Chaka Khan

Today, as we drove back home from the Museum of Science via I-93, I looked up from the road, for a moment, to see one of the digital billboards next to the interstate shift from an Arby’s ad to reading:


That was it. The exclamation point was theirs. No mention of tour dates or concert venues, just two blazing words, yellow on electric blue, screaming out to Greater Boston:


I like to think that somewhere, in a windowless office many miles away, pounding on the keyboard that kept the numberless commercials shifting across the LEDscape, a nameless operator was shaking his booty hard, his earbuds carrying the music as an artery carries blood, mouthing the words as boogied “I feel for you/Think I looooove you…”

His groove escaped him, leaping the operations control and broadcasting out across the city.