Getting a Close Look at the Handwriting on the Wall

Fear and loathing on the 405.

By now, you’ve probably seen the writing on the wall as you’re heading south, beginning at about the Beach Boulevard exit and extending toward the Brookhurst exit. You can’t read the scribbling, but you see the graffiti on the sound wall on the right side of the freeway, and you can’t help but think that the forces of evil are everywhere. There’s something menacing and invasive about the spray-painted logos with the looping letters and indecipherable script.

You loathe it. You fear it.

It’s an eyesore and it denotes someone’s arrogance and ego. But it also reminds us that society often is at the mercy of the lawbreaker. To the extent that that plants a seed of fear, maybe it frightens us a bit, too.

At least, that’s what I thought before I took a nature hike Thursday alongside the freeway where the graffiti beckons, down along the pathway next to the wall where the subculture makes its statements under cover of darkness and thumbs its nose at the rest of us.

I invited Devon Brewer to go along, a 24-year-old Ph.D. candidate in social science at UC Irvine who has studied illegal graffiti in recent years. I asked him to translate the scrawling, perhaps thinking I’d get a better sense of how soon the county would be overrun by the godless hordes.

Brewer began by saying that illegal graffiti is an “international phenomenon” that began in New York subways more than 20 years ago and exists in such sublime locales as Holland and Sweden. He’s kind of surprised that it’s taken this long to get a foothold in rapidly urbanizing Orange County.

Early in the trek, we saw an insignia with the letters CK and a line through the “C.” Brewer said that represented Crips Kill, a reference to the Crips gang in L.A. But inasmuch as there is no significant Crips presence in Orange County like there is in Los Angeles County, Brewer said, the writing probably was the work of gang wanna-bes, rather than the work of a true gang. Further supporting that premise, he said, is that the graffiti was written in turf that belongs to no one and is in a place shielded by bushes that no one could easily see, thus rendering it meaningless as a gang statement.

Most graffiti is called Hip Hop, a cultural byproduct of break dancing, rap music and graffiti-writing. Hip Hop generally consists of either “tagging,” “throw-ups” or “pieces,” with the first two referring to the use of stylized names, initials or acronyms, and with “pieces” referring to the more lavish, mural-type artwork.

In the stretch we patrolled next to the 405, the name Surge dominated, along with the initials KMD. As we walked alongside the wall, Brewer said KMD stood for “Kids Makin’ Disaster.” It’s not unusual for writers to overdramatize their rebelliousness, he said. “Graffiti writers tend to be normal kids. They’re not thugs who are going to mug you.”

Surge is the writer’s name, and KMD is a crew, Brewer explained. A crew is a group of writers that often engage in competition with other crews both for style and quantity of work, Brewer said.

I asked Brewer if painting over the graffiti by public officials is doomed to failure.

“It’s a way of restoring the property, but it’s not an effective method of reducing the graffiti. It just kindles the writer’s desire to write more. It also gives them a fresh canvas.”

As we continued our walk, Brewer said the local 405 writers are obviously inexperienced, which he attributed to the relative newness of graffiti in Orange County. “Here, Surge is saying ‘hello.’ It’s a kind greeting to some other crews.”

One thing is clear from the writing, Brewer said. “This is not gang graffiti. They’re not gang members, and doing this is not going to make them gang members. They view this as an alternative to the other violence and crime that goes on in the street.”

Farther along the wall, someone wrote, “CHP, Missed Again.”

While an obvious mock to the Highway Patrol, Brewer said the writers aren’t motivated primarily by tweaking the authorities. “They’re trying to achieve fame from their fellow writers. . . . There’s also the give-and-take with authorities. That’s part of the equation, but it’s a small part. The main thing is status with their peers.”

The writers know they’re breaking the law, but it seems an inconsequential law to them compared to the street violence they typically see, Brewer said.

Although cities hardly ever want to spend money to provide space for graffiti writers, that would prove cheaper than cleaning the illegal graffiti, Brewer said. Indeed, a Caltrans spokesman says the agency spends more than $20,000 a month painting over Orange County graffiti.

While not endorsing illegal graffiti, Brewer said: “I view it more as sport or a game because that’s the sort of mind-set they have when they do it.” And calling it a crime is almost irrelevant because most writers never get caught, he said.

Our hourlong trip through the subculture at an end, I thanked Brewer for his time. He seemed remarkably unmoved by the vandalism, reacting with the dispassion of a biologist studying an organism in a culture dish.

I guess it wore off on me.

Because although I still can’t accept the wanton defacing of property, I at least feel like I understand it.

And more important for my own peace of mind, I no longer fear it.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.