I stopped by a Bank of America ATM center in Chelsea a few weeks ago and was delighted to see an inky bramble of graffiti above the little table with deposit slips, envelopes, and the obligatory crappy pen on a metal leash.
After withdrawing some money from my account, I paused to admire what a few average vandals had decided to share.
“Irish boys are fucked up”? Yeah, that’s what James Joyce said.
Don’t worry. We’re all technically broke. Even our bank.
My closest gay friend loves beer, too.
Ooh, you clever one.
This graffiti transcended love or even who to call for a good time. It captured us, our nation, right this moment.
Or maybe it was just me. Sometimes I’m easily enthralled.
Love it. I was in a bar in shoreditch the other day, and someone had corrected the bad grammar of the grafitti on the walls in the loos. Didn’t know whether to be scornful or impressed by such geekiness.
Ha! I love stuff like that.