The A Hole is Now Open

One of my favorite things to do on road trips is photograph ridiculous signage. The hobby has evolved into an elaborate ritual where I pack along a small notebook for writing down names and locations, and, of course, the camera, so that I can shatter virtually any quiet moment with the shout, "Holy shit, pull over!"

Podunk hair and nail salons are usually my bread and butter, since there's an unwritten law that they must derive their names from the most ham-handed puns the gals could cook up after a night of too many cosmopolitans-- "Cuttin' Up" is a popular choice, but I've also stumbled across such gems as "Continental Hairlines," "The Hairport," and "The Mane Event."

The above picture is of an establishment not far from my current hometown, and the only thing I've done to it is remove the phone number beneath the name. Yup, "A Hole" is the honest-to-God name they've filled in on their bank loans and business cards. And just in case you thought maybe these folks were just shooting for that first listing in the phonebook, and that's what the "A" means, they made sure to clarify their real intent by graphically enhancing the "O."

(Incidentally, I nearly clotheslined a cyclist when I leapt from my car in my frenzy to secure proof that someone would name a business after a schoolyard taunt. Sorry, dude.)

Another hobby is going to the annual Art Car Show in Austin, where people openly scorn bluebook values in a quest to turn their vehicles into mobile collage pieces using everything from plastic dinosaurs and Barbie doll heads to welded silverware and shag carpeting. I'm completely in love with the idea of an art car, both for its reckless abandon with found objects and adhesives and for its utter inconvenience on days when the owner is violently ill and just wants to duck into the pharmacy for some Immodium and Advil-- anonymity is impossible when your car is covered in chess pieces and spouts bubbles from the tailpipe.

 

Art Car Shows in Austin have a very pronounced atmosphere of weirdness-- the whole thing takes place on 6th Street with people reeling in and out of the bars to gawk at each car, and usually at least one leathery biker mama shows up in buttless chaps. But coming across an art car nestled in between the minivans and the BMWs in the parking lot of a Houston Linens N' Things is like stumbling across the giant pink vibrator in your grandmother's stocking drawer-- it's a little shocking.

But I maintain that it's a special person who is willing to spend the time, energy, and money turning their jeep into a tiger. I can't imagine the sleepless nights given over to creative musings, doubts, frustrations-- should the headlights be more catlike? Are the glow-in-the-dark tiger heads mounted on either side of the front grill overkill, or the perfect touch? But the true mark of a car artist is the ability to find that one little detail (or two, as the case may be) that really pushes the envelope:

  

Brilliant.