“The words of the profits were written on the studio walls. . .” –Neil Peart
There must be something seductive about a blank wall. As you sit there, calmly passing the time (and something else) your eyes are drawn. You scan the tile, the metal stall door, the painted blank slate. Instinctively, the hand is drawn to the pen, ready to leave your eternal mark.
Well, okay, not eternal, but a mark nonetheless.
What will it be? The paragon of line art? The pinnacle of written poetry? The purest prose? An homage to a classic seems the best way to start. And so the writing begins. . .
For a good time call. . .
Ah, bathroom writing. That’s right, next to the barely recognizable male and female genitalia, scratched into the paint is a phone number. I have always wondered whose number that is. Is it simply an invention of some deranged mind? Or is it a carefully calculated move to ruin someone’s life?
Because, I am sure we all know how many people see that number and decide to call for a good time.
Or do they? Could it be that there are people so hopelessly curious (or simply hopeless) that they actually dial that number to see who answers? My mind reels at that possibility. But there must be something about it. They say you can learn a lot about a culture by its art. Let’s hope they don’t look at our bathroom walls.
Someone might think we are a violent, sex obsessed society that can’t spell, and is embarrassingly ignorant of just about everything.
After all, we would hate for them to know the truth. . .