I was concerned that the “ol roy” interlude in my previous item was underinspired and dull, but I forgot how much uninspiration inspires people, and so he has already been promoted to Southern Connecticut State Universitti grafitti creative consultant.

Apart from the prominent FUCKIN’ this seemed too consciously peculiar to be written by a student here without an outside source, and sure enough, it is a lyric from some song that I suspect is meant to be a facetiously daft take on traditionally daft oversimplifying “message” songs, although regardless of sincerity it is musically awful. Awfulness strengthens the experience. And so what might be my initial assumption, that taking the line out of context of the bad song might improve it, seeing it scratched into a wall is less awful than hearing it sung and so, in fact, it is worse. It reminds me of another good old time, however.

I took a number of pictures from a car that day. Almost none looked like anything afterward. Somehow I have two totally legible shots of this sign. It must be my destiny to document this. Or maybe the car stopped and we got out here. I cannot decide which is worse.
Common Man, first of uh, is a sellout shill. The interior of his domain is filled with “common man” branded merchandites. While no doubt the marketing and quality of product was nothing beyond common, you don’t get to pretend you uphold the interests of oppressed, hardworking people when you charge them $20 for a mass-produced shirt that provides the most rudimentary insulation with a logo on it. I don’t have pictures of that, either!

alright, it probably wasn’t as lazy as this one.

It really isn’t hard to make a terrible shirt! This is outside of relevance!

More important than common man or his awful wears or what’s worse than them is his slogan. When I passed the sign the first time, I was certain the letters spelled up “drink in sand, feet in hand.” I wondered how anybody driving could see that and that not get into a horrific accident trying to make logical sense of it. Anything else it might say would be corny and pointless. I was so taken that I had to commemorate the experience with a tiny drawing in a notebook. Somewhere I could find it again but that less enlightened folks would never come across and make a quarrel over out of jealousy. Today I scanned it and traced it. Aren’t you proud!

Who needs good food and down home cold hard ice cream when they have feet in hand? What more do you need? You’re all but set for a good long while. A tragic existence, to never know the possibility of feet in hand.

My sister formerly had a section of her facebook account detailing “one night in hand,” a yearly event for graduators at the Daniel Hand High School of Madison, Connecticut, including all manner of chaperoned mischief that I have no idea about because I never attended that school and my sister deleted that account months ago. Perhaps out of despair of night in hand not comparing to feet in hand.

Remembering that my camera was borrowed occasionally back in those times, I searched for evidence and found none. Here is, however, a picture that I discovered in my collection from the approximate period when night in hand would have occurred. I think it tells you just as much.

According to an internet, the actual title is “nite in hand.” It is conducted under an alias so that I will not find out. For, you see, Nite in Hand is alcohol free, so it is likely students will have neither drink* nor feet in hand. Just nite, which doesn’t even exist. Truly bleak!

*unless they consume something highly deviant, such as water.