Housekeeping II - Format Wars

My technical ineptitude is not limited to photography. As you can see from this web-log, formatting problems abound. Line spacing rejiggers itself willy-nilly. Pictures are reframed and occasionally embiggened or consmallered. As I have neither the time nor the inclination nor the wherewithal nor the interest nor the humility to delve into the weeds and figure out why these published blog posts don't match their previews, let's assume for the sake of expediency that it is all happening this way for a Reason, and that this format is the best of all possible formats. I should no more concern myself with my line spacing than a leopard should concern himself with my spots. Internets, I submit myself to thee.

Fuck You, Ace Was Here

Well, I never! Interstate 68, exit 23, West Virginia. A BP gas station with a Go-Mart attached. A Hygeia condom machine. I entered the bathroom to do God's business and, my dear, was I in for a rude awakening! Apparently Ace had been there before me, and had left me a message, and what a message it was! My indignancy knew no bounds, peeved as I was at his insouciance. But, hey, that's Ace, he just doesn't give a fuck.

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Not only do these condoms glow in the dark, they do so "literally." Whether you're actually fucking a book, or just reading a book by the light of your penis, you can't beat Hygeia for prevention of disease and pregnancy. At least not in West Virginia.

Housekeeping

With all the media attention this blog has been receiving, I'd like to clear a few things up that I neglected to mention in my original post. As a rule, I am not "searching" for messages, I am "finding" them.

Therefore:

1. This is not an exhaustive survey of every men's room stall in America.
2. I only stop at a rest area when my body indicates through certain familiar sensations that it is necessary or wise to do so.
3. If I find myself at a filling station or restaurant, and use the bathroom, I will of course examine the stall if I find myself consciously within one.
4. I do not presume to change existing messages or add my own (I will leave that to the experts).
5. In writing the accompanying text, I am, of course, as any great writer would, attempting to use every word in the English language, and to use each particular word only once. This has unfortunately been less successful than I had expected for reasons I can only begin to successfully contemplate, unfortunately. As no less a wordsmith than William Shakespeare put forward, "Redundancy is a rapscallion's knave, verily! Forsooth."

I couldn't have said it better myself. Literally. Which leads me to the next post...

Clean Sheets

I resume my travelogue from a king-size bed in room 210 of the Ozark Inn in Springfield, Missouri. This entry takes us back to a state-run rest area just west of Frederick, Maryland, on Interstate 70, a highway known for its unique ability to allow a driver to travel from near Baltimore to points west of Baltimore.

This particular stall, as a medium, suffers from its construction (surely intended to thwart messaging), consisting of a flat and shiny metal on which it is very difficult for a man to inscribe his initials (and for a novice photographer to capture such an image). But as you can see from the picture above, a hardy traveler named "KKK" managed it. I enhanced the image as best I could, and strangely the result resembles what looks to be a ghostly white sheet. Mysterious indeed. I would like nothing more than to discover the identity of this "KKK" fellow (perhaps it is Kevin from the Maryland House?) and hope beyond hope that my journey will eventually allow me to cross paths with this "KKK" and engage in a spirited and rousing conversation between like-minded gentlemen.

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"Beware of Homos"
(this message proved too elusive to successfully photograph but too poignant to ignore)

Feared and reviled throughout history, jumping from boxcar to boxcar with his bindle in hand, the free-spirited homo is unwelcome in the stalls of the American men's room and must continue to wander the land in search of a warm meal and a place to lay his weary head.

Update from Below

Grim and trenchant apologies, devoted audience, for my absence. Upon reaching Kentucky I promptly fell down one of its fabled glory holes, resurfacing only now to pen this quick note as a holdover. I am still several stalls behind, but will catch up tomorrow with multiple posts bulging with massive pictorial evidence of the quick wit and strange obsessions of the Appalachian mind.

Harford County, Maryland

Maryland is an apartheid state with a crab majority ruled by a human minority. This contradiction produces the Maryland House, which is a rest area that rests (get it? this will not be the only pun) at mile 82 of Interstate 95, easily one of the largest and most picturesque roads in the East, if not the nation. There are mile markers at every tenth of a mile, for instance, keeping a high level of interest and whimsy in driver and passengers alike. The Maryland House serves both northbound and southbound drivers, so there are frequent duels officiated by crabs in which the winner receives, you guessed it, a free slice at Sbarro. Other restaurants include a Burger King and a confectionary known for its crab cream cones.

Unfortunately, as we'll probably see many times this trip, the men's room stalls in the Maryland House are crafted by Puritans of a material intended to discourage messaging, rendering a meager yield of worthy specimens (although this is clearly not the case for the toilets). Hardy travelers are not deterred, though; they use their God-given claws to scratch out cryptic messages, such as:

Who was this "Kevin?" When was he here? More importantly, why? What transcendent muse inspires a man to enter a stall in a public restroom? As he refused to submit to an interview, I guess we'll never know. But nevertheless he obviously felt compelled to leave his mark for future travelers to know the glory that is Kevin. Godspeed.

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This is code which I could not penetrate. Fascinating nonetheless. Did it reach its intended target? You be the judge.

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While it is difficult to make out, having been scratched over by those that did not share the author's bold and timely views, this message reads "Nazis Suck." A poignant statement indeed, and one can only imagine how things may have turned out differently if this artist was transported to the late Weimar Republic to spread his elegant and defiant slogan.

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And, finally, a statement so pure, so direct in its implication and intent, that I shall allow it to speak for itself. I had difficulty capturing its true beauty, but its power is unarguably undiminished. If only I could have met the artist whose imaginative mind created this masterpiece!

Next: I-70!

Mission Statement

As I journey across these United States, I shall endeavour to capture some of the deliciously pithy scribblings that adorn the partitioned walls of men's toilet stalls. From Maryland to California, I will be presenting photographic evidence of the primacy of the communicative desire among the male of the species homo sapiens. These men clearly have something to say, and what better place to make a statement than the inside of a metal door in a malodorous box containing a receptacle temporarily yet repeatedly filled with human excrement!

Topics discussed in these missives include politics, race, and sexuality in all its various guises. Some take the form of artistic renderings that seem to exist solely for the pleasure of the viewer and, naturally, the expression of the artist. Others include contact information and instructions, presumably in the hopes of finding a like-minded friend to meet up for an invigorating chat over a cup of chamomile tea. While issues will likely vary by locale and the interests of the residents and travelers therein, I suspect that many themes will prove universal.

I should note that I am not a professional photographer, and the stealthy nature of this mission requires much discretion and haste, resulting in less-than-perfect conditions for setting up shots. In addition, not all surfaces are particularly photogenic, and my meager skills may not being able to compensate to a satisfactory degree. Further complicating matters, some Philistines are continually removing this folk art for reasons I will not venture to guess but are presumably related to sexual inadequacy. I will, however, attempt to provide some context, and capture to the best of my ability the messages conveyed in this most ancient manner, which can only be compared to cave painting or medieval illumination. Without further ado.....To the stalls!