Here it is, an urban quirk: there is a parking lot in my neighborhood, on which is built, on a near-daily basis, an impromptu skatepark. While I've never been a skaterat (too old, I think; too terrified of perils to my skin, I suspect may be more accurate) but I admire the devotion to the activity, the cobbled-together nature of found objects -cum- obstacle course and the fact that it disappears EVERY DAY.
There are plans to evacuate the two or three sad tenants of the strip shop surrounding that parking lot, and turn the whole area into a 300-home development. Though I know the skaterats are resourceful enough to find another place, or may be too old to be skating by the time this happens, the thought of not having that concrete evidence of the temporary nature of things makes me a little sad.
Here it is, I am officially quirky.
|Your Quirk Factor: 80%|
You're so quirky, it's hard for you to tell the difference between quirky and normal.
No doubt about it, there's little about you that's "normal" or "average."
Here it is, on a blog by a guy named Phil, Korea's answer to England's RatherGood.com, by way of the blog of James Lileks, author of such classics as Interior Desecrations and Mommie Knows Worst. If my stepmother doesn't already have it, I'm buying her The Gallery of Regrettable Food for Mother's Day.
Speaking of which, since most of you have mothers, if you're stumped for gifts, do visit Archie McPhee. They're quirkier than most.
(Strange Brew; Cream)