When I Die, I'm Coming Back as Julie Andrews

Best Quote I Heard All Day
When it's my turn to march up to glory
I'm gonna have one hell of a story--Dixie Chicks, Sin Wagon

I'm feeling quite sinful these days. As if I don't, as a rule. However, it's an enjoyable state of sin. Certainly not a state of grace.

Julie Andrews. Here's a trivia question for you. What movie, featuring two British comedians, had one of them saying "Julie Andrews" to get out of demonic trouble?

My sister knows the answer to this so she must recuse herself. Got it, Kar? Shut the fuck up and let everyone sweat this one. I know you know.

Franklin's Tower
I know I'm almost two weeks behind myself but I did have a fabulous time down in Kennett Square with Carol, Franklin, Jacqui, and a bunch of readers who showed up at Jacqui's wonderful shop, Woolgathering.

The lovely Jacqui had lots of caloric stuff to eat, as well as a shop filled with absolutely finest kind yarn. I'll definitely make the trip again, just to hang out with her.

The crowds were fierce. It was take-a-number time, well organized but truly heads above waiting at the deli counter.

And then, of course, was my hard-working gay son, gracious to all, in a photographic Zen mode. I believe the final count was 135 knitters.

I did ask him what the fuck he was going to do with this "scarf" that is of Brobdingagian proportions. He's not sure yet but I would think that the Smithsonian Institution might like to have it for America's Attic.

Looks like a roll of knitted toilet paper. Wait. This could be a concept that would stand up to knitted uteri, knitted cocks, knitted eyeballs, ad nauseam. Go forth and spread the idea. Someone will do it. You know they will.

Almost on a par with the knitted Elvis wigs, methinks.

Anyway, we had a wonderful time. I don't know why I didn't get a picture of Sissyboo Deux, Carol. Sweetie, I am so sorry! You eluded my lens. Damn. But gang, her book is exquisite. I saw the advance copy and this belongs in everyone's library. Only one month to go before it's out.

Buy it. Or else.

By the way, Franklin darling, were your parents Deadheads? I need to know.

Obligatory Knitting Shit
Still chugging away on the shawl. I was very surprised to have a number of people at Wool Gathering identify the yarn correctly as Black Pearl.



In fact, one person was working on a piece (I believe it was a Clapotis, but my memory sucks) using Black Pearl and it was astonishing how different the color saturation was. The purples in hers were bright. Mine are more muted.

This is a stupidly simple pattern. The challenge will come in easing the edging around the border. I remember Ted angsting about this. I'm not going to angst but I will write about it. This is a maneuver that takes some thought.

Pattern Skill Ratings
Longtime readers know how I feel about this crap. Would my first sweater have been an Aran had it been marked "Expert"? Probably, because I ignore warnings, unless they pertain to hazardous materials and men.

Rather, I think it would be far more helpful to develop a meaningful system of rating, one that pertains to taste.

1. KnitDweeb--this category contains warshcloths, ponchos, pompom'ed anything, aimless garter stitch modular knitting, mocsox, knitted coasters and beercan cozies. Working with Fun Fur is a prerequisite.
   
   
2. GlitzGrrrllls--this category contains any item made from yarn by an Italian company, preferably either a too-short bolero or a ghastly evening bag with matching beanie.
   
   
3. FiberSnots--this category is specifically for perpetual Koigu users. Give it a break, it ain't that fucking wonderful. Nor are the designs that go with it.
   
   
4. OhNaturellas--this category pertains to those who have bought into the eco-friendly yarn marketing. Garments include any shapeless schmatteh, including drop-shoulder kimonos. Please, someone tell these knitters that all natural fibers are "eco-friendly."
   
   
5. DaRestOfUs--this category belongs to all knitters who are fearless, try to stick to good quality yarns, and don't avoid a challenge. And who actually read the directions at least three times and swatch, too.

OK, enough of that. Honestly, I've been guilty of all five categories at any given time in my years of knitting. But at least I learned a little bit from experience.

J'endorse
Those of you who know me personally know that I'm highly political, highly critical of the sorry path this country has taken under the leadership of a mentally challenged, blinded individual and his evil Ann Sullivan, the Dickster.

I am an Obama supporter, after months of watching both him and Clinton and weighing each of them carefully. I believe he is a man of honor, of thought, of responsibility, and above all, highly intelligent with a will to listen. I will not vote for Hillary or McCain. I do not believe either of them has or will shaken the dirty dust of DC from their respective boots.

A change you can believe in. I'm no one's fool. I believe, however, that we can change and we must, to survive. In this time of economic upheaval, we need to hang tight and believe in ourselves. And this self-entitlement that is epidemic among many Americans, particularly the younger ones, needs to be swapped for the old "can-do" of my parents' generation. It stood them in good stead. They were indeed rare and handy.

Is 90 the New 80?

Best Quote I Heard All Day
It takes a long time to grow young--Pablo Picasso

Let's see. Yes, it's true. I'm 35 today. Mentally.

There's been much rumination and ensuing angst about turning 58. Now the day is here and I'm in a relatively sanguine mood. Even though I'm looking down the gun at 60. Shit, so what.

So Happy fucking Birthday to me. (There may be some of that later, too. One never knows.)

I try not to dwell on my age but it's almost impossible to avoid it. However, the past week, with a whirlwind trip to Indy this past Monday and Tuesday, I had a great deal of time in airports to knit and ponder.

Over the past few years, I've made some incredible friends. My beloved Neal, for one. Johnny Hargreaves, aka Iron Sausage, who just called me to wish me a happy birthday. What a sweetheart. There's Loopy, who's been with me through the tough times. She's always there, always funny, always someone I can lean on. Joe, Carol, Lisa, Ted, the whole knitting crew. Need I say more? Susan, my boss. I'm sure I'm forgetting someone here but these post-Jimmy people have helped me in turning my life around. You can't do it alone.

My 40th high school reunion is looming. June 21st, to be exact. And I am actually looking forward to it because I'll be reunited with my dear childhood friends, Marcia and Dottie.

I almost never write about my non-knitting friends. I do have quite a few who are dear to my heart. Marcia Ancier , Dottie Melcher and I have been friends for almost 50 years. Marcia and I went to the same elementary school, Watchung, so I guess we kinda knew each other in kindergarten, although I really more remember her from 3rd grade. She invited me to her birthday party (which she doesn't remember now, but I do).

Dottie has always been a constant in my life. In 4th grade, I moved from one end of town to the other, to Uppah Montclair, the chi-chi part of town. Right before my 10th birthday, I'm riding my bike around the corner to explore the new neighborhood, going up the hill on Macopin Avenue. And there's this kid, with blonde frizzy hair, sort of hanging out vaguely on the street. I stopped and we talked, as young kids do to strange kids. Dottie struck me as almost as weird as I was. I was a very odd child. And so was she. She drew, I wrote. We made an instant connection, one that has never ceased throughout the years.

In high school, the three of us melded. Marcia had and still has this wry sense of humor. Dottie was always delightfully drifty, although probably one of the smartest people I've ever known. And then there was me, off the wall writer, musician, general freak who didn't give a fuck if she was "unpopular." Peggy aka Pegret was added to our girl group, a beautiful Janis Joplin lookalike who wrote poetry, had big tits, and was the ethereal one. (Yes, there were freak guys too--my high school crush, Bert Eisenstadt, Jimmy Henry, Jimmy Garland, Jimmy and Kevin Brown, Aaron Myett, Chris and Tim Andres, Tracy Jones, and many more.)

Our high school crowd, the freaks, were far more interesting a group than the blonde cheerleader types. So Cindy Binzen, what the fuck did you do with your life? I guess I'll find out if you show up on June 21.

So you Montclair skanks, if you're reading this, we can turn back the clock and dance on. That is, if Melcher can ever learn how to do the Mashed Potatoes, which I doubt. I love you

My birthday means I can look back on those halcyon days with great fondness. When we were young. As we still are. Rock on, gang. And be rare and handy no matter what. And Happy Birthday tomorrow to my sweet Ian, known as Birthday Present, my rapidly growing grandson. Who I love more than life itself.

Gimme that remote. NOW!!

Best Quote I Heard All Day
Men don't care what's on TV. They only care what else is on TV.--Jerry Seinfeld

Here's what I really don't get, as much as I like to think I understand men well enough to communicate with them on any level.

The remote issue, butt of many jokes. Except that it's true. The other day, watching the Yankees game, I felt compelled to hand my love the remote, even though I didn't think he'd switch it. He didn't, because it was the Yankees.

Otherwise, it's deference to the TV God. Yikes. Flip, flip, flip, every channel a mere shadowy image and then another, and another, and another. I will never truly know how one can determine what's worth watching if you don't spend a minimum of 20 seconds on each station. And then there's checking the TV listings. Heaven forfend. Like asking for fucking directions.

Men complain that these are stereotypes. Not with the men I know. It's reality. They do it and it's not funny. It's annoying. But I love them nonetheless. And since I don't shop 'til I drop, whine if they forget an important date, want to change their sorry t-shirt clad asses into a GQ poster boy, expect them always to pay for dinner, and all the other female bits they complain about, I figure I can knock 'em for this.

Knitter's
So, you want my take on this? OK. There are not words venial enough to express my utter disgust. And the cover? By the so-called "Knitter's Design Team"? Positively guaranteed to provoke gastro-intestinal eruptions.

What's with this Design Team? And who, besides DragonBoy, is a member? Speaking of whom, my fantasy is to corner him at Stitches and color his awful red leather pants (and his hair as well) a fine shade of lime green with a paintball gun. And then take a picture. Carol came as close as anyone I know to letting him have it full force. I would prefer to do some damage but he'd probably press charges. Unless I appear incognito, perhaps dressed up as the Tiny Diva.

Except that I think he'd guess it was a faux TD. Since I tower over her and I have about 75 lbs. on her, too.

But I could be as shrill and manic as she is. Give me a few months to practice. With Franklin coming next weekend, I may ask Dolores for lessons. She's so good at it. A true pro.

Spun-k
Thanks for the compliments on my spinning. It's been a long road and I still am not always happy with my consistency but then, I have Ted as a model, so I'm doomed. Perhaps. As I mentioned in the last set of comments, I bought my Matchless at the 1998 MD S&W, brought it home, along with about 3 pounds of merino/silk/angora. Clueless as I was, I didn't realize that this blend of fibers would be horrifically difficult for a beginner to handle. It was. And I made a gobby mess of it.

So the wheel became a quaint living room decoration. Until about 3 years ago, when I saw what Joe was spinning on his Louet. Shit, I said to myself, if he can do it, WTF is the matter with you? And then I realized--I needed to spin plain ole wool, not some exotic fiber. Within a couple of hours, the brain engaged the hand and I was able to spin a lot better. Here's a picture of some of the first plyed wool I made, on the right. And a recent BBF angora skein.
I dare to publish the close-up of the old stuff:
Pretty ratty looking. But everyone starts this way, except for Ted. I swear he began spinning laceweight the moment his hands touched a spindle.

Anyway, for those beginning spinners out there, keep doing it. Every day, if you can. I spin for at least 5 or 10 minutes when I get home every night, and I try to do 1-2 hours each weekend day. The more you do it, like sex, the better you get. Promise.

Scary Blogger Feature
Blogger has just added a video upload tool. I own a webcam that I never use. So...maybe I'll think about doing a video for anyone who's not met me and is interested in how truly psychotic I am. I like to think I'm rare and handy but in the case of a video, I may hand it over to the next-door neighbor, who's the video/sound nerd. And let him guide me. Or tell me to live in the real world, which he frequently does.

P.S. To my friends mentioned in this post, sorry I didn't set up the links. I'm tired, lazy, and want to sit outside in the beautiful late afternoon so I can knit. Everyone knows where you guys live, after all.