Art Crimes

It hit me at about 3 o'clock in the morning last week, my head laying on my pillow, mind still unable to slow down enough to rest those scant few hours till I needed to get up and go to work. Dare I forego sleep, and venture out into the dark hours of the very early morn to satisfy the itch that's been gnawing at my brain like some rabid toothed monkey, clinging to the back of my neck in a firm death grip ever since I first started doing it? This addiction of mine is chilling the very core of my foundations, and quite frankly, it's starting really scare me. So that night, try as I might to fight back the demons of addiction and impulse, I could no longer. I sprang out of bed, dressed up in all black, and bounded out the door.

It was time to vandalize and deface public and corporate property.

I feel ashamed to admit it, even at the ripe old age of 29, I still go out there and deface property with my art. Call it what you will: Graffiti. Vandalism. Social propaganda. I prefer the lofty term of "guerrilla urban re-beautification". Art should be free, no matter how high brow or sophisticated the artist claims it to be. The world would truly be a grander place if everyone was allowed to express themselves on the walls of the outside world without fear of being held back by the man, I truly do believe that. But no, now people like me are forced to venture out into the night under cover of darkness like modern ninja, armed with spray cans and a message, all in the name of art. It seems silly to some. I question myself some days. I thought I would outgrow such foolishness and move onto loftier, more "adult" recreation. Like getting married, neglecting my kids, or playing amateur league softball with all the fellas at work. No, instead I've become addicted to the rush of prowling around at night and throwing my art up on highly visible walls. The glowing sense of accomplishment when I drive by it during the day, and realize no one else knows the identity of the person who had the nerve to even bother wasting his time doing something like that. But sure enough, you'll see MY art everyday. I'm sure it's an ego issue at hand here, but aren't all artists egotistical? If we weren't, why in the hell do we create anyway? Shit, why do you think porn stars do what they do? Other than being filthy, filthy whores who love the cock, they also love the fact that complete strangers will see what they've done. Plus, there's always the rush.

Ah, the rush. As I walked through the empty city streets, it started to creep up my spine like the serpentine jolt of tantric kundalini. That feeling of knowing you're about to do something illegal or wrong, but you're going to do it anyway. That's the one I'm talking about. But that's just an appetizer. A little something to tide me over before I really get down to work and lay my ass out on the line. After an hour of searching, and the ever present threat of the morning sun about to rise, I found my canvas. A very low to the ground billboard pointing the way towards Interstate 95, visible for all to see during rush hour traffic. Only problem was, is that it's right off the street and while it would take me really only a scant 5 or so minutes to hastily throw up my stencil, that was just enough time to be seen by some pig on patrol. Graveyard shift cop shave got to lead a miserable existence. Probably hopped up on 18 cups of coffee and a bottle of Mini-Thins, I bet the sketchy sight of me dressed in all black armed with a spray can and a cut out sheet of polyurethane would look about as inviting as wearing a sign that said, "POLICE ARE FAGGOTS! BEAT ME PLEASE!". But that feeling struck me again. Better than crack, I swears it.

So, in a rush of paranoia-induced endorphins, and the ever present threat of being beaten about the face and neck with a billy club, I sprayed away. Some black kid rode by on his most likely stolen bicycle, gave me a nod like "Wassup" and continued on his way, I'm sure to go to some corner and sling a freshly prepared batch of rock. I don't blame him. I'm just glad I'm not him.
So I finish up my latest masterpiece, and stand back to bask in the fumes from the can of Krylon. But the monkey on my back had bitten perhaps a bit too deep that night, but I stuck around longer than I should have.

"HEY! YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE!?"

Translated loosely in my head as "RUN, ASSHOLE!". So that's what I did. I ran, but not before turning around and taking a good look at what was coming my way. Mr. Typical, Overweight, Fat-Assed Police Officer Tubby...like something straight out of a movie. He was pointing at me, one hand holding up a MagLight, the other pulling up his belt over that plumber's crack of his. I took off like a bandit, with him plodding away behind me out of breath but not backing down. No sir, that fat fucker was all red faced and screaming at me. "STOP!" I couldn't help but laugh out loud like a crazed lunatic while I raced through an alleyway, over a resident's fence, back around behind a mechanic's garage, and finally back to the side street where I parked my car. Heart pumping like an engine piston, I threw my black sweatshirt under the car seat, hid the can of black paint in the side pocket of the passenger door, and layed my head back on the seat rest. As the sun started rising, I drove by the scene of my crime, looking over nonchalantly at Officer Fat Neck as he stood there hunched over and sweating like a leaky faucet. I finally felt exhausted enough to go back to sleep. But the clock said 6, and I had to be at work in an hour an half. 8 hours of mindless, sweaty assed, spine crippling monkey labor...

...and me with only black painted fingertips as evidence of my addiction and crimes.