Chicago Rummage

In an effort to stave off regret I spent the weekend in an idyll of shopping self-delusion. Inseparable from the bland horror of dippy trinkets is the fear that my own taste should never be trusted--by anyone, but most particularly by me. However, once the white flag of public defeat is waved, there’s no going back; you’re frozen in the corner, dunce cap in place, white flag and elephant at your feet.

Here is what I bought:
A bronze, black-hole-heavy statue of a crouching man, mounted on plastic, once a sports trophy but now missing its bat, racquet or club; a pointlessly oversized half-matted photograph of an Egyptian board game; a beaded gray-red caterpillar-like bracelet, peculiarly segmented and furry; and one or two other items I haven’t yet had the fortitude to unpack.

Ideally, all purchases should be accomplished secretly, all mistakes corrected imperceptibly, so the lunatic’s reputation for reason remains, via fraud, intact.