In reviewing the varying Barnes and Nobles of New York City, we are beginning to feel like a writer who is paid well by a publisher and spurned on by a rabid but intellectually challenged fan base to keep writing the same crappy book. Sure, there may well be the next Great American novel somewhere inside, but hey, our hypothetical writer just re-financed the mortgage on that summer home in the Hamptons…so on with the “deep” stories and “surprising” plot twists about lawyers, vampires, secret societies and/or middle aged women coming to grips with the fact that they are not attractive anymore. In reviewing a predictable chain such as Barnes and Noble, we certainly begin to sympathize with all of the authors of pop literature who find themselves taking a languid pause from their typing to stop and ask themselves, “haven’t I written this before?”

Reviewing Barnes and Noble bathrooms have thus become more akin to the study of an author’s oeuvre as opposed to one particular novel. For an establishment that supports a very lax atmosphere where people read for hours on the floor without buying anything, they clearly have a strict policy regarding the design of their bathroom. A dichotomy emerges that was present from our very first Barnes and Noble review: the chain’s stature as a bookseller suggests the progressive spread of ideas, while the uniform bathroom designs imply oppressive state communism.

The telltale signs are all here: a general grey coloring with splashes of green. In this instance they opt for the most popular B&N approach, large square tiles in a checkerboard pattern, colored green and off-white. At least these are not those small square grey tiles we so abhor and that are unfortunately in use at the Union Square B&N. A white brick-like tile on the walls add the slightest signs of life but ultimately remain an incomplete though amidst the otherwise lackluster design. This bathroom also shares the same general level of cleanliness as the others in its chain: not clean, not disgusting. One unfortunate occurrence at the 82nd Street B&N apparently lead to a paper towel dispenser being covered in a dried milky substance…which we are hoping was, um, dried milk. Or, perhaps the magazine section may have gotten a little raunchier since our last visit…

Rating: 4.5

The Biblical Museum can be found virtually around the corner from Lincoln Center and provides you with exactly a room-and-a-half of some drawings by marginally significant Renaissance era artists. In fact, there’s more to do in the gift shop on the ground floor than paying to get into the museum proper. The bathroom is located down a side hall, in a side door. A security guard grilled us on why we were back there, not thinking that even the most devout heathens need to relieve themselves from time to time. He probably didn’t want us entering the off-limits library that contained napkins with Jesus’s handwriting on them, detailing what he wanted picked up for him at the nearby salad bar.

For a religion requiring its priests to take a vow of poverty, the bathroom well reflects the beige existence of non-ownership. There was only one stall, and one urinal in the men’s room. Of the two sinks they had, only one had a hand sensor. Perhaps the other functioned on the power of prayer? The one stall, handicap accessible, is another waste of space unless employees use it to gather in ten at a time and smoke next to the “No Smoking” sign (for wherever there are rules, there are rule breakers…). The floor is worn and dirty with gray tiles, a tragedy of time and upkeep. We expected better from this museum, and now we expect to hear 30 Hail Mary’s and 40 flushes.

Rating: 4.5

From the coast-to-coast chain store that brought you celebrity endorsements from John Mayer, Melissa Etheridge, and the guitarist whose name you can’t remember from that band whose name you also can’t remember, Guitar Center was built on 14th Street perhaps in an attempt to appeal to the hipsters and street artists that have made Union Square their home. Its thoroughly corporate flavoring, however, likely sets it up for failure in that regard. Perhaps, like us, the Union Square loafers are hip to the fact that Guitar Center is in a very convenient location to serve as a public toilet

The bathroom is basic as can be, and soap was sparse when we visited. The walls and floor are gray, with those small square floor tiles we complain about all too much. It’s the equivalent of that guy who keeps writing songs with the first four guitar chords (all major) that he ever learned. The only color here is the solid blue stall door. Our inside sources revealed that the Guitar Center salesmen are also responsible for cleaning the bathroom after the store closes–even though they only take home commission when all is said and done–which basically amounts to slavery. Maybe Prince was right for complaining how hard it is to be a musician, or salesman, or whatever. One cannot be blamed if selling a five thousand dollar guitar doesn’t quite compete with the thrill of mopping the bathroom floor, but the upkeep of the facilities was certainly lacking on our visit. So, though we side with the salesmen here, we must say that someone is not doing their job. We also found pages from the Village Voice scattered across the floor. Most of them were job ads, probably left by the employees. Among the circled jobs were Assistant Janitor and Human Footstool. Reach for the stars, boys.

Rating: 4.5

Old Navy—which is not old, naval-themed nor contains only navy blue clothing—is the third chain owned by Gap, Inc., the other two being Gap and Banana Republic. It has always presented itself as more casual than Banana Republic and less sterile than Gap while remaining the most affordable of the three clothing lines. Gap Inc treats this as its “street store,” and the inside feels like you’re shopping in a warehouse down by the docks. Of course, this is no insult to warehouses nor docks (in fact we have friends that live in warehouses and docks—honest!). The shabby casual culture is certainly popular enough that the store does very well for itself.

The restrooms at this branch not only failed to match the look of the store but also threw a mortal chill down our spines. The mind behind the design of this branch’s bathroom runs parallel to a serial killer’s. The tiny hexagonal floor tiles were off-white, their borders filled with decades of grime. A pale yellow brick motif ran across the lower half of the walls, and the stall doors were made from grated metal, giving it that industrial look. But the true terror was the toilet. As if most toddlers aren’t scared enough of the toilet’s mouth-shaped monstrous visage, the pipe coming out the back of this toilet resembles a steel anaconda writhing up towards the ceiling and will traumatize even some 30-year-olds (especially those who have never held a full-time job). A chain hangs ominously from the reptilian display, perhaps pointing upward to where the steel anaconda hung itself (is that possible?). Perhaps fear is the reason these toilets look like they’ve never been flushed before. A garbage can stands in front of a urinal; apparently, an “out of order” sign was too subtle so they had to put a metal bouncer in front of it. If Mecha-Godzilla has a torture chamber, this is where he goes to get inspired.

Rating: 4.5

The Citigroup Center building is the one that we used to joke about skiing down as kids because of its angled top. Clearly, you’d have to have some kind of hang glider, as you would fly off the side and still have about fifty stories between you and the street. Clearly, we had active imaginations as children and did not think things through. Some say that never changed. Granted, but the people who designed this bathroom did not think things through and have no imagination; at least we have one of those things. And what is the most glaring example of lazy thinking that one can find in a public bathroom? Say it with us, kids: those small ugly grey square tiles. At this location they are–wait for it–not only on the floors but also on parts of the walls. The audacity is astounding. The baby changing station is too dirty for a mid-range hooker. Look, we know most babies can’t read, but Barnes and Noble really has to be more considerate than that. The visitor is greeted by janitorial equipment; we didn’t know we were expected to clean. The hand motion sink faucets are quite difficult to negotiate, and as we stood there waving our hands under them, trying to make the water run, for a brief moment we knew what it must feel like to be panhandling for spare change on a train car when no one has anything to give. It turns out that one did not work at all. There was graffiti on the dryer, but at least it was a Dostoevsky quote. Perhaps Barnes and Noble thinks that people who are into books don’t care about bathrooms since they’re all absent-minded and in their own heads too much to notice things in the real world, like good bathrooms. Here’s the rub, Barnes: some of us do.

Rating: 4.5

While it may be seen as trendy, if natural foods chains like this keep popping up and help the American diet move beyond soda and potato chips for dinner, then we’d say that’s a good thing. Strategically located at the crossroads that is Union Square, this Whole Foods is a huge destination for a cross-section of New Yorkers (who can afford it), and thus it receives steady traffic to its restrooms. Especially for you ladies, long lines will often be contended with here. Given that, it stands to reason that the designers should have thought ahead more; these bathrooms are simply too small for such a location, especially considering they are next to a busy cafe on the second floor. Someone should have told the restroom designers that this isn’t Key Food.

The colors inside the restroom are largely green and blue. We found this color combination earlier in our travels to the Toy R’ Us bathroom in Times Square and can’t help but think that it denotes a whimsical and somewhat child-like feeling, not that that’s a bad thing (if you had a good childhood, or at least a nanny who wore a lot of green and blue). In fact, it gives a certain vibrancy and character that was well-appreciated, as we all know that the majority of public bathrooms are drab and dreary. And it doesn’t stop there. The sinks’ materials are a stone with touches of green in it (we guess green is apropos with the Whole Foods mission), it’s a modern update on the stone water fountains found in the city playgrounds of our youth. The stall doors are dark blue, and again, in the context of the room’s colors makes you feel like you’re getting into some kind of compartment on top of a jungle gym. Inevitably, graffiti graces its inside walls. The soap dispenser has its own twist as well; it’s exposed so you see a little contraption squeezing the pink soap as it’s delivered to your palms. If you listen very closely, every time you squeeze it, it tells you something tragic about its youth. In the men’s room the short, small urinal makes you feel like you need to get out quickly. The restrooms have some pleasing visual touches but the size and crowding deter the visitor from taking them in. It’s like showing up very late to a very heavily-chaperoned school dance; you feel like you should be enjoying it but you just can’t get comfortable.

Rating: 4.5

Somehow, some way, a lot of men named Ray go into the pizza business in New York City. Or at least that’s what they want you to think. Not to get involved in ancient pizza feuds, we’ll just say there was an original followed by many impostors using the name “Ray” in order to lead people to the (false) assumption that they were affiliated, and we will leave it at that. We value our legs.

Anyhow, the subject of our observations here is not the pizza, as we would hope you realize by this point. Being that this is a pizza place, it falls into that grey area between, say, Starbucks (where anyone can walk in and use—or sometimes attempt to live in—a facility), and a nice restaurant (where you’re going to have to be very stealthy or very persuasive in order to relieve yourself without being a paying customer). This particular pizzeria gets points for seeming pretty laid back on the subject, but you never know who’s going to be behind the counter or what kind of mood they may be in. Whether it was luck or just how they are, the staff was very accommodating when the present reviewer requested toilet paper.

As for the bathroom itself, the walls are a swirl of light purple and white, a pattern we must hereby call “grape cream.” It seemed intuitively appropriate for a New York pizzeria. As for the sink, goose neck faucets serve you well by providing some room to move your hands around the sink, and we appreciated it here. However, what we did not appreciate was the soap bar. Putting a bar of soap in a public restroom is like eating in a t-shirt and underwear at a restaurant: both should only be done at home. Additional points were deducted for graffiti on the paper towel dispenser, the lack of paper towels and the dirty garbage lid you had to lift yourself. It had the essentials of cleanliness and room, relative to what you may expect for a pizzeria. All in all, if this were a slice, the crust, cheese and sauce would be pretty good, but some of the toppings were a little off.

Rating: 4.5

And here we find ourselves at another Barnes and Noble, at what can be called one of the centers of Manhattan (or the furthest uptown that hipsters will venture), Union Square. There are facilities on both the second and third floors, although they are so similar that two separate reviews are unnecessary. Essentially, they are the same, but you’d be wise to note one fact: most of the characters from Union Square Park, desiring the shortest distance between Point A and Point B, use the second floor bathroom. And by characters we don’t mean “funny haha” (Groucho Marx and anyone whose picture is on the wall at Sardi’s). We mean “funny get the fuck away from me” (the Unabomber and anyone whose picture is on the wall at the FBI headquarters). Now, perhaps you seek out said characters and desire to engage in conversation with them in a public restroom; that’s fine. We’re just providing information, do with it what you will.

These bathrooms cover their walls with white tiles and one strip of green tiling, keeping with the Barnes and Noble colors: white for the purity of an open and seeking mind, green for the color of money. The floor tiles are grey, beige, and dirty (a color never found in the Crayola palette, but all too often found in our reviewing). The metallic paper dispenser provides a crisp and modern touch, the prettiest girl in an otherwise dingy brothel. The mirrors are modest and offer no adornments, the trash is just a tall pail left out. Pretty much everything here is purely functional and the lowest common denominator in terms of basic necessity, a veritable Plain Jane with a little dirt under the fingernails. Perhaps that’s what Barnes and Noble thinks of its clientele.

Rating: 4.5

Circuit City offers a plethora of electronic gadgets, computers, televisions, electric-heated diapers, and digital portraits of 17th Century Chinese Dynasts. But Circuit City is not just another electronics chain. It understands the needs of today’s power-consumers and shopaholics. If you search hard, you can find the home theater section where they offer comfortable seats to experience life in a $10,000 living room. Though you’re supposed to be examining the TV’s crystal clear display and the cutting edge audio, you’re really there to take the load off your feet. Another rare feat is a public bathroom located in the store, not always an option at electronics outfits.

A gray tile wall with one red stripe recalling the company’s logo colors greet you as you enter. The gray may not look good with the floor’s thin layer of filth, but the bright red stalls bring a sense of life — a life solely spent in a warehouse or firehouse, albeit. The pale light brings the dirt out of the tiles like braces on un-brushed teeth, and they are once again that bane of bathroom tiling, small grey square tiles, the restroom design equivalent of marrying your safety choice. The restrooms are spacious but in the men’s room one lone urinal, tiny and low to the ground, pathetically hangs there as if the wall is very slowly shedding a porcelain tear. The sinks are not much better, looking like they only are there because they have to be (see: most retail employees), and one sink handle was broken. Several bottles of water littered a stall; at least it was water. A bare trash can underneath the baby changing station is too macabre to comment on. Even though the stuff Circuit City sells is current, it’s restrooms still have some catching up to do.

Update 07/28/09: With Circuit City’s global closing, we may have seen the last of the red-striped grime racer. Enjoy the pictures, they’re all that’s left.

Rating: 4.5

Part four of our Met tour takes us to the Far East, which according to the museum map is to the far east (rimshot). A great amount of thought appears to have been put into laying out their collections. Among this collection is a traditional Japanese garden where one can walk through, sit down, even meditate until closing hours. Of course, if you’re really good at meditation, you can make time stop and stay for longer.

If all that introspective thought gives you the urge, you can go past the room of Buddhas and left around the Chinese armor, you’ll find the Asian wing’s bathroom. You won’t find any zen gardens here. The room is shaped almost like a horseshoe and greets you with yet another full-length mirror. The floor is made of brick-colored square tiles; good for a Mediterranean kitchen, but here it just reminds you of elementary school in the way metal bars remind an ex-con of prison. However the floors and the white brick tile walls are fairly clean, like a geisha girl’s skin. The sinks are also well-kept and functional. We did find another stall casualty. One of the toilets was broken and filled with what can only be described as “bodily waste water.” Apparently the Yakuza are trying to send us a message.

Rating 4.5