K \IMU)\\ Row III
Graffiti gurus having a heyday
It’s been a good year for graffiti
lovers, for those who find end
less amusement reading the
random scrawls of their fellow man.
When I say year, I am referring in
my UNLcentric way to the school
year, which began with the unsolved
“Beer Gut” mystery.
To this day, I am convinced that
the man behind “Beer Gut” was my
own father, strangely proud possessor
of the mother of all beer guts. New
outbreaks of the phrase showed up
every time he came to Lincoln to visit
me. I feel sort of responsible for the
whole mess and apologize to anyone
who was brought to ruin by “Beer
Gut.”
“Beer Gut” was only the beginning
of this Year of Graffiti.
I have always been fascinated by
graffiti. I’m not sure why. I’m no fan
of the obscene, and finding out who
loves who or who to call for a good
time isn’t all that interesting.
But I voraciously read the stuff
anyway. In bathrooms, on desks, on
buses, on buildings and on the back of
street signs.
Maybe I’m just curious about the
sort of person who would deface pub
lic or private property to write the F
word in 12-inch letters or personally
attack an ex-girlfriend.
Probably I like graffiti because it
makes me feel superior to my fellow
man. “Ha,” 1 can think, “what a mo
ron. I could do better than that, but 1
have too much respect.”
These people broke the law to ex
press themselves and all they could
come up with was their own first
name or “I love Someone Special?”
Even more lame than egotistically
scrawling one’s name is transcribing
long passages from one’s favorite ’70s
rock song.
What sort of mind believes care
fully scribbling the complete works
of Led Zeppelin or obscure Jim
Morrison poetry in the comer of a
urinal will somehow make the world
a better place?
An empty wall seems to be irresist
ible for those who can’t get published
r
Someone had written in easily
washable chalk, “BIG FAT PIL
LAR.” You’ve got to appreciate
the honesty, the eye for detail.
anywhere else, like the poets of the
people who spread their horrid verse
around this campus like a cold.
“Sitting, screaming, in my laven
der hole, Christ is a lie on my mother’s
flowered apron.”
I always hope that it’s original
work, that nothing that bad was ever
published.
As much as I hate to offend any
one’s sense of decorum, a discussion
of graffiti absolutely must include
bathrooms, home to the most involved
and diverse graffiti.
Why is this so? Is it boredom? Is it
because no one is watching?
Bathroom graffiti at UNL varies
from building to building. Hamilton,
Manter and Brace arc all sadly lack
ing in interesting graffiti. Perhaps the
mathematic or scientific mind docs
not lend itself to this wordy pursuit.
Richards Hall has a pretty good
display. But the first-floor Ladies’
Room in Andrews Hall is the Louvre
of bathroom graffiti.
It includes the standard nasty lim
ericks and expressions of eternal love.
But it also features two-year argu
ments about whether “frat guys” are
arrogant — the answer is pending —
and occasional requests for “vaginal
unity.”
One inventive soul turned a mirror
into a lost sign for her sunglasses. And
all the lyrics to “Stairway to Heaven”
can be found somewhere in the room.
I saw my favorite piece of graffiti
two years ago on a concrete pole
outside of Nebraska Hall. Someone
had written in easily washable chalk,
“BIG FAT PILLAR.” You’ve got to
appreciate the honesty, the eye for
detail.
Now that the daVinci’s on 13th
and O faces certain destruction, it is a
graffiti lover’s dream come true. All •
daVinci’s customers are allowed, even
invited, to write on the walls.
They even give you a marker —
one of the big, fat, smelly kinds that
make everything you write seem loud
er somehow.
Imagine my excitement. Finally,
I’d be able to try my hand at this
hitherto forbidden art.
When I finally had a chance to free
my soul and express my opinions for
all to sec, to show how graffiti should
be done, my hands failed me. I
couldn’t think of anything to write.
Other people seemed to have the
same problem. Most people wrote
their name, just their first name, of
course, with an occasional initial or
two, but never a surname.
I can’t even write my name and
protect my anonymity. My first name
would be enough to incriminate me.
The whole world could find out that I
ate at daVinci’s and was too lame to
think of something clever to write.
I guess I’ll leave graffiti to the
pros. I’ll have to find some other
venue that allows me to spout off at
length and force my every whim into
the hands of unsuspecting readers.
Rowell It a junior news-editorial, adver
tising and English major and the Daily Ne
braskan opinion page editor.
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