Do you need to sell something? You do??
PUT A CAT ON IT.
That sweatshirt is not to be worn ironically and can be yours for a mere $65.
But really, it’s not even realistic. What sort of galaxy is full of white kittens and multi-colored roses??
And where’s the wine and unicorn??
All of those adorable kittens in space DID inspire a graduation card. Don’t ask me why. DON’T ASK ME.
Don’t tell Blockbuster Video, but I still have a VHS copy of Alive in my attic. 
I just love survival dramas. *I* survived the heat last week, it was pretty dramatic… But I ate no one, despite feeling very hungry. To celebrate, the Intern and I set some type.
AND THEN I wrote/designed more cards for RSVP, deadline is TOMORROW. 
No big deal. Chosen card(s) just go into the Major Supermarkets.
ART, I say!
ART!
RSVP asked me for some new art, SPECIFICALLY for 16th birthdays, BUT stay away from the subject of driving?
Um, ok.
How about the subject of dog poop?
I KNOW this is a derivative of MY OWN card.
AND a card I made for ANOTHER Art Licensor. Recycled Paper Greetings.
They also asked for some Wedding Cards… Maybe I’ll say something about flatulence, MAYBE I WON’T.
Madge The Intern and I wore our Burger King© crowns and spent the day printing.
Does Madge look different??
So serious.
Zeichen Press was invited to join other Notorious Letterpress Printers and contribute to The Smallest Museum In St. Paul. Don’t pretend you’ve never thought about turning an empty firehose cabinet into a tiny museum.
Action shots:
I was pretending to be a mouse with a camera — I think Madge was scared/intrigued.
The (petite) Opening Reception is August 1, from 2-4 at Workhouse Coffee Bar.
I’ve observed the greedy, groping limbs of an Octopus on television.
I SEE YOU, OCTOPUS.
I SEE YOUR SELF-INDULGENT, FLESH-LIKE, SUCTION-COVERED BOUGHS, BUMPING ALONG THE OCEAN FLOOR.
Sea Creatures are on my mind because I’m back in Barnstable. 
Ah, Barnstable. How is it possible for the sunsets to always fill me with awe, the hammock to always fill me with peace, and people to always fill my belly with booze on the deck overlooking the Great Salt Marsh?
IT’S A TOUGH LIFE.
Wouldn’t it be great if there was a single greeting card that could wrap up your feelings of culpability completely? Sometimes saying your sorry just doesn’t seem like enough. Sure, you could show the offended party your remorse, but that can take up a lot of time (and energy!). I’ve put a sizable amount of thought into this issue and believe I’ve come up with a solution that will satisfy both parties.
I give you, The Apology Card:
At my ballroom dancing school, I was a hesitant, awkward girl. I wore glasses and oversized t-shirts.
My papa, and my entire Spanish gypsy family, were skilled in the ways of dance but it was hard for me to incorporate my roots into ballroom dancing.
How did I do it? As luck would have it, the handsome star of our dance school agreed to start practicing with me. Pretty soon he was wearing a matador jacket and I didn’t even need my glasses.
Speaking of Australia! Zeichen Press just got an Australian distributor!
Are non-Western cultures conversations peppered with trite, colloquial sayings?
Like, in Kapushi, Zambia (population: 26 people per mile) — does one friend say to another (in Kaonde) upon receiving news that their baby was trampled by antelope, “Everything happens for a reason”?
These condensed and optimistic phrases are woven into our chats and unless you are a hermit or deaf, we are all guaranteed to hear at least one per day.
Sometimes a man’s manliness must be recognized. Manly is a term often reserved for a lumberjack, firefighter, or bounty-hunter. A narrow and unfortunate caricature. Why not a goatherd? Or glass-blower? Or gemologist?
Anyman* that strides confidently into their chosen arena (office, field, arcade, classroom, rubber raft, bowling alley, butcher shop, grist mill) and owns it is, in my opinion, a beast.
Give them this small token: (They will grunt, nod, excuse themselves, and go into the bathroom to shed a single tear.)
*Did I make that up?
I’m talking about leap day. Don’t even bother trying to explain it to me, I don’t actually care. The important thing is that I milked one more day out of this prudish month.
Zeichen Press would be nothing without self-imposed deadlines (and cake) and our card-release was set for March 1.
It was a real pressure-cooker situation around here — and because I don’t have enough intensity in my life, I locked myself in the linen closet and reenacted Apollo 13’s return journey. Just me, my laptop, both cats, and toilet paper tubes. We got home safely, God Bless America.
Anyway, we can thank the ground crew (Kim & Fred) for jury-rigging up product photos:
There once was a Frenchman that could, and would, eat large objects. He ate them bit by bit and was able to digest bicycles, televisions, shopping carts, chandeliers, and even an airplane. This took patience and, reportedly, gallons of mineral oil.
Bit by bit.
This wasn’t some sort of performance art piece — he never meant for it to be a metaphor.
But he ate a plane.
Such deliberateness! I like to imagine that he carefully considered each piece as he pried it off and swallowed it.
Mister Eat All The Things (Monsieur Mangetout) could be an inspiring mascot for an economic philosophy.
I’ve been told that a printing press in the shop is just as good as three acres and a cow. We’ll see. WE’LL SEE.
Anyway, I made this card for the president of The Society of Distributism because he has a fancy book signing coming up — 150 lucky people will receive the card. Oh, and a signed book.
The Epilepsy Foundation needed a new look for their fleet of trucks and The Carney Group contacted me (via telepathy) to see if my brain was available to think of ideas. I’m not just a brain. Geez.
I rescheduled my ice-pick lobotomy and put on my thinking cap.
What if the trucks were bright red and had big white letters with a line like, THIS TRUCK CONTAINS TWO TONS OF HOPE??
Yes?
Okay.
Do I have to write the script myself? The script that tells the tale of an experiment gone horribly wrong — a pharmaceutical company hot on the heals of developing a drug that ends all pain and suffering forever??
The drug, nicknamed “Bozo” does so well in animal testing… So well, in fact, it is released to the general population of prison inmates.
Death row no longer feels like a death sentence, cold concrete cells feel like a day spa, “relationships” feel special.
Until… The unexpected “side effects” begin to develop… Oh, it’s too sick. Just imagine a zombie movie but replace the zombies with clowns.
Here’s a birthday card:
Some kittens are sociopathic — everyone knows that. Do not be fooled by their charm! Beneath that furry, purring coat lies a circuit board of complex manipulation.
I’ve heard some successful rehabilitation stories but if you, or someone you know, lives with one of these creatures, it might be better to abandon it on the side of a highway.
[maw-kish] adjective sentimental in a feeble or sickly way • archaic having a faint sickly flavor : the mawkish smell of warm beer
I don’t think I understand the definition. Or, maybe I do. Aren’t a lot of greeting cards mawkish?
Who would give that card? Wait, who made that card? Probably a very nice person. A person who loves hearts and roses and rhymes and sparkles.
I tried to make a mawkish card. 
That’s Hugh Beaumont, the kindly father from Leave it to Beaver.
Hugh hated that he was typecast and later opened a Christmas tree farm in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. I don’t think he opened the Christmas tree farm because he hated that he was typecast. But I don’t know – he was obviously a complicated man.
