//FOOD FOR THOUGHT TO CHOO-CHOO ON//
All the places I’ve lived have owed their existence or early prosperity to the railroad. This was true in my native city in Virginia, and is the case for the places I’ve lived in Texas. In fact, there are a couple of towns north of Fort Worth named after railroad engineers from the Pioneer Days.
I cross two sets of tracks just to get to work. Used to annoy me when the flashing lights and “don’t cross” arms blocked my passage. But now I realize it’s my chance to enjoy one of the original forms of blogging: Boxcar Graffiti. I enjoyed just such an art show while on my way back to work from lunch on Monday afternoon.
Purely illegal, the defacing of train cars is an old art form that grew right along with the spray-painting of water towers, highway overpasses and the sides of barns. It echoes prehistoric cave paintings (the first blog-like form of expression), differing only in method of application and the fact that train-painters don’t necessarily live on the trains. But I digress.
Boxcar Graffiti is like blogging because:
1. Painting trains arguably requires some creative thought (at least in the design sense).
2. Spelling is not important in getting your point across.
3. In some cases, hundreds of people will see the fruit of a painter’s labor.
4. If you don’t like what you read on one car, another will come along right behind it.
5. Self-expression in the public domain adds an element of danger and can leave the artist exposed.
If I ever learn to play the guitar well enough, I’ll set some of my “poetry” to music. My first full-length album will be called “Boxcar Graffiti” as an homage to the spray-can-wielding gang members, dropouts, escaped convicts, homeboys/girls and artistes who display their creative wares on the rolling, clickity-clacking Nationwide Web also known as the railroad.
But for all the impressionable young kiddos out there, true Internet blogging is more worthwhile than committing a crime of self expression. Say it, don’t spray it!
***SIDE NOTE: The first time I noticed graffiti was at age 6 or 7, shopping with my mom at Leggett’s. Written on the wall of a ladies dressing room was “Last night, me and Joe f*cked. It was good.” For some reason, Mom got real mad when I asked her what f*cked meant, and she told me not to say that word again. It was bad. But the girl said it was good. So confused. Now I understand the dichotomy! Even when it’s bad, it’s good.
***
Hope all who cared to had a wonderful Cinco de Mayo. Ours was more like Stinko De Mayo, for reasons unrelated to the colorful Mexican celebration of whipping France’s whiney butt back in the 1860s. But tomorrow is another day (Or today is another day, depending on when you read this). And that, friends, is a reason to celebrate all in itself. Hasta mañana, compadrés!
