Art imitates life imitates

I have a vacation story I forgot to tell.

Our tale begins (picture it) on a Thursday afternoon during our week in New York City last month. We were on our way back from an almost perfect day here. I was sitting on the train with my water bottle next to me, and I was alternately looking out the window and knitting a really cool black and grey brioche scarf I forgot to take a picture of before giving away. My spouse was sitting across from me, with his backpack full of seashells on the seat beside him, reading a comic book. Er, excuse me, graphic novel. (I have to say that, you know, because comic books are kid stuff and graphic novels are art, which means, from what I gather, that they're allowed to have more sex and violence than regular comic books). When he got to the last page, he began to snicker. This happens quite often while he's reading comic b-- erm, graphic novels, but then it lengthened into an incredulous chuckle, which continued for about a minute, punctuated with expectant glances in my direction.

Finally, I dutifully looked up from the top of the scarf I was knitting, and said what I was obviously being cued to say: "OK, honey, What are you laughing at?"

He flipped the book around to show me, and, I swear to Maryland, it was this:



I immediately stuffed my knitting back in my bag and started checking the train car for cameras. And stray monkeys. Because you never know.