My Mother Claimed that…
Last Monday, I had a revelation. I was standing in the middle of the gallery at the Kelly's Writers House, nervously anticipating my XPN interview for “American Goulash” (podcast coming soon!) The cold from the winter storm was seeping into the front lobby, so everyone in the building gathered started to gather around a large table with food, drink, and most importantly, no drafty doors. I didn't know anyone in the room except for my business partner, who I always drag to these things so he can network and with the cool artist-types in the neighborhood. He was off somewhere, grabbing a soda, so I decided to look at the wall of artwork rather than just stare awkwardly at a table full of half-empty pizza boxes. I always think that crap strewn all over the wall makes a perfect ice breaker when trying to make small talk, which is probably why all those Fridays/Applebees-type chain restaurants throw so many boat paddles and hockey masks permanently nailed to everything.A square, neatly stitched embroidery hung in a simple frame. I did a double-take. This was no ordinary "crap on the wall":
