Mine's Not a High Horse
so to update from my last post on the Lee Chavez Incident:
The newest epithet posted on the latrine wall:
The author has started to incorprate more complex sentence structure, and references to pop culture, his taste evolves.
Lee, obstensibly, has written the following below this new comment, which is situated directly above the plastic urinal bucket thing:
I'm assuming it's Lee, since he is the object of all the nasty comments, but no one signed it, so it could have been put there by an imposter.
The only other people who receive a nasty time of it in the Latrines are the Mexicanos. There have not been, as of yet, any comments directly maligning our latino brethren, but there will be poems on the wall like the following:
"Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Here is a Mexican Dish Served up for YOU!" with an arrow pointind down into the absolutely disgusting bowl (As a sidenote, I have to say that I think I can probably handle any awful bathroom situation as I have become accustomed to the terribleness that is our work outhouses, and I can't imagine much that would top them in terms of absolute filth). Other comments, such as "Mexican Soda Straw" are listed with arrows pointing to the exhaust stack that comes out of the toilet's tank, "Mexican Breath Mint" pointing to the Urinal Cakes, and so on and so forth.
I have been thinking lately, that if all else fails, I'll hit the road, maybe Route 66 for six months and write and photograph a coffee table book about the inscriptions that one can find on bathroom walls. You know, stop at truck stops, gas stations and public toilets and chronical a little slice of the gutter level of societys creative impulse. Sure there'd be a lot of "If you want a good time call..." and "Mary is a filthy whore" but hidden between this detritus, you might find little bits of hidden profundity, and perhaps, GASP, original thought. But then again this project would involve frequenting gas station restrooms for six months, and I'm not sure I'm up to that. I'll leave the road to kerowhaCK! I know, it's not spelled correctly, I'm not gonna look it up.
Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson, is an absolutely fantastic book. I've read it before, but it's just as good this time, and I honestly can't remember enough details about the plot to ruin the story for me a second time.
Also, a messege for Charles: I think that due to the overwhelming Dr. Patrick content of your blog, you should rightly change the name from Caught in the Traps, to The Julian Files. Your prose is solid gold, and you have to understand that writing must be a part of your working future, else you will not be happy, but if you don't start spenting brainpower on a subject other than Julian Patrick soon, you too, will one day admit to being the mother of a child.
That's all.
The newest epithet posted on the latrine wall:
"On Weekends, Lee enjoys filling in as stunt double for Michael Jackson in Gay Porn."
The author has started to incorprate more complex sentence structure, and references to pop culture, his taste evolves.
Lee, obstensibly, has written the following below this new comment, which is situated directly above the plastic urinal bucket thing:
"Reggie, Instead of writing nasty comments on the wall, why don't you be a man and talk to my face about this."
I'm assuming it's Lee, since he is the object of all the nasty comments, but no one signed it, so it could have been put there by an imposter.
The only other people who receive a nasty time of it in the Latrines are the Mexicanos. There have not been, as of yet, any comments directly maligning our latino brethren, but there will be poems on the wall like the following:
"Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Here is a Mexican Dish Served up for YOU!" with an arrow pointind down into the absolutely disgusting bowl (As a sidenote, I have to say that I think I can probably handle any awful bathroom situation as I have become accustomed to the terribleness that is our work outhouses, and I can't imagine much that would top them in terms of absolute filth). Other comments, such as "Mexican Soda Straw" are listed with arrows pointing to the exhaust stack that comes out of the toilet's tank, "Mexican Breath Mint" pointing to the Urinal Cakes, and so on and so forth.
I have been thinking lately, that if all else fails, I'll hit the road, maybe Route 66 for six months and write and photograph a coffee table book about the inscriptions that one can find on bathroom walls. You know, stop at truck stops, gas stations and public toilets and chronical a little slice of the gutter level of societys creative impulse. Sure there'd be a lot of "If you want a good time call..." and "Mary is a filthy whore" but hidden between this detritus, you might find little bits of hidden profundity, and perhaps, GASP, original thought. But then again this project would involve frequenting gas station restrooms for six months, and I'm not sure I'm up to that. I'll leave the road to kerowhaCK! I know, it's not spelled correctly, I'm not gonna look it up.
Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson, is an absolutely fantastic book. I've read it before, but it's just as good this time, and I honestly can't remember enough details about the plot to ruin the story for me a second time.
Also, a messege for Charles: I think that due to the overwhelming Dr. Patrick content of your blog, you should rightly change the name from Caught in the Traps, to The Julian Files. Your prose is solid gold, and you have to understand that writing must be a part of your working future, else you will not be happy, but if you don't start spenting brainpower on a subject other than Julian Patrick soon, you too, will one day admit to being the mother of a child.
That's all.
posted by hotspur at 4:44 PM
1 Comments:
Good to see that you are still alive, Conor, at least on the outside.
Since I fill my blog is slowly but surely becoming the Julian Files, (didn't he star in Boxing Helena? Julian Files, everybody, I'll be here all night).
Okay, the latest rumor is that he was once married to Mary Nyquist. If that name doesn't mean anything to you, let me paint a visual picture. She was the Professor for my VIC210 class, which focused on Literature written from 1300 to 1900, (I guess it was a slow period in civilization so that the course can be condensed into one year). Anyhoo, she was a total dykey earth-mother type who wore African flowing robes, (Jack, put your cock away. Thanks.), and gave us all of this ridiculous post-colonial, post-feminist, post-interesting reading material. The idea that such a woman could have once been married to J.P. is strange enough, but compound this by the fact that they work in the same department, and we are starting to get a slightly fishy story. Yet some people, (like the guy named Barton who dresses like an eighty year old man and can't seem to shave his upper lip), insist that this is true.
Oh, and it's spelled Kerouac, you post-beatnik.
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