… and their meaning have left me stranded in front of the computer screen furiously reading the ebook of Dick Hebdige’s Subculture: The Meaning of Style. I was also stranded earlier (in the slush and fog) on Albert St. (a major street in the city) in the turning lane (the left turning lane I must add) when my car died for no apparant reason other than it could. Fortunately, my car is light, a standard, and easy to move, so I was able to roll it out of the way quickly enough. I was also only a block from work. Perhaps my car is a part of the plastic sub-counterculture and began it’s silent rebellion in the only way it knew how: self-destruction.

2 thoughts on “Signs

  1. Oh well, at least your car died with style: where it was most obvious and could therefore make the loudest statement (or was that you making the loudest statement when it died?) I’m sure some cars can trace their ancestry back to the Hansen Sea Cow (the outboard motor described so wonderfully by Steinbeck in The Log From the Sea of Cortez)

  2. Sometimes I think my car is a better drama queen than I am! My car traces its ancestry back to Saturn–at least that’s what it’s called.

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