We went to the Cherry Blossom festival at the Rose Bowl on Saturday and I’m thinking of writing the organizers and suggesting that they change the name to the Parking Lot festival because a) there were zero blossoms because b) it was in a parking lot.

We actually had a fun time despite the lack of cherry blossoms. And street tacos and funnel cake and giant inflatable dragon rides can make up for almost anything. Before leaving, we stopped for the requisite potty break and I brought the Boy with me into the men’s room. The toilets at the Rose Bowl are high-class, made specifically for the drunken sports and concert fan, consisting of little more than a tiled trough on the floor with a drain.

The Boy wasn’t sure what to do so I demonstrated, which is trickier than you might think when you have to coordinate your business with trying to wrangle a toddler who is fascinated with the drain out of your line of fire. “There,” I said. “That’s how you do it.”

He stared incredulously for moment and then frantically unzipped his pants and let fly before I changed my mind and told him he wasn’t allowed to pee on the floor.

Afterwards, as we emerged back into the fresh air and sunlight, he told me, “That was awesome! That place rocks!” He ran to the lovely and talented wife who was waiting for us. “Mom! Mom! That place is awesome!”

Then he claimed he had to go again. If I’d only known earlier that he would like this better than all the rides we paid for. So we went back in. Nothing. He stood there for a few seconds with his pants down. “See,” I said, “I told you there was no more.” The two other men using the trough pretended we didn’t exist.

“I guess so,” he said. He pulled up his pants, walked over to the drain, and leaned over to peer down into it. He looked up at me and whispered, wide-eyed and reverently, “Dad, is that where they keep the pee?” The two men became keenly interested in the shiny, aqua-colored wall tile.

“Yes, son,” I said confidently. “That’s where they keep it. Let’s go.”