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From The New York Shitty Inbox: Lose Something?
This mystery item comes courtesy of my buddy down south, Flatbush Gardener. He writes:
Today’s thaw revealed a lost treasure in a snow bank on Marlborough Road. Blog Widow and I were on the way to the subway to enjoy the day when we stumbled across (something). As I was taking the photos, a car pulled up to the light alongside us.
There were two passengers: the woman driving (WD) and a man I took to
be her father riding shotgun (FS):
WD (yelling across FS to me through the open car window): Did you get a good shot?
Me: Yes!
WD: It’s a turd, isn’t it?
Me: Um, no, it’s not.
WD: It’s a turd.
FS: It’s not a turd.
Me: No, but it’s the same vicinity.
For the reveal click here. Go ahead. You will not be disappointed!
I want to take a moment to thank Flatbush Gardener for bringing this lovely find to my attention. Believe it or not, it brings back a very fond memory for yours truly. You see, a long time ago I lived not too far from where this chap calls home. One summer day I was walking to McDonald Avenue and I found a most curious item: a brass picture frame with a couple of Polaroids in it. These were affixed to a rather greasy-looking piece of cardboard. I quickly deduced the “subject” of said photos had at one time accompanied them. It was nowhere to be found. That’s when I came to the realization Prospect Park South was way more hoppin’ than I ever imagined.
Miss Heather
671: The Reveal
I ended yesterday’s offerings on New York Shitty with a brain teaser. I wrote:
Today a young woman with a most curious tattoo came to the junk shop. As you can see it is the borough of Brooklyn, rendered in argyle, and includes a number. Anyone care to guess what it means? She told me and I will give the reveal tomorrow at noon. It’s really neat!
Well, it’s noon and here’s the reveal.
This very nice young lady (who is employed at Papasitos) came into the junk shop with her mother— who was a lovely lady in her own right. She was fabulous.
As they were exiting I got a passing glance of the above tattoo. I locked onto the visage of Greenpoint like the Garden Spot geek that I am. I can pick out the silhouette of our fair burgh a mile away. Probably because it bears a disquieting resemblance that fucked-up blob thing from the Gigglesnort Hotel I saw— repeatedly and much to my disturbance— as a little kid.
(To get a true grasp of how truly weird this show— and 1970’s childrens’ television in general— were click on the above image and watch the video. CAVEAT: Do not watch this under the influence of any mind-altering substances.)
I looked again at her tattoo. This time to the south. I recognized Coney Island. My eyes were not deceiving me: this was county of Kings rendered in Argyle. With a number: 671. So I asked her about it.
She said she grew up at 671 Argyle Road, Brooklyn, 11230. And she piquantly added:
I thought I grew up in the suburbs— until I actually saw what suburbs were.
Her mother laughed.
So there’s the reveal. A tattoo— which in hindsight— is not so cryptic. And pretty damned cool!
Hey, if her mother (who has since left Victorian Flatbush) likes it, who am I to judge? What’s more, I think it is neat!
Miss Heather
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