How Green Was My Bottom

I must be spring, because Knitty says so. The new issue is up.

I'm ready for spring. We have had a shockingly mild winter in Chicago, by Chicago standards. Mild, in our case, means there have been multiple winter days during one has been able to step outside without bursting into tears which immediately freeze to the side of your face.

Listen, you want to know how crummy winter is in Chicago? Winter in Chicago is so crummy that when I told a bunch of Icelanders what our January is like, they gaped at me.

"No," said one of them. "I think we are not calculating this correctly."

I repeated our average January low, and he whipped out an iPhone to confirm the converstion from Farenheit to Celsius. There was a collective gasp.

"This is inhuman. This is like Greenland. How do you stand this?"

Yup. A typical Chicago winter is shockingly cold to people from  Iceland.

And please don't start in with the "Oh, but you can wear all your wonderful sweaters and hats and mittens and...". One of the reasons I love being a knitter is that making my own winter gear gives me a false but comforting sense of being in control of the season, but I hate, hate, hate being buried under 16 layers of clothing. Do you know 16 layers of clothing do to a short, broad man? Do you? They make him look like a laundry pile with boots, that's what.

When it's time to retire, kids, I'm moving to the desert and I'm never going to wear anything with a #@$*! sleeve on it, ever again.

So, as I was saying, this is a blog post about the Spring 2012 issue of Knitty.

My contribution is an antique pattern, as usual. Voilà.



It's a bag in the shape of a pineapple. Of course it is.

Pineapple purses were a bit of a fad for part of the 19th century, probably because the fruit–being tropical and therefore exotic–fit perfectly into a more general mania for All Things Oriental, with the "Orient," in this case, encompassing pretty much everything from Japan to North Africa.

One of the most pleasing things about knitting a pineapple is that it's like knitting cables. The whole world thinks you've pulled off the most amazing feat of virtuoso yarn-based legerdemain, when actually all you've done is have a whacking great time with a very bewitching pattern.

Believe it or not, there's more going on in a plain vanilla sock than there is in this pineapple. The whole thing is based on one stitch motif, 16 stitches wide. Once I got going, I absolutely flew through the leaves and the fruit.

Then came the bottom, which is written out thus in the original:

P6, A all around.

Plain, all around.

Repeat these two rounds till the bag is almost closed, then draw it together with a needle.

Translated, this means:

Round 1: (Knit 6, sl1-k2tog-psso) around.
Round 2: Knit.
Repeat rounds 1 and 2 until you have a bag instead of a tube.

But there's a wee hitch. You're starting out with 320 stitches, and the first round is asking you work a repeat of 9 stitches evenly around it.

320 divided by 9 = 35.555555555555556. For those of you non-knitters reading this,* that's a big negatory.

So what to do?

In this case, we have to find a way to close the bag that a) works and b) will be as close as possible to what Jane Gaugain intended.

However, we cannot call, text, e-mail, Tweet or otherwise harass Jane Gaugain to find out what she intended, because even the worms that devoured the worms that devoured her mortal body have long since gone to dust.

We cannot reverse-engineer from the picture, because there is no picture.

We can have a look at a few photographs of extant examples of pineapple bags, though frustratingly few show the bottom and all are obviously knit from patterns that, while similar to hers, are by no means identical.

And we can guess.

We can consider the practical requirements of a bag, such as that a flattish bottom will be more practical than a long, conical bottom.

We can consider the aesthetics of the bag, which is heavily sculpted for three-quarters of its surface and would probably look best with a bottom that matches.

So, we begin by listing theoretical solutions.

1. What if, instead of beginning with 320 stitches, we began with a near-ish number of stitches into which 9 would divide evenly?
2. What if the use of "A" (for the double decrease) in Round 1 is a typo? Did Jane mean to put in a T, her symbol for for k2tog? The repeat would take up 8 stitches, and 8 stitches does fit evenly into 320! Ooh!
3. What if the "6" in Round 1 is a typo? If we substitute a 5, the motif uses 8 stitches, and 8 stitches does fit evenly into 320! Ooh! Ooh!

With a little testing–by which I mean calculations that make my head hurt, followed by a great deal of knitting and then a great deal of ripping out–these three solutions proved unworkable. They all assume that there is some combination of plain stitches, followed by a decrease,  that will close up the bag in an attractive fashion.

As it turns out, no there isn't. Or if there is, somebody who is not trying to meet a Knitty deadline will have to find it. Some of the test-knits did begin to close up the bag, yes; but the closure looked like ass. (In this case, "ass" and "bottom" are not synonymous.) The math never worked, either. There always came a point at which the number of stitches in the repeat no longer fit evenly into the number of stitches remaining. Further adjustments could be made at that point, but it would have meant a set of decrease instructions so convoluted that they seemed way out of step with the succinct nature of the rest of the pattern.

Plus, did I mention it looked like ass?

The next option is drift further from Mrs G's two-round instructions. They look so elegant on the page–but if they don't work, they don't work. Hey, it happens. Then, as now, sometimes the instructions aren't just a little off, they're completely broken.

I decided to see what would happen if I had another shot at both Theory 2 and Theory 3–but instead of maintaining the same number of stitches between decreases, I'd have 1 (or 2, in the case of double decreases) fewer stitches between them in every decrease round. This is, of course, the common method for decreasing the tops of hats.

I started with Theory 2, and yup, the bag began to close. Slowly. Slooooowwwwwwwwllllyyy. I looked at the theoretical numbers again, counted the number of rounds they required, and realized I'd end up with a plain green cone, three inches deep, at the end of my pineapple. Not pretty, not practical, and way out of line with the look of the rest of the piece.

Rip.

Finally, Theory 3, plus consistently reducing the number of stitches between decreases, yielded this:



If that ain't what she meant, she's welcome to come back from the dead and tell me so. I love it.

I don't love her final finish, though, with the bunch of green silk satin ribbon.** That's coming off and I'm replacing it with a tassel–Lisa Souza's yardage in a hank of Sylvie is so generous that I have plenty left.

I may even knit a mini-pineapple with the leftovers. (It's easy. Pick a multiple of 16 as your cast-on and go for it.)

*I'm not fooling myself. There are no non-knitters reading about how to troubleshoot the decreases at the bottom of a pineapple. I know.

**I dyed that flippin' ribbon myself because it was hard enough just to find silk ribbon, let alone silk in a green that matched. I want extra credit for that, dammit.

Nutty

I was walking down Fremont Street today when I heard a weird chattering coming from overhead. I looked up and saw a squirrel running down the trunk of one of the big, old trees that grow along the curb.

"Oh," I thought. "Squirrel."

The squirrel chattered again, and was answered from above by an entire Wagnerian chorus of chatters.

"Oh," I thought. "More squirrels."

And then, as in a cinematic version of The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin as re-imagined by Alfred Hitchcock, this furry seething river of squirrels started to swarm down the tree trunk.

You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not. It wasn't two or three or four, it was two or three dozen, all heading madly for the grass upon which I stood, all chattering in a manner that sounded uncannily like a passel of zombies calling for another round of brains.

There are no photos with this post because I did not stop to take photographs. I beat it, looking back over my shoulder as they tumbled downward onto the parkway, chattering. Chattering, chattering. It's still ringing in my ears.

We have a lot of squirrels in this neighborhood. If they have decided to organize, we're in trouble.

Knitspotting

I was running around the city doing errands this morning when I stopped dead in my tracks near my neighborhood's train station. There was a woman at the bus stop with a baby dangling from her shoulders in one of those sling-thingies. The baby was wearing what I recognized instantly to be the February Baby Sweater from Elizabeth Zimmermann's immortal Knitter's Almanac.

It's not every day you chance upon a Zimmermann in the wild. Moreover, I've attempted that pattern–which is a total hoot–but abandoned it because I realized the finished sweater was going to be too small for Abigail. This specimen appeared to be expertly executed in an intriguing, lustrous yarn.

Without realizing it, I must have stared a little too long.

"Can I help you?" It was the mother. Her tone could not be described as earnestly helpful.

"I'm sorry," I said, blushing. "I couldn't help noticing your baby's sweater. Elizabeth Zimmermann, right?"

"What?" She backed up a step.

"The sweater–it was designed by Elizabeth Zimmermann."

"What? No. It's not designer. Somebody made it for the baby. Some friend of my husband's gave to us."

"Oh, I see. So you're not the knitter."

"What? Why would I be a knitter? Look, why are you talking to me? Get away now."

She waved her cell phone in a marked manner. I decided the time was right to end our Meaningful Dialogue and head for home. I hadn't had breakfast yet, anyhow.

Must try to remember in future that the entire world does not knit; nor does it expect swarthy, bearded men in biker jackets to field-spot baby sweaters–not even famous baby sweaters.

Come Say Hello

I'm going to be signing copies of It Itches at two different places around Chicago this weekend.

On Friday evening from 6–9 p.m. I'll be at Loopy Yarns, where I'll also be signing prints (Loopy is now carrying a selection of them) and the new Loopy Yarns tote bags (which sport a drawing I created specially for the shop, available nowhere else).

And on Saturday from noon–2 p.m. I'll be at My Sister's Knits in Beverly (on the South Side).

Never Say Never

Knitting has taken me many places I never expected to go, but none more unexpected than a baseball field. Yup, I went to Stitch 'n' Pitch Chicago last night. I said I wouldn't and I truly believed I wouldn't. But at the last minute there was ticket, and the weather was good, and there was the prospect of An Evening with Knitters. So I went.

You remember Eleanor Roosevelt's line about how you should do something every day that scares you? The game was my Scary Thing for yesterday.

I know. Especially if you're American, you're thinking, scary? What the hell could be scary about something as squeaky-clean, family-oriented and apple pie-esque as a night at the ballpark?

Well, I'm a little gay man who was once a little gay kid. Here's a partial list of things I associate with ballparks based on my personal experiences:

• Being yelled at for not wanting to go to the ballpark.
• Being yelled at for wanting to bring a book to the ballpark.
• Being yelled at for not understanding the game. (I still don't.)
• Being yelled at for not having a great time at the ballpark.
  
• Being called a faggot.
• Being called a wimp.
• Being called a nerd.
• Being called a pansy.
  
• Having a beer thrown at me for inadvertently wearing the colors of the visiting team.
• Watching drunken men in the Fenway Park bleachers simulate anal sex with an inflatable doll in a Yankees jersey.

Some fun.

So I was nervous. Yeah, there would be 300 knitters, but there'd be thousands of non-knitters. And I've seen people I love get weird at sporting events. Belligerent. Especially when they felt I was letting down the team but not knowing what was going on (see "faggot, wimp, nerd, pansy," above).

I am happy to report that last night, I emerged unscathed and unmolested. I even, dare I say it, had fun, although at no point did I actually watch the game–which is probably one of the reasons I had fun. And you know what? The White Sox fans were pretty nice people, and so was the stadium crew.

I had my camera, so here's a little souvenir scrapbook. It was awesome, as always, to see familiar faces and meet stitchers I haven't met before. I even got a chance to talk to Gianofer Fields of Chicago Public Radio, who was there interviewing folks–she's the one in the headset, learning to cast on from Kathy of Arcadia Knitting.

Many thanks to the Chicago committee who put all this together, even though they also all run knitting shops and have way too much to do as it is.

PS. If you go see the White Sox, spend the extra money on the kosher hot dogs, it's worth it.
PPS. The red Stitch 'n' Pitch baseball caps are wicked cute. I will be wearing mine a lot.

Helpful Commentary for Various People in This Coffee Shop

To the Guy in the Northwestern Cap

She came in here to study. She is not looking for a date. Specifically, she is not looking for a date with you. You have now told her about your swell condo, your eco-friendly hybrid car, your burgeoning net worth and your boat. Yet she has said little more than "uh huh" at any point and hasn't taken her eyes off her book for five minutes. This is called "rejection." If she is your only prospect, you're not getting any tonight. I suggest driving your eco-friendly hybrid to the video store to rent some porn to watch all by yourself in your swell condo.

To the Angry Lesbians at the Next Table

As I am in no way personally responsible for the American government's refusal to issue free tampons, the existence of high-heeled shoes, the veiling of Arab women, or the weird taste of your latte, glaring at me every time one of you uses the word "men" will not put a stop the ongoing abuse of womynkind by the patriarchy.

To the Guy in the Northwestern Cap, Again

Seriously, dude, bringing up the sad story of your childhood pet's untimely death just seems desperate.

To the Skank at the Next Table

Number one, it's not warm enough out to justify a top that skimpy. Number two, if I wanted to see bare female nipples, I would go watch porn with the guy in the Northwestern cap.

To the Kid Who Keeps Kicking My Chair

Stop kicking my chair.

To the Mother of the Kid Who Keeps Kicking My Chair

When you take him over to Nettlehorst School to register for the mayor's very special fee-based kindergarten program for gifted white children, I hope he pees on the headmistress.

To the Short, Bald Guy Knitting at the Corner Table

You wouldn't have to rip back your lace rows quite so much if you'd focus more on the chart and less on the other customers.

Where There's Smoke

On Saturday morning, I finished up my latest pair of socks.





I'm extremely satisfied. The pattern is from Kristin Spurkland's excellent The Knitting Man(ual) and worked perfectly as written. A handsome pair–interesting without being fussy.

While I photographed them, Dolores plopped down at the computer to work on her latest article for Ovine Activist Monthly. Harry and the guys were watching Stage Door for the four hundredth time on DVD and taking rowdy swigs of Ovaltine every time Katharine Hepburn said "calla lilies" or Adolphe Menjou tugged his moustache.

Suddenly the lights went out, Dolores screamed something filthy and the sock yarn let out a collective wail.

"It wasn't my hair dryer this time!" yelled a ball of angora blend.

"I know," I said. "Ice must have snapped a power line or something like that."

"Well, I'm pissed," said Dolores. "I was this close to a rousing climax."

"I thought you canceled her account on that Web site," Harry said to me.

"I meant in the speech, you little dung tag," hissed Dolores. "And now my concentration is broken and my muse has fled."

"She's probably stuck in the elevator," said Harry.

Dolores picked up my Meg Swansen paperweight with clear intent but dropped it when Stan, who was perched on the windowsill, let out a squeal.

"I don't think this is good," he said, indicating the line of fire trucks and cop cars that were streaming up the road in front of the building. The first of the trucks screeched to halt in front of the water mains by the curb and one of the crew began to drag hoses toward the spigots.

I sniffed and recognized a familiar, acrid scent from my childhood. Burning electrical insulation.

"Okay," I said. "Out. Everybody out. Now. Stay calm. Dolores, grab your coat and pile the guys into the laundry cart. I'm going to get Mrs Teitelbaum and Tinkles. I'll see you on the corner across the street."

Our neighbor at first failed to grasp the gravity of the situation. She insisted the smell was either the kid across the hall playing with a his new chemistry set or another failed batch of challah in 1510. "Pearl just can't cook," she said. "Her first husband died when she hit him over the head with a homemade kreplach."

But I insisted she pack up Tinkles and come with me. There was some disagreement over what to put him in; she wanted to use Tupperware. By the time we got into the emergency stairwell there was smoke pouring in at the fifth floor and below and people were getting panicky.

Our little band gathered on the corner away from the commotion of trucks and flashing lights, watching smoke billow from the vent in front of the building as firemen ran hither and thither and our neighbors traded stories of what they'd seen and guesses as to what might be going on.

I'd grabbed my camera bag and lenses, but thought of my books, my yarn and my drawings for the book. Still, I tried to keep up a brave face for Harry, who was concerned for the safety of his teddy bear and his autographed photo of Nancy Bush. Dolores was divided between worry over her wardrobe and mortification that she'd had to rush past fifty firemen with her hair in curlers.

The temperature was plummeting–Chicago is in the midst of a hideous deep-freeze with temperatures well below freezing–and I realized with some satisfaction that I was still wearing my newly-completed wool socks and my feet were warm.

I called Tom, who arrived in minutes and reassured us all that no matter what, we all had a place to stay for the night or however long it might take.

It proved to be a long wait for news and a certain amount of relief. We left the building around noon. It was six hours, most of them spent sitting on a "warming bus" provided by the public transit authority, before we were informed that a ComEd transformer in the sub-basement had exploded. There was no fire, but (as we'd seen) acres and acres of smoke, and the building was completely without power, heat or water. At almost seven o'clock I was allowed to make my way upstairs to spend 15 minutes rummaging in the dark for overnight provisions; I grabbed some clothes, my laptop, and two knitting projects I'd left lying on the coffee table. Whatever might happen next, I intended to knit through it.

Mrs Teitelbaum is staying with her niece in Highland Park and still insisting Pearl's challah is ultimately responsible for the mess. We're in residence at Tom's for now, hoping the building will re-open for occupancy tomorrow as has been promised. In the meanwhile, I'm enjoying the sight of Tom's mastiff/boxer mix, Augie, flirting shamelessly with Dolores.

Until I'm back at home, communication will be spotty and work slower than usual. But everything seems to have turned out well, and all of us are safe. Except for Tom, that is. Dolores keeps trying to bust in on him in the shower.

Stupid Groundhog

I know: I'm a knitter, I should love winter. Winter should be the season in which I, wool-mad needlefreak that I am, should come into my own. Cozy sweaters! Toasty hats! Sweet widdle mittens and cunning widdle swippers to warm your chilly fingerses and toeses! Oooooh!

Screw it.

This little body is built of genes drawn from the sunny pools of Lebanon and Sicily. I'd make a capable camel herder or tuna fisherman. But I'm not so good in the cold. When the first arctic blast hits town I start to shrivel. By June, when this misbegotten city finally starts to thaw, I'm just a chewed bit of wet string fit only to serve as a cat toy.

I learned during my first winter to just forget about looking presentable for three-quarters of the year. In Boystown, where I live, the fellows generally gird themselves against winter in the snappy fashion here modeled by Cody, fresh from the hottest brunch spot on Halsted Street, where he always gets a good table because his boyfriend Schuyler's best friend Ramon slept with the host and has threatened to tell his wife.



Cody is sporting a thin, short jacket; elegant leather gloves; a silk scarf; a jaunty, little hat; and kicky Italian leather shoes. No bulky insulated coats here, no sir. They spoil the trim line of the figure.

A couple of years ago, in November, I tried walking to the grocery store dressed like that. I got diptheria. This is my typical winter silhouette.



Franklin is wearing a schlubby earflap hat, Thinsulate gloves, two scarves, waterproof construction boots, long underwear, three sweaters and an everything-proof ski parka from L.L. Bean that his parents bought him when they noticed his lips were turning blue. He is still cold.

And now that bastard groundhog has indicated that we get the extra-long edition of winter this year. Sure. What does he care? Does he have to leap over gigantic, shin-deep pools of filthy slush at every street corner? Does he have to risk frostbite in order to replenish the household supply of Cheerios? Does he have to wait, shivering, on an elevated platform for the arrival of a downtown train that smells like butt? No, he's done his bit for 2008 and can just go back to sleep until it's time to wake up and have sex with the hot mama in the next burrow.



If I ever meet him I'm going to kick his ass.

In the meanwhile, yeah, I'm knitting. Tom has asked for a scarf and hat to keep him warm while walking the dog, and so I'm working on a watch cap for him using Elizabeth Zimmermann's variation on brioche stitch, which she calls Prime Rib.



It looks at first glance like regular k2/p2 ribbing, but it has slipped stitches and k2togs and weird yarn-overs in it, and the result is a bizarrely stretchy, bulky rib. Cuddly in excelsis. I figured there must be something special about it, because this hat is knit flat and then sewn up–and you know Elizabeth is not one to recommend flat knitting and seams without a darn good reason. So far it's a soothing knit for frazzled nerves.

Oooh, the perky television weather lady just said it's going to warm up tomorrow–32 degrees! Excuse me, won't you, while I go dig out my bikini?

Scenes from Yarn Con

Truly, I have no idea where that nasty old stereotype of knitters as meek and helpless came from. The longer I mix with this bunch, the more convinced I am that there's not another community on the planet so eminently capable of getting things (with the possible exception of second socks) done.

For example, here we have Natalia and Sarah. They were talking about how great it would be if there were a knit-centric event akin to Chicago's DIY Trunk Show. Then they stopped talking and went ahead and built one: Yarn Con.

It was a bang-up job. Under the soaring vault of the Pulaski Park Field House auditorium, about two dozen independent purveyors of yarns, knitted goods, and knitting impedimenta set up shop for the day. Knitters came in their numbers to browse, fondle, and (abetted by the portable ATM parked just outside) buy. And buy and buy and buy.

The stage was given over to well-attended workshops, including several taught by Sharon Kelly of Arcadia Knitting.



I wish I had thought to get a shot of Sharon's afghan-sized entrelac swatch. It looked like she was knitting a Lady Eleanor Scarf for Paul Bunyan.

The 1,000 Knitters Project made splendid progress, even though I was placed between the hot chicks from Loopy Yarns and the booth occupied by Shannon Okey and Nikol Lohr, which was sort of like being a crossing guard at the intersection of Fellini and Ed Wood.



About forty hugely entertaining people sat in the chair and worked on the scarf, raising the current count to 198.* Thank you all!

I was so busy shooting I didn't have much time to shop, although I did go home with an autographed copy of that nice Susan Strawn's Knitting America. If you haven't seen it yet, take a look. Mine won't make it to the shelf for a while, because I keep toting it from bedside to table to sofa so I can gawk at the pictures. Happily, the coated stock offers some protection from drool and Cheerios.

For me, the crowning touch of the day was being asked, for the first time, to hand the needles to a very young man whose mother hopes he'll take up the craft. I felt honored to be chosen. Honestly, I got more than a little choked up. Le bowl of mush, c'est moi.

Judging by his firm grip (which the ever-helpful Tom recorded for posterity), I think Doug's mom stands a fair chance to spend her old age wrapped in handmade shawls and sweaters.

Slipping a copy of Knitting Without Tears under the kid's crib might help to clinch it. Or is that just an old knitter's tale?

*Reader Janet asked in the comments whether there will be a special "celebrity" section when the final piece is assembled. I can promise there won't be. I'm delighted (and surprised) at how many notable knitters have taken part, but in this piece no knitter is more important than any other. We are all important. Remove one person's row, and the fabric would be wrecked. That's sort of how I feel about people in general, come to think of it.

Blended Fibers

My weightlifting regimen has a nutritional component that includes a schedule of six little meals a day instead of three larger. I was skeptical of the plan at first, but have found that I'm not only looking better but feeling better.

The second meal of the day is a bowl of organic oatmeal with plain yogurt at about 10 a.m. Nothing could be simpler, of course. I just whip it up in the office microwave and eat it at my desk.

This requires a supply of oatmeal on hand at the office, so yesterday I stowed a new, sealed cannister in my messenger bag along with the rest of my daily necessities: phone, iPod, sketchbook, pens, The Man of Property, and the christening shawl.

I was late in leaving the house. I knew that unless I picked up the pace, I'd miss my train. I ran three blocks, into the station, through the turnstile, and up the stairs to the platform. I caught the train with mere seconds to spare, and collapsed on an empty seat.

My jangled brain took a stop-and-a-half to refocus. Finally, I remembered that I need spend my commute time knitting in order to keep the shawl on schedule. I reached into my bag, unaware that my impromptu 400 meter dash had caused the contents to blend.

I whipped the shawl out, gave it a good snap to settle the stitches, and POOF...oatmeal flakes. In profusion. Everywhere. Up to the ceiling of the car, across the aisle, into the hair of those sitting around me. As though Quaker had set off a dirty bomb on the CTA.

What does one say in this situation? Nowhere, in any of my etiquette books, is there a suggestion about what to do when one's lace knitting covers one's fellow passengers with oatmeal. Even Emily Post, who dwelt at length on such vital matters as coping without your personal maid while camping, is mum on this topic.

I'm afraid the best I could muster was a feeble apology, which was graciously accepted by everybody-except the fellow who slept through the whole thing.

I can only imagine what he must have thought when he woke up to find himself dusted with oats.

Dawn of the Dumb

My favorite neighborhood coffee shop is always buzzing, but for the past several weeks it's been especially packed with students cramming for exams.

Such a comforting sight, with their weighty stacks of economics and medical texts. It takes dedication to focus on gross anatomy while listening to your iPod, having three Yahoo! Instant Messenger conversations, talking on the phone with your girlfriend, and updating your MySpace profile with pictures from last night's beer wallow.

These are the people who, one day, may be called upon to remove my gall bladder. The thought makes me want to dig it out myself, pre-emptively, with a grapefruit spoon and a pair of embroidery scissors.

Last week I slipped deftly into the lone vacant chair, and a moment later felt a tap on my shoulder. The tapping finger was attached to a nacsent trixie, still in the fledgling (university) stage, with a couple of medical books and a fully-grown sense of entitlement.

"Are you, um, going to be here much longer?" she asked.

"Yes, I just sat down," I said.

Her brow furrowed under her Depaul baseball cap.

"Um, okay. Well, I have a lot of work to do, and I was really hoping you might be getting ready to leave."

"Well, no. Sorry. I just sat down," I said slowly and distinctly, "and so I plan on staying put for at least an hour."

"There are no chairs right now," she said, biting her lower lip.

"I know," I said.

"And I really need to study," she said. "I have a midterm."

"Maybe somebody else is ready to leave?"

"They're all working, and you're just crocheting or whatever. So I thought maybe you wouldn't mind giving up your seat. This test is really important."

"Oh," I said, suddenly smiling. "It's an important test and you need a place to study."

"Right!" she chirped, visibly excited that the weird old man's brain had finally encompassed the gravity of her situation.

"You're a Depaul student?"

"Well, yes." She pointed to her cap and giggled.

"Are you homeless?"

"What? Um...no."

"Did the Depaul library burn down?"

"Um...no."

"Then I believe I've just solved your dilemma. You're very welcome."

She didn't say anything, she just stared at me. Probably memorizing my face so that one fine day she can exact painstaking revenge upon my gall bladder.

News Flash: Late Night Knitting

Darlings, are any of you in the Chicagoland area going to this?

Knitting at Looptopia: A Knit-Night On the Town
May 11, 2007
10pm – 12am, 1st Floor Garland Room
Chicago Cultural Center
Hang with knitters, crocheters, and spinners at the Windy City Knitting Guild’s first late night craft circle. Knit a boa, crochet a flower pin, or craft a bracelet or two. New to crafting? No worries, the Guild members will teach you the basics and get you started on your first project.

It's part of this. (Special thanks to homegirl Katerina for alerting me.)

I'm tempted, in spite of the copy, which can't have been written or approved by anybody who actually knits or crochets. I mean–crafting?

I refuse to get into an argument about whether knitting is an art or a craft; the distinction is artificial and arbitrary and silly. However, will you non-knitters kindly remember that knitting is not synonymous with "crafting"? Using ancient techniques to fashion warm socks, handsome sweaters, or ethereal lace from spun fiber is not akin to making trivets out of Popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue.

Now, who's going? I might be tempted to forego a twirl in the arms of a studly cowboy at Charlie's if I can be assured of not sitting alone in a corner talking to my shawl.

Zen Interlude: Spring Awakening

It's terribly unfair.

Chicago, like most of the United States, is experiencing wintry weather that has no business showing up in mid-April. Mind you, I know better than to expect a balmy, shirtsleeves spring beside the Lake. But I do look forward with desperate longing to the arrival of the daffodils every year. Once they bloom, I feel a certain sense of accomplishment in having survived yet another nasty go-around on the Hivernal Carousel.

This year, they bloomed, and then got sucker-punched by snow squalls and freezing temperatures. The bed of daffodils I pass every morning on the way to the office is blackened and shriveled, and I don't feel so well myself.

On the other hand, the other spring arrival–baseball fans–is right on time.

I've nothing against professional baseball. Truly. In general I regard it as most Americans do the opera season, which is to say not at all. Because the transit line I ride services both ballparks in Chicago, however, I do have to deal with baseball fans. Especially Cubs fans.

And yesterday was the home opener.

Illinois is supposedly a blue state, but I've noticed that North Shore (i.e, white and affluent) parents who bring their offspring into the city for Cubs games turn a violent shade of tomato red.

I've tried to understand why this is so. I've concluded that it's because they see a trip to Wrigley Field as a to connect their children with their own past, in those halcyon days when America led the free world, gasoline was cheaper than milk, and Certain People had to sit in the back of the bus.

As the train heads south and Addison Station looms, the parents become so emotional that some actually produce handkerchiefs to deal with the tears. "We're almost there," they gasp, choking on rising nostalgia. "Can you watch for the stadium, Caitlyn? Do you see it coming up?"

I'd be the last person to have a problem with this except that in the midst of a crowded commute, the parents get pushy about art directing the experience and become visibly (and sometimes audibly) annoyed at any extras (that would be the rest of us) who don't fit the motherhood-flag-apple pie aesthetic they're after. For example:

• Passengers occupying window seats, including the elderly. (I once saw an able-bodied man unblushingly ask an old woman if she could give her seat to his five-year-old daughter so she would have an unobstructed view of the Wrigley Field sign.)
  
  
• Persons of African, Latin or Middle Eastern descent.
  
  
• Persons speaking languages other than English.
  
  
• Persons whose appearance deviates in any way from the white, suburban, middle class idea of "normal," i.e. goths, punks, transvestites, homeless people.
  
  
• Males of any stripe who are knitting lace.

During yesterday's commute, I of course fell into at least two of these categories. Possibly three, depending upon how you feel about earrings on men.

This was a source of enormous consternation to a father whose daughter–she was perhaps six–was interested in the progress of the christening shawl.

I didn't notice the family of three–Dad, daughter, son–at first because I was, well, knitting lace. But the daughter kept getting up from her seat and leaning toward my needles. After she'd done this three times I glanced up and gave her a smile.

She smiled back. And then her father yanked her away and pushed her firmly into her seat.

But she got up again, and came over, and this time asked if the design had flowers in it. I was about to explain that the shapes were fir cones when her father yelled, "Halley! Get back here now."

I honestly thought he was concerned that she might be bothering me, so I smiled and said, "It's okay, I don't mind questions."

To which he replied, "You leave my kid alone!"

And then, not directly to me, but just as audibly, "Goddamned freaks."

Rude? Oh yes. But this is not supposed to be another man-knits-in-public-and-attracts-idiocy story. Those are too common to be interesting in and of themselves.

This is a reminder to myself that my own brain's not so different from his.

I may not be inclined to tell a stranger on the subway she's a freak, but it doesn't mean I don't think it. I do it all the time. In fact, I did it at the beginning of this entry, no?

I look, I categorize, I judge. And just as I believe that man got me wrong in believing me to be a threat to his child, I'm certain I often misjudge others.

One of the aspects of elusive Enlightenment I'm pursuing through Zen Buddhism is (I hear) a genuine understanding that between yourself and myself, there is no difference. If I didn't believe that to be so, I'd probably give up sitting zazen. But even though I believe it, I haven't grasped it sufficiently to act upon it.

Hmph. Back to the damn cushion.

Tomorrow: actual knitting. (I know! I can hardly believe it, either!)

It Must Be March

How do I know this? Because of the hint of spring warmth in the breeze? The almost indiscernible aroma of fecundity among the flowerbeds? The palest green promise of buds on the bare branches?

Fuck no. Are you kidding? I live in Chicago. Everything here is dead, gray, and frozen with no end in sight. It's like Narnia without the exotic animal life. If I'm not still wearing my frigging overcoat in June, I'll feel lucky.

Ah, that's it. That's how I know it's March. It's because I have offically Had It with winter and have withdrawn into my own season, the Season of Crabbiness. If Mother Nature were to peek her smiling, ruddy face through my window right now, I'd rip it off.

Knitting: Big Whoop

At such times it would probably be best to keep me away from all undertakings involving sharp, pointed implements. Nonetheless, I knit. Nothing spectacular, but at least with both hands full I can't smack random passers-by.

Here is what I have to show you right now. It's (are you sitting down?) a square-in-progress.

I wouldn't even show this to you except that even in my present state of mind I think the combination of yarn and stitch pattern is quite successful.



I got the pattern out of one of the Vogue Stitchionary books. I can't remember which one, and the book is all the way over there. It's called diagonal lace or prettyprettywow lace or happyshinyfuckitlace or something like that. The sample shot uses green yarn. I think. I'm not sure. Like I said, the book is all the way over there.

I had to re-do this dazzlingly complex work of art three times before I finally realized that there's a mistake in the three-row pattern and that if you follow it verbatim, your left edge gradually decreases and you will wind up with a right triangle instead of a square. Now, if you want to knit a @#%!* right triangle, why, it's just the very thing.

The yarn, which is soothing even to hands that might otherwise be hurling chunks of ice at widows and orphans, is from Black Bunny Fibers. Carol, one of my favorite Yarn Pushers, sent it to me along with instructions to knit it up to certain dimensions and not to ask any questions.



I may be a bitchy mood, kids, but I still know better than to argue with a lady who sends me free yarn.

FYI

I have it on the authority of a guy who was preaching in my subway car last night that because our city allowed a Gay Pride parade and hosted the Gay Games, Lake Michigan is getting bigger and deeper and is going to rise up and destroy the greater Chicagoland area.

I asked him if he knew exactly when this was going to happen, but he didn't. He just said we're living at the end of days, and so we have to repent now. Right. Like I don't have enough to do this weekend.

He couldn't even tell me exactly how to repent, although I understand vaguely that it involves a trip to the South Side. That's one heck of a train ride. Maybe I could get Aidan take care of it for me, since he lives down there anyway.

I also asked the guy if only the gay people would drown, but he said no, everybody's going under. Unless, I suppose, they've gone outlet shopping in Gurnee for the day.

On behalf of my tribe, I 'd like to say that I'm really sorry, especially if you just bought a condo near the lake. I didn't think repeated viewings of The Women and a fondness for leather motorcycle gear could lead to something so catastrophic or I'd have been more careful. But this guy swears it's true. Hurricane Katrina, it seems, was brought on by the evil convergence of lycra t-shirts, back issues of Honcho and old Barbra Streisand LPs.

He did take care to point out that it's just the gay men who are responsible. Lesbians, you're in the clear, because you're "kinda hot, whooo-eee!"

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pump up my Floaties and put on my swim fins.

Allons-nous au Salon

This just in:* Chicago's "Winter Delights" series is featuring knitting as the centerpiece of the "Stitching Salon" that has been established for the season at the Chicago Tourism Center, 72 E. Randolph Street.

Here's the description, in part. For full information, check out the Web site.

Participate in hands-on workshops with local knitting experts every Wednesday, from 6 to 8 pm. Every other Thursday at 6 pm, knit to knitting-inspired films. Join a knitting circle during lunch each Friday from noon to 2 pm. Watch the creation of handmade artworks during on-site, interactive artists’ demonstrations on Saturdays from 11 am to 4 pm. On Sundays, January 21, February 4 and 18, at 3 pm, come to Family Sip & Stitch for afternoon tea and an all-ages craft project. Stop by anytime to help create an artwork or make a piece of your own to take home.

There's a PDF schedule of events, at which I haven't had a chance to look. I wonder who the experts will be? [Addendum: Duh, here they are. And quite a nice line-up!]

I work in Evanston, so the lunch hour stuff is out of the question for me. And I don't know that I'm up for a combination of toddlers, sippy cups, and yarn.

But I'm happy this is happening, just the same. We need to keep knitting's profile high, dammit, unless y'all want to go back to the Bad Old Days of buying Red Heart at Michael's because there was precious little else to be had locally.

*A big shout out to my Morning Commute Buddy for alerting me to this. I won't mention your name since I didn't remember to ask permission, but as always you put sunshine in my day.

Paging Susie Snowflake

Heat. Everywhere. No escape. It creeps in under the drawn windowshade, laughs at the feeble warning shot from the air conditioner, and runs its sticky tongue down your neck to the base of your spine.

A simple three-block walk to the subway stretches to ten shimmering miles. The exposed subway platform is so hot that sap and tar ooze from the wooden planks. Your shoes fry as you wait for the train, delayed due to overheated and malfunctioning signals somewhere in the Loop. The train arrives, overcrowded. Everybody on in your car stinks.

Sleepy silence reigns until a woman's bare, sweaty shoulder smacks up against the impossibly crisp white shirt of a businessman. The businessman, aghast, calls the woman a pig. The woman shakes her hair and drops of sweat fly across his face, his glasses, his briefcase. He screams. Then the woman reaches out to embrace him in a moist hug. His face takes on the violent contortions of a damned soul in a mediaeval altarpiece.

You trudge the mile from the train to your office. Your brain, liquifying, conjures perverted fantasies in which ice and snow are put to uses not intended by nature.



You are startled from these bright visions by the sounds of yelling. The owner of the bookstore is yelling at a homeless man. A motorist is yelling at a cop. A mother is yelling at her children. The children simply yell.

You arrive at the office and find that painters have been contracted to touch up the walls. Today. Out of the three hundred and sixty five days in which, theoretically, painting could be done, this day has been chosen.

The painters insist on working with the windows open. There are no window screens. You attempt to focus on work as the temperature climbs into the nineties and a plague of nasty, heat-loving swamp insects gathers on your monitor.

You ask if you might work from home and are told no, you may not, as the university does not cease normal operations due to the vagaries of climate. You hear the air conditioner in the boss's office kick into high gear as he hangs up the telephone.

Your coworkers smack wildly at the swarming locusts and flies. The smell of paint hangs in the air like a fog.

You wonder if this is a health and safety violation and decided to consult the OSHA Web site, but are so disoriented from huffing secondhand latex fumes that you cannot remember how to spell OSHA.

A normally mild-mannered, elderly coworker tells the painter she is going to turn on the ceiling fan and he is just going to have to deal with it. He tells her she can't as he needs to work on the ceiling. She calls him a "motherfucker."

You turn back to the Panama Canal article and find yourself staring at the water in the accompanying photograph. The blue, blue water. The blue, cool, clear water. So much water. In your mind, you strip off your clothes and dive into the water and suck it into the red-hot coils of your lungs.

The painter and the coworker are locked in an escalating battle of words that promises to turn physical. You wonder what exactly would happen if a gallon of Navajo white were poured over the CPU of a Mac G5. You find the idea of being dipped into a stream of nice, cool Navajo white alluring.

Somehow, you have moved from your chair onto the floor. It's cooler down here.

The darkness under the desk beckons to you. Cooler still under there. So dark, so cool. If you just bend your legs a little, you can fit completely under the desk. Ah.

You curl up, thumb in mouth. You close your eyes, and wait for November.

Moist with Pride

Hi. It's Dolores. What's new with you?

Yesterday was Chicago's Pride March, and the Boss had his annual two sips of Heineken. As usual, this knocked him flat on his caboose and so he's asked me to step in and give an account of the festivities. And they were festive in spite of the fact that for most of the day it was pissing down rain.

I'm only to happy to do the post after reading back through the past several entries and seeing what has been written about me. Were I not 1) bred to be demure and 2) a dedicated Taoist, I would fume and rage and sue for defamation. It's only too apparent that before I arrived this blog was a backwater, and my good character is being assassinated in order to ratchet up the numbers.

I trust none of you has been fooled by his lurid fantasias. I will admit to having something of a past, but when he tells you that, for example, I rode the former Bishop of Birmingham's wife like a show pony, please try to remember there are two sides to every story. Also that Anglican women have no sense of humor.

Where was I?

Pride Day. Yes. While the boys snored and drooled, I got up at the ass crack of dawn to fix a hearty, nourishing breakfast for all of us. Omelettes, hash browns, the works, plus a radiant rainbow salad of julienned vegetables with my own special vinaigrette. You have perhaps heard of my vinaigrette. There was an incident in the 70s when I caught Julia Child sneaking around the kitchen during one of my pool parties, trying to find the recipe. The press had a field day with the story. May I take a moment and set the record straight? It is true that I let Julia know I did not approve of her snooping. It is not true that I tried to feed her face-first into the Cuisinart.

Where was I?

Breakfast. Yes. It was all going splendidly and then there was a knock at the door from the Colt model who lives in our building. The poor guy was shirtless, in a frenzy, and told me he needed to borrow some Crisco. I chided him for leaving not preparing his pie crust in advance, whereupon he admitted to being a bad, bad boy. I gave him a little slap on his pert little bum, and then he said I really should get the Crisco, and then I did, and then we got to talking about grease and whatnot and before you could say "flaky and tender" the omelettes had gone and caught fire.

Well, you would think Franklin had never burned anything in the kitchen, which my taste buds and I will assure you is not the case. He was screaming and jumping like a man possessed, and even a quite appreciative comment from our neighbor when his kimono accidentally flew open didn't calm him down.

After a fashion we put the fire out, and cleaned most of the Crisco off the floor, but by that time I needed to start my beauty regimen so I headed for the tub. If my culinary efforts aren't appreciated, as far as I'm concerned the household may breakfast on cold cereal and toast.

Four hours later, on the dot, we were stationed in a prime viewing spot along Broadway with our upstairs neighbor Buzz–the Rhoda to Franklin's Mary as it were. Or the Ethel to his Lucy. Or the Gog to his Magog. Or the...forget it.

Franklin had his camera, and threw himself with great gusto into documenting the parade. Here are a few snaps, which I will organize thematically.

Theme One: Drag

For somebody who claims to find drag unnerving, Franklin can't seem to leave the queens alone on Pride Day. I think he's just afraid he might find that putting on a tiara and a pair of fishnets would make him feel a not unpleasant tingle in his tummy.


This one calls herself "Miss Foozie" and she's quite a feature of the local landscape. Not unlike the Rocky Mountains are for Denver.


I'd been wondering what Tina Turner was up to these days.


After he shot this picture Franklin gasped, "Omigod, he's a trainer at my gym."


Auntie Mame says olives take up too much room.


The glamour of the lifestyle has faded somewhat for this title holder.


Define "fair."


Man? Woman?


When this one rode past Franklin said, "Hey, does she remind you of anybody?" and they all snickered. Must be some weird in-joke.

Theme Two: Groups

You have two kinds of groups who march in the parade. You have the kind who hire a generic float and take their clothes off and expect that to make a statement, and then you have the kind who put a little effort into it.

Without wishing to slight the barechested, we will here celebrate the creativity of the latter group.


I don't remember the cause, but I adore the hats.


Kings and queens, simultaneously. Top that, Mrs. Windsor-Mountbatten.

Art students from Columbia College...


...who were singing along to a phat house remix of "The Lonely Goatherd"

Theme Three: Chicks

The biological variety.


She's either happy, high, or hallucinating from dehydration.


This one's for Franklin's sister. (The photo, I mean. Not the woman.)


Woman? Man?


In my next life I wish to be Brazilian.


Zounds.


I wonder what she had to do to earn all those beads?


As the wonderful old Styne/Sondheim song says, all she needs now is the girl.


I'd heard them called "little girls" but never before seen it interpreted literally.


A naughty schoolgirl from the Tulip Adult Boutique float shows us what's under her kilt.


Buzz's reaction to the above. His enduring innocence is so cute.

Theme Four: Dudes

Franklin says he took these only in order to make certain he could present a well-rounded photojournalistic account of the event. What a trooper.

If you just scrolled right down to these without reading the rest, you go right back up to the top and start over. No cheating allowed.








Oh, the places that tongue must have been.


The Lutherans are apparently trying out new ways to win converts.


Care for a little Bacardi?


The Brazilian gene pool is so deeply unfair to the rest of us.


Which bit do I rub to get my three wishes?


You know what they say about the green ones.


Dresses funny, but has access to unlimited chocolate.


Peel back protective labels before use.




From a float extolling the virtues of cleanliness.


Nice hat.


Can you just imagine the fight they must have had about what to wear to the parade?


We do not approve of the rope belt trend, but we will overlook it this once.


I wonder if he caught cold. Note the banana in the background. You're about to read more about the banana.

Theme Five: The Banana Lady

In spite of all other attractions, Pride 2006 will forever be known to my boys as the Year of the Banana. No, not that kind.

There was this woman on the sidelines who had for reasons unexplained chosen to attend the parade dressed as a banana. She bore striking resemblance to Britney Spears in not only her fashion sense, but also in her deportment and appetite for cheap beer.

As is their wont, the boys immediately became obsessed with the Banana Lady. Me, I cannot imagine anything more revolting than a badly dressed woman exhibiting public drunkeness.

Franklin shot enough frames to create a montage of her many moods.



Banana Lady was not a registered parade participant, but nonetheless became the de facto cheerleader for an entire stretch of Broadway. She yelled her head off for every float, group, and straggler who passed by. As the Gay Something Something for Something Gay Justice filed past, she screamed "I love justice!"

C, whose mania for the abnormal knows no bounds (look who he's dating) had a picture taken with her.



We last encountered the Banana Lady sitting on a beer cooler (how fitting) after the parade. We waved and she waved back.



"You guys are my best friends!" she shouted. This, dear readers, is a banana with a hell of a lot of love to give.

As a parting shot, I give you Franklin's portrait of our little band of comrades after the last float, dedicated to a gay-friendly aluminum siding firm, had rolled past and yet another Pride Parade became only a beer-stained memory smelling faintly of body fluids.



Time for a cigarette. Peace out. Go hug a queer person.

-Dolores