Signs of a weakening economy

This morning I ran some errands on foot. One of the attractive qualities about where I live, other than being neighbors with John McCain^[*], is that I can get most of my day-to-day shopping done as a pedestrian. Today I dumped off a load of waste paper at the recycling drop-off and then headed to drop off my comforter for dry cleaning. Along the way on each of three of the four corners of the intersection of Camelback Rd. and 20th St. was a sign guy.

First I need to explain sign guys because I'm unsure what their official job title is. Sign guys are guys that hold advertisement signs on high-traffic street corners. Sign guys come in two main varieties: professional sign guys and bum-on-a-corner sign guys. The pros do sign holding tricks like spinning and tossing the sign high into the air and catching it behind their back. They're young and zestful and their signs promise of deals similar: full of flash and slight of substance. Whereas bum-on-a-corner sign guys stand dejectedly and do little more than hold the sign as if to say, "Our deal is so great that I will let you read the sign I'm holding instead of me twirling it on my finger like a Harlem Globetrotter."

The professional sign guys were popular not too long ago. They would work for hours spinning those signs at their corner, doing their fancy footwork moves, occasionally playing a little sign guitar, rocking out to a great deal on overpriced condominiums or whatever back when people were interested in buying overpriced condominiums and whatever. But this morning the sign guys I saw were of the bum-on-a-corner variety. They fully had the dejected, turtle enthusiasm thing going, which fit because each of them was holding a going-out-of-business, everything-must-go type of sign -- a sign of a weakening economy.

^[*] I learned this fact last Tuesday while waiting in line to vote. Not only does Mr. McCain too live in District 3, but his official residence is one of the condos across the street from my apartment. I learned this from the swarm of television reporters lurking about, waiting for that cliché shot of a presidential candidate casting a ballot for himself.