Where is a Mexican policeman with a spray paint can when you need one?
You may recall, last month in paging john edwards we discussed how the system should deal with juvenile delinquents -- in that case, graffiti brats.
Well, I just joined the tagged set. I went out to my garage the other morning and was greeted with the "art" in the photograph at the top of the blog.
I am not a garage virgin. I have had two sides bedecked with the works of budding James Whistlers.
And I have been through all stages of the craze: spray paint that required a heavy coat of enamel to obliterate; the stupid phase of water-based pens that came off with spit and kleenex. And now the newest phase: magic marker. Permanent magic marker. Permanent magic marker that bleeds through paint.
Our city has an ordinance that requires property owners to clean up graffiti within something like 72 hours of discovery. I am in flagrant violation of the law, and like Thoreau in his Walden cabin, I will resist the jack boot of the man. (Several years ago, I was visited by an armed police woman, who threatened dire consequences unless I cleaned up my garage act. I told her I was a performance artist. She told me I had 72 hours. Whatever happened to the jovial beat cop?)
Actually, I just need to find some green paint to turn the gang tag into another drab suburban garage door.
And while I am at the hardware store, I may buy a can of spray paint. You never know when some guilty feet may get some rhythm -- or, at least, some paint.
