It Had to Happen - True Story

I thought and thought about a Father’s Day card … This was a toughy. I don’t know why.

I’m kidding, I totally know why.

 Do I write a card about estrangement? About mistresses? No! This is a holiday to celebrate fathers! The fathers that hang in there and make their kids proud! I battled my demons and the result was:

The Best Father’s Day Card Ever:

PS: Jen said, “I was surprised. It was sappier than I thought you would do.”

Jen and I often look back on the birth of Zeichen Press the same way any mother looks back on any birth. Sure, there was blood and, yes, there were tears but there was another realization: there is a latex glove filled with crushed ice in my mesh underpants.

The first days of Zeichen Press were spent huddled around our Poco no. 0.

The Poco has a patent date of 1910 and weighs in at a mere 210#. That makes it the oldest and also the lightest press in the shop. It is, to date, the only press that has caused me (bodily) harm.

Ouch! That’s a doozy!

Never trip over, and land on, a cast iron press on the floor. I documented the injury because of the lawsuit that I’m going to file against the makers of that monster. I just have to build a time-machine and drive my Model-T to Chicago.

The first thing ever printed on the Poco was this:

I’ve seen better prints made with a potato. 

We outgrew that little baby pretty quickly and moved on to something I’m hoping to one day never catch my hand in.

Or if I do, I hope to have something sharp in my pocket that I can use to cut my mangled hand free.

Fred came over this morning (why was it snowing??) and showed me how to score cards on the Heidelberg. In exchange, I made him a mediocre latte and he spat it in my face.

I deserved it.

The rest of the day was just a blur of lugging boxes from the warehouse to the shop (the basement to the garage) and watching the Windmill do what it does:

I didn’t even ask Jen how she got all these boxes for New Zealand

to the post office. Maybe Henry the Dog helped her. Or Loretta, she’s pretty strong. I couldn’t help anyway because I was busy taking a sponge bath. Andrea says sponge baths are for 80-year-olds but I’d like to see an 80-year-old get into my kitchen sink.

No, I wouldn’t. 

The hot-water-heater decided it was time to rust through and I don’t blame it a bit. It really is the most boring household appliance. If it were a person, I’d hate it.

So, I boiled some water on the stove for my bath and as I squatted in it, I thought to myself, “I wish I had curtains on my windows.” and “Is this funny or sad?” I decided it was funny but only because the new hot-water-heater is coming on Monday.

Last night was our first monthly (WHAT? Didn’t I tell you guys that??) card folding party. Jen was noticeably absent. She was invited, she told me she doesn’t mix business and pleasure. Or maybe she said she tries not to see me more than she has to.

Either way, she wasn’t there.

Wine was drunk and 1,000 cards were folded:

You can be a part of the magic! Send me an email – if you own a spoon, have two hands, and aren’t planning to kill me – you can join us!

The weekend in pictures:

My SAT scores were never high enough to get me into an Ivy League school. I’m kidding. I never took that stupid test. I’m kidding. That test isn’t stupid. I’m kidding. Yes, it is. I’m not bitter, I’m funny. Tell me I’m funny.

ANYWAY, finally, those Harvard braniacs can correspond properly.

Send me a love letter, Harvard alum, Mark Zuckerberg. 

Some of the chosen cards were:

As for that last choice: That gal is talking about his beach ball. HIS BEACH BALL.

“It is finished.” She gasped as she crumpled to the cold, concrete. It was, by all accounts, glorious. The work would outlast the artist and elevate the art form to new and dizzying heights. 

But she, exhausted and covered in ink, was oblivious. To her, this was nothing more than an exercise. A functional and fleeting piece, it would be handled roughly and discarded by Springtime.

Um, so, that poster for Craftsravaganza is, like, done:

There are a couple of things going on around here:

1) Our fax machine is spitting out orders faster than we (jen) can fill them.

2) We (I) are (am) making the poster for this year’s Craftstravanganza.

Just to make my load fair, I listen to a recording of screaming children while I work.

I think it really shows:

Today, I will put ink on that – it will be so spectacular there won’t be a dry eye in the room. (I’ll be the only one in the room.)

This is what comes of my unwillingness to fold the laundry – I just stare out the window (of my asylum) and think and write inappropriate things. Shouldn’t the children in my imagination be allowed to have one wholesome snowball fight?