Two’s a couple. Three means I need four.
One of my aunts wrote to me the other day: If I know anything after all this time, it’s that the attention we get is rarely related to anything other than our knowing how to get attention. She would know. This is a woman who used to run marathons with helium balloons tied to the ends of her braids. Publicity-wise, I take more after the other side of the family, the shy pessimists. Lately though, I’ve been feeling the exhibitionist urge, hence the blog, which I intend to fill for all to see with the ephemera that’s too good to throw away, the detritus that’s been rescued from oblivion, the miscellanea that remains.
Here I give you one of many prized possessions: a gold foil embossed matchbox, empty, ca. 1979, from the aforementioned aunt’s shop, a fantastic place where you could eat ice cream, sign up for a 10k run and buy a kazoo. You’re welcome. And don’t forget to say nice things about Detroit.