Webster Hole

I've got another case for the Unsolveable Mystery file. Today's question is: Why does the bathroom at Webster Hall double as a concession stand? Does urination give you the munchies? Perhaps you crave a post-elimination snack? Thank god you can lay your hands on a bag of Combos post haste in between musical acts. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

I made this gruesome discovery a couple nights ago when Sparky and I hit Webster Hall for the Blonde Redhead show (they rocked, as if there was any doubt in your mind!). It's been a few years since I've been there, and it seems that my dirty-bathroom phobia has only intensified in the interim.

The ladies' wasn't completely filthy, but it already reeked of pee pee by 9pm when the opening band had only just gone on! Imagine the odors come midnight! Good thing the $7 price tag on Heineken precluded me from further investigation.

The floor looked dry enough, so I only checked to see that my shoes were tied before venturing into a stall (I've been known to roll my pants up to my knees when faced with a suspiciously damp floor.) The bathroom was quite dark—so as to better hide traces of you-know-what?!—but there was a demonic reddish cast to the lighting, plus spotlights in each stall angled to shine directly into the toilet bowl!

When I exited my stall, I saw that there was a bathroom attendant charged with hand delivering paper towels and running a fully stocked concession stand— potato chips, candy bars, M&M's, you name it. Yuck, yuck, yuck. Surely there must be some law on the books to prevent bathroom-based food service?

Anyway, I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind so I could focus on BRH's musical stylings. The one nice thing about Webster Hall is its size; it's a pretty small venue. But apparently the management thinks it's still too big, or thinks we're too lazy, to access the bar at the back of the hall so they actually employ someone to sell cans of beer out of a gigantic bus tub. It wasn't so much distracting as it was disturbing. It's not like at a baseball stadium where the hotdog seller walks up and down the stairs. This guy had to weave in and out of crowds of people who paid money to enjoy the show and are probably already miffed about the exhorbitantly priced crap beer. Needless to say, I didn't see a single beer sold, so he probably saw little in the way of tips for the night.

I keep this mental tally of depressing jobs I'd never want to do and for some reason it involves a lot of service jobs in performance centers. Cocktail waitressing at Hammerstein Ballroom used to top the list, followed closely by ushering in the vertiginous upper reaches of Lincoln Center (I would fall and crack my head open on day one). Beer sales and paper towel/potato chip dispenser at Webster Hall blow both of them way out of the water.