Soiled Doves

I dropped by the Hole in the Wall a couple nights ago just to say hi to some people, and like you do when you drop by your favorite watering hole just to say hi to some people, I ended up having a few delicious, frosty beers. And, like you do when you have had a few delicious, frosty beers, I had to hit the bathroom at one point.

Where I saw this:


To which I thought, "Yes. Dirt. I agree. Dirt."

Then I began to really think about the deep message conveyed on the wall of the backporch commode at the Hole in the Wall with this one little word, and the heaviness of it all was almost too much to bear. I mean, what was the tagger trying to tell me? That he felt like dirt at the time? That the wall needed cleaning? That God made dirt, so dirt don't hurt? My mind was awash in possible meanings, and I needed a minute to process it all. I made a pit stop at the front bar (did you know there are THREE bars at the Hole in the Wall?) and got another delicious, frosty beer from Dominic (yes, THE Dominic), and sat down to ponder the implications of the word "dirt."

I came to three possible conclusions regarding this:

1. A rogue winemaker had wandered into the bathroom, and in an epiphany finally decided what aspect of the winemaking process was most important.
2. A sophomore from UT tried to get fancy and spell the word "diatribe."
3. The ghost of someone killed by a giant pile of soil was trying to warn us.

Since ghosts scare the crap out of me, I'm ruling that one out (because I don't want to think about it anymore), and since we all know that a sophomore trying to spell "diatribe" most likely wouldn't even come up with "dirt" (that's still way more letters than they would probably have command over), I guess I'll have to go with option #1. The rogue winemaker. It seems appropriate, seeing as how the Hole is a booze joint.

Incidentally, I saw this guy playing his heart out on the middle stage of the bar:

I gotta get a better camera.

Anyhoo, that's Jacob Jones, and like I said, he was singing his brains out for the ladies who were swooning. That room sounds killer, BTW. But I digress. Back to DIRT.

It's true that my massively bitchin' powers of deduction led me to what I call the "Rogue Winemaker Pristine Bullet Theory," but I'm still not satisfied. I mean, how could I possibly think that I, a mere mortal, could understand the true depth and breadth of that solitary, cosmic word?

Hopefully, "Dirt" isn't a big, scary guy who will track me down and show his dis-appreciation for the free publicity.

See you at The Hole.