I don’t allow my phone to broadcast where it is and therefore where I am, because I enjoy whatever shred of privacy I can wring from modern life. I do wish, though, that some signs gave better information about location. For example, imagine you’re driving and come upon this sign:
A bay can be a coastal indentation that boats bob around in. It can also be a window or a tree, and sometimes the sound of a hound. Digging deep into the vocabulary of public transportation, you find that a bay is where a bus parks to pick up or drop off passengers. But suppose you’re driving a car on a Manhattan street. What are the odds that you’ll slow down to figure out where the “bay” is, or worse, that you’ll spend so much time thinking about the sign that you’ll overlook the red light in front of you? I stood near this sign for a while, watching cars turn left from any of three lanes, plus a bit of another, which was intended for vehicles traveling in the opposite direction. Redefine bay if you please, but please let it be common usage before it hits the streets.
Another location issue:
I’ve held onto this sign since last autumn, trying to decide what the thrift shop is doing. “Curated” implies careful selection. But “curated by location”? I can only imagine a vast sorting area with workers deciding whether a coat is “totally Chelsea” or “too Upper East Side.” If so, I’d like to see the selection criteria. Wait, actually I would not like to see the selection criteria. I gnash my teeth often enough these days.
Which brings me to this, the best statement about location I’ve come across:
I’ve seen several cryptic messages like this one, sprayed around my neighborhood. They take me back to the early days of Keith Haring’s career, when he pasted black paper over subway ads and then drew barking dogs or radiant children. Am I watching the next street artist develop? Maybe. Even if the artist never achieves Haring- or Banksy-level fame, it’s nice to know where karma comes back: in the shower.
I pass this store often, so I can report with confidence that every forklift has a “literature packet” strapped to its vertical shaft. I’ve spent a lot of time speculating about the contents of the “literature packet,” wondering what genres are represented and whether the literature changes with the seasons. This being autumn, I’d choose Frost’s “After Apple-Picking” or “This Is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams, possibly the best poem ever written about food larceny. (It’s the one where the speaker confesses that he has “eaten the plums” that someone was “probably saving for breakfast.”) Or maybe the packet contains the script of “Babette’s Feast” or the Christmas dinner scene from Great Expectations. Yes, I know, the “literature” is probably operating instructions, but a grammarian can dream, can’t she?
According to the dictionary, a “drove” is “a herd or flock” or “a large mass of people acting in unison.” Therefore, “Zimbabweans” can turn out in “droves,” but not “Zimbabwe.” Unless a mass of countries with that name somehow didn’t make it onto the map?
As far as I’m concerned, BOGO all you want. I once thought that the concept of “buy one get one” was an unnecessary statement of the standard deal between buyer and seller. But now I see that most BOGO-users are too busy surfing social media to add an “F,” for “free.” Or maybe they think that BOGOF sounds like a mediocre brand of caviar. I commend this sign-writer for specifying the terms of the deal, spelling out “buy one get one” for “50% Off,” though strictly speaking the sign should read “BOGAOF50%O” (buy one get another one for 50% off). I concede that such a sign resembles the kind of password people concoct and promptly forget. I will, however, raise an objection to “tight.” I prefer to cover both legs with “tights,” not just one with a “FREE tight.” And $75 is a little steep, don’t you think?
