The death of subtlety in the city of big shoulders

Chicago is not a subtle town. Not a whole lot of nuance. People from Chicago don't tend to have hidden meanings when they talk about things, choosing instead to blather earnestly about sports teams and sausage.

Our mayor is a good example. He gets all kinds of frustrated when asked questions about his motives or the nuances of his thinking. Upon leaving a controversial meeting at what was perceived to be a critical juncture, it was revealed that he departed not in protest of the speaker, but because he "had to take a leak." That's why he's probably always going to be our mayor, until he dies, at which point we'll probably dally with some other folk before giving up on the whole idea and simply electing his son.

So it is no surprise that, when the time came to ring in December, Chicago took the obvious route and laid out a sheet of snow. So virtually overnight we went from autumn to wintry. The temperature had been hovering in the 60s for several days, and has now plummeted into the 20s and 30s. (For British readers, take these numbers and convert them into something more...centigrade-y? Centigradary? Centigracious?)

They told us this weather was coming, so yesterday I ran over to the store to get some food in case it was bad enough to make me want to stay indoors for a couple of days. I loaded my cart with convenience foods (they didn't have a lot of other kinds of food). I even, with apologies to Julia Buckley, bought some ice cream, in spite of what ice cream apparently does to her precious vegetarian food. In my defense, this particular store doesn't carry much vegetarian fare at any time of year. Back when I was veggie, I never would have shopped there at all.

When I went out to my car to head to the store, I discovered that someone had apparently decided that vandalism and my car should be featured more regularly on my blog: someone had tagged my car with a marker. My guess in this instance is that it someone from a former Soviet republic, as there are no vowels. Or a doctor with the initials S.K. who cannot afford proper business cards.

My first apartment in the city featured a tag on the back door, which led out onto a wooden fire escape thing. The tag featured a cartoon cat extending its middle finger with a caption encouraging the reader to do something to themselves which is, um, very difficult to accomplish. I'll admit that this graffiti probably had something to do with my decision to rent the apartment in the first place (yes, it was on the door when they were showing the apartment to prospective tenants).

This instance, however, makes me a bit sad. I drive this car to work and such (when I work) and I wish they'd done it in a less conspicuous spot. Now I am faced with either repainting my car, or leaving it there forever. And let's face it: I'm not likely to repaint a fourteen-year-old station wagon.

Maybe I can play it off like it's a greeting I picked up from a Tourette's patient. "Drsk!" I'll yell cheerfully when I encounter someone.

There is no personality to the tag, no originality, no verve. It isn't even really a tag. My logo for the blog seems more authentically "street." This looks like a marking they might make with a soap pen as the car is being shuttled off for auction or something. "Deflated Right Side Tire," maybe, which is true enough. Scribbled by an uncaring hand who has to mark 3,000 other cars during his shift.

If you're going to deface my property, is it too much to ask that you put some time and thought into it? Craft a message, use some color. Wow me. Taggers used to care about the art. If you cannot muster this sort of feeling, give some thought to maybe not writing on my car. Or at least take a vacation, recharge tha batteries a bit before you do. Try to rekindle what it was that made you love tagging things in the first place.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by the lackluster nature of modern vandalism. As I've already said, Chicago is not a city of subtlety.