At the Gay Rodeo, Part I: Fans

Spectators in the stands at my most recent gay rodeo. Competitors and crew will be the next entry, followed by shots of the competition.

In posting these, I find I'm so homesick for Texas (a place I've never lived) right now that I could scream. Nothing makes Chicago seem so bleak, uninteresting, and inhospitable as a few days in Dallas surrounded by people like this.

I'm more myself, more relaxed, and more comfortable shooting photos at a rodeo than I am anywhere else doing anything else.

Tidy Up the Blog Day

Errata

So math isn't my strong suit, as many of you found out reading the opening line of yesterday's post. In my mind, I'm not yet halfway to forty because I'm still on the lower end of my thirties. I'm not twelve, although I can still fit into my Boy Scout uniform (which was bought for me when I was twelve) when the occasion arises.

What occasion, you're wondering? Like I'm going to tell you. My mother reads this blog.

Opera

I was tickled blush and bashful, two distinctly different shades of pink, at how many of you either spoke up as opera lovers or said you'd think about giving some of the arias a whirl as knitting background.

I even heard from voice students, which frankly thrills me. I used to live surrounded by singers, and while one can go mad living the opera life, once you've tasted it you never get it out of your system. I wish you all Good Voice, kids. Work hard, and find a copy of Mary Garden's autobiography so you can read her advice on becoming an opera singer. She knew what the hell she was doing and became a legend in her own time. Ignore her good counsel at your peril.

It was interesting that two readers - LornaJay and Ted - recommended different settings of the "Dies Irae" (Day of Wrath) as suitable for moments of confusion or ripping back.

They're so right. I also find the "Dies Irae" infinitely useful, myself, as a film score for fantasies in which I take on the boss, or the Chicago Transit Authority, or slow-moving yuppie parents who block entire city sidewalks and intersections with baby carriages the size of SUVs.

Ring Tones

Speaking of cell phones, The "Mexican Hat Dance" has now been replaced on mine by a chime that sounds like entrance music for Tinkerbell as written by Philip Glass. It's not quite what I want, but neither does it draw withering glances from strangers on the train.

However, after reading Christopher's bold confession that he downloaded the theme from "The Facts of Life" as a ring tone, I'm suddenly feeling inspired. I haven't taken a moment to check to see what's available, but I'm wondering about:

1. "I Wish I Were an Oscar Meyer Weiner"
2. The opening theme from "Sesame Street"
   
3. Marlon Brando screaming, "Stella! Hey, Stella!" in A Streetcar Named Desire
4. "I'm a Little Teapot"

Embarrassment of Riches

May I please draw your attention to the birth of two perfectly splendid new blogs, by writers who should have set up blogs long ago but I'm glad they didn't because who the hell needs the competition?

We have, in alphabetical order:

• Carol, one the funniest women in America (and cute, too) over at Go Knit in Your Hat; and
• Ted, aka Knitterguy, who spins beautiful yarn with maddening ease and knits lace as though it were garter stitch (and ditto on the cute, I've seen his picture. nyah.).
  

Question of the Week

Buzz asks, "...isn't it better to be ahead of the wave, rather than behind it?"

No.

Coming Up

Pictures of gay cowboys, and not the two posers in Brokeback Mountain. Real ones. I'm going through 800 frames, though, so do be patient.

Phone Call of the Wild

I'm not even halfway to 40 yet and I'm already becoming a cranky old man. That's the dark side of precocity. At five, it's cute. In your thirties, it's premature aging.

My first and only cell phone, an ancient Motorola Star Tac, passed away quietly on Sunday morning after a long life plagued with illnesses and abnormalities. I hated it. It had lousy reception and a dodgy LCD display. It kept a battery charge for about as long as a second-rate cowboy keeps his seat on the back of an angry bull. It combined the toughness of a Fabergé egg with the aesthetics of a dung beetle.

After buying it, every time I'd hear news of layoffs at Motorola, which is a local company, I'd think, "Good. Serves you right."

I might have mourned the demise of Ugly Phone a bit more if I'd had any clue how things have changed in the past three years. Apparently, a telephone is no longer a small appliance. It is now a fashion statement. A mobile office. An entertainment center. A status symbol. And possibly a sex toy, given the way the guy at the Verizon store was quivering as he showed me what was for sale.

He positively bounced from model to model, flipping them open and fondling them. Camera phones, phones with Global Positioning capabilities, phones that would allow me to play violent computer games and catch up on "Dawson's Creek," phones that would allow me to select any song from the oeuvre of 50 Cent as my personal ring tone.

He was visibly deflated when I didn't join in the orgy of phone love.

"I don't want a phone with a camera," I said. "I have a camera."

"But you probably don't always have it with you," he said.

"I'm more likely to leave the phone at home than my camera," I said.

He got that "does-not-compute" look on his face.

"And I don't need the games, either," I said. "I don't play computer games."

"But hey, man, what do you do when you're waiting for the subway?" he said.

"I knit," I said.

"Okay, man, that's cool, that's cool, no games," he said, as I helped him up off the floor.

"And I want a phone that just rings. I don't want it to play music. I just want it to ring. Just ring, ring, ring. It could beep, maybe. But no music."

He was still smiling broadly, but I think he was wondering whether I might be dangerous or deranged.

"So, okay. No camera, no games, and you don't want it to play music."

"Nope. I just want a phone. I want to call people and get calls, but I don't need to hear from Gladys Knight and the Pips every time my mother wants to chat."

"Gladys? And the what?"

"Never mind. What do you have that just acts like a phone, and not a Chuck E. Cheese?"

He had completely ceased to vibrate. He pointed to one small, unassuming phone in the corner. It looked like a geek phone, a phone that never gets invited to cool parties, a phone that would rather stay inside and read than go play baseball. I felt a kinship with this phone.

"This is the simplest phone we got," he said. "It, um, doesn't do much. It has a color display. They all have color displays now, is that okay?"

"That's fine," I said. "Charge it up and let's go."

Het set it up for me, sighing and looking a little glum. But he got his own back. I stuck the thing in my pocket and forgot about it until I was halfway home on the subway, sitting the middle of the usual comatose cubicle victims. A friend of mine called and suddenly, inside my pocket, an entire mariachi band began to play the "Mexican Hat Dance" in living stereo at full volume.

And I realized I hadn't figured out how to shut off the phone yet.

Progress. Olé.

Knit Me an Aria

Wotan had taken away her immortality, but at least she still had her knitting needles.

I'm an opera fan, and while I don't listen to operatic music exclusively, I do find it highly suitable as a background for knitting.

A love of opera is much like a love of knitting: one feels compelled to spread the joy. To that end, I give you my off-the-cuff list of opera arias, duets, and scenes that pair well with certain types of knitting.

1. For knitting 2x2 rib. "Largo al factotum" from Rossini's The Barber of Seville. It may only be true for continental knitters (of which I am one), but if you can get the alternation of your knitting and purling to fall in with the rhythm of Figaro's patter, you can build up a head of steam and finish your sweater or cuff ribbing in record time. Don't try to keep up with the final molto allegro, though. You'll put your eye out.
   
   
2. For knitting something for your sweetheart. "Deh vieni, non tardar" from Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro. My favorite aria from my favorite opera. Simple and calm, but filled with the buoyant feeling you get (at least, I hope you do) when you think of the person you love.
   
   
3. For knitting lace. "Sul fil d'un soffio etesio," from Verdi's Falstaff. When it's properly performed, the texture of the music is pure gossamer.
   
   
4. For ripping back a little. "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinen Herzen," from Mozart's Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). The first line of this notoriously difficult, fiendlishly angry aria translates to "A vengeful Hell pulses within my heart." Enough said.
   
   
5. For ripping back a whole lot. "Ah, chi mi dice mai" from Mozart's Don Giovanni. Another vengeance aria. Includes the delicious and appropriate lines "I will destroy him. I will rip his heart out."
   
   
6. For weaving in ends or sewing seams. "Dome epais" from Délibes's Lakmé. Awfully Enya for something written in the last century. If this won't keep you calm and balanced as your project nears completion, you need to switch to decaf.
   
   
7. For dancing madly about the room with a really cool just-finished object. "Je suis Titania" from Thomas's Mignon, "Son vergin vezzosa" from Bellini's I Puritani, or "Je veux vivre" from Gounod's Romeo et Juliette. All sunny and frolicsome, to put it mildly. You get to be the queen of the fairies, a sprightly virgin, or a love-smacked Juliet Capulet. Take your pick.
   
   
8. For lying down very still in the dark after completing your first Fair Isle or Aran sweater, an Orenburg lace shawl, or some other absolutely epochal project. Isolde's Liebestod from Wagner's Tristan und Isolde. "Liebestod" means "love-death" and the character in question is simultaneously dying of, and being transfigured by, love. This is for celebrating achievements bigger than a new hat or a shrug. This is for the projects that lift you up to the next level of knitting.
   
   
9. For trying to collect yourself when the #$@%^! pattern just isn't working, or you just found a @$#%^ error five rows back. "A vos jeux, mes amis," from Thomas's Hamlet, "J'ai perdu mon Eurydice" from Gluck's Orphée et Eurydice, "When I am laid in earth," from Purcell's Dido and Aeneas, "E lucevan le stelle" from Puccini's Tosca, "Addio del passato" from Verdi's La Traviata. All mad scenes or pre-death arias. Have a good cry. You'll feel better.
   
   
10. All-purpose. "Song to the Moon" from Dvorák's Rusalka, "Mi chiamano Mimì" from Puccini's La Bohème, "Depuis le jour" from Charpentier's Louise, "Gold is a fine thing," from Moore's The Ballad of Baby Doe, "Una furtiva lagrima" from Donizetti's L'Elisir d'amore (The Elixir of Love).

Oddly enough, I can't think of a single instance of a knitting aria or scene* (although the opening of Humperdinck's Hansel and Gretel is often staged with Gretel knitting). One wishes Isolde had been a knitter. With a sweater or shawl to occupy her on that sea voyage, she could have kept her hands to herself and left Tristan alone.

And of course, it would have been therapeutic for Cio-Cio San (aka Madama Butterfly) to have a hobby, instead of staring through that damned telescope all day watching for Pinkerton's ship. After completing her first sweater–a well-known booster of self-esteem–maybe she'd have grown a backbone and decided to cut her losses, take the kid, and marry that nice Prince Yamadori.

On the other hand, there are quite a few songs and arias that either reference or actually involve spinning. But that's another entry.

*If there are some I don't know of or have forgotten, I guarantee other opera buffs reading this will let me know. We're a garrulous bunch.

See You in the Funny Pages

From beyond the grave, your grandmother's restless spirit calls out to know why the hell that blue merino sweater with the traveling cables is still sitting in the back of your bottom drawer.

Lend Me Your Ears

When I was four or five, my father built me a puppet theater for Christmas. This thing was awesome - a sturdy, free-standing wooden booth with a "stage" at just the right height for holding up hand puppets and putting on a show.

You can't do a show without a cast, so I was also given brand-new puppets of Ernie, Bert, and Cookie Monster. I think Cookie Monster was my mother's creation. He was sewn from blue fun fur and had a slit in the back of his throat so that he could appear to noisily devour cookies (or anything else handy).

I loved the theater and the puppets. But I was a very weird little boy who never used any toy in quite the intended manner. After performing one or two skits for glassy-eyed audience of stuffed animals, I got the notion that the little booth could be more fun as a radio station. I fixed up a pretend microphone using an empty toilet paper roll and some string, moved in two chairs from my kiddie dinette, and hey presto, I was on the air.

My radio shows usually followed an interview format in which I consulted leading experts on a variety of topics. I recall with particular vividness a "What Are You Wearing Today?" fashion segment with Raggedy Ann and Flora the Beanbag Frog. Flora didn't actually wear clothes, but she was still highly opinionated and predicted that "big hats with veils" would be "all the rage."

You would think, wouldn't you, that this presaged a career in broadcasting?* Possibly as a stand-by for Elsa Klensch? But no. I've been in stage shows on and off over the years (high school drama club being, of course, the Head-Start Program for gay youth), but never behind a microphone.

Until now.



I got a message a few weeks ago from Brenda Dayne, who writes all that fun stuff for Interweave Knits from a little village somewhere in Wales. Brenda's launching a new Podcast audio knitting magazine, Cast On. And she's asked me to write a little something–and read it.

(She said the initial idea to ask me was her son's. If I do a lousy job, will he be sent to bed without supper?)

I think Brenda's idea is terrific: a knitting magazine you can enjoy while you're knitting. Makes perfect sense, no? I've already enjoyed all the epsiodes of Marie Irshad's excellent KnitCast while in media res, and it'll be fun to read my story aloud and imagine that others will get similar pleasure from it. Provided that they can get past my voice, which has a tendency to sound like a sheep bleat. But maybe for this audience, that's a good thing.

The first issue of Cast On (a Halloween special) is up and running, so give it a listen if you're inclined.

Also, a quick note about my schedule. For the rest of the week, I'm going to have to focus on some work for family members, so posts will be a little thin on the ground. But I'll try to make it up to you next week, when new photos of hot gay cowboys will, I hope, be very much in abundance.

*And also a fondness for men in uniform. Which did come to pass. One out of two ain't bad.

Goddess Fixation?

With some trepidation I have added a new design to the shop.



Sure, she's a timeless symbol of love and beauty. But can she knit?

I have no idea whether anybody will actually buy this one. It's a bit out there. My test audience of four gave three guffaws and one "Huh?" But I see this as half the fun of blogging: You get to subject a large number of unsuspecting people to the freakish ideas spinning around in your head. Come closer, my pretties. Closer. Closer.

Maybe it also reveals something about me that this is the third design featuring an object of worship.*

I have a knitting Buddha sketch kicking around, but don't hold your breath waiting for the "Mohammed Knits" mug. I don't need that kind of trouble.

Anyway, about Venus. She's only on a bag and a simple t-shirt right now, but if you'd like to buy her on another style of shirt or whatever, speak up. We aim to please.

What I Said

What I said to the sleazy guy was, "I'm not knitting for charity this week."

Mrs. Parker wept.

*No, not the ball of yarn. Well, not only the ball of yarn.

And the Sheep Goes to...

The decoration at left, which seemed appropriate for this festive entry, is the work of an accomplished Belgian vandal. I photographed it in Antwerp in the spring. It tells you something about how much there was to see and do in Antwerp that I stopped to photograph a drawing of men's underwear.*

Anyhow.

It seems that size does matter, at least to a large portion of those who read this blog.

Contest entries received: 55

Entries that included a joke about the sleazy man's endowment (or lack thereof): 22

You people, I swear.

Anyhow, it was tough to pick a favorite out of all the good stuff that came in. When more or less identical entries arrived, I decided to give priority to the earlier entry. Speed counts when you're cracking wise.

Before I get to the winner, we have some honorable mentions.

(Don't you go skipping right to the winner, either, or I shall be very cross. I'm watching you.)

Ickiest Mental Image: From Jack

"A jockstrap. Really? I would imagine you wearing a thong."

(Thanks, Jack. Only took me three hours to get that one out of my head.)

Best Slap with a Smile: From Sylvia in Texas

"What a simply charming idea! And then we can stuff it in your mouth!"

(Of course that's probably exactly the order of events the guy had in mind.)

Best Idea for a Future Issue of Knitter's: From Lucia

"Why, yes, and I'll throw in a matching gag."

(Somebody go call Lily Chin. We need this to be ready for the spring line-up.)

Best of the Size Jokes: From Gina (aka Ween)

"I don't have time to knit one of those for you at the moment, but I could whip out a cock ring. I'm sure you don't need a very big one."

(At last, we've found a logical use for stainless steel yarn.)

Take-No-Prisoners Award: From Carol S.

"Perhaps, sir, I should start with a knitted dick to put in it."

(Do not mess with Carol, kids. You will not win.)

And the winner, because it is pithy, it made me laugh out loud, and it would have made the target retreat into confused silence–which is exactly what I wanted:

"You look more like the poncho type to me."

Thanks to Sockbug. Sockbug, send me your address information via e-mail so I can ship you the sheep.

*Seriously, though, don't you love the exclamation point? It suggests that the artist was really excited about the subject matter. To write "SLIPPEN" would be merely to label the piece. To write "SLIPPEN!" is to convey to the viewer the joy of the creative process. Graffiti is so often banal in its pessimism. Here, the voice of hope cries out from the shingled wall. UNDERWEAR!

While You're Waiting

It's extremely pleasant to check the mail on a Monday morning and find it full of wisecracks in response to the contest. There aren't enough round tables at the Algonquin to accommodate your collective wit.

I'm closing the entries as of now, so I'll have time to review them all tonight and announce the winner tomorrow.

The prize, which was created specially over the weekend, is this little sketch.



I've put it into an 8x10 mat so it seems all arty and prize-like.

New Photo Portfolio

Over on my Web site, the "Architecture and Interiors" portfolio is almost complete. You are most cordially invited to view it while it's in progress. If my schedule works out, the beginnings of the "Children" portfolio will also show up in the next day or so.

And I've got another design for the shop about 80% of the way to complete, too. It's another knitting perversion of a cherished work of art.

The Dreadful Correspondent

I owe about 2,000 of you a response of some kind. I dearly wish that Blogger, which otherwise serves me well (and, might I add, gratis) made it easier to shoot back an e-mail to comments that indicate a response is required, but it doesn't.

My feeble excuse is that a sudden surge in readership, combined with the double whammy of sickness and overtime, has caught me quite unexpectedly. And I'm not the most organized person at the best of times (ask my parents). I'll be devoting several hours this week to catching up, so if you are expecting to hear from me and haven't, I beg your indulgence.

Especially from the darling lady from Mary Thomas's hometown who wrote me such a beautiful and informative letter about my heroine that I printed it out and saved it to read while soaking in a hot bath. It was that good.

And before I forget, reader Jen made a cute "Panopticon" button, which she has displayed on her blog. I'm not one for using graphic buttons as links, but she did a nice job and I give the design my blessing should you care to steal it from her. Just no stealing her bandwidth, okay?

Doodles from the Edge of Sanity

Such a week. We're in crunch mode. I have seen four of my coworkers cry in the past five days. (And I don't mean tear up. I mean sob.)

I am sick, I am not able to stay home and get well, and I am at the end of my patience.

None of this matters right now, though, because I have a whole half-hour for what ought to be lunch and I am going to spend it writing, instead. (Of course, the half-hour could be nullified with a single phone call from the boss, so I'd better write quickly.)

The Contest

I'm keeping the contest open through the weekend and will announce a winner on Tuesday. Entries have been coming in at a quick clip, and I've been laughing a lot when I check the mail. I need the laughs this week, so thank you all more than you can imagine.

The prize, which I hope the winner will feel is actually a prize, will be an original drawing, newly created for the contest. (What did you think I was going to give away? A poncho?)

Meanwhile

To keep sane (and also because it suddenly seems to be a part-time job) I've been drawing every night. I should be working on photographs, but I'm not set up to deal with Photoshop while lying in bed.

Most of what goes into my sketchbook doesn't show up on a shirt or even in the blog. It's really just doodling, although doodling in this case serves two purposes:

1. It increases the fluidity and facility with which I draw, much as daily weight workouts give a bodybuilder the ability to lift more weight with greater ease. Unfortunately, drawing does nothing for the abs, or I could give this Web design s--t up and do porn for a living.
   
   
2. It pulls new ideas out of what I will, for lack of a less pretentious term, call my subconscious. Half the time when the pen hits the paper, I don't really know what I'm going to draw. I just start making lines. And sometimes when I'm done I'm surprised by what's there. Sometimes it's good, and may turn into a finished cartoon. Sometimes, on the other hand, I consider running the paper through the shredder. Twice.

At random, here are a few snips from the sketchbook.



I have no idea where she came from. I thought I was drawing a sheep.



Judging from the date elsewhere on the page, I'd just sat through an interminable conference call at the end of which the only decision made was to schedule another meeting. I was clearly longing for greener pastures.


Before I really got to know a lot of knitters, I would have thought this to be an absurd idea. Now, I'm not so sure. There are probably four or five women reading my blog who have actually done this.



In case you can't read my scribble (I was on the subway) the caption reads, "little [sic] Intarsia's mother loved to knit." Weird. But maybe she could become the heroine of a series of children's books. Little Intarsia Goes to Rhinebeck. Little Intarsia's Very Special Christmas Sweater. Little Intarsia Meets Nancy Bush. Little Intarsia and the Case of the Wacky Ball-Winder.

She'd have to have spunk, like Eloise. An attitude. No way I'm drawing a whiny little twit like Caillou, or that namby-pamby Linnea who keeps mucking about in Monet's garden.

Oh God, I'm so crabby today. Sorry, folks. Nothing a weekend cuddling with C won't fix.

See you Monday. Kisses.

For Posterity's Sake

Grandpa Franklin, do you remember the night the White Sox won the World Series?

Why, yes I do, Timmy. I remember it as though it were only yesterday.

Grandpa had been sick for several days but still had to work long hours at the office, so he was feeling pretty beat that night and tried to go to sleep early. He had just managed (after tossing and turning and coughing and hacking) to doze off, when the game ended.

Everybody in Chicago was filled with great joy. Everybody except Grandpa. You see, way back in first grade Tabitha Jenkins had hit Grandpa on the side of the head with a plastic shovel and knocked his "Appreciation of Sports" lobe out his left ear and into the sandbox. They never did find it.

So Grandpa, who usually is a pretty broad-minded guy, has ever since regarded a love of spectator sports as a pernicious illness that can infect even a stalwart intellectual like that nice Doris Kearns Goodwin. Doris is one smart cookie, but mention baseball in front of the woman and her brain turns to tapioca.

Anyhow, Grandpa didn't give a fig about the World Series and just tried to ignore it, but when the Sox made the final touchdown or whatever, every person in Chicago who owned a car decided the best way to celebrate was to head for Lake Shore Drive, which ran right by Grandpa's bedroom window.

For three, maybe four hours, the car-owning citizens of Chicago drove up and down the Drive, hooting their horns and screaming at the top of their beer-soaked lungs. Grandpa, who had to report to the office at 7 a.m. the next morning, could not sleep worth a damn.

So finally he arose from his bed and went over to the window. Out on the street, people were smiling and laughing and dancing and hooting their horns. You could feel the waves of love rising all the way to the fifteenth floor.

Grandpa looked out over all this, and then, drawing on super powers that had hitherto been completely unknown even to himself, shot a pair of powerful death rays from his eyes and reduced the entire teeming throng to a smoking, ruined pile of guts and car parts.

Then he went back to bed and got a whopping full hour of sleep before the alarm went off.

And that's how Grandpa Franklin celebrated the effing White Sox winning the effing World Series.

Now get the hell off my knee before I turn the death rays on you.

A Guide for New Arrivals in Boystown

Specifically, the growing numbers of yuppie families who are moving into Boystown from Lincoln Park or the suburbs.

More specifically, the mother who picked up her five-year-old daughter and carried her to the other side of the street when she saw me coming.

What You Thought You Saw



What You Actually Saw



If you move to the city with your children in order to expose them to the full range of human experience, do please remember the full range of human experience encompasses a broader spectrum than that found in an episode of "Friends."

And if you can't handle the likes of me, honey, just wait until Halloween.

Conversational Non Sequiturs of Urban Life

While my personal bundle of glee was away making whoopee with his fellow Prince fanatics in Minneapolis, I was left alone in the Wicked City with a veritable Roman orgy of temptations right outside the door.

I chose mostly to knit and to draw.

I'll pause for a moment so that you can get over your shock.

On Sunday I decided to head out to a local coffee shop to work on the edging of the lace sampler stole. Don't ask me to justify this impulse towards coffee shop knitting, when I could perfectly well knit at home where the chocolate milk is cheaper and baby strollers are verboten. Must be a city boy thing. I like to people-watch. As repellent as I usually find the public en masse, individually it's often fun to spy on them over the top of whatever I'm knitting.

I decided last week that the lace sampler stole was officially long enough (translation: I'm sick of it) and that it was time to try my first knitted-on edging. After a brief flirtation with Alpine II from Heirloom Knitting, I ripped back and switched to Doris.

As all of you know who don't knit only in the living room with the shades pulled down, doing your thing in public not infrequently leads to questions. So I wasn't alarmed when the distinguished older (mid-70s, I would guess) gentleman in the tweed jacket leaned over and asked, "Is that knitting?"

I won't record the bulk of the ensuing dialogue because you can already guess most of it.

Yes it is. What are you making. Lace sampler. Hard to do. Sort of tricky but not really hard once you get used to it oh I would never have the patience believe it or not it's relaxing once you get used to it my aunt wilma used to make crochet doilies oh did she really yes but I never learned how but I always was curious. Etcetera.

Quite a lot of etceteras, in this case.

I started to suspect something odd was afoot when we'd reached the third or fourth logical point in the conversation at which I could have gracefully gone back to my knitting (which was literally about to turn a corner - most exciting) and he to his newspaper. But he didn't make a move to excuse himself. So, at last, I did. And he ignored it.

"I have many friends who quilt," he said.

"Ah," I said, pointedly consulting my chart.

"I think it must be wonderful to be able to make beautiful things," he said.

"I quite enjoy it," I said, trying to knit in such a way as to communicate the message, "You need to shut up now, please."

"Do you know what I enjoy?" he asked.

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me," I said.

He did. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a husky, coffee-scented whisper.

"Jock straps," he said. "I was just across the street at that adult store and wow...they sure have lots of jock straps. Maybe you could knit me a jock strap."

First Panopticon Blog Contest Ever

I wish, my dears, that I could tell you a clever rejoinder (instead of the cookie I had just eaten) leapt to my lips. But it didn't.

Rather than tell you what I said, I want you to fill in the blank.

Pretend, for a moment, that you're me.*

What should I have responded?

Don't put your entry in the comments. Send your entry to: franklin at franklinhabit daht cahm.

In a couple of days I'll post the winner. Not sure what the prize is yet. It won't be a knitted jock strap.

*Just for a moment. Any longer, and you risk permanent injury.

Do It Yourself

I work in a big old house, now university property, that sits on the edge of a wealthy neighborhood full of Motivated Modern Parents. You know the sort I mean. The ones who played Mozart in utero to Little Caitlyn when it was suggested that this would increase her chances of one day becoming an investment banker with a house and four waterfront acres in one of the better Hamptons.

It was in college that I first encountered this such parents, buying the kiddies coloring books with whimsical titles like Medieval Women Composers. Inside, presumably to instill a dedication to historical accuracy, were instructions like, "Color Hildegard von Bingen's wimple gunmetal."

Instructions. In a coloring book.

Of course, it's easy for me to tease because I don't have children and it seems unlikely, though not impossible, that I ever will. If the stork dropped a squalling bundle on my lap, I'd probably buy the kid a mobile that played selections from Pagliacci, and I am quite certain that by age four it would be sitting on a cushion working an alphabet sampler.

Thing is, though, you never know what's going to stick in a child's head and what isn't. You can spend thousands on tutoring and piano lessons and Baby Einstein books and still wind up with a dolt. Or, you can spend a dollar and twenty-five cents on a paperback book and rewire your son's brain.

I started mulling this over this week after digging into the "Print o' the Wave" pattern in Heirloom Knitting.

I've been working on what you might politely call a lace sampler (if you're impolite, it's a pointless and weird-looking swatch) for about the past two months. It's nothing but a ten-inch strip knitted from what was supposed to be sock yarn, but turned out after purchase to be rather too itchy for my sensitive, princess-like feet. I wanted to try out all the stitch patterns from my Stitches Midwest classes in Orenburg and Estonian lace.

It has been fun, and great practice, but it was only this week as I worked my first Shetland pattern that I got that feeling of "Wow. This is beautiful. And I made it!" If there is a better feeling in the world that you can talk about in front of your mother, I don't know it.

This spring when I was in Belgium (oh, I get around) we sailed into Antwerp and all 70 of the old ladies I was shepherding about ran berzerk in the lace shops. The Belgians are no dummies (no matter what the Dutch say) and they know what tourists want. Every other storefront in the cathedral square sells lace (and the ones in between those sell chocolate).

I looked, and it was beautiful stuff. Frightfully complicated to make, or so it seemed from watching this woman at work.

For heaven's sake, look at all those bobbins and pins. Her fingers were flying around like Horowitz's at the climax of a molto allegro movement. Yet if she ever made a mistake or even hesitated, I never saw it.

Anyhow, while the ladies on the trip were whipping out credit cards and buying enough tablecloths, placemats, tray covers, and shawls to smother the west front of the cathedral (hey Christo...you reading this?) I quickly realized the only thing I could afford would be a machine-made bookmark.

I was already knitting steadily at that time, and I think it was then that I resolved to try knitting lace.

My whole life, this has been a primal impulse for me. I see somebody making something beautiful, and I feel compelled to try doing it myself. Unlike most of my primal impulses, which remain mysterious in spite of the best efforts of well-paid therapists, I know where this one comes from. In fact, I can pinpoint the moment it was born.

One year during the Christmas season, my parents picked up a book at the supermarket that was an inexpensive holiday mish-mash for tiny tots. I don't think they make this sort of thing any more, because it wasn't tied to a breakfast cereal, a Nickelodeon show, or a Disney film. It was just stories, carols, and bits of dubious history and culture with lots and lots of color illustrations.

If I read it today, I suspect the treacle-sweet fiction would make my teeth curl. But when I was five, it was hot stuff. I loved that book so much I took it to bed with me like a teddy bear. There was one story in particular that I read over and over.

In retelling, it's like a Very Special Episode of "The Waltons" with shades of "Little House on the Prairie." The setting was a small town during the Great Depression, and the protagonist was a girl from a large family who had been asked by her parents to do without Christmas presents that year because they simply had no money for them.

The heroine was terrified that this would publicly humiliate her in front of her arch-rival, a Nellie Olsen type who (I remember this so well) had a fur-trimmed coat. (Her parents must have owned the local meth lab.)

Because you see, the entire town had a Christmas assembly at which carols would be sung and speeches made and then, as the finale, presents for the children would be distributed from the big town Christmas tree. The little girl could not face sitting there, getting nothing, while Rich Girl made a big show out of her new pony or a personal bodyguard or whatever Depression-era kids would have considered the equivalent of a custom iPod.

Now, the little girl (are you all enjoying this as much as I am?) came from a poor family but had a practical mother, and had learned how to sew. So she made herself a doll out of scraps of cloth and old buttons and chicken bones and whatnot, and she planned to sneak it onto the Christmas tree with her name on it.

But on the big night (please get out your handkerchiefs) as everybody was filing into the town hall, she saw a Desperately Poor family arriving. If I remember rightly, their tiny daughter didn't even have shoes. So the heroine, at the last minute, scratched out her own name on the doll's gift-tag and wrote in Shoeless Girl's name instead.

Excuse me, please. I need to go have a moment.

Okay, I'm back.

Before the story faded out to swelling violins there was a passage that struck me so hard that it is imprinted on my brain forever, along with the theme song from "The Facts of Life" and my social security number.

The presents had all been given out and the heroine was watching everyone leave. Shoeless Girl was clutching her new doll and smiling, and Rich Girl was leaving with her new pet ocelot on a leash or whatever and pouting, and the heroine realized - let me see if I truly have this by heart...

"She realized that Lydia would only ever have presents, while she would always be able to make things more wonderful than any that came from a store."

Yeah. I know. It makes Louisa May Alcott sound like Dorothy Parker. But it made me think. And I was five.

I come from a family of do-it-yourself people. We weren't poor, but we had the usual working-class limits on our income. My parents dealt with this by being creative and resourceful.

My father could build and wire anything we needed or wanted, from furniture to an extra room. My mother could upholster furniture, and sewed us practical things, like school clothes and curtains; and less practical (but even more wonderful) things like matching Christmas pajamas for the whole family, not to mention the best damned Halloween costumes in three counties.

I'm doubt they meant to send a message by doing all of this, but they did. You want something? See if you can make it yourself. Because if you make it, you own it. If you make it, you can make sure it's good or better than what can be bought. If you make it, you are that much less reliant on others. If you make it, you can be proud of yourself for making it.

As I said, I don't know anything about parenting. But I wonder if the parents in the mansion across the street from my office–who send their four-year-old son to tennis lessons in a limousine–would be surprised at how much you can accomplish with a $1.25 book of stories and a good example.

And How's This for Timing?

Yesterday I got a call from a coworker who was very puzzled about a box that arrived on her desk. The university's mail service had mangled it on receipt and partially removed the label, so they weren't sure to whom in the building it should go. They sat on it for what must have been two weeks before calling our receptionist to see if she could identify the recipient. They opened it, examined the contents and said it was probably for "some woman" who works with her.

They brought the box over. She looked into it and immediately phoned me. "Did you order some yarn from Canada?"

Well, not exactly. Awhile back, I got a very nice letter from a blog reader who had some non-knitting-related questions. It was a pleasure to answer them, and not at all difficult, but he said he wanted to send me a little something in thanks.

And what he sent was this.



It's merino. It's hand-painted. It's lace weight. And he spun it himself.

It's completely gorgeous. I've never had anything hand-spun to work with before. This is so even and fine I almost can't believe it was done by hand. I have no idea what it's going be yet, but I can tell you it's going to be carefully thought-out and it's going to be special.

Ted, my dear fellow, there aren't words. Well, there are two: thank you.

Busy, Busy, Busy

It occurs to me that it has been a long time since this blog saw what I would consider to be a nice, solid, sustained piece of writing. I hate that.

But you're going to have to wait a little longer before you see another one, because there's so much going on I fear today's entry is going to be a potpourri of odd twigs and bits of moss I've collected from all over and feel I must display.

(That's a very inept metaphor. Maybe I should take a few minutes and make it better. No, no time. No time. Must keep moving.)

Rhinebeck Concluded

The sun that came out during the second hour or so at the Dutchess County Fairgrounds hung around. I got up early on Sunday morning to take advantage of the morning light and shot a bunch of stuff that I'll post in another entry.

One of my favorite shots from the whole trip, though, is this one. Joe and Thaddeus had me over to their place for lunch before taking me to the airport, and I enjoyed playing with my drop spindle while Joe got down to it with the new Robin wheel.

If I were That Sort of Photographer, I would call this one "Contentment."



I got to check out Joe's stash. (Wow.) And his finished sweaters, the pile of which is taller than I am.

And we discovered a mutual passion for peanut butter. This leads me to suspect that perhaps we were separated at birth. You must admit the physical resemblance is uncanny.

What can I tell you? The guy has it goin' on.

New in the Shop

At one point when I was working the letters on the Seneca sweater I had a different color yarn in each hand and had finally achieved a pretty steady rhythm. So I was chugging along the row and then, wham–powerful thirst. I had a glass of milk right next to me on the work table, but I hated to drop the yarn to pick it up.

And then it hit me.


Even the Hindu mother goddess of time and transformation needs to chill out occasionally.

Right now, Kali is available on women's clothes. [Addendum: She's on a knitting bag now, too. I can take a hint.] I'm going to see about putting her on other stuff, but unfortunately the amount of detail in the drawing doesn't translate well to really small (i.e. coffee mug) size. I'll see what I can do.

MenKnit Magazine

Thanks to the passion and hardwork of Dan Vera and Tricky Tricot, the first knitting magazine specifically for knitters with that little (not too little, one hopes) something extra is now available online. You can get it here.

This is shameless plug, of course, because I wrote one of the articles and I didn't do it for my health, you know. Go read it. In addition to my drivel there's actual useful content - some cute patterns.

Actually, people must be reading the magazine because I've already had three pieces of hate mail for choosing Debbie Stoller's Stitch 'n' Bitch as my favorite book for brand-new knitters who wish to be self-taught.

Tough cookies. I only wrote about books that I have personally worked with and found to be effective. Yes, I know (in fact, I stated in the article) that Debbie's book addresses female knitters specifically and almost exclusively. Well, darlings, the woman publishes her own magazine for women and she knows her audience, and she produced the kind of book that she knew they would take to. I don't call that sexism, I call that good business sense.

Besides, she's thereby left the field clear for me to be at least part of the driving force behind a good, solid men's guide to knitting. Nobody else seems to be hurrying to plant a flag on that particular Everest. Why not me?

If you're reading this and you're an editor, let's talk.

Scenes from Rhinebeck V: The Big Day

In Which I Am Surrounded by Knitters and Yarn and Surrender Unconditonally

Joe and Thaddeus not only treated me to a lovely dinner on my first night, but also graciously included in the party two dear friends who live in Philadelphia. (And who drove an hour and a half through incredible muck and traffic just to see me for two hours...go figure.)

Then I went up to my room and laid down on the lacy sheets under the lacy canopy, feeling like myself at six years old, waiting for Christmas morning. I absolutely could not sleep.

It didn't help matters that in the room above me was a straight couple that had either just got married or just begun an extramarital affair. They went at it with the regularity of a cuckoo clock and the volume of Aerosmith in concert. (By the way, dude - she was totally faking it.)

As I stared at the vibrating ceiling a million thoughts raced through my head, chief among them: Would they like me? Or would Carol S. make good on her threat to lose me at the Weavettes booth?

The flying Wallendas continued their rehearsal above, but somewhere around midnight I drifted off. When I woke up, it was six and time to make myself pretty, or as close as I can get.

I put on the Seneca sweater. This would be its maiden voyage. I hoped it wouldn't unravel or rip or otherwise go to pieces. Of course, if it did, I'd be surrounded by several thousand people who could help to fix it.

Joe and I had planned to set off at 8 a.m. and true to his word, we left on the dot. Another reason to like Joe: he's punctual. A gay man who doesn't run on Gay Time (anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour behind the rest of humanity) is a rare and wondrous thing.

The drive to Rhinebeck was about two hours, which put us at the gates around 10 a.m. It was still raining, but our spirits were anything but damp. The first person we spotted was Marilyn, waiting somewhat forlornly in the drizzle. She perked up at the sight of us and we three went in together.

I realized with a start that here I was, walking into a fiber festival with the authors of two of the three blogs that encouraged me to start blogging.

Even sopping wet, the grounds at Rhinebeck were lovely. The main part of it sits on top of a gentle hill, and there is quite a bit of pretty landscaping–big old trees, flowerbeds, and such. A nice change from the county fairgrounds of my youth which never seemed to be much more than mud flats surrounded by chain-link fence.

We hadn't gone far at all when we were pounced on by Kathy and Selma. Think they're funny online? Hah. Try meeting them in person. They could make a guy reconsider his orientation. There was much hugging, and then a beeline for the first vendor barn.

I've just realized I don't have a picture of the first stuff I bought, but you can see it on Joe's blog in the very first picture. In fact, the first colorway on the left is the very one I picked for myself. It's a silk/wool blend from a place in Texas called Brooks Farms.

I love this stuff - the colors are gorgeous, and it's so soft that I can use it to make a hat for myself that won't have to be lined. Bless you, ladies of Brooks Farms, for making a bald knitter happy.

As we left the first barn, miracle of miracles, the sun came out. This part of the country hadn't seen sun for about nine days, so you could literally hear gasps of relief all over the place.

Time for the first picture of the day:


Left to right:With Joe, Selma, and Marilyn. I'm the one in the dead language.

And the second:


Selma and Joe

To walk around Rhinebeck with these folks was to be in very heady company. We couldn't go ten steps without a blog reader recognizing Marilyn or Joe; and Selma, who is an NPR host in upstate New York, was even recognized by her voice.

This barn was also where I ran into the first person who recognized me: Juno. Juno is jolly nice and also staggeringly tall. If I'm Captain Shortguy, she's Lady Longlegs.

Not long after our group was completed by the arrival of Carol S. and Lisa, both of whom I fell in love with at first sight.

And then it all begins to blur.

Evidently I did keep taking pictures, albeit sporadically:


Kathy and Selma with Marilyn's beautiful "Field of Flowers" shawl


Lisa and the shawl


Sheep of some sort in the shearing tent

Other golden moments have stuck in my mind:

• Realizing that what we all thought was the "macarena" being played over the loudspeakers in an endless loop was actually the auctioneer in the livestock barn;
  
  
• Carol S. spotting a copy of Heirloom Knitting (the holy grail of my Rhinebeck shopping list) through the crowds at the Susan's Fiber Shop booth.
  
  
• Singing along to the hurdy-gurdy with Selma (the Brindisi from La Traviata)

I was already on cloud nine when I was suddenly joined by:



Rachel (aka the Village Knittiot), and her husband Corvus (aka Mr Knittiot). Now, I have been an unashamed fan of these two almost since I began blogging, and had been looking forward to meeting both of them. And how to do they turn out to be in person? Warm. Funny. Exciting. And did I mention generous?

Suddenly, Rachel pulls out the following and presents it to me:



My own drop spindle. And splendid blue merino to spin.

I was speechless and got very choked up. I'm choking up again now just looking at the picture (and not because of my lousy spinning).

Once I got my voice back and gasped out a bit of thanks, I asked Joe to help get me started. I'm far from there yet, but I'm going to figure it out. (The white is some practice romney that Joe sweetly put into my hands to prevent my mucking up the merino straightaway.)

During a quick outdoor lunch of apple pie, so many of you came by to say hello and let me tell you, it made my day. It was a pleasure to meet every one of you, and my joy in knowing that the stuff I write here amuses you is without bounds.

Last but certainly not least, on this day an announcement was made to the group: Marilyn is writing a book. And she asked me to illustrate it. And of course, I said yes. How could I not? I can hardly wait to begin.

Now, all this excitement pales (if you ask Joe, anyhow) to the moment Joe got his wheel. He wasn't expecting it for another six months, you see, and so when he walked over to Robin Spinning Wheels booth and was informed that the lovely display model was actually his...well, let's just say I was all the way on the other side of the friggin' barn and I could hear the commotion.

I was happy to record the glorious event for posterity:


Joe with Gilbert, the nice fellow from Robin who gave him the happy news


New best friends

We kept up the festivites with dinner in Rhinebeck afterwards (I ate my own weight in perfectly made french fries). I hated to say goodbye to everybody. Outside I was (I hope) poised and collected, but inside I was screaming "Wait! Wait! We just got here! It can't be over already!"

As she was leaving, Kathy told me it was an honor to know me. Such a compliment coming from such a woman. Back at ya, my dear. And that goes for all of you.

Then we drove back to New Hope. As you might imagine, Joe and I were both completely wired–he because of his new wheel and I because of, well, everything.

When I got back to my room at the Fox and Hound, the upstairs couple was in full gallop. I toasted them with a glass of seltzer, opened up my new copy of Heirloom Knitting and promptly passed out cold with my nose between the patterns for Alpine Edgings I and II.

Scenes from Rhinebeck IV: Meeting Joe and Thaddeus

In Which I Get Picked Up By a Hot Gay Couple

Having now reached my thirties, I've made peace with the fact that while God gave me the ability to remember easily (for example) the names of Renaissance artists and Victorian methods of controlling household dust, he neglected to flip the "on" switch in the part of my brain that stores simple facts like travel plans and phone numbers.

Perhaps Joe sensed this, as he thoughtfully planned my trip in such a way that I was transferred from hither to yon with as little room for error as possible. It made the whole process unusually comfortable.

Following my instructions, I left the gate and headed for baggage claim. And sure enough, I heard someone call out, "Franklin!" and there was the remarkably handsome Thaddeus, waiting for me. He spotted me instantly in a room full of suitcases piled higher than my head. The man must have eagle eyes.

Joe was waiting right outside with the car and his camera. I barely had time to say "Hello!" and think "Wow...even cuter than the pictures," when–click!– I was blogged. I think as the flash went off I was saying, "Bitch, don't you dare," or words to that effect.

It's about an hour's drive from Philadelphia to New Hope, so Joe had plenty of time to fill me in on the personal idiosyncracies of the knitters I'd be meeting at Rhinebeck. It was quite a lot to absorb, but thanks to the driver-controlled locks on the car doors I was still in my seat when we arrived at the guest house.

This is where I stayed. It's called the Fox and Hound and I loved it.



Cute, eh? Oh, just wait until you see the inside. When the nice innkeeper showed me to my room (named "Captain Reeder"–on the second floor in that bay window) I almost plotzed.

The lace stole immediately made itself comfortable on the bed, and had a chat with the canopy (which turned out to be some sort of distant cousin, wouldn't you know).



I also had a pretty sitting area right in the bay window. Note the crocheted bureau scarf.



When I was a kid, this is exactly the sort of bedroom I dreamed about. And here I was, finally getting it for two whole nights.

I may have done a little dance. I'm not telling.

Scenes from Rhinebeck III: In-Flight Stitch 'n' Bitch

In Which a Fellow Knitter Saves Me from a Complete Meltdown

So, we pushed back from the gate twenty minutes late and then sat on the runway for another twenty. As we sat on the tarmac, I dug into the Orenburg "cat's paw" pattern.

There was the usual buzz of conversation around me. Bzzz bzzz bzzz delayed again bzzzz bzzzz miss my connection bzzzz bzzzzzzzz grandchildren in Florida bzzzzz bzzzzzzzzz bzzzz yarn bzzzz bzzzz...

Yarn?

I was seated on the aisle, in the second-to-last row of the plane. Turning around, I saw behind me the tell-tale tote bag with a strand of blue bulky snaking out the top. Upon further investigation, I found that one of the flight attendants was passing the time by knitting an afghan.

It was a pretty big afghan, a Christmas present for her daughter, which she told me she works on during odd moments in her day. All garter stitch, her first piece, and very nicely done. Good straight edges. She seemed to enjoy having another knitter pet and admire it. She asked about the lace stole, so I showed her the patterns and told her it's not nearly so complicated as it looks.

We chatted for a good ten minutes about knitting stuff and then the captain announced it was time for take-off. Oh boy! Off to Philadelphia!

* * * * *

Flash forward about an hour and a half. We're approaching Philadelphia and the plane is bucking and rearing like a bull at a Texas rodeo. Me, I would rather be sitting on the bull. Instead, I am clutching the tray table and waiting for the moment, surely imminent, when the plane will fall out of the sky.

(I see the funeral in breathtaking Cinemascope. My pulverized remains are displayed in an extremely small urn, over which is draped the Seneca sweater. It has miraculously survived the crash. "He never even got to wear it," everyone is saying. The organist launches into "Aloha O'e" in a vain attempt to muffle the sobs.)

Meanwhile, the four-year-old in the next seat continues to hum "Jesus Loves Me" and color Barney the wrong shade of purple.

The Knitting Flight Attendant, passing by with empty drink cups, notices that I've got my eyes screwed shut and am breathing like a Soviet-made vacuum cleaner.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

"I don't really like flying," I say, perhaps setting a new record for understatement.

"Keep breathing," she says, "I'll right back."

And she does come back. She perches on the edge of a nearby, empty seat. "Show me your lace again," she says. "And tell me about the patterns."

I know what she's doing, but can't believe she is taking the time.

I pull out the stole and start from the bottom. "This is called 'Peacock'–it's Estonian, very easy to knit because it's symmetrical and has short repeats..."

By the time I get to the end of the stole, we are in our final approach and my stomach has left my shoes and returned to its accustomed location.

"You think you can make it the rest of the way?" she asks, kindly.

"I'm much better, thank you." I slip the stole back into my bag.

We land. No balls of fire. I am not pulverized.

And Ms. Flight Attendant, let me tell you something–I hope your daughter loves that afghan.

Scenes from Rhinebeck II: Airport Security

In Which I Nearly Moon O'Hare Terminal B

To get through airport security I always have to take off my boots, which have steel toes; and my belt, which has a large metal buckle. I was walking through the metal detector when I suddenly felt my new jeans slip downward alarmingly.

I hitched them up as best I could and hoped this time I might be spared a delay in getting through the line, but no: Arab men and pointy sticks are now considered a dangerous combination by the TSA. I was hauled aside as usual for the following dialogue:

Security Guy (indicating needles from which depend unfinished lace stole): Sir, can you tell me what this is?

Franklin (trying to look dignified while keeping up his jeans with one hand): Yes, that's knitting.

Security Guy: Knitting?

Franklin: Yes, I'm knitting a stole. It's lace.

Security Guy: You're knitting this yourself?

Franklin: Yes.

Security Guy: Can you demonstrate to me that you know how to knit with these items?

Franklin: Only if you let me have my belt back first.

Scenes from Rhinebeck: Apologia and Preface

Author's Apologia

Let's just get this out in the open right now and be done with it.

My photos of the New York Sheep and Wool Festival, known in the vernacular as Rhinebeck, are absolutely abysmal. I would like to blame the sheep, since they can't argue back, but I can only blame the photographer. My head was spinning around like Joe's new wheel (you'll see) the entire time, and it shows.

(I didn't even get a good picture of Carol S. And I really liked Carol S. So much that I can even forgive her for being so much funnier than I am. Carol, I'll make it up to you. Just don't open the file I'm sending at the office or in front of the kids.)

Preface

This is how I understand it all started.

Back in early summer, two knitters sat in a coffee shop in another state and for some reason– it must have been a slow news day–began to talk about me. They had never met me. They knew me only as chief cook and bottlewasher of this blog, and through comments on this blog and this blog.

These two knitters, Selma and Joe, decided it would be nice to meet me, and came up with a scheme to get me out to Rhinebeck on a sort of scholarship funded by blog readers.

When I learned of this idea I was stunned, flattered, and dubious. I have never been one to rely on the kindness of strangers, as in my life strangers have seldom been kind. Were they insane? Who the hell would give up stash money to import a knitter whose most complicated finished object was a pink bunny hat?

I was a total newbie then. I didn't fully comprehend the generosity of the knitting community.

Now I do.

I'll be posting the full story in little bits over the next two days.