Blog - Minneapolis

I finished scrubbing coagulated (cow) blood off the walls of the refrigerator (who stands a raw rump-roast on its side with no plate below?!) just in time for an important meeting.

The Chief Financial Officer, the Chief Accounting Officer, the Chief Content Officer, the Chief Creative Officer, the Chief Visionary Officer AND Loretta

were all in attendance.

The purpose of this conference was to discuss the profitability and potential of a particular product. Were projected earnings delivered? Could a product redesign garner a higher margin of sales?

In other words, we picked some new colors for an existing card because we felt like maybe the card would do better if the colors were a little punchier.

Hurray for pulled pork and coolers stuffed with beer! Hurray for giant, brain-rattling jumper moonwalks! Hurray for dollar-store Chinese lanterns and garage sale face paint! Hurray for not working!

The intern packed up her carpetbag and rode away. I felt like we should hug but we didn’t – hugs are best left out of print shops. She made this before she left:

Go, my young grasshopper, go and use the life-skills I so generously shared with you.

Fred photographed the new cards – here’s my favorite:

That’s a true story.

ALSO: Becki Iverson at Metro Magazine wrote a nice thing about us. I think we’ll keep giving out that photo until we are 60 years old.

Nobody needs to see a photo of us taken in February.

“Yeah, you should wear the wig.”

Okay, let’s call her “Sheila” and let’s call him “Franz Ferdinand.”

She resented every one of his hair-plugs. Row after row of weak little sprouts – such an offensive landscape. Each bloody little ring contained 4-5 “transplant hairs,” the math was easy enough – she figured that each stubby hair cost $7.40. Her pre-taxed, hourly wage at the Seed-N-Feed was $7.45 – barely enough to cover the cost of a single hair.

He had convinced her that the new hair would make him a better dancer. She knew now that it did not – his “moves” reminded her of the farmhands baling hay. Each jerky swinging of his arms nearly punching her in the stomach.

His unemployment was running out and now, thanks to this unwise investment, they would have to move into his mother’s trailer. Her whole life she wanted to be a professional dancer and had been searching for the perfect partner – why hadn’t she listened to her gut or that certified psychic that really seemed to understand her? Still, she danced with him – her graceful movements, her twirling skirt – he would have been captivated by her beauty if he wasn’t so fixated on the pounding in his chest. 

°°°°°

Wow! We all know what happens next. Thank the Lord she knows CPR and that despite the bitterness the hair-plugs caused, she still wanted to keep him alive. Sheila and Franz Ferdinand might just make it.