Dang it, my shins are still itchy-dry down here.
On a barely related note, I've neglected to whine about the disaster that befell us here a few weeks ago: we were almost entirely unpacked, with boxes long since broken-down and tossed, when I realized that Todd had missed the posters that had been wrapped in with some large paintings, and had thus thrown away some of my Chicago mementos -- including a Chris Ware promo poster from BEA 2001 and my Jay Ryan poster for Andrew Bird's "Skin Is, My," which I chose above all the others because I liked the look of the tall buildings and the transparent hand over them. (I believe I was thinking even then that if I ever left good ol' Chicago, this print would help keep it visually close.) And then shortly afterwards I discovered that the lyrics mention itchy-dry skin just like mine, and don't you know I loved that poster even more.
My "Skin is, My" is mine no more. And the Bird Machine says sorry, nada left.
Any of you millions of readers got one you don't want?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
Scratch, sob, scratch.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment