As some of you know, I like to walk. Since Houston is not a particularly scenic city and I have lived here for most of my life, I don't really waste much time looking around. What I do instead is keep my eyes on the ground. And I find stuff — lots of wonderful stuff.
Occasionally, my discoveries have actual value — like the $20 bill I found outside Blanco's. More often though, the stuff is depressing, disturbing, or, occasionally, humorous. Sometimes one object is all three of those things at the same time.
I thought about sending these things into Found magazine, but hell, I thought Houstoned readers might like 'em too. So here are the first installments of what I hope will be an ongoing element here:
I found this plaintive little note wadded up and tangled in a fence on Avondale, about a block from KPFT studios, smack-dab in Montrose's sordid unofficial red light district.
Here's a transcript:
"Hey whitegirl whats up on your end? I haven't been taken care of shit like I should. I need to get my shit together or I will end up back in prison. I really don't want that to happen. Yes I need to find a job soon but I haven't even tried to find one"
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I found the naughty Post-it Note at a bus stop on Bellaire near my house, and I was glad my wife was with me when I did — otherwise, she made have come across it in my pocket. (In which case she would laugh herself silly before asking me what the hell I was doing carrying around a note that falsely advertised the size of my tallywhacker.)
My question is, to what purpose is this advertisement being made? It has the look one of those "Kick me hard" notes kids stick on each other's backs, but generally people don't tend to tout their victims packages in those things. I dunno...Maybe it's just some poor guy's daily affirmation. Maybe this guy really does have a foot-long schlong and nothing else going for him, so he writes himself that note while he waits for the bus to take him to his apartment in Sharpstown. Or maybe it was a pervert who flashes people vicariously — instead of whipping out his dong, he whips out a note about describing its specs.
Who knows? Anyway, that's why I pick up this trash. It gives me food for deep thoughts like that. — John Nova Lomax