Do Gay Martians Have the Right to Marry?

It’s unthinkable for an American male of my age to say this, but it’s true: I do not, as a rule, care for science fiction.

I learned years ago not to air this singular lapse at parties. People don’t take it well. They insist, horrified, that I cannot be serious, as though I’d confessed a fondness for kicking stray dogs or pushing old ladies into traffic.

“What about Star Wars,” they gasp. “Didn’t you love Star Wars as a child?”

I didn’t, because I never saw Star Wars as a child. I still haven’t seen it, though I was persuaded to watch the final installment on a big screen. For a few minutes, it turned me into the screaming, bouncy second-grader I never was. But the thrill faded quickly and I’ve never bothered to watch the rest.

My imagination, I’m afraid, simply doesn’t thrive on what’s to come. I prefer to wander in the past. Given the chance and a time machine, I’d be tickled to pieces to sail around the world third class on a 1920s Cunard liner. If you handed me a first-class ticket to Mars, however, I’d hand it right back. I don’t want to visit Mars, don’t want to wear a space suit, don’t want to play zero-gravity badminton with little green men from some nebulous nebula.

It’s difficult to voice any of this without being accused of snobbery. And that’s funny, because it’s perfectly acceptable in America to say, for example, “I hate opera.” I happen to love opera, and when someone tells me she hates it, I often ask which opera she went to hear. The answer is almost invariably, “Well, I’ve never actually been to the opera…” Which is what I've always thought snobbery was–assuming that something (or someone) is not worth your time without taking a closer look.

In my defense, although I escaped immersion in Star Wars I’ve still sampled enough other stuff from the genre to have formed what I think is an educated distaste. Some of it was moderately highbrow (2001: A Space Odyssey) and some of it low (the original Battlestar Galactica). None of it grabbed me.

So imagine my surprise when, after watching the trailer, I conceived an undeniable urge to see Star Trek at the theater.

Now, skipping Star Wars is a walk in the park compared to evading Star Trek. There’s been so much of it; our culture is marinated in it. And it began as television. We didn’t go to the movies much when I was a kid, but we sure as hell had a well-used television.

Yet I never watched it, in spite of fierce peer pressure. When my friends wanted to play Star Trek, they always had to tell me what to do. Otherwise I’d act wildly inappropriate and order Scotty to beam me to Paris. (Hey–they said the transporter could send you anywhere.)

I hadn’t the faintest idea why the new movie caught my attention; but when Tom said he’d like to see it, I agreed to go. By Sunday afternoon, I was munching candy and watching everybody fight the Romulans.

Needless to say a whole bunch of the film zoomed right over my head, you should pardon the expression. Still, I enjoyed it. About halfway through, I realized why.

First, I love period pieces, and this is a period piece. It’s set in the future, yes, but it’s the future as imagined in the 1960s, re-created at the top of the twenty-first century. The costumers were splendidly faithful to the ironed hair, jump suits and go-go boots¬–indeed, the attention to detail is worthy of Merchant-Ivory.

Second, it’s one of the best gay films I’ve ever seen. It’s gayer than Milk.

I’ve been hearing for years that Star Trek, unlike a lot of other space epics, used futuristic situations at metaphors for contemporary issues. And so it is with this movie, which I interpret as a roman a clef exploration of the twinks vs. bears conflict within the gay community.

No, seriously. It’s so obvious.

In case you’re not familiar with the differing camps, twinks are the sort of gay person familiar to television audiences: young, fair, slender, with a fondness for form-fitting clothing and hair products. Twinks have taken over all the best-friend roles that used to go to actresses like Eve Arden.

Here, from the box cover of a gay Art Film celebrating (ahem) the twink lifestyle, is a representative sample.



Bears, on the other hand, are seldom represented in gay media and certainly never show up in mainstream media. Bears tend to be older, rougher, hairier, and heavier, with a fondness for tattoos, stout boots, and other trappings of untamed masculinity. Bears don’t appear in straight television or film because straight male executives can’t handle the idea of gay men who could kick the crap out of them.

Here, from another box cover from a very different gay Art Film, is a group of bears.



In Star Trek, the twinks are all aboard the Enterprise, along with their signature companion: a sexy, sassy female best friend. They're all wearing the same labels. The ship is new and exclusive, with custom retro furniture and perfect lighting–the de rigueur elements of a twink nightclub.



They are fighting the bears–thinly disguised as the Romulans–led by a pugnacious leather daddy named Nero, who struts around brandishing his gigantic staff. Aside from a nasty case of cauliflower ear, Nero is a prime candidate to get his own calendar from Colt Studios.

Nero’s ship, the Narada, is black and spiky on the outside. Inside, it’s all shadowy corners and well-worn industrial fittings, with no women in sight–the spitting image of your typical corner leather bar.



Let’s do a side-by-side comparison, shall we?

Twinks and the crew of the Enterprise.





Bears and Nero the Romulan.





I rest my case, earthlings.

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.

Another Sneak Peek

Since you liked the top-secret prototype Ravelry remote, here's another sneak peek from TNNA.

I was sitting around with Clara Parkes and Cat Bordhi in the food court and we were talking about which "Sex in the City" character we most resemble (I'm totally Samantha, while we agreed that Clara is, like, so Charlotte except when she gets all Miranda) when this lady walked by with a big plate of soba noodles and Cat said, "I wonder how those would knit up?" and wandered away and while she was trying to persuade the lady that her lunch would make a kickin' pair of lacy socks, Clara and I accidentally rummaged around in her bag and found this.



And my dears, just wait until you see the centerfold.

Sports News

No, seriously.

I have word that it's not too late to get tickets to this year's Chicago edition of Stitch 'n' Pitch. That's a baseball game plus knitting. The "White Sox" will play the "Tigers" on Wednesday, August 6, at 7:15 pm.

You can get ticket forms at these places:

1. Arcadia Knitting (Chicago - North Side)*
   
2. Loopy Yarns (Chicago - Loop)
3. Three Bags Full Knitting Studio (Northbrook)
4. My Sister's Knits (Chicago - South Side)
5. Chix with Stix (Forest Park)
6. String Theory (Glen Ellyn)
7. Wool and Company (Geneva)
8. Windy City Knitting Guild*
   

Sources with an asterisk also have the form available online for download.

A portion of the proceeds from every ticket will go to the Night Ministry and the Helping Hands Foundation.

No, I won't be there. I'm afraid that living within screaming distance of Wrigley Field hasn't done much to alter the sense of helplessness and despair that overwhelms me when I contemplate spending a couple hours held captive in a stadium seat.

And while we're on the subject–this is a lifelong, very personal shortcoming. It has nothing to do with being gay. I wonder how long it'll take for that stereotype to die?

While hanging around with Tom I've undergone a crash course in baseball and football, because his best gay friends are all sports nuts–the scary kind who own season tickets and quote stats and wear weird necklaces made out of buckeyes. They've all made the effort to learn the difference between merino and cashmere, and have listened attentively to Knitting Camp stories, so I feel it's only polite to respond in kind.

There has been progress. A couple weeks ago at Crew I successfully deduced that:

1. the game on the screen was baseball and
2. the Cubs were "at bat," and
3. the guy holding the "bat" had just "struck out," and
4. this was not a nice thing for the Cubs.

It was akin to the scene in The Miracle Worker when Helen Keller finally makes the connection between water and W-A-T-E-R.

G-O-C-U-B-S-G-O.

Bad Dream

At my age I really need to stop snacking on peanut M & Ms immediately before I go to sleep.

Lately I've been mostly successful at stemming the craving, but last night I fell down hard in that aisle at Walgreen's where the Easter candy is on sale. At bedtime it was nibble, nibble in between browsing Heirloom Knitting for a new Big Lace Project.

So I had a nightmare. It's one I have quite a bit, about once a month.

I was back at my first (and worst) job ever, stocking shelves at a forlorn supermarket in a depressing corner of upstate New York. I was paid minimum wage, minus the usual taxes plus weekly union dues that were equal to about 50% of my take-home pay.

The official job responsibilities were what you'd expect. I lugged boxes to and fro. I wrangled shopping carts that were determined to escape from the parking lot. I cleaned up spills, wielded a price gun with little skill and less enthusiasm, and suffered the insults of a supervisor five years my senior who had been rejected by Harvard (which he knew I was getting ready to attend) and was not happy with his lot in life.

He liked to give me the heaviest lifting to do, particularly as I was the youngest and smallest of the stock boys. Sisyphean tasks were his forte:

Move these thirty ten-pound boxes from this side of the stock room to that side. No, you can't use a cart. Carry them. Shoot, you just finished moving the whole stack? I just realized they shouldn't have been moved. Put them all back where they were. And do it faster this time. I'll be watching the clock.

Annoying, but honestly no worse than stocking shelves. And it was good for my biceps.

The night supervisor, however, was a genuine sadist. He was a guy from my high school who'd been on two dates with one of my best friends, an enormously pretty girl named Candace. She'd apparently spent most of those two dates talking about what a sweetheart I was. Then she told him to get lost. He was therefore not inclined to look upon me kindly.

After his unfortunate affaire de coeur with the lovely Candace, alarming things began to happen on the shop floor. I'd be pushing a cart through the stock room and suddenly a full, heavy box of canned food would land with an explosive CRASH on the floor next to me. I'd look up, and he'd wave from the catwalk. "Oops!" he'd shout, grinning impishly. "Must've lost my grip!"

Six-foot stacks of boxes would topple as I passed. Full pallets would zoom down the aisle and knock me flat. I'd climb a ladder to reach a high shelf and find myself heading for the floor. "Wow," he'd say, smiling down at me, "You gotta be more careful about where you set up, slick."

I learned very early in childhood that it was no good appealing to authority about stuff like this. Rumors aside, I don't know what it's like to grow up as a little girl. But when you're a little boy, you discover fast that asking for help with bullies does no good. You get one of two stock responses:

1. You better learn to fight back.
2. If you're gonna act like a sissy, you deserve what you get.

Neither solves the problem, but such is the world's disgust with a male child who doesn't tend to brutality.

So I said nothing, and kept my eyes open for runaway cans.

And then–and here is the scene that replays in my dreams–there was a late shift when the box crusher jammed. The box crusher was a big, green cage into which empty cardboard boxes were heaped. When the cage was full, the contents were pressed into a compact bale by the machinery, then tied with wires and ejected for disposal.

There was a huge sign on the side of this thing indicating that nobody under 18 was even supposed to touch it. I was 16, but when I asked questions about the sign the day supervisor told me to shut up and do what I was told. I became fairly proficient with loading, crushing, and bailing. It wasn't especially scary or difficult. If I pretended my boss was inside, it was fun.

But the night it jammed, the late shift supervisor ordered me to crawl inside and fix it. I was, he pointed out, the only guy in the building small enough to fit through the opening. And once I'd cleared the jam, I'd have almost ten seconds for him to pull me out before I'd wind up as Flat Stanley.

I told him to forget it. He persisted. He called over the other members of the night crew, none of whom were terribly fond of me, and they insisted I was being a faggot and a sissy.

"Get the fuck in there," said the supervisor, "or I'll fire your faggot ass on the spot."

I'm sitting here typing this, so I don't need to tell you I ultimately did not wind up in the crusher. But it took everything I had to stand my ground and say no. He told me I was fired, and I waited out the remaining hours of my shift in the parking lot. The next day, I swallowed my pride and appealed to the store manager, who was appalled by the whole thing and reprimanded the night supervisor, though he didn't actually fire him.

Of course, that just increased the rate of falling boxes, but I managed to survive the rest of the summer with only minor bruises and a whopping $250 in my bank account.

The nightmare is very weird in that I always get stuck in a sort of loop where my moment of indecision plays and replays. I stand there in my ugly apron as ten guys call me a stupid sissy faggot and try to get me to climb into that crusher. And in that moment, I honestly don't know what to do.

Happy First Day of Spring!

I Can Knit a Rainbow

So I'm getting ready for the Brandon Mably color workshop today, and we've been told to bring along twenty different colors of worsted or DK yarn, excluding white.

I've raided my stash and come up with nineteen odd balls that I'm willing to sacrifice, which we'll call close enough. However, here's the color breakdown:

• Muted and/or heathery greens: 5
• Greys and black: 3
• Brown/beige/taupe: 3
• Earthy reds: 4
• Dark blues: 3
• Orange, burnt: 1

I may need this workshop even more than I thought.

What Boys Like

Back in the spring of 2005, when this blog had only been around for about a month, I wrote a screedish little entry about how my search for a men's sweater pattern had turned up miles of Aran cables and acres of Fair Isle, but nothing I felt would suit a fellow in my particular (urban, gay, young[ish]) circumstances.

"The knitting fad," I huffed, "has brought out shelves full of pattern books for the young urban female knitter. So how much longer do the guys have to wait, dammit?"

I think the wait is over.

I've just spent a pleasant couple of hours sitting with Kristin Spurkland's The Knitting Man(ual), a copy of which was sent to me for review by the publisher, Ten Speed Press. This is the book I had in mind when I wrote that early complaint; and a solid piece of work it is, too.

In putting her book together, Spurkland and her publishers have taken obvious care to appeal to a male audience without condescension. The look is sharp and decidedly masculine, with clean typography and subtle blocks of color. Refreshingly, however, there is no reliance on cheap macho stereotypes: no army camouflage, no grunge typefaces, no evocation of the car repair manual aesthetic. The handsome photography by John Valls, which includes a wide range of races, ages, and body shapes, is beautifully executed and shows off the projects to perfection.

And the projects themselves (there are twenty-two) are on the whole a well-edited and attractive lot. The first is a ribbed and cabled throw; the others are all for garments, including hats, gloves, mittens, socks, and several sweaters. All have their good points and some are perfectly delicious. Only two (house slippers with weird toes and a schlubby color block scarf) miss the mark entirely. Paging through the rest afforded me the pleasure, never before enjoyed, of finding in one volume six different projects I'd like to knit for myself. The previous record, in case you're wondering, was two.

For true beginners, there's the usual introductory section of techniques–illustrated with photographs of male hands. This would be a perfect gift for a guy newbie, as the projects range from very simple to moderately complex. I could well imagine it providing impetus enough to keep his needles clicking until he's past the Point of No Return.

The only thing not here that I'd like to see is some discussion of male fitting issues. And yes, ladies, male fitting issues do exist. Not all shoulders are created equal, to say nothing of chests and stomachs. Perhaps in volume two? (Hint, hint.)

In 2005, knitting books occupied about six inches of space on my bookshelves; now they take up five feet or more. I own more than enough books on knitting technique, design, and history. My need for The Knitting Man(ual) is perhaps not so vital as it once was, but I'm still awfully happy to find it at last.

Renovations Continue

Thanks for the positive feedback on the recent design changes. I'm still working on them, so certain features (like my blogroll) aren't in place yet. All in good time.

Drag

I need to decompress, darlings, so let's chat about something entirely frivolous and off-the-wall today. I spin my mental Wheel of Fortune, and it lands on...drag.

One of the gay stereotypes that absolutely refuses to die is that we all like to wear women's clothes, or that we all have a sexual attraction to men who wear women's clothes. Going about thus attired is commonly known as "doing drag." Those who cross-dress are known as "drag queens."



While it is true that drag is an old and established part of the gay scene, wearing dresses is no more a universal practice among gay men than the taking of Roman Catholic Holy Communion is a universal practice among Christians.

And oddly enough, all of the men I've known who expressed a sexual fascination with cross-dressing were heterosexual. You think I'm kidding? Think again.

Mind you, I'm sure there are gay men who find a guy in a Jean Harlow wig a turn-on. I just haven't met any in the past 36 years.

My first encounters with drag queens took place when I was a mere stripling of 15, lying about my age to get into bars. (Sorry, Ma. They didn't have high school groups in those days. Unless you count Drama Club.) The very first was either Jerry or Charisse, depending upon the day. Jerry was an amiable fellow who wore bow ties. Charisse was a spangly, red-hot mama with an Anita Baker fixation who scared the living daylights out of me.

I've often wondered why. She never did or said anything threatening. In fact, she never spoke to me beyond a casual greeting. I think the fear must have arisen from my lack of experience with those who defy category. At that age, I needed other people to fit neatly into the little boxes stacked in my head. It was difficult enough not knowing what my place in the world was supposed to be.

These days I've relaxed sufficiently to appreciate people who wander hither and thither, obliterating the boundaries that separate male and female, gay and straight. If that sounds anarchistic and objectionable, try to see it from my side. When you're a member of a minority group so controversial that your fellow citizens consider your right to exist open to debate, you welcome almost anything that makes it more difficult to decide what exactly is "normal."

However, even though I've come to appreciate drag, I still don't enjoy it. Not on me, and not on others. I once got suckered into attending a performance at a local club called "Night of a Thousand Drag Queens." I made it to number 26, but my nerves were shot for the rest of the weekend.

And I'm no better about wearing women's clothing.

It has happened twice, both times on stage. First, I played Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest - a stunt that got me into hot water at my lousy high school. Our costumer was a stickler for period detail and I wore a corset, a fifty-pound brocade dress with underskirts, and a fifteen-pound hat with an entire stuffed bird on top. By the end of our two performances I had aches in my back and neck that lasted for two solid weeks.

Years later, with a company in Boston, I played a nun in John Guare's The House of Blue Leaves. I had to shave my tough beard every night just before the show in order to avoid five o' clock shadow, and my starched wimple chafed terribly.

Some men are just not strong enough to be women.

Given all that, I have had more than my share of drag names, all bestowed during the operatic phase of my young adulthood:

• Mademoiselle Folie de Grandeur
• Signorina Cavatina Caballetta ("Tina" for short)
  
• Dee Fledermaus

Those rarified jokes tell you something–make that everything–about my friends at the time. Most drag names are more democratic (one might say blue collar) in their appeal. Among my favorites:

• Dieta and Tulita Pepsi (a sister act from, I believe, St. Louis)
  
• Formica Dinette
• Regina Upright
• Frida Lay
  

If for some reason you'd like your own drag name but don't feel up to the task of invention, experts suggest combining the name of your first pet and the name of the first street you lived on* as a child. Mine, following this formula, would be Sandy Pittsburgh.

Dear God, can't you just imagine the wig that goes with that?

*If you lived on 14th Street, you can substitute your mother's maiden name. If you lived on 14th Street in New York City, it's entirely possible your mother was a drag queen.

Only Connect

I heard it said once that we are most emphatic about correcting those "faults" in others that we perceive in ourselves.

If the 1,000 Knitters project leads me repeatedly to harangue the participants about learning to love themselves, that's why. You're reading the words of a fellow who for ten years never once looked at himself in the mirror. I even learned to shave my face by feel. I can deal with mirrors now, but I still don't like them.

Needless to say, this (what to call it? fault? attitude? neurosis?) peculiarity is an impediment when it comes to the pursuit of anything approaching romance. Fine, I know I'm not the ugliest man in the world. I know that I even have a feature or two that might be considered choice. However, my reaction to any indication of interest from my fellow men is still unmasked suprise, followed immediately by incredulity.

It came as a complete shock, therefore, when a former colleague alerted me to a notice somebody had posted on Craigslist (with which I was only vaguely familiar) in "Missed Connections," a section in which the lovelorn (or lustful) take a shot at finding those they have noticed from afar but been unable to meet.

The writer, in this instance, was looking to speak to a short guy, with a shaved head and goatee, who knit most weekday mornings on the Red Line heading north out of the city. I had to admit that did sound rather familiar.

There has been no subsequent connection, but I found the "Missed Connections" concept so amusing that reading them has become a regular feature of my day. Most of the time they follow a predictible pattern:

1. Man sees other man in gymnasium / restaurant / elevator / steel mill.
2. Man senses that other man shares mutual interest.
   
3. For some reason (i.e., "I was with my wife") man cannot approach other man at that moment.
4. Man suggests that if other man recognizes himself from the description and is interested, he should get in touch.

Occasionally, though–and this is why I can't stop reading them–I am rewarded with a "Missed Connection" so delicious that I feel it should be collected in an anthology and set to music.

Here are a couple recent gems for your delectation. The titles and commentary are mine, of course.

Two Guys in a Nightclub

"Got the courage to talk to you just before I went home. You said your name was like the animal. I would like to see you again." (Giraffe, are you out there?)

Two Guys in Another Nightclub

"I wish I had given you my number. I'm the guy with similar hair." (Two guys with similar hair in a gay bar? What are the odds?)

Two Guys Eating Burritos

"You were having lunch at the Chipotle around 2 or 3pm maybe. You're pretty hot.
What's up?" (Well, that narrows it down, doesn't it?)

Two Guys, One of Them Clueless, On a Cruise Ship

"Patrick? Met you on a Carnival Cruise and haven't heard from you since -- what happened? I hope you see this..." (I bet I can guess what happened to Patrick.)

Two Guys and a Hard Disk

"You fixed my computer. Thank you." (Is this a euphemism? Or just a rather odd way to offer customer feedback?)

And I only read the "M4M" listings. I can't even imagine what must go on in the "M4W" and "W4M" sections. I bet you straight types get up to some freaky stuff. I've heard rumors.

What It Feels Like for a Boy

Probably four or five times in the past I've rolled my eyes at the idea of the "man's point of view" on knitting. Man or woman, you pick up the needles, you cast on, you knit. Unless you have a particularly stupendous bosom or a notably gigantic whanger it's unlikely that either is going to change the way you work stockinette.

This morning, however, I have had a knitting related experience probably unique to the male half of the species. I was drying off after my morning shower and heard the soft click of something hitting the bathroom tile. I thought perhaps I'd lost an earring.

I bent down and found it wasn't an earring that had fallen, it was small orange stitch marker.

Nothing remarkable about that, except that I haven't used those stitch markers since Tuesday when I was knitting in bed. Which means this particular marker must have lodged itself in my considerable chest hair and remained hidden there through two thorough showers Wednesday and Thursday (one in the morning, one after the gym) and another today.

Perhaps I ought to do a bit of searching and see if that #2 dpn turns up.

On the Needles

Marilyn, who takes a motherly interest in my knitting progress, pointed out that it's been awhile since any actual works-in-progress showed up around here. I know, I know. The sad fact is, until I got a shot in the arm from Knitting Camp there wasn't much going on, certainly not enough to justify a post. The few things I was working on were boring me, and I'd rather not show them than risk boring you.

However, several items of mild interest will appear next week when I've had a moment to photograph them.

Darn, I shouldn't have said anything. Now you won't be able to sleep all weekend.

A Night Out

Apparently it's my turn to give the recap of Stitches in Britches, so here goes.

The group assembled as usual at the Argo Tea Café that's just spitting distance from Marshall Field's, and managed to secure a good table on the first floor in spite of the usual crowd of moms-n-daughters grabbing a quick latté before the performance of Wicked next door at the Oriental Theater.

We were honored to be joined by wit, raconteur, and bon vivant Joel, aka Faustus, MD. Joel is all too briefly in town from New York City, where he works as a freelance blacksmith in between seasons with the New York City Ballet. In fall 2007 he will dance Giselle. Joel and I were at university together, so he knew me when I had a full head of hair.

This is Joel, working on his own version of the Regicide Scarf. He is much cuter than this (sorry, Joel), but he already has a steady boyfriend so he's off limits anyway.



Andy was knitting the cowl from Last Minute Knitted Gifts using what's left of the yarn from his 20-year-old unfinished object. He brought along his completed Noro hat and scarf, presents for a niece. They are absolutely adorable. I didn't manage to get pictures of them, but I took this picture so that you can see that he hasn't had a manicure this week.



Aidan was there but he was on the other side of the table and I don't have any pictures of him. Sorry, Aidan. Aidan was knitting socks and had two pots of tea.

Jonathan, who enjoys the sort of knitting that would make other people cry, is knitting two fancy-ass multicolored, textured socks at the same time on a circular needle using the Magic Loop method. I would rather singe off my nose hairs with a butane lighter, but to each his own. The socks are awesome.



Isn't he cute? But he's not only straight, he's got a very nice wife, and the socks are for her. So you just keep those sick fantasies to yourself, thank you very much.

Oh, and Buzz came to visit and take pictures.



Buzz is my good buddy and upstairs neighbor who blogs here. I told him not to take pictures of me and he didn't listen and so I'm putting up this shot mostly out of revenge. In person Buzz is very nice looking, and smart and polite, and not married, so if you think he's hot I say go for it. I can provide other pictures of him if you want more to go on before making an offer.

Buzz is interested in joining us as our token needlepointer so I loaned him a pile of books from my needlepoint days and offered him lots of floss and canvas that I have sitting around. So if he wimps out on us it won't be my fault.

The manager of the Argo is this cute twinkie of Polish extraction who keeps asking us to let him know if there's anything he can do for us, which is kind of a dangerous question given the nature of our group.

I had two large chocolate milks and a really phat chocolate chip cookie and by the time I got home the sugar rush was making me vibrate and I didn't fall asleep until 1 a.m.

Dolores came home as I was getting ready for work, wearing a Sigma Chi sweatshirt and carrying half a bottle of tequila. She put on the stereo, wiggled around the living room to Saint Etienne's "Like a Motorway" and then passed out with her head in the windowbox.

Questions?

Lace: A Rant and a Schematic

At some point in every man's life there comes a moment when his illusions about himself are shattered. When he realizes that no matter how hard he may try, he's never going to be exactly what he'd hoped he might be.

I have reached such a point. Like it or not, seems that I'll never be butch.

There have been quite a few articles in the mainstream press about men who knit. If you've read one, you've read them all. They all hit the same key points:

1. Knitting is not just for grandmas any more! Men knit!
2. But that doesn't mean they're gay!
3. No, really! Lots of straight men knit!
4. Knitting does not make you queer!
5. See all the manly men knitting and drinking beer and not being queer?
6. When men knit, knitting is very, very butch and not at all queer!

The most recent article of this type to flit across my desk was about "Boys Night" at KnitNY in New York City. As usual, the writer did his best to stave off heterosexual panic by emphasizing the beer drinking, back-slapping, and the knitting of bikinis for girlfriends by "many" of the members.

Even the manager of the shop was quoted reassuringly as saying that this was not a gay dating event.

I have never been to this particular knit night. Things may well be different in New York City than they are in Chicago, and perhaps at KnitNY the straights outnumber the gays, and the gays stick to their knitting and never flirt across their needles (yeah, right).

It may be that, in New York City, even the gay men who knit aren't, you know, queer.

But I can speak for myself, and when I knit, knitting is queer as a three-dollar bill. Even if I'm kitted out in my favorite cycle boots, chaps, a biker jacket, and three days of stubble, nothing's going to help.

My name is Franklin...and I like to knit lace.

Due to the bizarre American belief that the creation of anything delicate and beautiful is inherently sissified, an American male who knits lace automatically places himself at the Liberace/Rex Reed end of the Kinsey scale.

A man who is knitting scarves or sweaters or socks is on somewhat firmer ground. He is performing the very manly task of crafting protection from the elements. A hat, when you think about it, is just a roof you can wear on your head–and what could be more masculine than roofing?

There is no such excuse for lace. Lace has no practical purpose. A lace shawl will keep you warm to an extent, but the real purpose of lace is to be pretty. And American men are not supposed to make pretty things. Men are not supposed to even care about pretty, unless they're looking for female companionship.

So be it. I've never let other people dictate what I do in my life, and I'm not going to start now. And as for those men–gay or straight–who have to pound their chests while knitting lest other guys make fun of them?

Sissies.

The State of Maine Stole

About, oh, a month ago, reader OutfoxedKnitting asked whether the "State of Maine Shawl" listed in my projects was a pattern readily available. Well, sort of.

I'm making the shawl–which has become a stole, and will henceforth be referred to as such–for my sister. Susan lives in Maine, and her husband is in politics there. He is, in fact, a state senator. This means Susan has quite a few political outings to attend, and as Phil is about to go into re-election mode there will be even more such outings.

So here's my plan. I've decided she needs a nice wrap, preferably something that could be thrown over a day or evening outfit, that is Maine-related and might serve as a nice point of conversation. And if I can, I'd like to make it local fiber–maybe alpaca.

This is what I have in mind, and what I've been swatching.



All the patterns are Shetland, right out of Sharon Miller's Heirloom Knitting. And all of them have something to do (in my mind, anyhow) with the landscape of Maine.

For the ocean, there's Print o' the Wave. For the forests, there are patterns resembling fir cones and ferns. And for the edgings, I'm trying out different patterns that look like mountains. (Susan and Phil have spent many happy days climbing the mountains in Acadia National Park.)

I also want to work the word "Dirigo,"* the state motto, into each end of the stole. I nabbed that idea off a palatine in Galina Khmeleva's Gossamer Webs that has the word "Orenberg" knitted into one end.

Have I ever knitted words into lace? No. But Jean has done it, and I love how it looks, and perhaps if I ask very sweetly she will offer pointers.

Of course I'm awfully glad Phil's not in politics in our former home state, Hawaii, where the state motto is "Ua mau ke ea o ka aina i ka pono." Maybe in another 30 years I might be up to that.

* Latin: "I lead."
** Hawaiian: "The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness."

And He Created Them Male and Female

This is being written in haste, kids, so keep that in mind as you read.

Point Number One.

It's a just a stupid t-shirt. Cool your jets.

Point Number Two.

If what male knitters want is no longer to be objects of curiosity (and let's be honest, fellows - don't tell me you don't sometimes enjoy the attention when it isn't condescending), then what we want is a world in which everyone mixes and nobody is excluded.

I designed the original t-shirt for Jon as a present, based on a funny comment C made. Jon loved the shirt. Many people who saw Jon wearing the shirt loved the shirt (though I'm sure the model was part of the reason). Many of those people were women, and many wanted to know if I would do a version for them.

And why wouldn't I?

The thing I like best about the design is that it does work for either sex.

We're all knitters. We all have needles. And none of us should be messed with.

Boys, you'll have your own designs from me by and by, but don't look to me help build a club that keeps out all the girls all the time. I happen to like the girls. The old attitudes are changing and the girls have been mighty nice to me of late.

Point Number Three.

Girls buy shirts. So far, may I add, only girls buy my shirts. And Captain Shortguy needs a new camera. That's capitalism for you.