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Café Magritte 254 E. Congress St. READERS' PICK: "Any one of the two number three's." Just ask. Those are the directions. And who's to say which is men's or women's? Three south: stunning peacock clock, Mexican children's chair toilet paper and towel holders, cloud chair and foot rest, purple box art display, purple walls, mauve ceiling. Three north: Virgin Mary night light, armless shirt mannequin toilet paper holder, three feet holding up a sink, ladder holding paper towel with small Grecian bust atop, mauve walls, purple ceiling. Take your time. The decor at Café Magritte invites it. READERS' POLL RUNNER-UP: You never know what you might find in one of the three stories of restrooms at the Main Library. On the first floor, it's graffiti central. Often one finds either the toilet paper holder or the soap dispenser torn from the wall. The second floor used to be where you could find pornography stashed in the seat tissue dispenser. And on the third, we've run into the homeless shaving or grooming themselves. Also, the third-floor bathroom is the best place to get away from the smell of the periodicals room. Open seven days a week and unable to refuse service to anyone, there's always seating available at the Main Library, for all your excretory needs. Don't forget to get your parking ticket validated while you're at it. STAFF PICK: The sun rises slowly over the Rincon mountains, illuminating the variegated splendor of the Saguaro National Park East. It's mid-July; already the heat is almost beyond human endurance. You're in the middle of a breakfast cookout with friends and family. A particularly hectic morning has disrupted your normal ritual, and though uninvited, nature calls. A natural predisposition towards shyness makes a discreet withdrawal behind a rock or bush an impossibility, and you're forced to confront the institutional-blue aluminum structure in front of you. You walk unsteadily towards the latrine. There's a strange brown cloud that seems to hover over the top of the structure; piles of bones lay scattered around its base. You reach out your hand and pull open the door. This, of course, is a mistake; the combination of the sun's rays, the closed door, and the long-neglected tank make for an astonishingly potent and lethal miasma that cuts through even the worst allergies like a rusty chainsaw. A few moments alone in the chamber and even battle-hardened soldiers--men and women routinely exposed to tear gas as part of their basic training--run heedlessly through the desert, delirious and begging for mercy. Those few who are able to survive the initial odorous shockwave are often then assaulted by a battalion of bees, black widows, ants and scorpions, who work together in unholy alliance. The few hardy souls still alive are then done in by the inside temperature, which often reaches in excess of 300 degrees. (Other than that, the latrines are quite functional and utilitarian.)
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