Scenes from Rhinebeck V: The Big Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for the first picture of the day:


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

And the second:


Selma and Joe

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

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

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

And then it all begins to blur.

Evidently I did keep taking pictures, albeit sporadically:


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


Lisa and the shawl


Sheep of some sort in the shearing tent

Other golden moments have stuck in my mind:

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

I was happy to record the glorious event for posterity:


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


New best friends

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

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

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

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

Scenes from Rhinebeck IV: Meeting Joe and Thaddeus

In Which I Get Picked Up By a Hot Gay Couple

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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



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

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

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

In Which a Fellow Knitter Saves Me from a Complete Meltdown

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

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

Yarn?

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scenes from Rhinebeck II: Airport Security

In Which I Nearly Moon O'Hare Terminal B

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

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

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

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

Security Guy: Knitting?

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

Security Guy: You're knitting this yourself?

Franklin: Yes.

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

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

Scenes from Rhinebeck: Apologia and Preface

Author's Apologia

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

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

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

Preface

This is how I understand it all started.

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

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

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

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

Now I do.

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

A Personal Knitting Milestone

Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to put before you the completed Rhinebeck Sweater.



The final cuff stitches were worked last night, rather late, and it is further confirmation of C's status as a gold-standard boyfriend that in spite of crushing fatigue he roused himself to say, "Congratulations on finishing your sweater, sweetie."

About 80% of it was made on the Chicago elevated train, including the final end-weaving which took place this morning. I was literally making the final stitch when the lady sitting next to me asked, "Did you make that yourself? Or are you just mending it?"

I told her I had made it, and she told me she is also a knitter and new to Chicago. She made much of the sweater and will, I hope, be able to find the blog so she can read my public thanks for her praise. It was poetic of the Knitting Gods to allow me to finish this project in the presence of another knitter, especially in a most unlikely setting.

Now that it's done, I'm renaming it "Seneca," as the distinguishing feature is the Latin tag that runs all the way around the chest, back, and shoulders.

It reads, starting at the cross just above the right pec:

NULLUM MAGNUM INGENIUM SINE MIXTURA DEMENTIA FUIT SENECA

This translates colloquially as:

There has never been a great talent without an element of madness. - Seneca

If you're just tuning in, the basis for this sweater is Elizabeth Zimmermann's seamless percentage system as put forth in Knitting Without Tears. The yarn is Jo Sharp DK Wool that I picked up from WEBS at Stitches Midwest for a ridiculously low price. I bought a bag of 10 balls and used a bit less than nine of the main color, and about 1/2 ball of the second color.

There are quite a few surprises for me in the finished product, but these are my favorites. Smack in the center of the chest, as though I had planned it, is the word MAGNUM:



In the context of the tag, this is the adjective "large" or "great." In Latin, however, the "magnum" on its own can also be a noun meaning literally, "big thing."

And what word is centered on the back?



I need not translate, I'm sure.

I dealt with the flippy/flaring hem issue by picking up stitches around the bottom and knitting downwards, decreasing 20% and using what I suppose you could call and haphazard various on moss stitch. I didn't work in strict knit/purl alternation, but went at it randomly. I didn't want a recognizable pattern, I just wanted something that wouldn't curl up.

I had never seen a sweater before that had a single sentence running around it, and now I understand why. It was a headache to chart (it took me six hours), a bitch to work, and in a commercial pattern would be a nightmare to translate for different sizes. It is, in effect, a 248-stitch single-repeat pattern with no rhythm to it at all.

So there you have it, my first sweater.

It's not exactly what I envisioned. It gave me far more trouble than I expected and in ways I never anticipated. On more than one occasion I wanted to chuck the whole damned thing out the window. But it's mine, I made it, and the end result is eccentric but serviceable. I love it in spite of its many flaws.

Which is probably sort of how my parents feel about me.

Something for the Boys

With Rhinebeck looming (a pun, ha ha) my schedule is getting very tight, but I've managed to add one more design to the shop, available on shirts and two styles of bag. [Late addition: It's on a coffee mug now, too. Without the caption, it fit very nicely indeed.]

[Much later addition: it's on women's clothes as well.]


If you want to see a larger version, click this one.

For the time being, I'm only putting it on men's clothes. Even with Adam's goodies covered up by a ball of worsted this just didn't strike me as being unisex. If I'm wrong about that, I have a feeling y'all will let me know.

Somebody asked if it's okay with me if images get lifted from my blog and used elsewhere in non-profit settings. While I know perfectly well I can't stop you, I'd rather you didn't, please. The little daily cartoons are one thing - if you want to stick them in your personal blog and give me credit and a link, that's perfectly cool. But the stuff that goes on sale in the shop is a different matter.

I work very hard on these, silly as they are, and they are subject to copyright laws. (No, I don't hold the copyright on the Sistine Chapel, but I do hold the copyright on my designs, drawings, and photographs.)

This being the Internet, all I do is hope you'll be nice and consider the laws of karma before you right-click.

Rhinebeck Schedule

Coming to Rhinebeck? Wanna say hi? Please do. Check out QueerJoe's blog for information about when I'll be there, and where. I plan to follow my guides and hosts around obediently and try not to say anything too stupid.

I also checked with the landlords and confirmed that sheep, however small they may be, are strictly prohibited under the terms of my lease. Poop.

Mailbag

One of my boss's favorite sayings is "A successful child has many parents." (This is how he justifies the upper management's annoying habit of taking credit for my work.) When the Rhinebeck sweater is finished, it will be thanks in large part to the helpful advice and encouragement I've received from all of you.

Roggey and Judy Foldi wrote in and outed themselves as fellow fans of British historical TV series.

Judy asked if I'd seen The Pallisers. You betcha, Judy. Love it. I own the first series on DVD and am making my way through the others thanks to the kind people at Netflix. It's especially fun watching the original Forstye Saga (the peerless black-and-white version) and The Pallisers in alternation, in order to enjoy Susan Hampshire playing a sunny, frivolous idiot in the latter and a sunny, frivolous bitch in the former.

Dead Scanner = No Cartoon

Ah, such timing.

My scanners (work and home) have completely given up the ghost, which means this happy, happy day will get no triumphant cartoon however much I feel it may deserve one.

The Rhinebeck sweater underarms are woven/grafted/kitchenered/freakin' finished.

They look good, if I may say so myself. I did the first one in about 10 minutes, and the second in about five. The joyful little dance that followed lasted about twenty, with a brief pause for chocolate milk. I may have even shouted "Wheeee." Perhaps I should get out more.

I'm almost done with sleeve cuff the first, and expect to finish it tonight and begin sleeve cuff the second. Second and last. I'm so glad I'm not an octopus.

Then: blocking. Because my life isn't full of enough exciting new experiences right this minute.

Of course, I've just read the essay in Yarn Harlot's new book about the sweater that, when it got wet, suddenly began to spread and grow like a fungus in the warm summer rain. May I ask, please, if anybody has had anything of the sort happen with Jo Sharp DK Wool? If so, maybe I'll just try to shake all the cookie crumbs out of it and call it a day.

Assuming that it, and I, survive the blocking process, there will be pictures just before I take off for Rhinebeck.

Just Keep Breathing...

This is my mantra as I work on the underarm weaving.

It also relates to the first cartoon to hit the shop. I've put it on a bag and on shirts, and a mug has also been suggested. Sounds good to me, though I won't be able to make that happen this weekend.

Joy of joys, I get to work at a football tailgate this morning. I get to check IDs at the beer garden. The university refers to this as "other duties as assigned." My four least favorite words in the English language when thus strung together. What they really mean is, "We can make you do anything we want, no matter how humiliating, ridiculous, or inappropriate."

Breathing. Deep breathing. Ommmmmmmm.

Captain Shortguy Vs. Weavezilla

Who will win? Tune in next week to find out!

Today's cartoon is dedicated to hot mama Colleen, who caused a copy of Interweave's facsimile reissue of Weldon's Practical Needlework to be deposited in my mailbox. It is so gorgeous that the minute I took it out of the wrapper I had to excuse myself to be alone with it. My dear, the idea of knitting a shawl from an 1880s pattern thrills me through and through and I will name the first one after you.

And my heartiest thanks to all of you for the advice on places to look for guidance on kitchener. I've gone two rounds with the first seam, and came within one stitch of perfection the second time. I find the process isn't hard, no. The problem lies in getting distracted while I'm working on it, and then forgetting what I just did to which stitch. I can usually figure it out. Usually. The one time I didn't, the sweater won.

But I'll be damned if a pile of wool is going to take me down. Vincerò!

Join The Glee Club

I would like to mention that C, a veteran blogger who has been on a long hiatus, has begun a new blog. Go read it and you will likely fall in love with him, too. (Hands off, though, or you're in for a world of hurt, capisce?)

New Shirt

There's another new design in the shop. It's not a cartoon, but I hope y'all will like it. The cartoons are taking a while because, well, making something by hand takes longer. If you read this blog, it's a situation you understand.

I am deeply distressed to learn that Cafe Press is low on plus sizes. I hate that. I'm going to see what I can do to remedy it.

Meanwhile, I'm Knitting

Sweater News

The Rhinebeck sweater isn't done yet, but we're getting there.

The collar is finished and now fits over my pointy little head. The hem has been completely redone and doesn't flip or flare (I'll tell you what I did in another post).

Then two nights ago I sat down, slid another episode of the original Forsyte Saga into the player (Fleur Forsyte, you are a conniving bitch, but I cannot look away) and wove in all the ends.

Talk about maximum result for minimum effort. It only took me about an hour, but when I was finished the sweater seemed to have taken a giant leap towards completion.

Encouraged by this, I did what I should not have done. I tried something new, when I ought to have shut the lights out and gone to bed.

The underarm stitches had been patiently hanging around on waste yarn since I'd put them there weeks ago. I slid those on the right side onto two needles, propped up Knitting Without Tears on the work table and decided this would be the perfect time to learn stockinette weaving.

Do I even need to tell you what happened next? No, I didn't think so.

Happily, the Jo Sharp wool I'm using is quite soft, so the living room window didn't break when the sweater hit it.

There's no photo. I can't even draw you a picture. It's too painful to recall. Though not as painful as undoing the screwy weaving and putting 40 stitches back on the needles again, dropping two for every one that gave no trouble.

[Note to Kathy Merrick: at this point I am so grateful to my crochet hook just for being there that I think I may need to learn to crochet out of sheer gratitude.]

The sweater and I will reconvene tonight (early) to revisit the matter of underarm weaving. I shall be armed with the video demonstration of Elizabeth Zimmerman weaving (thanks, Greg!), Montse Stanley, the Vogue Knitting Reference, and Mary Thomas. And it is going to work, or this time I'm throwing the sweater at the window again, but this time the window is going to be open.

Lace Report

If you had told me back during the "Branching Out" era that I would some day knit lace to relax, I would have said you were nuts.

But that's what I'm doing. Granted, we're talking dreadfully simple lace, knitted with sock yarn (Nature Spun, I think) on US 2 3/4 Inox needles.

Here's a picture:



I know, I know. It's not much. There's no plan for it, even. I'm just making a sampler using stitch patterns I learned in my classes at Stitches Midwest. When I get tired of working a pattern, I knit a few plain rows and do a different one.

Perhaps I will call this the "Fear of Commitment" stole.

Along the bottom is the Estonian "Peacock" pattern, with the "Twig" pattern running up both sides above. In the middle is "Chain Hearts," which comes from Orenburg, in a field of garter stitch. Above all of that, in progress, is the Estonian "Leaf" pattern (no nupps).

This is what I've been doing on the train morning and evening, and loving it. I'll keep knitting it until I get sick of it or run out of yarn, then bind it off and use it to practice blocking. It's too wide to be a scarf, so I'm calling it a stole.

Stole, scarf, table runner, antimacassar–whatever. All I know is it has no neckline and no underarms, and right now that's enough for me, baby.

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.

Tricky and Franklin: A Correspondence

What follows has been abridged and edited for clarity, but it's mostly real.

I've submitted an article to the new online men's knitting magazine being put together over at menknit.net. My editor? None other than Tricky Tricot. Ain't it a small world?

(Oh, and before I forget: new women's shirt in the shop. Cartoon shirt designs to follow. Plus a knitting bag.)

---

FR: Tricky
TO: Franklin
DT: 28 Sept 2005, 15:38:51
SUBJECT: Menknit Submission

I may have neglected to mention I need a short bio from you as well as a photo to include with the mag (it's coming, it's coming!). Can you send this ASAP?

---

[Franklin then sent a message inquiring about specs for the photo, which is here omitted.]

---

FR: Tricky
TO: Franklin
DT: 29 Sept 2005, 11:59:15
SUBJECT: Re: Photo and bio questions

Um, just send us a hi-res color jpeg of your face/head. Remember - millions of men will be looking at you asking, "Is he single?"

Don't go too wild on the bio - I don't want to hear about eating brioche as a child, or this one time at band camp. I need like a 100 words max.

---

FR: Franklin
TO: Tricky
DT: 30 Sept 2005, 06:04:27
SUBJECT: My bio

How's this:

Franklin Habit (www.franklinhabit.com) is a photographer, designer and knitter who lives in Chicago, Illinois.

---

FR: Tricky
TO: Franklin
DT: 30 Sept 2005, 06:14:32
SUBJECT: Re: My bio

I'll take it - though if I had known you were going to be so brief, I would have allowed some brioche.

---

FR: Franklin
TO: Tricky
DT: 30 Sept 2005, 6:16:00
SUBJECT: Re: My bio

Franklin Habit (www.franklinhabit.com) is a photographer, designer and knitter who lives in Chicago, Illinois. He rarely, if ever, eats brioche.

---

FR: Tricky
TO: Franklin
DT: 30 Sept 2005, 6:24:43
SUBJECT: Re: My bio

better.

---

FR: Franklin
TO: Tricky
DT: 30 Sept 2005, 6:37:25
SUBJECT: Re: My bio

Franklin Habit (www.franklinhabit.com) is a photographer, designer and knitter who lives in Chicago, Illinois. He rarely, if ever, eats brioche, because as a very small child he lost both parents in a freak baking accident, and ever since has associated the smell of yeast and the sight of traditional French pastries with loss and tragedy. This prevented him from taking over the generations-old family business (Crust and Company, LLC) and instead forced him to pursue what appeared to all outsiders to be the luxurious, devil-may-care lifestyle of a rich, young, and fantastically good-looking orphan. A society obsessed with celebrity eagerly awaited news of his latest exploits via the tabloids, various fan sites, and of course his critically-acclaimed MTV reality show "Oh, That Frankin!"

Who could know that behind the glamour, the fame, the adulation of millions was a shy, lonely boy who fought crime wearing a fetching mask-and-leotard ensemble under the pseudonym Captain Shortguy? Yes, apprenticeships with the keenest masters of martial arts, weapons design, pyrotechnics, aeronautics and data mining had turned him into an unstoppable crime-fighting machine, a force for justice, defender of the downtrodden, symbol of hope to millions of poor and underprivileged.

In his spare time, Franklin also enjoys fishing, batik, and four-way bargello. But he absolutely never eats brioche.

---

FR: Tricky
TO: Franklin
DT: 30 Sept 2005, 7:01:09
SUBJECT: Re: My bio

Do you really want me to print this? I could make room...

---

FR: Franklin
TO: Tricky
DT: 30 Sept 2005, 7:32:43
SUBJECT: Re: My bio

Um, no, we'd better not. I made up some of it.

(I'm only a symbol of hope to hundreds of thousands of people, not millions. One would hate to be accused of exaggerating.)

In Which I Meet Many Delightful Knitters, One of Them Quite Famous

One of the reasons rant and screed blogs have proliferated is that superlatives make for dull reading. Misery loves company, and folks slogging through a typical American work day of endless meetings, routine humiliation, and painstaking labor without tangible result cannot be blamed if they'd rather not read about the perfectly wonderful time somebody else is having.

If that's the mood you're in today, you might want to skip this entry. Not that I generally corner the market on Blog Bitchery, but this report is going to be obnoxiously sunny. Allow me to get it out of my system. Tune in tomorrow, and things will be back to normal.

On Saturday, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee (she is who is known as Yarn Harlot) made her first visit to Chicago. While I'm not one to get weak-kneed and slobbery over famous knitters in general (okay, Nancy Bush is an exception), I find Stephanie's work to be rock-solid and deeply funny, and I wear my Harlot Fan Club Secret Decoder Ring with pride.

She was scheduled to appear at Arcadia Knitting, which is one of my two favorite yarn shops in the city. (From my very first visit, they've never given me attitude. Quite the contrary. I recommend them to all knitters in Chicago, particularly men who are tired of second-class treatment.)

I stopped by early and, in addition to accidentally buying Gladys Thompson's Patterns for Jerseys, Guernseys and Arans and a skein of Lorna's Laces (oops), I also asked whether they had a photographer hired for the event. They didn't. I offered to be It. They accepted.

[Insert little shout of joy here.]

On the way back to the shop around 3 pm (with Harlot due to arrive at 4) I was delighted to step into the subway car and see somebody knitting a (really cute) sock. As a rule, I won't approach a knitter on the subway (or anywhere else) as it's best in the city to leave people alone if you have no compelling reason to bug them. But happily, as we sat on the Lawrence bus heading to the shop she introduced herself - it was Melissa, who you probably know better as The Stitchin' Seminarian.

The shop was already buzzing and I swung into action. Being the photographer at an event like this is marvelous for a shy person because you cannot sit in a dim corner and pretend you're invisible. I started photographing groups of knitters and asking where they'd come from. As expected Harlot's appearance had drawn in not only knitters from the suburbs, but also folks from Minnesota, Michigan, and Indiana.

My first big surprise was how many people recognized me from this blog and introduced themselves. I will not pretend it wasn't gratifying. When I started writing this thing, I did it as a way to motivate myself to keep projects moving and record daily minutiae. At Stitches, I met in person two people (one of them Jon) who read it, and that felt wonderful. On Saturday, at least 20 people had a kind comment to share, and I nearly hit the ceiling.

I was already floating around on a cloud when Harlot showed up. It's difficult to write about her and say anything new, as the 12,493 other bloggers who met her first have it pretty much covered. My summary:

• Yes, she really is that funny. By the time she wrapped up her Q & A and began signing books, I'd laughed so hard and so much that my face hurt.
  
  
• She has no pretense about her at all. She took Chicago public transit to the shop, for heaven's sake. I know people who live here who wouldn't have done that.
  
  
• She has the patience of a saint. There had to be 80-100 people who lined up for autographs. I was standing there for much of the time taking photographs, and she gave every person her undivided attention.
  

As I was shooting for the shop, they get dibs on most of my photographs for their Web site, but I'll post a select few here that are of purely personal interest.

Here's Emily, who wouldn't you know turns out to be the sister of Tres and a heck of a fun person?



Harlot with Melody, who has one of the most infectious laughs you've ever heard:



And this is Melissa (my fellow public transit rider), who (how meta is this) having her picture taken for her own blog.



And this is Jen (also seen above taking Melissa's picture), the dear woman who designed the bunny hat, and was very nice to me even though I made my version in acrylic.



If the day had ended with the signing, I would have gone home to C bubbling with stuff to tell him. But it did not end there.

Because as things were wrapping up, Bonne Marie (my dear, you are stunning, how did you manage to avoid getting into any of my photographs? hmmm?) asked me if I would like to join Stephanie, the owners of Arcadia, and a few other people for dinner.

Oh, gee. Let me think about that for a little while.

It was heady company for a guy who only got down to knitting in earnest in January. But everybody else was drinking, so I may have given the impression that I held up my end of the conversation.

Before you start thinking it was all very serious, I should also mention that after dinner Stephanie took off her shoes and I took off my boots and we stood back-to-back to see which of us is the shorter person. (She is. But not by much. And I would kill for her waistline.)

In the absolute final picture of the day, proof I didn't make all this up just to piss you off.



Stephanie's the one in the middle. The pretty lady in black is Kathy, one of the owners of Arcadia. I'm the one with no hair and the Cinderella-at-the-Friggin-Ball grin on my face.

(Dear God: Remember that awful eighth-grade Halloween dance when I was 13 and had acne and my haircut sucked and none of the girls would dance with me and I spent most of the evening stuck in the corner listening to a classmate I didn't even like talk about his Star Wars action figures, and then went home, realized my zipper had been open the whole time and cried myself to sleep? Well, you finally made up for it. Thank you.)

*Late addition. I can't believe I forgot to give shout-outs to two people. Marcy, who brought you the Lil' Devil baby pants in from the Stitch 'n' Bitch series; and Stephanie's publicist, Sarah, who also braved the Chicago El without losing her hair and who remembered the little review of the first Harlot book that I wrote way back when. Saturday was a gathering of right-on women. I was fortunate to be there.

Benefits of Blogging

Work continues to be a pain in the tuchus. But we will not muddy a lovely fall evening with chatter about that.

Scribble, Scribble

I think it's grand that you've been enjoying the little cartoons, because I like making them. As Birdfarm will tell you, I drew incessantly through college, which explains the marks I got on some of my papers. (She's no slouch in the sketching department, either. Some of her letters to me resemble the Book of Kells in terms of exuberant decoration. I will have to pull some out of safekeeping and post them.)

And yes indeed, even before you so kindly asked I had determined to work up a couple of knitting cartoon shirt designs. I have been working on them tonight. I'll let you know via the blog when they're ready.

There will also (thank you for asking, Linda) be a woman's version of the "Don't mess with..." shirt, as nobody ought to mess with a knitter of either gender, if you ask me.

Joanne is among those who have suggested a book of cartoons. I'm not ruling it out, though my puzzle at the moment would be turning the little I know about knitting into enough funny stuff to make it work. But we shall see.

Advice

I am completely floored by the quality and variety of suggestions for dealing with the recalcitrant lower edge of my sweater. I'm going to devote time this weekend to deciding which course to pursue. This is for Greg, Jove, Sir Edwin Pegasus, June, Selma, Kathy, Dianna, Irv, Uncle Joey, Anonymous (2), Margie, Marilyn, Lee Ann, Sean, Sahara, and Joe, who weighed in with suggestions. And it's also for all of you who just chimed in with sympathy, because sometimes that's just as good.

Good grief, I hope I didn't miss anybody. It's dreadfully late as I write this and my eyes are a bit wonky.

Recommended Reading

Sahara, who writes with authority and style, has just published the best blog entry on construction and finishing I've ever read. Go read it, particularly if you're a newbie like me.

I also found Jean Miles' words (part of a blog dialogue with Obscure) on lace knitting very inspiring. I've become very enamored of knitting lace but felt guilty about it because I can't use it after I knit it. I'm a combat-boots sort of guy, so mantillas and fichus are not going to blend readily into my wardrobe. And neither my mother nor my sister, the only women I have to knit for, are given to gadding about draped in shawls.

Then I read that Jean, a woman who has turned out enough lace singlehandedly to give Belgium a run for its money, finds herself in the same quandary. And she simply decided to go ahead and make lace because it is beautiful.

Ars gratia artis. With my fondness for Latin tags, you'd think I might have remembered that one.


Even boys can dream about lace.

Knitting Life, An Update

Sorry about the teeny-weeny, sporadic posts. We've just gone through a gigantic crunch period at work and for me, as Web dude, it's not completely over yet.

But does this mean I have not been knitting? Oh, mais non!

Bedside Reading

In preparing my article for the menknit.net magazine, I need biographical information about Mary Thomas (she of the Knitting Book and Book of Knitting Patterns) and the only source anyone (even Marilyn) could come up with was Richard Rutt's History of Hand Knitting. I ordered a miraculously inexpensive copy from Powell's in Seattle but had to set it aside unread, except for the Mrs. Thomas passages, until the past few days.

Now I'm devouring it.



I'm a sucker for history, and this is history plus knitting patterns. Not whole patterns, mind you, mostly just colorwork patterns from old (in some cases very old, as in ancient Egypt) sources. But I am, and forever have been, enamored of making new things (food and photographs mostly) using historical sources and/or materials.

Man vs. Sweater, Round Two: The Neckline

Not long after the evening I did the sweater dance, I arrived at the neckline. Mind you, I've been reading Elizabeth Zimmerman on a daily basis for months. Even though this is my first sweater, her directions are burned into my brain and I can say with confidence that I followed them exactly.

So when I got to the neckline, and had finished the decreases precisely as directed and was left with 100 stitches for the border, it seemed wrong to me. After all, her standard percentage for the neckline is about 40%, and 100 was well over that amount.

So I tried it on (placing it on waste yarn) and sure enough, the top was open enough that it slipped right off one shoulder. I looked like one of the Go-Gos.

So, as dear Mrs. Zimmerman is mum on specific suggestions but does encourage one to think and then act, I figured out the 40% and did a few more decrease rounds until I had that many stitches left, and it looked peachy. I worked the collar in 2x2 rib for about an inch and then tried it on.



Sort of.

Although the sweater was dilated 10 centimeters, I was the one who was ready for an epidural.

This round does have a happy ending, though. You may, if you've been reading this for a while, remember that I had a fear of ripping. On this night, determined I was not going to sleep until the [expletive] collar went over my [expletive] head, I ripped. I ripped with gusto. And I did it over.

And I won.

Man vs. Sweater, Round Three: Help?

For the hemline, I worked with the combined assistance of Maggie Righetti and Elizabeth Zimmerman. I picked up stitches, I used smaller needles, I decreased 10 percent. I did it all just like I was supposed to.

And I know have a hemline that flips up where the hem stitches are sewn to the sweater body. And yes, I sewed them loosely. I worked the hem on Susan's toque the same way and didn't have the flipping.

And I also have this going on:



From the front, the sweater looks perfect. It fits better than any sweater I've ever owned. At the back, it flares. I am, in a word, pissed. On the videotape Greg leant me, Elizabeth Zimmerman does say to begin the sweater with 10% fewer stitches and increase to full width. However, she does not say to do this in Knitting Without Tears and by the time I saw the video I was already halfway up the body.

I figured the decrease in the hem would deal with the flare. Obviously, I was wrong.

The flipping, flaring hem needs to be dealt with. Here is the best solution I can puzzle out. It's not perfect, but I want desperately to save this project. I figure I should:

1. Get rid of the current hem.
2. Pick up stitches around the bottom and knit down, working in a 10% or 20% decrease in 2x2 ribbing

I don't love this solution, though, because:

1. The length of the body at present (when the hem isn't flipping up) is perfect. I mean, so perfect it almost made me cry. I am a short guy, with a short waist, and this is the first sweater I have ever put on that doesn't hang too low and bunch up over my Italian rococo posterior. So I don't want to make it longer, though an extra inch or two wouldn't kill me I suppose.
   
   
2. I didn't want to rib the bottom. I wanted the bottom to be flat, with a hem. Dammit.

So, all you gurus out there: what's your advice? I need some, and I need it quick. Rhinebeck approacheth. Ack.

Yarn Storage

Thanks to everyone who weighed in with solutions to the pile of yarn that is beginning to ooze out from behind the sofa. When I hear about rooms, rooms full of yarn, I blanch. Mind you, this is not and never will be an option for a city dweller of limited means. But I think between some cute little bins from Target and a shelf I've just moved into the end of the bedroom we euphemistically call the "office," I should be set for a little while.

When that shelf is full, I may begin colonizing the space outside the freight elevator. Nobody else is using it. Finder's keepers.

And Before I Forget to Mention It

The t-shirt I made for Colorado Jon as a Stitches present is now available for purchase through my new little shop. There will be other designs very soon, including some for women and some for either sex. We're all about equal opportunity here at The Panopticon.

Tidal Wave on the Fifteenth Floor

A mysterious parcel arrived from Denver which, when opened, it threatened to swamp the place, thus:



Poor, put-upon Victoria. All those years of being smothered by smoke in London pub, and now she lives in Chicago in mortal peril from flood tides of yarn. This is no way for a queen to live. And believe me, I should know.

We got Rowan Cork, we got Kidsilk Haze, we got Jo Sharp DK Aran in exactly the colors I needed to complete the line-up for Susan's wrap. We got enough yarn here to necessitate the buying of storage bins because chucking everything behind the sofa in bags is no longer working. I am knitting as fast as I can, yet the pile grows higher.

Very odd, encountering Lady Bountiful in the guise of a guy from Colorado. Isn't the knitting world strange?

Messieurs-dames, je vous presente...

my Web site.

www.franklinhabit.com

This is what we call a "soft launch" - meaning a great deal of work remains to be done, most of it to do with posting the remaining portfolios and shuffling about the ones that are there.

I'm doing this because I know myself well enough to realize that if I continue to hold the launch until the site is in a state of pristine finish, nobody will ever see it except my family.

If you visit, I promise you won't encounter any little animated "under construction" banners.

Coming on Monday...

More knitting!

At work, we're in the throes of reunions right now, which means even though I'm a web design person, I am being called out of the attic to lend a hand in fetching and carrying and kowtowing and bootlicking* and all the other fun stuff that is foisted upon the professional staff.

This means very little personal time for me, which means you have to wait until Monday to see the perfectly splendid gift (I will not call it an RAOK - nothing this lovely happens randomly) bestowed on me by a certain Mile High blogger.

You'll also (I think) get the first photos of the Rhinebeck Sweater in something akin to a finished state. I picked up the stitches for the body hem last night, and would raise a great fuss about it were it not for the example of people like Jean Miles, who pick up 850 laces stitches as though it were child's play.

Now do please go play with my Web site. Just mind the paint, some of it is still wet.

*Not the fun kind. We don't have stuff like that at reunions. If only.

Man vs. Sweater

On Monday night I was sitting in my favorite chair, placidly knitting away on the Rhinebeck Sweater and watching an episode of To the Manor Born.



In the middle of a shoulder decrease row I was seized with the sudden urge to try the sweater on and see how it was shaping up.



Normally, of course, I'd have picked up some waste yarn and moved the stitches onto it before doing a fitting. But that night I was feeling confident and experienced and devil-may-care and all those other things you feel just before your project Goes Terribly Wrong.

One rogue part of my brain, the same part that back in 1974 accepted a nursery school dare to see what would happen if I stuck a rock up my nose, decided it would be easier to just leave the sweater on the needle and try it on that way.

It was all going fine, and then:



Shades of Pooh, stuck in Rabbit's front door. No matter. I'd simply shrug it off and go on with my knitting.



Just...a little...shrug...



No good. Maybe a little maneuver we like to call the "Martha Graham."



Or did I mean Bob Fosse?



My contortions, while increasingly extreme, were perhaps not without an occasional grace note.



Was this how Mummenschanz began?

After several minutes without progress, emotions became somewhat heated.



And then at last:



Ahhh. Sweet victory. Man 1, Sweater 0.

On Tuesday morning, by the way, it rained. Coincidence? I think not.

Where Did the Last Post Go?

I deleted it, for two reasons.

The first: career rants bore everyone, including me.

The second: discretion is the better part of valor.

Not to mention that it's far more effective to actually post a résumé than merely to announce one is going to do so.

I am reminded of the reason I don't post on the fly from the office. Much better to write the night before and consider, consider.

And now for some nuns.


Passau Cathedral, 2004

Memo

I'm cheating a little. I wrote this last fall after an encounter with three sets of parents in a row who drove me right up the wall. Yesterday, an encounter on the way home from work reminded me why I wrote it.

The years roll by, but the students (and their parents) change not.

Handy Info for New Students and Their Parents

1. Contrary to appearances, I am not a member of the janitorial or groundskeeping staffs. I know this will come as a shock to you, as your sheltered life in the upper Midwest leads to you believe all persons less white than a bar of Ivory soap arrived yesterday from Mexico or Africa and aspire to careers in leaf blowing. But you're in the big city now. So try to adapt. (And by the way, don't talk to the janitors or gardeners that way, either.)

2. Yes, thank you, I do speak excellent English. I can write it, too! Isn't a Harvard education a wonderful thing?

3. No, I am not looking at your daughter like that. Now that you've pointed her out, I do question your wisdom at letting her wear an ill-fitting belly shirt and droopy sweat pants with the name of the school written across the seat. If one's ass is wide enough to serve as a billboard for the lengthy name of a prominent university, one should probably not emphasize it.

4. Yes, I am gay. No, I'm not the first one you've ever seen. I may, however, be the first one you've seen who isn't married (possibly to your wife) and lying about it.

5. I'm not looking at your son that way, either. He should be so lucky.

6. I arrived at college with a steamer trunk, five boxes of books, and a suitcase. It is not my fault that your child could not travel as lightly. If you require help in carrying your kid's Disney Princess bidet up five flights of stairs, don't hesitate to ask for assistance. From somebody else.

7. Here in Chicago we are fond of the concept of "walking distance." The space between Point A to Point B, if it can be covered in roughly five minutes or less, is "walking distance." If you insist on driving your Hummer the three blocks from your hotel to the dormitory and then cannot find any place to park, don't look to me for sympathy.

8. There is no McDonald's in the neighborhood. No, seriously. You may have to try eating actual food for lunch. I'm terribly sorry. Please stop crying.

9. For the student. If you are going to ask me a question, please do the following first. 1) Take the earphones out of your ears. 2) Hang up the cell phone. 3) Stop text messaging your best friend Caitlin at Michigan State. What's that you say? Multitasking? Well, I can multitask, too. I can write a memo, get my job done, and ignore your rude ass all at the same time.

10. For the parents. News flash: Within 24 hours of your departure, your little darling will either have gotten profoundly drunk or participated in an orgy. Or more likely done both simultaneously. We call this "multitasking."

Welcome to the University! Have a pleasant year!

Knitting Is the New Mental Jujitsu

Last night I worked mostly on the Web site but also accomplished two things with the sweater.

1. The body and sleeve are now joined into one piece on the large circular needle.
   
   
2. I finished the chart for the thing I'm going with the chest.

Is it just me, or does a seamless sweater feel miserably unstable until you've got about four rounds completed following the joins? I was in mortal terror of stretching or breaking the joining stitches, especially while working that first round.

The charting process was such a good mental workout. I have never, to put it mildly, been fond of mathematics (Mom! Dad! Remember all the fun with long division?) so I was surprised to find myself feeling invigorated by the rigors of calculating and adjusting, calculating and adjusting.

All told, I think it took four hours to finish the chart. To my great surprise, it bears a family resemblance to what I had in mind. Now all I have to do is knit from it.

With all this extra work, my housekeeping has gone straight to hell this week, but I'm trying not to let it bother me. C keeps showing up and hasn't made any Grey Gardens jokes yet, so perhaps the situation is worse in my head than in reality.

Gee, that would be a first.

Sneak Preview

Moi, Dot Com


Coming soon to a browser near you.

Since I'm sure you haven't been able to sleep wondering what it will look like, here's a screen grab of my embryonic Web site. The design is final, but the page contents are not.

What remains is to prepare the images and build the pages. I am hoping for a launch some time next week. No, it don't look like much right now. Just you wait.

Point Well Taken

I've received so much encouragement from those of you who read my blog, and I've soaked up every word like a sponge. One recent comment really made me stop and think. This was from QueerJoe, in his characteristic tell-it-like-it-is tone:

"I'm convinced that success in the world of art is much more about marketing and balls than about talent. How many incredible artists do you know who have no exposure whatsoever?"

Joe's right. I've known this was true in the back of my mind for years. After all, for the length of recorded history (and possibly longer) art and commerce have been inseparably linked. The propagation of a good reputation was vital to survival for Rubens, Titian and Rembrandt and that's still the case today, unless one wants to be an "outsider artist." (I don't.)

And of course, the reverse is also true. I can think of dozens of artists in all media who have no talent or skill whatever,* yet who have been pumped into prominence through the power of aggressive marketing.

This comment reminded me why I'm busting my ass putting all this stuff together. I may not have the best camera or the best eye, but I'll be damned if I'm going to miss an opportunity because I don't have promotional materials that are the best they I can make them. Twelve years of work in marketing and PR has got to benefit me in some way sooner or later.

Sweater News

Last night, I finished sleeve two of the Rhinebeck sweater, and tonight the two sleeves and the body get joined together in preparation for the final march to the collar.

You won't see any more photos of the sweater until it's done. I'm doing some stuff with it that I have never seen done before, and I'd like to keep the design sub rosa until it's complete. Nothing is new in knitting, but this is weird enough that if it works, it may at least be fairly unusual.

Of course, if something goes wrong you can bet you'll read about it here.

*Sorry, Britney. It's not my fault you were put on this earth solely to demonstrate that P.T. Barnum was right. Although judging from your record sales, we're now up to two or three every minute.

Excelsior!

I've been a busy boy. I'm going to continue to be busy, which probably means the luxury of long posts will not be one I can afford for a little while. But it's good busy. Really good.

Photography first:

1. The Danube porfolio is finished. All prints printed, mounted, captioned.
   
   
2. I have a Web site and a domain name. The site is far from ready to launch, although the basic design is complete. I'm facing the formidable task of readying about 50 photos for online display, and also putting together the first view of the portrait project. Now that I have the domain name, I can finally get my business cards printed.
   
   
3. I schmoozed a little. My neighborhood's Chamber of Commerce sponsored a fairly large art fair this weekend, running right down the busiest part of Broadway (one of our two main arteries - the other being the famous Halsted Street, which sports several dozen gay clubs). I spoke to a nice woman at the Chamber's tent about exhibiting next year. Just doing that took all my gumption. She asked me, "Are you an artist?" and I said, "Yes." That was the first time I've ever said that, instead of giving my standard reply, "No–just a devoted amateur."
   
   
4. I realized that I no longer hate my own work. C and I meandered through the stuff on display and for once I didn't look at all of it and think, that's so much better than what I do. I won't say I'm satisfied with myself. I never will be. I don't think anybody who does anything creative ever should be "satisfied." But I don't think my stuff is entirely without merit or completely derivative, either. (You are welcome to think so, of course. That's your prerogative.)
   

Now knitting:

1. The first sleeve of the Rhinebeck sweater is finished. I frogged back about five rows. No big deal.
   
   
2. The second sleeve is 3/4 finished. Much smoother sailing than the first one. Most happily, they match.
   
   
3. I like the new Knitty. Probably the best yet. I won't offer my opinions on particular designs. Visit the usual suspects for more learned piece-by-piece analysis than I can give; or better still, make up your own damn mind. But I do think this online publication is finding its feet, and that makes me happy. (Ladies, I'm very much looking forward to the next men's issue. Your first was a well-intentioned product of very uneven quality. I'm confident that your next will be something to treasure. Just don't think you're off the hook forever for throwing us one meatless bone.)
   

Elves?

So yesterday, riding the train home after work, I pulled out the neverending sleeve, which had been sitting absolutely untouched in my bag all day.

I worked one row, and thought to myself, "This suddenly seems rather lengthy, doesn't it?"

I tried it on, and it was an inch too long.

The Knitting Gods are totally fucking with me.

Chains of Sleevery

I am trying to come to terms with the sorry fact that I will never, ever finish the first sleeve of the Rhinebeck sweater.

Not because I am out of yarn, or because I suddenly hate knitting, or because my right hand simply fell off and disappeared through a crack in the floor.

It's just that no matter how much I knit, the damned thing refuses to get any longer.

The sleeve will be "finished" (ready to join to the body) at 18 inches. After working on it yesterday morning on the train, it was 16 inches. I gave it about two hours last night, then an hour this morning on the train, and it's still 16 inches.

You want pictures? I got pictures.

This is what it looks like to a normal person:



And here's what it looks like to me:



I think it may be time to take a break and go knit a little lace.

Labor Day Knitting Notes

C's Tweedy Scarf

Photographer: C is for Camera. Model: Istvan.
Styling/Makeup: Monsieur Pierre for Salon de la Pouffe.
Fragrance: CK Purl

This weekend was replete with delights of every sort, a fitting end to a summer that, for once, went right more than it went wrong. I don't have time to gush about it now, though, so here's a small knitting report.

C's Tweedy Scarf, above, is finished. Istvan has appropriated it and may not give it up without a fuss. He has a definite noli me tangere air about him at the moment. I suppose it comes of having nothing to do all day except sit around C's apartment watching Prince videos. That sort of example is bound to tell on a bear's personality.

I also finished up the lower body for the Rhinebeck sweater, and I'm halfway up the first sleeve.

Maggie Righetti says in Knitting in Plain English that when making a fitted garment you need to try the thing on from time to time, instead of just knitting away in breathless suspense about whether you're doing it right or not. Sensible woman, and I'm glad I read her book. About halfway up the body (7 inches or so) I took the piece off the needles and put it on a piece of waste yarn and tried it on. It fit. Sigh of relief.

Putting it back on the needles wasn't exactly fun, but it did give me a chance to try my hand at fixing twisted and dropped stitches. (My previous tactic in both situations was to hope very much that they would not happen.) I now feel comfortable enough working the dropped stitches with a crochet hook that I may try Zimmerman's phoney seams down the sides of the sweater.

I started the first sleeve on a set of Brittany double-points that I picked up for a song. I'd never used Brittany needles before, and they have nearly knocked Addi turbos right out of the number one spot in my affections. Knitting with them is positively sensual. I like them so much that I stuck with them long after I could have switched over to a Clover circular.

It's a very pleasant thing, knitting a sleeve in the round. However, I should note that I did depart from Zimmerman's direction to cast on 20% of the total body stitches to make the sleeve cuff. At that circumference, even my quite small hand wouldn't have gone through comfortably, so I upped the figure to 25%. Marilyn and Greg both warned me this might be the case, and they were right.

I can only assume that Anglo-Saxons and Nords like the Zimmerman/Swansen bunch must have unusually slender and willowy extremities, at least in comparison to this stocky Italian/Arab peasant. I like them anyway.

Delayed Reaction

I don't flatter myself that this blog is any sort of media hub, and so I didn't rush to link to the Red Cross or anything right after Katrina hit. You who read this are all very intelligent people, all six of you, and you can find your way to the donations links without my help.

I didn't even want to post anything about the hurricane. I usually stick to three topics in here: knitting, photography, and weird shit that happens to me. I suppose you can file what follows in that third category.

Last night around midnight I went to bed as usual, having worked more of the Rhinebeck sweater. I was drifting off mostly with mental images of what I'm going to do with the chest band of the sweater floating about in my head and out of the blue I started crying.

My first partner had a theory about how useful denial (a process he was deeply in touch with) can be, saying it was a protective mechanism in the brain. Denial, he believed, kept things from overwhelming a person, keeping them functional until such time as the brain would be able to deal with whatever it was denying.

I guess last night my brain was finally able to confront the fact that New Orleans as we knew it is gone.

Mind you, I don't have roots there, or relations, or friends. I was there exactly once in my life, for five days. One hesitates to make a tragedy happening to others many, many miles away into a three-act drama starring oneself, and that's not at all what I mean to do.

This is just a personal tribute, that's all.

From childhood, there were only three American cities I really ever cared to visit. The first was New York, the second San Francisco, the third New Orleans. Of the three, New Orleans was the most alluring. I knew it mostly from pictures, both modern ones of the sort that show up in the newspaper travel section, and very old ones like Bellocq's photos of prostitutes. It all built up to an image that was very much the stereotype of the place, with all the attendant cliché words–magical, mysterious, and so forth.

Of my personal Big Three, New Orleans was the last I visited. Not so many years ago - two, I believe - my employer sent me down there for a conference. Out of my own pocket, I paid for a few extra days in the hotel so I could do some sightseeing. Of course, at that point I'd grown up enough to realize that few places ever live up to their publicized images. I was expecting to have fun, but not to find the city I'd dreamed about.

Imagine my surprise. It was wonderful. It really was as it was supposed to be, from the easy hospitality of the citizenry to the graceful, fragile architecture and the sultry atmosphere. (It can't really be gone, can it? Not all gone? Not really? Please?)

I love cities that Are Very Much What They Are, that have managed in the face of conformity and standarization to hang on to their own points of view and ways of doing things. New Orleans was exactly that. Outside the French Quarter, of course, it was no series of postcard views. The effects of long-term economic depression had done dreadful things to the Central Business District. It was hardly a dreamy Neverland. Storefronts were preserved along Canal Street, but the ones that were occupied usually had dingy chain outlets and dodgy electronics shops in them.

But...the people. Oh, the people.

Friendly to a fault. Mellow. Welcoming.

I was down there accompanied. I was in the first stages of what proved to be a very short-lived long distance thing with a guy who, for a couple months, put stars in my eyes. He was extremely shy and even semi-closeted (note: bad idea). But down there, in New Orleans, for the first and only time, he loosened up.

We were walking over to the French Market for beignets and feeling terribly lovey-dovey but of course not holding hands in public, when suddenly this fellow who was sitting on a bench near the river walk shouted good-naturedly, "Go ahead and hold hands, boys! Down here we don't give a shit!"

I thought my whateveryouwannacallhim was going to drop dead from a mixture of fright and embarrassment, but no. Instead, he reached over and grabbed my hand. I nearly dropped dead of surprise.

After three days in New Orleans, he'd gotten to a point where he spontaneously kissed me in front of the cathedral and the bells went off. I'm sure it was pure coincidence, but it didn't feel like it at the time.

It was the only time I ever saw my poor ex-whateveryouwannacallhim happy with himself and the world. After the trip, he went back north to a Very Cold City where he resumed being semi-closeted and utterly guilt-ridden, living a very buttoned-down life in a more typical American setting.

Alas, wouldn't you know that by not shooting us dead for loving each other, the people of the city of New Orleans sealed their doom? Yes, it's true. I read all about it online. You can read it for yourself here.

According to a group of fundamentalist Christians, Katrina wasn't a natural phenomenon. It is direct evidence of God's wrath against a city that welcomed wickedness. They see the demolition of New Orleans–a unique and beautiful city, home to millions and cradle of so much American culture–as not all bad. It is, in their opinion, more of the silver lining in the cloud.

An exact quote:

"Although the loss of lives is deeply saddening, this act of God destroyed a wicked city," said Repent America director Michael Marcavage on the organization's Web site.

You know, that's true, when you think about it. Lots and lots of dead people, destroyed lives and businesses, lost history and art, illness, financial disaster, and displacement is not so bad when you consider that it wiped out a place where men were known to kiss in the street. When you look at it that way, it's a sort of mini-Rapture. Pretty cool.

I'm sure Michael Marcavage will sleep more soundly tonight, knowing New Orleans has been punished and that he himself is utterly pure in the sight of God. (One presumes he must think the same of his city or town, or he'd have moved out to avoid the inevitable.)

Isn't that right, Michael Marcavage? That you're perfect in the sight of God?

Is it right that God, who can see to the bottom of your soul and the depths of your heart, will find there only perfection, purity, not even a single thought or action that you wouldn't be happy to display to the entire world?

This had better be so, because as you've pointed out, God hates people with loose morals and kills them off. I'm sure you can support this with lots of Biblical evidence, too, like that story about the time your Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ beat that fallen woman to death with a brick, and the time He and the Pharisees burned down the house of that tax collector.

No? Oh, I see...you were thinking of Sodom and Gomorrah. Check your text again, Mr. Marcavage. Better still, consult a reputable scholar or historian who has read the source texts and seen beyond several centuries of accrued mistranslation. The sin of Sodom? It wasn't ass fucking. It was a lack of hospitality. A lack of compassion for displaced persons.

Sleep well tonight, Mr. Marcavage. I'm sure you're perfectly safe.

Rhinebeck Sweater Status Report

Pattern: Elizabeth Zimmermann Seamless Percentage sweater (Knitting Without Tears), raglan top

Yarn: Jo Sharp DK Wool

Needle: Clover bamboo US7 circular

Working on: body

Swatch gauge: 5.5 stitches/inch

Currently knitting at: 5.5 stitches/inch (yay)

Desired circumference: 39 inches

Achieved circumference: 39 inches (yay)

Desired body length from hem to underarm: 13.5"

Current body length: 6" on the dot

Number of times gauge has been measured: 4,567

Surprises: Iridescent purplish ply in otherwise blue yarn. Swear it was not there when looked at yarn at Stitches Midwest Market.

Programs watched in whole or part while knitting: "The Forsyte Saga" (original version, 3 episodes), Hirschfeld: The Line King, "Absolutely Fabulous" Season One (2 episodes), "The Greeks: Crucible of Civilization," "In the Footsteps of Alexander" (final episode)