I'm not talking about poo-poo jokes here. I'm talking about a 68-page glossy catalog devoted entirely to the fixtures and supplies you need to make your public potty a clean and attractive haven. I'd never thought about it until Skeeter showed me the catalog he somehow received (he writes about gardening, not bathrooms; why did he get this?), but somebody has to sell the refills for the soap dispensers, and the dispensers themselves. Six pages' worth of dispensers, in fact. Six pages are also devoted to paper towels and their dispensers, but only five to toilet paper and TP dispensers. And if you've ever wondered where you can order your very own urinal cakes, just turn to page 27. The cherry-scented ones are made of "pure paradichlorobenzene." Thank goodness! Wouldn't want an impure urinal cake in there, would we?
On page 30 the Metered Deodorant Systems section starts. These devices have timers that release precisely calculated amounts of fragrance at regular intervals. One product line promises that "your staff and clientele will enjoy the wide selection of fragrances: pine, citrus, herbal spring, baby powder, pina colada, green apple, cherry, bayberry, country garden, orange blossom, spring flowers, native mango, pacific peach, voodoo berry (!), Dutch Apple, French Kiss (!!), Hawaiian Heat (?), Acapulco Splash (??) and pink grapefruit." I'm pretty curious to know what voodoo berry and Acapulco Splash smell like — but not curious enough to spend $93.75 for a case of product. However, the offering that interests me most is country garden. Aren't many gardens in the country fertilized with manure? So you'd be blasting precisely calculated squirts of eau de manure into your bathroom to . . . freshen it?
Then there's the Bowl Cleaning section, complete with photos of people demonstrating various brushes and scrubbers. Can't you just hear the phone call home? "Daddy, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, my modeling career is finally taking off! I just got my first catalog job! The bad news? The catalog is Rest Room World. No, I'm not putting my manicure to good use showing off the paper towels. I'm in Bowl Cleaning." Who says modeling isn't glamorous?
You can pick your seat on page 40: commercial toilet seats. This explains one of the great mysteries of the restroom universe, actually, the mystery of why all public toilets look alike. There's only one seat shown in the catalog.
Then there's the mirror section: glass and stainless steel mirrors, photographed with vases of flowers in front of them. No problem. Bathrooms need mirrors. BUT! Down at the bottom of page 45 is the ceiling-mount dome mirror, the kind you'd put at a busy hallway intersection, so you can "achieve maximum visibility and safety — eliminates blind spots." HELLO? We're in the BATHROOM here!! We WANT a few blind spots in which to conduct Private Personal Business!
The photography in this catalog is really something else, too. On page 59 you see a very hip-looking young dad tending his child at a baby changing station. But on page 41, the woman at the toilet seat cover dispenser looks like she stepped right out of the Fashion Don't section of People from 1985: floral print dress with wide black belt, white peter pan collar and red neck bow, makeup applied with a putty knife, and super-tall, oversprayed bangs in front with a ponytail in back, clasped with a black hair bow that resembles a vampire bat. And the photo next to her is just as fun: a toilet littered and strewn about with fragments of tissue, clearly illustrating the need for Neat Seat covers ($59.75 for a case of 2500). Again, the call home: "Mom, I'm a photo stylist! No, not for Vogue . . . "
Following pages offer restroom signs in a variety of shapes and colors, cleaners and disinfectants, and "rest room specialties." (Note: Throughout the catalog, "rest room" always appears as two separate words, never as one word. I thought this was was a mistake at first — the text is a copyeditor's nightmare — until I checked Webster's, but the dictionary lists "rest room" as a public lavatory. Hmph! So this catalog counts as educational reading.) Among the occupation indicator locks, moist towelettes, waste hampers and long-sleeve neoprene gloves is No. R-6406, Catherine the Great Can. It's a stainless steel garbage receptacle with a funnel top. Cost: $825.45 for a 32-inch-tall CGC, $545.25 for a 20-incher. First of all, who names a garbage can after a historical figure? Second, who can get away with charging over $825 for one? The professionals at Rest Room World, I guess.
Well, I've wasted enough of your time. The RRW catalog is available in my office for personal viewing. Yes, today is a time for sober reflection on the events of last September. But it's also a day to laugh at the little sillinesses that make us glad to be here.
Tomorrow's band: Pure Paradichlorobenzene