There's been so much pretty urban decay to gawk at and so many delightfully wonky numbers in the collection lately that I've almost forgotten about the understated elegance of some of my neighbor's address plates. It's just too easy, you know? It's like having a crush on the homecoming king. Justifiable, sure, but hardly interesting. Give me the socially awkward, kind-hearted misfit over the neatly-packaged prat any day of the week. Better stories. More fun.
It's gotten to the point where I am so obstinate about finding hidden, underappreciated gems that I will spend an entire city block ignoring all else around me, contemplating, nay, admiring spray-painted numbers on garbage cans -- the same ones that often misspell the name of their own street and even the one that's tagged by someone known only as "BEER SLUT." In other words, I think I might be taking this obsession a little too far. Is there such a thing?
Even though I am kidding no one via this exercise, least of all my slumming, iconoclastic self, I will take this day to step back, look up, and appreciate the finer typefaces in life. Oh look -- a manhole cover!