Posts in greeting cards
Who am I to deprive the masses of their Zeichen Press cards??
Zeichen Press “art” was “punched up”, PDF’s were emailed to art licensing companies, and virtual hugs and kisses were exchanged. Look (soon) for some of our cards (NOT letterpress printed) in Big Box stores across the country.
And by look, I mean buy.
IF you don’t have some cute independent store near you. OR if you don’t care about letterpress printing. OR if you refuse to shop in our store. OR you are already buying a stroller and paper towels and light bulbs and ground beef and toilet paper and shampoo.
In the Spring of 1990, I packed up a carton of cigarettes, a skillet, 4 forks, a sketch pad, and some Mexican jumping beans. Graduating high school means moving into a dormitory on the campus of the college of your dreams. OR moving into an apartment above a pizza place.
EITHER WAY, this card seems appropriate:SPEAKING OF APPROPRIATE, is gluten-intolerance funny?
Jen made me pull six cards from our line.
APPARENTLY, “they don’t sell” and don’t “make any money”.
But since when can you put a price tag on greeting cards??
Here are the cards, you can buy them from the shop until they are gone forever.
FOREVER.This card was also on the list, but I refused to pull it because I’m not afraid of her.
I knew it!
Every few weeks Paper Source orders the same poopy cards from us.This makes us happy because there is no faster way to evangelize than through a chain of shops that snakes its way through the country.
Isn’t it obvious by now? Spread (our idea of) letterpress goodness and joy like spackle into every dark crevice on this planet.
No big deal.
This card:has nothing to do with fecal matter and so we were surprised (and delighted) to see it on our latest Paper Source order.
Perhaps the following dream was a premonition?:
There were no toilets — but there was a shower scene. The light over the C&Phad become a shower head and I had become naked. I prayed that nobody would walk through (why didn’t I just lock it?) the shop door while I took my unnecessary (and might I add: gratuitous?) shower next to my printing press.
But someone did walk in.
I guess his name is Vincent Schiavelli. He was hiding behind the Heidelbergwith his cow. He wasn’t smiling. I woke up.
Nothing against seahorses — I’ll get around to writing about them one of these days. But for now, here is a card about a Victorian mermaid.
I think it could be used as a thank-you note? I don’t know… you will have to make that decision. These mermaids were less common than the typical topless mermaids.
Off-key Christmas carols float dreamily through the Summer air, the ice-cream truck trolls for kids using low-fi audio technology. Water-balloons are filled, teams are picked (bubble gum, bubble gum, in a dish, how many pieces do you wish?) but distractions are everywhere and soon talk turns from who is on which team to pretend lands filled with orphaned children. Poor, parentless children, left to cobble together meals from mint leaves and wild rhubarb.
Summertime, and the children and animals are off-leash — days are filled with sprinklers, wet bathing suits, hot dogs burned on the grill, and day dreaming.
Here’s a new card:
My mind wandered as I listened to the Second Reading. I wondered if I could get my hands on a chocolate milk for lunch. I watched the third graders fidget. I planned my fishing-themed diorama. …Children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth… I figured out what the initials TGIF stood for — oh, that makes sense! …I felt something crawl up my uniform blouse.
I felt something crawl up my uniform blouse! Or did I? The question went unanswered because, like Abraham Lincoln in the balcony of Ford’s Theater, I’d been shot. Most likely, an assassination plot carried out by those boys that dumped Mountain Dew on my head last week. Oh, the pain! I signaled my teacher and was escorted to the nurses office by a girl that needed a hero badge to add to her girl scout sash.
The nurses office was familiar to me. Homesickness was an ailment I suffered from semi-regularly.
When I staggered through the door, the nurse stopped her mimeographing and looked at me. I pointed to my gunshot wound — nearish my right armpit but closer to a more embarrassing region. She lifted up my blouse. I stared at the poster on the wall.
Yes, kitten. I will hang in there.
It turned out not to be a bullet lodged in my ribcage, but a bee sting.
In honor of that important event, I created my own Hang in There! card. Do not accuse me of ripping off the original, it is an homage. An HOMAGE.
My interests are broad and highbrow — sometimes I think about zombies and sometimes I think about bowel movements. I guess I’m not the only one. The reaction to the zombie card I posted on Easter caught me off guard.
Caught me off guard like a show poodle at the dog park. (See, I’m the poodle, and the big dirty dogs come out of nowhere and molest me).
And that brings me to bowel movements. I just realized that both of the cards Paper Source chose to carry are poop-related. How childish! How jejune!