Do you fantasize about a service that would lick your stamps (and mail awesome cards to a list of people in your address book)??
YOU DO??
Have you heard of Postable??
Did I mention that there are Zeichen Press cards in their line?? (NOT letterpress printed, BUT STILL.)
Now there really is zero excuse to NOT send a card IN THE MAIL.
*Stay tuned: Postable will be adding MORE Zeichen Press cards this week.*
WAIT, I didn’t mention the most important part:
Did I even see Jen on her birthday last week??
Hmm, I don’t think so… But I still made her a card because my love for her just bubbles over and soils the stovetop with a sort of gravy that becomes crusty and has to be scraped off months later with steel wool and maybe a knife.
Whew!
That’s a lot of love!
GET IT?!?! CAT-SUP???
Omg, it just doesn’t stop over here!
Is Spring really here?
Not sure…
Let’s pretend it is. Let’s let me live in a world filled with hope! My obsessive weather-tracking (hourly checking my weather app) has proven to be successful.
It won’t be long before smartwool socks are shed and (my) legs are shorn.
Stay tuned…
Here are a couple cards I made instead of penning a suicide note.
(Graduation)
(Encouragement)
Hello.
My name is Pevenshire Wiffynuts and I’m here today to talk about targeting your demographic. Whether you are marketing adult diapers, cowboy hats, or cemetery plots, it is critical that you understand your audience. That may mean that you have to poop in your pants, herd cows, or bury a loved one.
Don’t be afraid to do these things — they will help you effectively move product and change lives.
Wow! Thanks, Pevenshire.
I hear what you’re saying — I ripped off my mom-mask to reveal the face of an eight-year-old-boy so I could create this birthday card:
But I did take French in high school so I know all about magnetephones, l’autobus, et la lunettes pour Luc.
For the foreseeable future, I will stay within a 30 mile radius of the Zeichen Press headquarters and dream of faraway lands.
Feeling the need for a Field Trip, I went to the Other Side Of Minneapolis and visited Rex Mills. I walked through the front door, broke the tenth commandment, (You shall not covet - geez, get your mind out of the gutter) pretended I had something in my eye, snapped some photos, threw a drink in the owner’s face, stole five pounds of ink, and left.
That man in the photograph is not the owner — Rex Mills has Press Operators.
I will kidnap him as soon as my taser gun arrives in the mail.
Time alone was rare. But in a pinch, I was forced to conjure up an imaginary playmate. This was a strange exercise and not something I was particularly good at.
Other children lived in complex and exotic worlds of make-believe — I don’t think the “friends” in their pretend worlds were from Minnesota — with names like Carura Fadida and Anarada Salsa.
There was a girl who lived in the glossy tile next to the toilet. I spoke with her when there was no soul around.
Her name was “Fran.”
Rooted in reality, with a strong sense of the superfluousness of an imaginary world. I was, and am, from German stock. Zees duss neecht make senss.
It must be that toe-hold in reality that permits me to create the following:
