November 3, 2004

The arbitrariness of the sign in the moment

I’ve got this favourite person whom I never see. An aficionado of econoboxes and also a demon driver, as if he expects his cars to be disposable. Once, after nearly rear-ending a vehicle, he came to a screeching halt--as did his eyes on said car’s tail, which was printed with this word: FOCUS.

Yesterday, on the way to watch election returns, I walked by Burcu’s Angels, known for its wackily political window art and even more wacky owner, the very Turkish Burcu. She knows that if you take a pair of pants and wrap the waistband around your neck, they’ll be a good fit. Plus, if Billeh is working, he will recite a sexy Gretsky poem (but you must ask him nicely). Last night, her display was crammed with wigless mannequins in antique wedding dresses. In the centre, a pair of black feathered wings. And a slip of paper on a white pillow, held down by foreign coins. It read: A WORD OF ADVICE: IT’S TOO LATE.

I continued on to the Hendersteins' with a bag of sushi in my hand. It was almost 9:30. I was starving and couldn’t wait to get there. Florida, Pennsylvania, Ohio. I chewed my gum in a hungry fervour.

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