, how even the wine that does not turn out cannot be allowed to go to waste. Faced with the tasks of distribution and publicity, I offered my services as a door-to-door wine salesperson. Sadly, my offer was rejected. That job is being reserved for family only. Well, they could’ve adopted me!

After downing some free sample Vignoles, tomato basil gouda, and signature Buffalo Blush (so named because it can even make a buffalo blush, its so good) you may need to retire to the unisex restroom just to the left of the front door as you enter. There you will find thematically appropriate bison horns in the corner, tastefully decorated with a plant. In addition, a bison outline carving stands solemn guard over the toilet paper dispenser and a purple grape (inedible) soap dispenser awaits your filthy, sensitive hands. The restroom, like the rest of the place was restful, welcoming and folksy.

– Justin Teerlinck

Skateland

Jon — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

Did you know that the color of Skateland’s skate floor is orange? Did you know that if you fall forward with your arms extending, your arms will break? Did you know that drinking glowstick fluid is, "totally nontoxic but will make you go to the bathroom for a week," so "lets keep all glow sticks out of our mouths?"

That’s exactly what I thought. These "fun facts" were verbalized by the drill sergeant/ owner of Skateland, who proceeded to disseminate this and other bizarre "information" to a captive audience of a few dozen Iowejan children loudly and without a trace of humor.

The Skatehag also informed the children about numerous ways in which various limbs could be broken or the many objects which will cause them to choke to death, lose eyeballs or spontaneously exfoliate while rollarskating.

In between blowing a shrill, phys-ed teacher whistle and demanding that people spit out their gum, stop twirling glowsticks or take off their hats the Skatehag sat in a booth that resembled a shag carpeted, disco throne. There she sat perched, Skatezilla Queen of the Damned, lording over her dimly lit, orange hued kingdom, overseeing her various trolls, minions all of whom were her own spawn, whilst chainsmoking nasty cigarettes that were probably purchased at the downtown Estherville Kum N’ Go.

If that ain’t happiness, I know not what is.

We went to Skateland to help celebrate the birthdays of my little nieces. However, throughout our four hour afternoon, it appeared that the higher purpose was the showcasing of the Skatehag’s cult-like family, her mind-controlled children and their various and sundry talents. During a "backwards skate" I did my dutiful best to make an entire lap around the skating rink, inching my backend forward, my butt thrust out tentative, asymmetrical, off balance while my left and right feet wobbled away in different directions. Twice I landed hard on my tush to the sound of blasting gangsta rap while more able bodied five-year-olds zoomed by. At the conclusion of my lap, I decided that I would use the notes from my sojourn to write a travelogue titled "Around the Rink In Eighty Days." Picking myself up, I exited the rink under the watchful glare of the Skatehag, who then got on the PA system to declare, "okay, we’re going to do another backwards skate but this time only serious skaters please!" Of course, at that point, the Children of Skateland had the floor to themselves while all the other tots, old men and Iowejans limped lamely off the day-glo orange floor, shamed and humiliated by their lost and lacking coordination.

On numerous other occasions, the Skatehag’s daughters could be seen in the middle of the rink, their glazed over expressions belying a lack of free will. There they performed interpretive dance moves like 1970’s go-go chicks, demonstrating the effects of ABBA, LSD and Laffy Taffy. "What are they doing?" I heard several people ask. "Are they having seizures? Should we get help?"

I think whatever they were doing, choice had nothing to do with it. I could almost hear the inner thoughts of the Skatehag. "Dance my little monkeys, dance! I command you!" Toward the end of the afternoon, I half expected to see a hidden backdoor with heavy warning signs on it leading to a chamber where vats of fetuses were floating in giant tanks like human-sized sea monkeys, waiting to emerge from their nutrient rich pools of luminescent orange goo, to take wobbly, baby-gazelle-like strides on limbs that end in rollarskates instead of feet. "Mamaaaaa!" they all moan in unison like zombies, until they burst forth onto the rink seeking to feed on the brains and spinal tissues of the unwary, hyperactive, ruddy tots, the unsuspecting poodle haired moms and their listless, fart-happy husbands. "Say? Oh? Come again?" are the final words exiting damned, parting lips of the bib overalled farmers trying to get off one last sody pop belch before forcibly entering a void even deeper, blacker and more remote than the Southern Minnesota/ Northern Iowa border region.

The restrooms are an extension of the experience here. The women’s was void of amenities and the men’s smelled like the result of hundreds of newly potty trained tots with terrible aim. Piss mingled with concrete has a very distinctive odor. Oftentimes it is encountered at highway rest stops or crumbling park and rec bathrooms in remote, abandoned looking county parks. Here, one has the privilege of gliding gracelessly on wheels through pee puddles into piss stained walls. It is not a privilege that I took lightly. Everything in the men’s was tot-sized, and the sole toilet was separated from the tiny, egg shaped urinals by a bomb-proof, doorless concrete barrier. I find white a strange color choice for such a place, where the corrosive effects of splashback is an ever present threat to even the highest rated enamel latex paint products.

Skateland is adjacent by a block or two from a National Guard Armory, but gazing over the barbed wire perimeter at the few green trucks and jeeps I did not see any vehicle or weapon large enough to put Skateland out of its misery. So for now, the story of Skateland and its hill dweller refugees will continue forward, until the gene pool evaporates entirely, like a piss puddle in a dirty diaper laying at the edge of highway 15 on the hottest day of deepest summer.

– Justin Teerlinck