Weekend Part II: Sunday in the Park with C

If you've been reading this blog long enough to have read my account of the New Order concert, you know I'm not much of one for new music. It's all about familiarity, and most of us suffer from it: You listen mainly to what you like, and you like it because it sounds like what you've heard before.

This is why when I listen to rock music I usually wind up saying the same things I hear from people I introduce to opera:

1. Why are they screaming?
2. I can't understand what they're saying.
3. Is there supposed to be a melody in there somewhere?
4. Doesn't this get on your nerves after a while?
5. Hey! Would you like to maybe watch TV instead?
   

Well, C's musical taste is about as far from mine as you can imagine. On the other hand, he has a gift for making gentle introductions. Franklin, meet David Bowie. Franklin, meet Prince. Franklin, meet Peaches.

That last one didn't go well, I admit, but in general I've had my horzions broadened to the extent that I now have been known willingly to listen to albums released during my lifetime by musicians who are still performing.

On Sunday, I experienced massive mind-expansion at Chicago's Intonation Festival, an Indie/Alternative gathering in Union Park on the West Side.

Some notes:

• I realized halfway through the afternoon that this was the first time since my college commencement that I've engaged in a mass activity intended for people my own age.
  
• In a crowd of at least 2,000, I was the only person without visible tattoos.
• I am not immune to the amusement that comes from watching an intoxicated thirtysomething suburban guy in a polo shirt get hot 'n' funky to a hip-hop dance mix of "Darling Nicky."
• There is no part of the body so small or hard that it cannot be pierced repeatedly.
• Skulls are out, robots are in.
• You can buy stuffed toys in the shape of poo (not Pooh), roast beef, and pickles.
  
• The afro is back.

After catching a performance by OUT HUD and playing Scrabble under the trees, C went off to volunteer at the Neighborhoodies booth:



And I found a nice bench in the shade, equidistant from both stages, and knit a whole lot of Susan's Elizabeth Zimmerman Pillbox Hat. It's going well. Pictures forthcoming.

I like Neighborhoodies and wanted one of my own, so I picked one out (all the while flirting madly with the salesman, even kissing him at one point) and was delighted with the result. I was hoping the kiss might get me a discount, but no. I am now proud to be playing shortstop for the Middlemarch Marauders (sponsored by Vincy's Dry Goods).



If you don't get the joke, Google "George Eliot," and shame on you.

C had his purple t-shirt printed up with the words "wrecka stow," which will strike a chord in Prince fans who remember (in spite of their best efforts) Kristin Scott Thomas's immortal performance in Under the Cherry Moon.

I wouldn't go so far as to say I loved everything I heard. (There was one band that came all the way from Oakland to sing falsetto Japanese baby talk, and I hope they will decide en masse to enter a religious order that requires a vow of silence.)

But for all the amplified sound I did have a marvelously peaceful and restorative day, with an appropriately splendid sunset:



And a terrific closing performance by The Decembrists:



Perfect training for next weekend's adventure: Lollapalooza.

I wonder if I can get something pierced and/or tattooed by Friday?

Weekend Part I: Chocolate Bore

I know that for a lot of people (Americans, anyhow) the 4th of July is over and summer is downhill from there. For me, though, it's just cranking into high gear. This weekend was wall-to-wall activity, and according to my calendar things are not going to slow down until September.

I'm going to have to write it up in multiple installments, that's how full and fun it was.

Let's get the only bad part out of the way with a fair-and-balanced film review, shall we?

On Saturday night, C and I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at the River East Gigantoplex. We thought that perhaps by going at 9:30 p.m., we might avoid most of the families with little children since it would be past their bedtimes. That shows you how out of touch we are. Apparently the concept of "bedtime" no longer exists. The kiddies were out in full force and full cry, not to mention full of sugar.

Can You Say Irony, Children?

On the way into the theater, we were cut off in line by a screaming, sticky brood of six or so who shoved themselves in front of us and were followed by their thin, wan mothers. The mothers did nothing to suggest to the children this might have been rude, and one of them snapped at a theater employee who asked her son to stop climbing up the handrail on the escalator as he might fall off and plunge two stories to his death.

I'm assuming the moral lessons of the movie flew right over their mothers' empty, bleached-blonde heads.

Anyhow, the real downer of this trip to the movies was not the audience, it was the movie.

The Script

I didn't much like the 1971 film version of Roald Dahl's book, which I love and admire. But it was better than this one. It at least had no pretentions to being high art nor magnificent spectacle. Aside from truly dreadful songs (one exception, "Pure Imagination") it wasn't all that bad and did get across the frightening, freaked-out tone of the novel.

In spite of all claims to the contrary, Tim Burton has not (aside from the restoration of one or two episodes and the quoting of some dialogue) created something closer to Dahl's vision. Instead he has inserted a whole lot of unoriginal and unnecessary backstory, and tacked on an inappropriate ending so sticky sweet that even Augustus Gloop would gag on it.

With all this added content, once the factory tour begins the movie slows down to a positively glacial pace...and just keeps getting slower...and slower...and slower. Then, it does something I have never seen a movie do before. It actually stops completely, never to move again, at least fifteen minutes before the end credits.

Wow.

The Sets

And as far as the famous Burton visual touches go, the majority of the good stuff references far better stuff from other directors' movies. The chocolate river room, which I hear occupied the entire James Bond soundstage and cost millions, isn't any more impressive in the final cut than the $2.95 set from the 1971 version. It looks like a Nightmare Before Christmas display in a suburban mall.

The Music

The songs are blandly serviceable, as well they should be at this point, since Danny Elfman has written them many times before and only had to change the keys for this airing.

After which he probably called up John Williams, and the two of them went shopping.

The Performances

Johnny Depp's Willy Wonka is but a bundle of nervous tics and vocal mannerisms. Sort of like Maggie Smith, except that from scene to scene, he assembles them from different sources. Now he's Carol Channing, now he's Mister Rogers, now he's Marilyn Manson. Saddest thing is, you get the sense that if the director had helped him to achieve some sort of consistency, he could have been wonderful. I imagine Burton was too fascinated with the trained squirrels to pay attention to the humans. No wonder he only wanted one Oompa-Loompa.

The only thing in the entire movie at all in keeping with Dahl's vision was Freddie Highmore as Charlie. The kid was a perfect choice, did a bang-up job, and probably got his characterization in gear on his own.

And finally, two little things. Very little, but they bug me.

Where the Hell is This Movie Set?

Charlie is English. His parents are English. Everybody all around him the streets is English. It sure looks like England.

Then, when Charlie gets the Golden Ticket, the (English) people in the shop start offering him dollars for it. If the goal was to keep Charlie's location non-specific, the matter of currency could have been discreetly avoided with some careful writing or editing. As it is, it jars mightily on the ear.

The Pansy is Alive and Well and Simpering in Burtonland

Charlie learns that somebody has apparently found the final Golden Ticket when two men walk by him in the street talking about it.

These two men, who serve no other purpose than plot movement and are never seen again, are total throwbacks to the pre-Stonewall stereotype of gay men - mincing walks, Franklin Pangborn intonation, flailing hands, and little doggies on leashes.

You know what? I'm sick of this shit. Really sick of it. Here we are decades after Stonewall, and we're still nothing but cheap 'n' easy comic relief.

There is no more excuse in this day and age for the portrayal of gay men or lesbians (or anybody else, for that matter) according to stereotypes of this kind.

If this were an Adam Sandler movie, I might have been less surprised. But who exactly does Tim Burton think much of the audience for a campy children's-book-filmed-for-adults movie is going to be? Or is this his way of trying to show he's not like that by making fag jokes along with the other dudes?

Perhaps this was (as C suggested to me) Burton's somewhat misguided idea of inclusion. Well, if it is, Mr. Burton can go shove an Everlasting Gobstopper up his ass.

And then do the same with this sorry film.

Save yourself some money. Read the book.

Yarn Store Review: Khadija Yarn Shop

While my parents have bought the new house in Kokomo, Indiana, they don't live there yet. They're still getting it in order, ripping down wallpapers and replacing light fixtures installed by the previous lady of the house.

I have never met this lady, and hope I never will. I can only say that her horror vacui is all too evident even in the empty rooms she left behind. I have never seen three different patterned papers and two colors combined in one space before.

The light fixtures, for their part, are so ugly that when I saw the one in the downstairs bathroom I actually developed a rash on my eyelids.

Since we couldn't stay in the house yet, we were guests of the Schuelkes, dear old friends of my parents and the people who introduced them to Kokomo in the first place. (We like them anyway.) Charming Mrs. Schuelke, anxious to alleviate our fears that my parents were moving to a town that could have kept Diane Arbus busy for 50 years, took us on a whirlwind tour of the best the place has to offer: little cafés, historic houses, and a truly impressive stained glass factory.*

Smart woman, she also knew the way to the nearest yarn store.

So we visited Khadija Yarn Shop, 3712 La Fountain Street in Kokomo. It's a tiny little place in a strip mall, but one of the plate glass windows was entirely covered by a SALE sign and that's always promising.

Included in the posse during our visit were Mrs. Schuelke, my sister, and both my parents. This meant I didn't hang out as long as I might have, given that the levels of their interests in yarn range from slim (my mother) to none (my father). We did stay long enough that I can offer the following.

The shop has two rooms. The first, smaller room is jammed to the drop ceiling with pattern books. You think I am exaggerating, but I am not. It would take a person at least half a day, possibly more, to go through all the books. I had about two minutes. Most of what's there was like the Bernat book pictured above. According to C, it looks like it was released as a tie-in with the movie Valley of the Dolls.

Now, some will scoff, but (as dear Miss Jane Brodie would say), for those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like. I picked up the book for two reasons. First, my sister liked one of the knit shells inside it. Second, although I have no intention of knitting the shell or anything else in the book (they all use ribbon yarn and require finishing on a sewing machine), the pictures, my darling, are to die.

Check this out:

The open-eye look in full bloom. What was the allure of perpetually looking surprised? Was it supposed that men found startled women to be especially yummy? Is she meant to be thinking, "You want me to put that where?" or what?

Not that I think the vacant, bovine stare of the Britney Spears/Olsen Twin set is an improvement. Feh.





And look at this:

The other popular fashion expression of the era, a relic from the golden Bettina/Suzy Parker/Lisa Fonssagrives era at Vogue: icy-cold sophistication.

She could probably rip the face off the mailman with one swipe of that manicured claw and still keep her pillbox on straight.

Did I mention the price? A lot of the books are were (and probably still are) on sale for 40% off the cover. This one set me back 80 cents.

In the second, much larger room, yarn lines the walls on high shelves. The center floor is reserved for something I had never encountered before: knitting machines.

I will confess that the allure of knitting machines escapes me utterly, but they seem to be mighty popular in Kokomo. There were three women (one of whom turned out to be the saleslady) working at machines. If this is your heart's delight, the store (if I remember correctly) will rent you a machine by the month and also offers classes.

The yarn selection is large but most of what I saw was mid-price to low-end. Brand names I noticed included Patons (lots of it) and Berocco. There was a pretty good selection of needles including bamboos by Clover.

No Rowan, no Lorna's Laces, nothing unusual or luxurious or locally spun. Just plain, stout yarns for (I am guessing) plain, stout knitters.** If you're fiber snob, this store is not going to do much for you; but if you need basics and you need them cheap, stop in.

Regarding customer service, I'd say it was just fine. When we arrived I led the way into the store, and got the usual response - raised eyebrows and a "Can I help you find someting?" that clearly telegraphed the metamessage "I am afraid you've mistaken us for the auto parts dealership two doors down."

However, after I explained that I was a knitter visiting my parents and checking the place out for the first time, she recovered her composure and was very friendly and solicitous. I bought my book, and she said she hoped I'd come in again on my next visit to Indiana and spend more time looking around.

With all those books to dig through, I think I'll be back.

*I didn't want to spoil the flow of positives, so I'm putting it in a footnote that we also visited two of Kokomo's other claims to fame, housed side-by-side under glass in the town park. They are a taxidermied bull with no tail and a tree stump, both freakishly large. I won't even bother to comment.

* *Not perjorative. I like plain, stout people. I'm already halfway to being one.

Mighty Oaks from Little Acorns Grow

Today's theme is "Progress."

Among the highlights of my week is this post over at my sister's blog.

Reading it will bring back good memories for many of you. I know it did for me.

Portrait Project Update

The response to my call for men to be part of the portrait project has been promising. The scope and nature continues to evolve as I work on it, and I've decided to expand the area to all of Chicagoland. If the Metra or other form of CTA-related transport reaches you, you're in.

For more details, please check out the original post.

Photo Work

Last night I pulled out a series of shots I took during my last visit to my grandmother's house and started working on prints of two of them for my portfolio. They're all still lifes I found there, waiting.

The thing I like about them is that they speak to me as much about my grandmother as a portrait would. Possibly more. This is the second house she lived in as a young married woman. After my grandfather was killed in an industrial accident shortly after World War II, she stayed there and raised all three of her children in it. (You parents reading this will be impressed to know the house in question has two bedrooms, one of which has no door; one bathroom; no air conditioning; and excluding the cellar and porch is maybe 800 square feet.)

Below is one of the better shots, from her bedroom.

Now that the house my maternal grandparents lived in has been sold out of the family, this is the only place in the world from my childhood that I can still visit. It means a lot to me.

Tarred with a Different Brush

Photographic trickery is nearly as old as photography itself. Almost as soon as the pioneers of the craft managed to pin reality down, they were filled with the longing to fuck around with it.

Sometimes it was out of necessity. For example, long exposures meant you couldn't always catch objects in motion, so sometimes they had to be painted in. My favorite example of this is a 19th-century shot of a chuck-wagon cook flipping a pancake that was obviously added in post-production.

And I think it was in no way accidental that the emergence of retouching processes coincided with a huge surge in the popularity of portrait photography.

This has raised all sorts of ethical questions about how much a print can or should be messed with. There is no answer, and never will be, just lots of debate. As with other arts, there are no rules, only talent and taste or a lack thereof.

On the one hand, you have Henri Cartier-Bresson, an undisputed genius who didn't crop or otherwise heavily manipulate his photographs in printing. What showed up on the negative was what showed up in the print. And then you have Ansel Adams, another titan, who used the darkroom creatively to do things to his images that brought them to the finished state his vision demanded.

Who's right? Both of 'em.

But with the arrival of digital photography and Adobe Photoshop on the scene, post-production work has been made seamless and relatively simple to the point that you should never, never fully trust any photograph you didn't take and print yourself. For example, the latest version of Photoshop has a nifty tool called the "healing brush" that makes it possible to remove zits, wrinkles, sweat, and (if you're not careful) nostrils in four seconds flat.

But you have to draw the line somewhere, and designers and photographers are often called upon to manipulate reality in ways that are laughable, impossible, or even unethical.

For example, my employer is (like many institutions of higher learning) desperate to promote itself as a place that embraces diversity, particularly among the student body.

Before anybody angrily clicks the "Comment" button, let me say flatly that I support diversity initiatives. Although Arab-Americans aren't considered a separate ethnic minority unless it's a matter of racial profiling at airports, I doubt extremely I'd have been let into Harvard if at some point there hadn't been a push to add mixers to the gene pool.

Unfortunately, progress is slow. The university I work for catered during most of its history to the offspring of well-to-do Midwesterners, and didn't much care whether they were smart as long as they could afford the shockingly high tuition.

Needless to say, for century or more this place (like, I should add in all fairness, most American colleges of the time) was as white as an Olsen twin's pert little bottom. It's changing*, but we still have a long way to go.

That sad reality is a recurring thorn in the side of those who fashion the school's public image though visual design. I'm often called upon to photograph events hosted my department, and more than once I get a frantic reminder that "We need really diverse shots."

Recently I photographed a student picnic and, if I may so, it went well. We had extremely cooperative weather (an overcast sky, which lit everyone flatteringly) and the students were (shhh) already tipsy upon arrival, so they were inclined to cooperate with the poor sap with the camera.

The one criticism? I hadn't got enough shots of mixed groups. In frame after frame, white kids sat with white kids, African-Americans hugged only other African-Americans. You had an occasional wildcard Asian-American or Latino/a, but not enough to make the critic in question happy.

And why had I done this? Because I took pictures of the groups as they were, rather than shouting, "Okay, you - with the blonde hair - would you please step away? Thank you. Alright, I need a Black woman over on the left, and one more Asian for the front row. You're a Pacific Islander? Sorry, not close enough. But would you please go stand next to the Muslim woman in the headscarf for the next shot?"

A dear colleague of mine got similar complaint when she used a large, stock photo of a crowd as the background for a print piece. It had a mix of just about every age and race you can think of, and in proportions similar to those found in our student body, but it didn't appear diverse enough to one person in the approval loop. With time short and no other photo to be had, she had to resort to counting the number of "diverse" people in the print in order to prove it could be used.

And not long before that, another designer here had been slammed for using an all-white photograph on a reunion postcard for a class that had graduated 30-40 years ago. The person who complained didn't care that the entire university had, at the time, about four non-white students. The closest thing to a decent mixed photograph of the class in question? A shot of the final tableau of the senior show, featuring an entire chorus line in blackface. No, thank you.

It was then that we hit upon the idea of a new Photoshop tool that would be a boon to designers everywhere: the diversity brush.

The concept is simple. Just select the tool, click the appropriate box, and paint over the face in question. Poof! The girl from the Marshall Islands is now Norwegian. Click! Brad McGillicuddy of Ames, Iowa is now Rafael Sanchez-Montoya of Bogota, Colombia.

Simple, isn't it? No need to accept and admit the racist history of the school. No need to continue efforts to encourage students of all races to apply, attend, and (gasp) speak to each other. No need for the client to grapple with reality - just repaint reality to suit their needs.

Every designer I know would sell a kidney to get a copy.

You geniuses at Adobe, you're probably already two years ahead of us and at work on this feature for the next release. But just in case, please remember you read it here first. You can pay us in free software and fonts.

*I mean the school is changing. I'm not sure about the bottoms, separately or together, of the Olsen twins, and have no desire to learn more.

Sis in the City

Yep, I'm back. And boy, were y'all chatty while I was away. I'm tickled.

As planned, my sister Susan flew back to Chicago with me after we visited our parents at their new house in Kokomo. Any visit with her will be too short for me, but we did make the most of the time allotted.

A few highlights:















Georges Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte was a motif of our childhood and it hangs, by happy chance, at the Art Institute of Chicago.

Susan had never seen it in person. Now she has.

Considering that I introduced it to her via reproductions (including one I painted on my bedroom wall in Hawaii) and Sunday in the Park with George, it felt poetically just that I should be there when she came face-to-face with it at last.

Funny to think that when she first saw it she wasn't much older than the little girl in white at the center of the painting. Now, she's old enough to be the woman with the pet monkey.

We also went to Lincoln Park Zoo. When I was a kid, I had a fantasy about living close enough to a zoo that I could go any time I wanted to. And now I do, and I do.

The self-satisfied meercat at left is one of a little troupe (herd? litter? caucus?) that lives in the African Safari exhibit.

Most of the animals will go out of their way to run off, roll over or pee just when you get the perfect shot set up. Not the meercats. Little camera hogs, every one of them. They'll climb up on a log or a rock, give you an over-the-shoulder sweetheart pose and hold it while you adjust the camera.

I wish all my human models were so cooperative.

The trumpeter swans who live in the pond had hatched out a brood since my last visit. We came upon the nest and were struck dumb by the sight. One of the parents was swimming about while the other kept an eye on the kiddies.

Truth be told, swan babies are pretty homely. Hans Christian Andersen didn't tell the half of it.

But it was touching to see them shuffling short distances on the bank, flapping their fuzzy gray wings and (no doubt) suffering dreadful agonies of self-loathing that will require years of therapy to sort through.

What surprised me most was the proximity of the nest to the public footpath. Didn't seem to bother the birds.


Buzz was of the party and managed to stuff his 6-foot frame into the gigantic, hollow clutch of chicken eggs in the main barn of the farm at the zoo.

The eggs are meant to attract children aged 5-10 years, but never mind.

In my experience, one can invariably count on Buzz to provide a bizarre photo opportunity, whatever the setting.

I think he should use this shot in his online profile, with the caption "Castor Seeks Pollux."

Next to the zoo is the Lincoln Park Conservatory, and we paid a brief call because the temperature in the place had to be at least 90 degrees, with the sort of humidity that must be very welcome when you're a frog or a palm tree.

Before the beads of sweat became too pronounced, Buzz took this shot of Susan and me. I'm rather rumpled and gray, but I like it anyway, so thank you, Buzz sweetie.


On Saturday night we went down to Old Town and took in a performance of Red Scare, the latest review at The Second City.

TSC is celebrating its 45th year, which blows my mind. 45 years is a long time for a theater company to stick around, especially in the United States.

This is Susan before the performance, with the famous stage in the distance. I wasn't sure how much she'd like the show. If her laughter was any indication, I made the right choice.

I live near Lake Michigan, and on previous visits (at Thanksgiving) the weather conditions haven't exactly been conducive to a stroll, so this time we walked over to the harbor and looked at the boats.

This is the first time C and Susan have had a chance to spend much time together, so I was delighted (but not surprised) that they got on well.

Then we went home and watched, at C's recommendation, Napoleon Dynamite and giggled madly. (I never saw that sort of movie before I met C. It's nice when the person you fall for is able to open new doors for you.)

All the walking and looking was terrific, as was the eating and eating and eating, but of course nothing could quite match the thrill I felt at the sight of this:

Susan, having just knitted her first row ever. She followed it with several more, at which point I showed her how to bind off and we agreed she had just made a perfectly respectable wrist band or Barbie shawl.

Alas, I only had time to teach her the slingshot cast-on, the knit stitch (continental), and a basic bind-off.

Marilyn will be pleased to know I also taught her to say, "Shut up, I'm counting."

I packed her off to Maine with the needles, a ball of leftover yarn, a yarn needle for finishing and a new copy of Stitch 'n' Bitch. (Yeah, I know. But I think it's a very fine teach-yourself book for a beginner with no nearby mentor or support network and I'm not afraid to say so. If she sticks with it, she'll get Maggie Righetti and St. Elizabeth Zimmerman and all the others.)

(Does this make me a yarn pusher?)

I won't be heartsick if she doesn't keep up with it, but I sure hope she does. Between her first row and her final row there was a decided increase in speed and agility, and I swear she got that look in her eye. You know the one I mean.

Just wait until she learns to purl.

Lie Down with Muppets, Get Up with Fleas

I couldn't leave the blog sitting here for a couple days with a rant at the top of it, so I thought I'd share a touching picture of a finished object that's left the nest.

C sent me this photograph of Istvan, to show me how well he's adapting to his new home. I'm appalled. The last thing he read before leaving my apartment was an old copy of Odes of Horace I had lying around.


Blame it on Janice.

I guess you just have to cut the cord, don't you?

Why (Some) Gay Men Take Meth

(I've been debating whether to post this, most of which was written last week. I've decided to go ahead. We'll see whether it was a good idea or not. It rambles. I suppose it's a rant. Oh well. I warned you. If you prefer, skip it and read about my glamorous vacation.)

Two of my favorite blogs, QueerJoe and Tricky Tricot, recently referenced an article in The Village Voice about the use of crystal meth in the gay community. And boy, did it stir up some debate. This is a good thing.

I'd read the story myself before they posted it, and found I agreed violently with Patrick Moore, the author. He goes beyond merely saying "Drug use is terrible," (that not being news, certainly not to the Voice's readership) and tries to get at the underlying reasons why meth has become such a problem.

His conclusion, greatly simplified, is that gay men are inclined to use drugs not from an inherent moral failing, but because they are often desperate for solace in a world that at best ignores them and at worst seeks to eliminate them.

This is the passage that struck me. Moore is writing of his own experiences with drug and alcohol abuse:

"Had I looked deeper, I would have seen that I had always felt self-destructive and isolated, even from other gay people. I believe many young gay men* still feel that way."

The italics are mine.

I'm going to say something that may be very unpopular. And I don't care. I'm going to say it anyway.

I know guys who have taken or do take meth. A lot of guys. To a man, they have corroborated Moore's point that men who use it are usually doing so to achieve a feeling of connection - of bonding deeply, if temporarily, with a partner. Of belonging to the group of gay men who are desirable and desired. And every one of them made it clear that this feeling was something they couldn't achieve without the drug.

Moore twice brings up the feeling of being isolated from the gay community in his article, yet dwells more on the pressure from the wider, straight world as a negative force on gay men's lives.

Without in any way wishing to disagree with him that homophobia is omnipresent and powerful, I wish to offer the viewpoint that a good deal of the damage suffered by gay men comes from other gay men.

Here's an example, a personal one, of just how supportive gay men can be of each other.

I was sorting photocopies in the office hallway the other day when my ears pricked up at the sound of my name. In an office nearby, Colleague A was saying that the t-shirt I'd worn that day showed off my chest, and he was surprised to see that I have a solid build.

I was startled and so flattered that I blushed. Then Colleague B replied, "Yeah. But I guess when you're short and bald and have a face like that, you have to do something."

Colleague A said yes, that's true.

Ouch.

I wasn't suprised, though. When our office has reason to divide into groups - sitting at department events, going out after work for drinks, etc. - the gay men go off by themselves, and I'm not invited. I don't look like they do, or act like they do, and a tacit point had been made well before this conversation that gay or not, I'm not one of them.

Happily, I've had years to come to terms with the fact that I'm not and never have been a Pretty Boy by mainstream gay standards. I'm not blond, hairless, and slim as a willow. I've learned to take comfort in being caviare and catnip to the minority who like men who look like me. As much as one can, in this day and age, be at peace with one's physical appearance, I am.

But it takes years, and a whole lot of crying and hurt feelings, to get to this point. Some guys never get there. The fact is, and this never seems to be mentioned, that there are a lot of gay men who come out and aren't received into the fold with rapture.

These are the guys who aren't particularly good-looking, who may have a weight problem, who are shy in a club setting or aren't quick with a witty remark. These are the guys who happen to be the wrong race at the wrong time, or can't afford to live in the proper ZIP code,** or don't look right in the jeans that are the thing to be wearing this week.

There is a gay ideal, shamelessly pushed and promoted by those who market to the gay community (including our own press) that is as unrealistic for most of us as the supermodel ideal is for most women. Physical perfection is requirement number one.

Don't believe me? Take a look at the covers of gay books and magazines over at Amazon and count the number that feature some variation of a muscular, bare torso on the cover. And I don't just mean books about bodybuilding or sex. I mean books about cooking, decorating, childcare, philately, beekeeping, Esperanto...

The muscular, white, shaved and oiled torso has become universal visual shorthand for "gay." The logical conclusion? Don't have one? You're not really gay.

Some men can't handle this, and no wonder. When the world at large doesn't want to include you, it stings when those who are supposed to be (if nothing else) your comrades in oppression also make it clear you may not join the can-can.

When I was talking about this with Buzz the other day, he made a good point: "Do you really want to be invited to that party?"

No, as it happens, I don't. At my most muscular, I was given a pass to explore the fringes of it and found it dull. But the fact remains that except for persons temperamentally inclined to a hermetic life, everybody needs to feel that he belongs somewhere.

For many guys, it seems like the only place to belong is that perfect circle of shirtless men on the dance floor - the ones who will definitely be photographed for the party pages of the gay newspaper. Everything seems to point to it: you're here, or you're nowhere.***

And when you want desperately not to be nowhere, what's more tempting than a drug that will make you feel your God-given flaws have been erased by a Photoshop filter, and allow you to feel you have a right to membership?

Hell yes, pressure from the straight world at large takes a toll on you when you're gay. And so, sometimes to an even greater extent, does pressure from the gay world.

*I have news for you, Patrick, so do many older gay men. You know, the ones over 23.

**In Boston, I found "Which ZIP code do you live in?" to be the second most common question at gay parties, the first being "What do you do?" If your field was sufficiently impressive, you got to go on to question two. The South End (the gay ghetto) straddled two ZIP codes, only one of which was consdiered fashionable. Shades of Lady Bracknell. And people wonder why I don't miss Boston?

***Yeah, there are other subcultures within the gay culture (like the bear and leather communities). But some don't fit into those, either, and in my experience they can be just as elitist - at my first and only visit to Bear Pride in Chicago, I was openly snubbed for being too thin. Meanwhile, the gay press (when it speaks of them at all) usually implies that they are decidedly second-best, a lunatic fringe.

Dream Vacation

Stop reading this right now unless you're ready to sink up to your nipples in envy.

This time tomorrow I will not be sitting here at this keyboard, alternately writing doggerel and staring out the window. I shall be above the clouds, preparing to touch down in a place many hear about, but far fewer ever dream of visiting.

Kokomo, Indiana.*

My parents, whom I love dearly but who can be...vat is ze vort in English...nutty, have decided to leave their sleepy backwater of Washington, DC and move to a house located conveniently (for them) between a grass airstrip and a cornfield.

Of the two attractions, the airstrip is the greater. My father flies planes as a hobby (breeding polo ponies takes up too much room) and in this particular huddle of houses, everybody has a hangar in the backyard. You think I am kidding, but I kid you not.

I don't get it, but as my sister and I see it, this is our folks' first move ever that is based on doing something they want to do, rather than what they feel they must do. Our young lives were spent with the U.S. Air Force knocking us hither and thither like a pinball. After that, there was another move (to Pennsylvania) to tend to my grandma, then another to (to DC) to take advantage of a good job opportunity.

The moving didn't bother me much , but I can't imagine it was fun for them. However, they never worried or complained in front of us. They put on brave faces and made the best of it.

That was their modus operandi with everything. For example, my mother never had nice furniture, and my father never drove new cars, but my sister and I always went to the best school available wherever we lived. They never made noise about it, so it wasn't until I was out of college that I realized how they must have sacrificed.

This house is suits them, and it's about time. While I might wish they had taken a shine to Mallorca or Provence, after 36 years of marriage I think they've grown enough to do as they please.

*It's only for two days, and as a bonus my sister is coming to Chicago to stay for the whole weekend. Hurrah! So no blogging until next week. But there should be lots to report.

Meet Istvan

The teddy bear met his new owner last night and it appears that there is, indeed, chemistry. He even seems to be smiling. I suppose I would be, too, if I'd been in pieces for two weeks and then finally got my head and limbs attached.

He left this morning for his new home. I admit to feeling slightly post-partum, though it's not like I won't see him frequently.

I wondered how he was getting on, and then this arrived via e-mail:


He has been christened Istvan, and it looks to me like he's adjusting nicely. And apparently he's a Prince fan. Who knew?

Rise, Lord Vader

Give Good Face?

I have just begun a new photography project, and I'm in need of subject matter.

Here's the deal.

I'm looking for

• men
• who live in the city of Chicago (not Chicagoland - within the city limits)
• who identify openly as gay or bisexual

Subjects do not need previous experience and all types are needed, regardless of age, body type, ethnicity, economic status, or anything else. If you meet the requirements above and wish to be photographed, I wish to hear from you.

The photographs will be portraits, non-sexual, in a variety of settings. Sittings should take no more than an hour and will be arranged at a time and place mutually agreed upon. More information will be provided upon inquiry.

The portraits will be assembled into a finished work to be exhibited and possibly published.

There is no cash payment, but I will provide each model with a finished print or an electronic version suitable for use online. All models will be required to sign a standard model release.

If you're interested, please write to me at fmh60657 (at) yahoo daht cahm, with the subject line "Portrait Project."

C'mon, guys. I know you're out there.

Another Finished Object

In addition to Pride, there was knitting.

I finished the Polar Princess Hat and am mostly, though not completely, satisfied. I think for the most part it's satisfactory. I'd just refine the design if I did it again. Maybe make the front side of the ears pink. And make them smaller. Aim higher, ever higher.



And here we have the pair of baby hats, modeled by Giacomo Puccini and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.



No pictures of the sock yet, but I like Mary Thomas's method. It's logical and easy to remember, and so far the sock looks like a sock.

Pride

We just celebrated Pride Weekend in Chicago. If you're reading this blog, you probably already know what that is. But just in case, here's the nutshell explanation.

Pride Weekend, which is some places is still only Pride Day or may have expanded to Pride Month (is anybody that gay?) is the time of year when the part of the population that is in some way a sexual minority (it started with gay men and lesbians, then incorporated bisexuals, and in now in many places also includes transgendered folks) gets out onto the streets en masse to say–when you get down to the bottom of it–we're here, we're not ashamed of who we are, and we're always going to be here.

When all this began in the early 1970s, it had a very defiant, activist tone which faded somewhat during the 80s and 90s and now, with the advent of near-theocracy in the United States, seems to be resurfacing.

I went to my very first Pride Parade on the sly back when I was a kid in Hawaii and wasn't yet out to my family. It was small, and it took guts for the people in the parade to walk down the street behind those banners. I still have the "Gay Pride Hawaii" tank top I bought and hid in the bottom of my dresser drawer.

My second Pride Parade was in Boston, during the summer after my sophomore year. I loved it, though I was pissed off with the coverage the event received in the newspapers. As I recall, about 100,000 people showed up, the parade was two hours long, and the Boston Globe gave the story two inches at the bottom of page 20.

You see some of everything at Pride. Exactly what "everything" encompasses depends on where you are. In Chicago, we're famous (or infamous) for the politicians who ride or march in order to curry favor. This year, we even got the governor and at least a dozen others, including a clerk of the court, an assessor, and somebody who does something with water reclamation. This is to be expected in a city where our favorite spectator sports are baseball, politics, and architecture.

The general rule, however, is that no matter who marches in the parade, the straight media only ever shows pictures of either drag queens or leathermen walking slaves on leashes. This is intended to shock and titillate, though why even straights would find the sight of either shocking in this day and age is beyond me.

Groups who march who will probably never appear in the newspapers: church groups, gay parenting groups, police officers, firefighters, veterans of the armed forces, contingents from Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) and members of gay/straight alliances from high schools.

I'll admit that Chicago is much better about this than Boston was, but that's a pretty low standard to beat.

The crowds of spectators have changed a lot. You see many, many more straight people than you used to, and more children overall, many of them there with their gay parent or parents.

There is an anti-Pride sentiment among some gay people. The viewpoint seems to be that the parade is passé and unnecessary, though I noticed one didn't hear quite so much of that this year with the government taking pot-shots at our right to exist.

Me, I enjoy the spectacle, and I will keep going and celebrating and being visible until it's safe for a 12-year-old kid in Peoria to take another boy to school dances. Until we get to that point, I will not agree that we have nothing left to march about.

I have nothing sterling in the way of photos from the March but here's a small sample. Heavy on drag as by luck of the draw the shots happened to come out the best. You go, girls.



The Lakeside Pride Marching Band.



Two of the Harley motorcycle riders.



Lead singer of the band Barely Standing.



One of the women from the Brazilian contingent.



More Brazilians, some not actually women.



The Illinois State Lottery float (I kid you not).



The Little Mermaid, non-Disney version.



With Chris after the parade. I now have a very weird camera strap tan-line.

Photography and Knitting Report

I'm modestly pleased with my camera work lately. Well, not so much the work itself as the fact that I've been able to stick to my goal of putting the knitting needles down and working on prints or taking pictures.

Usually, I'm a street shooter, mostly because I don't have a studio. When necessary, my living room can become one, especially since I have lovely north light and am on a high floor.

C needed a new headshot, and so up went my Wamsutta seamless drop (which doubles, don't you know, as a bedsheet) and out came my full battery of lighting equipment (which appears to the naked eye to be desk and floor lamps). Here's the result, my favorite and his.



It helps when your subject is cute as all get-out.

I also had a studio assignment for work. In this case, the subject is a variety of products we sell online, for an ad in the university magazine. Our line-up is going upscale, with better clothing and higher end stuff like wines and jewelry. (Guess who took the photo on the wine label?)

I never knew, until I had to do it, just how tricky it is to do a good shot of a product, let alone a group of them. You can't just put the junk on a table, take a picture, and call it a day. Every wrinkle, speck of dest, bumped corner or scratch is magnified tenfold. And if you don't light it properly, it looks like somebody's eBay post.

Working in tandem with Katie, one of my favorite coworkers ever, we got this.



Katie, bless her soul, did all the legwork for getting props and such. Our set up on shoot day was about three hours, the shots themselves took less than two hours. And, like C's headshot, this was done with no professional lighting equipment. What did we use, then?

A former colleague had Seasonal Effective Disorder (SAD) and as part of her therapy kept one of those full-spectrum light boxes in her office. She left it behind, and it turned out to be a marvelous source of fake sunlight, no gels or warming filter necessary.

The flowers, by the way, were left over from the 50th reunion party held in this same room. They were nearly dead but don't look half bad out of focus, eh?

Never let a mere lack of equipment and experience get in your way.

Make Two

The Polar Princess Hat (thank you, Cheryl and Jon - your suggestions combined led to the new moniker) still has no face, but it does have one ear and will soon have two.

Jack the Teddy Bear needs eyes and is unassembled, but is stuffed and sewn. I also have to finish inscribing the little wooden heart that will go inside his chest, and which (unless C rips open the seams in a fit of pique) will never be seen. But I'll know it's there. I think I may also embroider my initials on the butt. Steiff does a button in the ear, and after almost three months of labor I want similar recognition, but in my own fashion.

Buzz's mittens are next, and also something for me: socks.

I asked for suggestions about sock knitting ages ago, and boy did I get them.

Sir Edwin demonstrated socks on two circulars, and I was mightily impressed. Faustus, a trustworthy fellow if there ever was one, seconded the motion. And I had votes for the time-honored dpn school from people who sure as hell ought to know, like Felicia and Tricky.

And after all that, I've decided to do what I usually do. Go off in a direction that nobody recommended and which will probably prove troublesome in the extreme, but which right now seems romantic.

I'm knitting socks as directed by Mary Thomas in Mary Thomas's Knitting Book.

Do you know this book? Miss Thomas published it in 1938, and I've fallen in love with it through a shockingly inexpensive Dover reprint. It's thorough, illustrated with adorable line drawings, and written in the sort of firm, no-nonsense tone you'd associate with Mary Poppins or the dear, late Queen Mother. It is the oppositie of hip, funky, and now. That is and will forever be a siren-call to me.*

As soon as I get a pair of US #3 dpns, Miss Thomas and I will be convening in my wing-backed chair to begin socks according to her method which, she says, "Once learned...will never be forgotten." How could I resist?

*I don't know what it is about me and the stiff-upper-lip wing of British womanhood. Penelope Keith, Emma Thompson, Judi Dench, Joan Plowright...there is nothing like a dame, but there's nothing for me like a Dame. Ladies, if you're reading this, you give me heart flutters and I am yours to command.

Sheepish Grin

I haven't said a word about this in my own blog as, for reasons that will be apparent, I didn't wish to seem to promote it.

Over the past two weeks, I have been the object of great generosity. Selma, a reader of QueerJoe's and (thanks to Joe) a reader of mine* got it into her head that I ought to see the New York Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck, New York. They thought, moreover, that my way ought to be paid as a sort of scholarship.

And so Joe set up a fund through his blog, the Fresh Air Group (FAG) for Franklin. Now, to my great delight and greater surprise, I'm going to Rhinebeck.

This must be the RAOK to end RAOKs. I'm stunned.

There is talk of doing this again, next year, for another person and I hope it will happen, because I'd like to contribute to it.

At present, I guess all I can do is write a heartfelt "thank you." And pray when these warm, witty and intelligent people meet me, they won't ask for their money back.

*Although she may stop reading me if I don't get my frigging post about Lily Chin finished.

Cautiously Optimistic

I haven't any photos to offer yet, but sewing on Jack the Teddy Bear began this weekend. So far, so good.

I've stitched, turned, and provisionally stuffed the body, the head, and both arms. Nothing looks deformed, there are no whacking great holes in the fabric, and both arms are the same size and shape. Granted, Grandma might not think my "finger sewing" is quite up to snuff yet, but I'm doing my best and growing nimbler with each piece.

The head, in particular, has turned out to be splendidly formed with a fine, proud snout.

And the mofo is big. Either the finished size indicated in the book is off, or I mismeasured my gauge. I was expecting to make something that might fit into, say, a large coat pocket. Instead, Jack is about the size of a four-month-old baby.

I'm deeply impressed with the attention to detail in Sandra Polley's pattern. For example, Jack (supposedly inspired by mourning teddy bears created after the Titanic disaster) has the humped back typical of antique teddies. It would have been easier to leave that shaping out, but she didn't.

Of course, if she had I probably wouldn't have bought the book or be making this bear. I've seen a quite a few patterns for stuffed animals and have mentally filed most of them under "Why Bother?" If Jack didn't have a certain amount of interest to him - if he had no potential to be more interesting or attractive than a sock monkey - I'd have done something else.

(I confess that "Why bother?" is and always has been my reaction to any project that advertised itself with disclaimers like "No sewing skills required!" or "Even a child can do it!" I object to the modern fashion of making a virtue of ignorance.

Even a child can do it, indeed. Children can do more than glue popsicle sticks together. Teach them to knit. Or sew. Or bake. Or change spark plugs. Give them a skill that will expand their brains and outlast the dubious pleasures to be found in a stupid kit.)

Other Bear-Related Knitting Projects

I finished up the main part of the Little White Bear Hat (I need a more interesting name for it) on the train. Only ears to make and attach, and a face to embroider.

I was proud of myself, when I lost a stitch marker during the commute, to think of substituting one of the hoop earrings I was wearing. I know that's not an original idea. I'm just proud that I thought of it on the spot. With my sieve-like brain, every small moment of lucidity merits celebration. So hooray for me.

After the Imperialist Bunny Hat, Jack the Teddy Bear, and the Little White Bear Hat, it's time for Buzz's mittens.

It will feel odd to knit something that has no face.

And Please Welcome to the Blogosphere...

My sister Susan, who as it happens inspired me to start blogging with her paper journals.

She's here and off to a good, solid start. As always, I'm gigantically proud and wanted to lead off with this item, but I thought I might embarrass her. And I've done that so frequently over the past several decades.

Now that she has a public forum, of course, I'm sure payback will be hell.

Most Inappropriate Google Return Ever

If you use Google to search for the following:

what should i "wear to lollapalooza?"

Mine is the only link that shows up.

That's like asking Britney Spears what to wear to garden party at Buckingham Palace, or how to spell "cat." She'd have no idea, and when it comes to dressing for Lollapalooza, neither do I.

Okay, I admit it. I am fascinated and often appalled by the ways people use Google to get to my blog.

(And to whoever got here by searching for "anal mints" a couple weeks ago, I'm pretty sure the best solution for your apparent problem area is to try washing it with soap and water.)

Did I Say Cher?

I meant Miss Ross.

If you take a look at my project list in the sidebar, you'll note that the Skully Sweater I started during the winter is getting frogged. I've learned a great deal about knitting since I revved up the needles again last October, and one of them is that a baggy sweater knit with bulky yarn and featuring a garter stitch border is not going to do my fireplug body any favors.

I've never frogged anything quite this big before. And although I did check my helpful little library (Montse Stanley, Maggie Righetti, St. Elizabeth of the Schoolhouse, Debbie Stoller, Mary Thomas, and Persons Unnamed at Vogue) I didn't find much information about frogging. Except that sometimes, you have to do it. Just pull, they suggest, and watch your sweater melt.

So I started ripping back, and it took about four inches for things to get weird.

I made the sweater, obediently following the pattern, using Lamb's Pride bulky. And I find myself (I think) up against the universal truth that mohair - even part mohair - sticks together like a group of Tri-Delts at a Hell's Angels rally.

@$%!

What you would have seen yesterday sprawled on my couch, and would this morning see sprawled on the floor where I threw it, is a giant tangled heap of kinky yarn that looks exactly like Diana's hair in the above photo. At a glance, you'd think she was chilling out at my place, watching The Pallisers and drinking Yoohoo, and forgot to take her wig along when she left.

C says it looks more like I gave King Kong a bikini wax.*

I haven't quite given up yet. This yarn wasn't out of the bargain bin and I do have something else in mind for it, if I can get it unraveled. I want to make myself the Prime Rib Sweater from Zimmerman's The Opinionated Knitter, though mine will be shorter to suit my shape (unlike the model in the book, I have an ass).

Back to Jack

Last night I checked the mail and discovered that those nice people in Canada sent me the bag of joints I ordered, the ones for Jack the Teddy Bear.

(If you got here via google because you're looking to buy medical marijuana from Canada, I apologize.)

I admit to fear and trepidation as I contemplate the sewing and stuffing and assembly. I must also figure out how I'll make it up to C if, after all this, the thing turns out looking like hell.

*He keeps forgetting that I'm the funny one, he's the pretty one. Me, funny. Him, pretty. Not so hard to remember, is it?

Vivat Victoria Regina Imperatrix Cuniculorum

Imperialist Bunny Hat, Completed.
Originally uploaded by panopticon.

The Imperialist Bunny Hat is finished.

I somehow feel as though Elgar should be playing under this photo, don't you?

Embroidering the face was fun, once I came to understand that yarn does not behave exactly like floss.

It took me two tries to get the left eye to lie properly flat, and two tries to make a second eye that matched the first to my satisfaction.

The yearning, goggle-eyed expression is jarringly similar to that which appears on my face when I'm standing in front of the Leica display cabinet at Calumet Camera.

Pattern Erratum

The pattern for this hat, to be found in Stitch 'n' Bitch Nation, is delicious to knit and I recommend it. However it does contain one small error.

See how the headband bulges out in front? The pattern directs one to purl all those stitches. The idea (judging from the photographs) is to create a flat garter stitch border that grows seamlessly from the garter stitch flaps on the back of the hat. To this end, the pattern instructs one to purl all these stitches.

I was four rows into the headband before it occurred to me that when knitting in the round, purling all stitches doesn't give one garter stitch, it gives one reverse stockinette, which curls inward.

Oh, fudge.

I was feeling very stupid about this until I remembered St. Elizabeth Zimmerman's dictum, "It's not a mistake if you know how you did it."

And ultimately I've decided I liked the curled headband so much better than the flat that I'm doing the matching Little White Bear Hat the same way.

I have to cut this short, but do drop in later if you want to find out why it looks like Cher has been hanging around on my sofa.

Everybody in Bunny Hats

The Imperialist Bunny Hat, above, is now finished except for embroidering the face on the crown. I'm looking forward to doing that - I learned to embroider before I ever knit, and this will be the first time I have a chance to combine the two.

While dear Victoria did agree to another modeling assignment, C has suggested that I should consider augmenting my cabinet des mannequins for the sake of variety.

To that end, I offer the following:

Needles or Lenses

I'm making the last pieces of the bunny ears, using Colorado Jon's marvelous suggestion that I cast them on and work them simultaneously on one circular from two balls of yarn. This has at least three benefits:

1. I am guaranteed (as Jon pointed out) two same-sized ears.
2. I feel like I'm only making one, thus avoiding the "make two" nausea.
3. I look like such a fancy, experienced knitter.

Focus, Please


Millenium Park, Chicago, 2004

Meanwhile I've come to a realization, an important one. You can do many things while you knit, but you cannot work a camera. My revitalized interest in knitting is keeping me from working on photography. This will not do.

It wasn't until recently that I realized my lifelong habit of sabotaging myself - of getting to a certain level of proficiency with something, and then dropping it out of (I think) abject fear of rejection and ultimate failure. Usually, I substitute one mania for another. And that's just what I'm in danger of doing.

I've gone further with my camera than I ever did with writing or acting (both of which I have made money at, and considered pursuing as careers). But it's been a long time, too long, since I spent an evening working on prints instead of on knitting projects, or spent a well-lit day out on the move with one or more cameras.

If I'm going to continue to invest time and money in photography, I need to find out if I'm good enough to get my stuff on a wall somewhere. I think it might be. But I need to find out.

Why should I care? Why not just keep it a hobby and chill out?

Because I feel about photography the way Jon, and Marilyn (The Knitting Curmudgeon), and QueerJoe, and Yarn Harlot, and TrickyTricot and so many of you do about knitting. I love it. I get passionate over it. I wish I could do it all the time, every day.

My present occupation does not fill me with joy, nor does it make me passionate. Quite the opposite. Foolish as it may be, I dream about making more of my income - if not all of it - with a camera. And for once in my life, I'm not afraid to try, even if I do wind up looking ridiculous. I just have to know.

Expect, therefore, a little less knitting and lot more photography chatter in here for a while.

But the knitting won't go away, I promise. It, and y'all, are just too much damn fun.

Double Your Pleasure

Silly me. I was having a simply brilliant time working on the bunny hat and then I came to...the ears.

Sir Edwin and Colorado Jon both want to know where the ears are. They're coming, kids, they're coming. You knit them separately and sew them on. It's just that after knitting all those damn double and quadruple parts for the teddy bear, running up against the words "make two" in a pattern has the same effect on my stomach as seeing the words "final notice" on a bill.

I seriously toyed with making this a bunny who's had an unfortunate encounter with a lawn mower or tried to waltz with a vicious dog. But no, mustn't warp the babies' brains just yet. We have plenty of time to do that when they're older.

On the bright side, I admit that I love the way the hat is turning out and the ears aren't really that much to knit. Each has two pieces, and they're so small that I finished a whole ear piece during my morning commute.

Before I go back to doing the work I'm supposed to be doing, I wish to mention that in the wake of yesterday's anti-Victoria controversy, I've felt compelled to rename the Little Pink Bunny Hat. See the list of works in progress in the sidebar.

Pax Victoria

Well, now. The focus of my last post was a pink baby bunny hat. You wouldn't think that would cause an explosion of hate mail, now would you?

It did, because I had the audacity to display the hat on the head of the bust of Queen Victoria that stands on my desk, along with busts of Jane Austen, Puccini, Shakespeare, Dickens, Empress Sisi of Austria, Bach, and Mozart.

Birdfarm and Jon both made comments, perfectly acceptable comments, which mentioned some of the less humane policies enacted by Victoria when she was on the throne. No problem there.

Then there followed the e-mails - sixteen of them - the likes of which I've never received before. For mere possession and display of 18 inches of plaster statuary, I was called a racist, a sexist, an imperialist, and a bigot. Not mention internally homophobic. Mind you, none of my correspondents had the courage to post comments. No, they chose instead to send e-mail so others would not see what they wrote.

I haven't the time or inclination to respond in person to each. A simple post will suffice. And then I consider the subject closed.

Now Hear This

I am well aware that Queen Victoria was in many ways, by modern standards, a cruel and inept leader. (Hard as it may be to imagine, in her own era she was one of the more equitable. Read a little world history, and see for yourself.)

Particularly after the death of the Prince Consort, Victoria's single-minded devotion to what she believed would be Albert's wishes on everything led to conservative and reactionary policies that caused widespread hardship for some of England's domestic subjects and also some of those who inhabited British colonies and territories.

So, Why Do You Have a Bust of Her?

I do not have a bust of Queen Victoria on display in my house because I naively think she is a candidate for sainthood.

I do not have a bust of Queen Victoria on display in my house because I think she was a model ruler, a model mother, or a model anything else.

I have a bust of Queen Victoria on display in my house because, first of all, female rulers - indeed, women in command of any sort of power - are a lifelong source of fascination to me.

Second, I have a bust of Queen Victoria on display in my house because she is the ultimate symbol of a period in history that interests me particularly, from a country whose history has always interested me in general.

Third, I have a bust of Queen Victoria on display in my house because this particular bust, which came from working-class pub in London and has the nicotine stains to prove it, is a little piece of history and I like looking at it.

Fourth, I have a bust of Queen Victoria on display in my house because I need somewhere to put my bunny hats when I photograph them.

History: Good or Bad?

To the writer who feels it is inappropriate to "celebrate" (by which she seems to mean remember) a "bad time in history," I say that history in itself is neither good nor bad. History simply is.

I have no illusions about the British Empire having been a wonderful institution, nor do I wish (as one of you suggests) to see it return. However, why should we pretend it never happened? And why, if we study it, may we only focus on the horrors?

In my considerable reading on this period I've been fascinated by the outpouring of art and literature, by the results of cultures and religions colliding, by technological innovations transforming the world at a breathtaking speed. Victoria reigned during a positively cataclysmic era. Some of what happened was to the betterment of humankind, some of it was dreadful. I want to know about it all.

Victoria vs. Adolf

One of you suggests that for a gay man to display a bust of Victoria is equivalent to a Jewish person hanging up a picture of Adolf Hitler. This is insulting, absurd, and incorrect. Victoria is not generally thought of as a symbol of unadulterated hate. She did not set out to systematically exterminate homosexuals. Victoria's legislation on homosexuality reflected the accepted morals of her day, and was neither especially harsh nor particularly unusual for the time.

We are all in part a product of the time we live in. Had you been alive at the time, the chances you would have been outspokenly "Queer Positive" are pretty slim.

The Unmentionables

Another fellow's suggestion that Victoria should not even be mentioned or taught about in schools because of her less noble qualities is ridiculous. If we are not to study, or even mention, persons who are less than perfect, we shall have nobody to mention or study. Even St. Francis of Assisi had his moments.

To speak of historical women specifically, I've also got a painting of Empress Maria Theresa up in my kitchen. Consider her illustrious career:

• Waged deadly wars to further her own ambitions.
• Used her own children as pawns in international politics.
• Promoted general education for both boys and girls, including musical studies.
• Instituted training and certification for midwives in order to lower the mortality rates for mothers and infants.

Good or bad?

How about Eleanor Roosevelt? She's going up on the wall as soon as I get the proper frame for the photo I bought at the Smithsonian. Amazing woman. One of my idols. A source of endless inspiration. Someone I would give a year off my life to meet. Also largely responsible for beginning welfare programs in rural America that may well have led to a cycle of dependency that continues to this day.

Was she good or bad?

The creation of a list of "unmentionable" topics is stifling to academic freedom and I oppose it vehemently and with all my heart. I am all for reasoned and balanced discourse. I am not for biases that slant in either direction.

You want to live in a world where nobody ever disagrees with you or your views? You shouldn't be at a university. Go found a commune. And good riddance to you.

Feminist, My Ass

And finally, one priceless commentator, who describes herself as an "ardint [sic] feminist," faults Victoria for her flaws as a ruler but doesn't have a problem with Henry VIII because, as a man, his actions were part of his nature. Sorry, honey, but that ain't feminist. Holding women to a higher moral standard was one of the most pernicious aspects of Victorian society, a society in which you would perhaps feel strangely at home. Go lace yourself into a corset and ponder your sins while embroidering "The Lord is My Shepherd" on a cushion. And stop reading my blog.

Discussion's now over on this one, and I mean it.

Back to knitting and photography. Thanks.

Check Out My Bust

Pink Bunny Hat, 50% complete.
Originally uploaded by panopticon.

The little pink bunny hat is proving to be a hoot, not to mention a holler.

I achieved closure on the body last night at some ridiculous hour. While preparing to photograph it lying flat, I realized that the perfect baby hat model was close at hand.

As you can see by the expression on Victoria's face, she was not entirely pleased at being pressed into service. However, when C commented that it makes her look years younger, her disposition improved markedly.

And no, the resemblance to Darth Vader's helmet has not escaped me.

I'm trying to learn something new with every project, and this one has short row shaping and I-cord, both of which are marvelous fun.

I confess it did take me three tries to finally puzzle out exactly what one needs to do to make the I-cord. I'm not sure if this means I'm not enough of an idiot, or way too much of one. The latter, I fear. It would explain a lot.

Excelsior

Hancock Plaza, Chicago, 2003

Like the little bridesmaid above, snapped as she floated up the stairs behind her mama, I progress.

Teddy Bits

I have finished knitting all the components of Jack the Teddy Bear. Glory Hallelujah. After spending a month turning out four arm pieces, four leg pieces, two body pieces, four ear pieces, three head pieces, and two soles, my stamina is an established fact. I don't think I need ever worry about Second Sock Syndrome.

That is, of course, if I ever actually get around to knitting socks.

The World Is Out of Joint

There will now be a slight pause as I await the arrival by mail of the joints for the head and limbs. I had to order them from Canada. (Canada's got it all these days, it seems. Gay marriage. Yarn Harlot. Reasonably-priced medicines. And teddy bear joints.)

There is no place in Chicago that sells them. We haven't got a Michael's anywhere I can get to, and the few remaining sewing shops have cut back to the basics. The Brain Surgeon who answered the phone at the only Joann Fabrics in the city not only said they didn't have them, but asked why I would want to make a teddy bear when I could buy one.

That seemed an odd thing for a woman working at a fabric store to say.

I thought I might find them at this quite large craft shop near my office, an honest-to-God family-owned, non-chain establishment that's been there for years and has some of everything. Unfortunately, finding out meant playing the usual game of "Who's On First?".

Me (to well-meaning Polish saleswoman): Can you tell me please, do you sell safety joints for dolls or teddy bears?

Saleswoman: Teddy bears? Oh. Let me show you, we have kits.

Me: No, I don't need a kit. I only need the safety joints. I'm knitting the teddy bear.

Saleswoman: Knitting? No, you don't want to knit a teddy bear, let me show you kit, it come with everything.

Me (very slowly): No, you don't understand, I have already knitted the teddy bear. I just need the joints in order to assemble it. To put it together.

Saleswoman: I don't think this is possible, to knit a teddy bear. Maybe you would like to make with kit?

Me: I have already knitted it. See? (Showing her leg piece from my knitting bag.)

Saleswoman: This does not look to me like teddy bear. You are sure you know how to knit? Why your girlfriend is not doing for you? She would like the kit maybe?

I'll spare you the rest. After Miss Congeniality left me alone, I did take a look at the kits to see if I could scavenge joints from them, but they were the sort of thing you give to untalented kids to play with on rainy days. You know - pipe cleaners, chenille bumps, and styrofoam balls. Beautiful.

So Butch

On the other hand, said store has jumped on the knitting bandwagon since my last visit (when I was buying gold-leafing supplies) and now has a rather impressive selection of lower-end stuff. Aluminum needles, cheapo yarn, and so forth.

I picked up two gigantic skeins of "baby yarn" (for babies, I presume - not made from babies) and am humming along with presents for Liz and David's twin baby girls. Two hats: one, the pink bunny hat from Stitch 'n' Bitch Nation; the other, a white adaptation of the same made to look like a bear.

I was a picture, I'm sure: sitting at the coffeeshop near my apartment on Saturday morning in old shorts, combat boots, and a red tank top with Caligula on it, knitting a bunny out of fluffy pink yarn.

And Finally

This was such a small thing, but it made me feel good, and I'm writing it down so I won't forget it. I was riding the train home on Friday evening and making speedy progress to the end of the teddy bear's last leg piece.

Before she left the car, a Chinese lady of a Certain Age who had been sitting nearby stood up, came over to me and said, "Young man, you handle those needles very well."

I remember how the Chinese grandmas in Hawaii could knit. I was on a cloud for hours.

I Was Just Curious

I Can't Wait for the Parade

Monday, I was simply puzzled. Tuesday, I began to suspect. Wednesday, it seemed almost certain. Thursday, I prayed it might not be so. By this morning, there was no denying it.

Although I somehow missed the mayoral proclamation, it's Freak Week in Greater Chicago.

Here's my own Freakspotting Diary.

Monday

The enormous number of hungover stragglers stumbling about the neighborhood after International Mr. Leather and Bear Pride made it hard to pick out the full-time resident freaks, but the sight of two 450-pound men lunching alfresco in leather harnesses that must rival the cables on the Brooklyn Bridge for tensile strength was more than sufficient.

Tuesday

The Chicago El (the elevated train I take to work) is always fertile territory for freaks, and the Tuesday morning commute offered a bumper crop. It's hard to single out any for special praise, but I must award points for creativity to the lady who took off her wooden platform shoe after boarding the train at Morse and had a conversation with it all the way to Howard Street.

In the evening, I was sitting in the laundry room of my building knitting while I waited for my wash cycles to finish. I was joined by a man wearing headphones. He put his clothes into the wash and then launched into what I can only describe as a full-blown "American Idol" audition, complete with hip-shaking choreography, an occasional pirouette, and Whitney Houston vocal stylings. He was using his bottle of "Snuggle" as a microphone.

Wednesday

As I was walking from the office to the train, I saw a man sitting at a table outside a restaurant jump up and start following a woman who was passing by. He started yelling, "Did you vote yet? Did you vote yet? Did you vote yet?" She screamed at him to leave her alone, and he immediately shut up and sat down as if nothing had happened. I should mention that no general elections of any kind are taking place in Evanston or Chicago at this time.

Thursday

Between my morning and evening commutes, I saw no fewer than six people fall down on the train platforms or the sidewalks surrounding the stations. They didn't collapse, faint or trip, mind you. They just sort of sat down hard, suddenly. And then got up again. I assume this was a special Freaks Working in Concert performance piece. Bravi tutti.

At the gym in the afternoon, a complete stranger came up to me while I was walking on the treadmill, said to me, "You must be listening to Led Zeppelin," and walked away.

Friday

At Berwyn, a lady got into my train car and sat down near me. I was trying to finish up the latest teddy bear leg and so didn't pay much attention to her until she started having a very loud, angry cell phone conversation with her mother about the color of the curtains (green) her mother is putting up in the living room. This wouldn't have been at all freakish, except that when I looked up from my knitting to give her a "Could you please keep it down?" sort of glare, I saw she didn't actually have a phone.

I wonder if it's too late to book tickets out of town for tonight?

Your Questions, Answered. Or, What The @$%# Is a Panopticon?

Mark and now Mush have both asked what the hell the title of this blog means. Here's the short form.

The original "panopticon" (derived from the Greek for "a device in which everything can be seen") was a design for a model prison, created by the British philosopher Jeremy Bentham (whose theory of Utilitarianism kicked my ass freshman year).

Within the panopticon, prisoners could theoretically be seen at all times in all places by the guard/inspector, whom they could not see. (If you'd like to have a look at the design, and read more, this is a good place to begin.)

What I liked about this as a blog title was the idea that it could be taken two ways:

1. By reading this, you've got me under surveillance. Anybody can see what I write in here, without me knowing they're reading it. (Hi, Mom.)
   
   
2. At the same time, anyone who comes into my view may wind up on display without knowing it–the reverse of the above relationship. Fair is fair.
   

What I also like about this as a blog title was that it makes no references to "rants" or "musings." I try not to do those things in here.

Hearing me rant is the almost exclusive burden of the preternaturally patient C, whom I try to recompense in many and varied ways.

Hearing me muse is the almost exclusive privilege of the little blue man who lives in my head and often tells me to do wicked things.

He says that right now I should go eat a lot of sausage pizza.