Triple Rock Social Club

Triple Rock Social Club

Minneapolis, MN

Reviewed March 4th, 2006

Back in high school, we had a humorous saying about the ubiquitous restroom at the local high school hangout, Taco John?s. We dubbed it Satan?'s bathroom with its never-cleaned bowl and excrement smeared walls which conjured up visions of pure hell for us. If one had to wait a particularly long time for one?s chimichanga, one might be lead to believe that taking a quick bathroom break would be a harmless undertaking. Wrong. Not at Satan'?s Bathroom. Once that small closet of a restroom was entered and the door shut firmly behind brave piss-taker, one thereby descended into all manner of hell evoked by the pungent smell and the glaring fluorescent lights. I thought I'?d never encounter the third-world prison type feel of that Taco John?s restroom again until I moved to Minneapolis and began to hang out with punk rock alcoholics who introduced me to their favorite watering hole, the Triple Rock, on Cedar Avenue.

With red paint peeling off the walls, one out of the two bathroom stalls in the ladies? room are broken and hanging on one of its hinges while swinging ominously in the foul breeze. The tile floor seems to be folding in on itself so if one happens to bump into another binge drinker taking a potty-break one might be apt to finding loose footing where the floor is not level and the tiles are warped. There?s a cute drain in the center of the floor for whatever reason and it seems to be beckoning like the Sarlacc pit in the Return of The Jedi, hungry for its bit of food to slowly digest over a thousand years.

The water at the small, scant sink is never hot and on winter nights the water is especially finger-numbing cold. And the soap is never in adequate supply. Sometimes one has to pump the dispenser for a full five minutes to get at what small traces of stringy pink soap is left.

The light is dim and the whole bathroom is lit by one small, naked bulb overhead and with the red and black motif one feels like one has just turned down the wrong darkened alley with no chance of escape should armed thugs approach from behind. It also gives way to impressions of shameful brothel experiences from overseas with its dim lighting and inability to see the hand in front of one?s face.

The one mirror over the bathroom sink is grimy and spotted with last night?s indulgences, but that doesn?t stop many of the bar?s female patrons from standing in front of it to reapply their shocking pink lipstick or adjust their multiple face piercings for lengths at a time.

I, personally, have never been able to spend more than the time it takes to do my business in the place because it?s always so dang cold. Tucked away in the back of the bar by the payphones, it?s as if the bar can'?t afford to keep the heat on.

That doesn?t mean that the bathroom in general isn?'t without its quirks. The likelihood of running into the latest stock of punk rock cab drivers is impressive and lends itself towards interesting small talk such as"bad day in the cab tonight" - instead of usual ladies? room bullshit that usually takes place in the john at Marshall Field?s.

While I, personally, usually turn the water on with my sleeve, flush the toilet with my boot and ?hover? above the rim of the seat instead of sit all the way down on it with my bare ass, that doesn?t mean I would prefer the bland stall of the Holiday Station on Wabasha Street. All and all, an enjoyable bathroom experience that is unique to the city.

- Christine Gantz

RESTROOM RATING: 3
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