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Tiny Cave

The only graffiti in the men’s room of the artsy movie house I visited the other night: a hole in the plaster adorned with a warning and cave paintings.

Three Socks

I do admire their consistency, I suppose.

I always enjoy it when I misread text out of the corner of my eye, rendering an ordinary sign or poster into something far odder, but the really good ones are those that my brain stubbornly refuses to fix on a second or even a third look. Like when I had to drive around the block to re-read the sign on the shop called “Cookies in Bloom” and found that even on the second pass it seemed to say “Cookies in Blood.” The latter arguably makes more sense than the real name, but it suggests a very, very different clientele.

Just today I passed a doormat that seemed on first (and even second) glance to indicate the shop behind it was called “Stabby Chic.” It’s really “Shabby Chic,” of course, but that’s not as interesting. And unlike Cookies in Blood, which I do not wish to visit, I’d love to stop by Stabby Chic and see their wares. Briefly.

Resistant Refillable Child

I hardly know what to say about this dreadful product and its implications, except that I won’t be getting one for my resistant, refillable child.