Notes from Crete

1. Knew that Englishmen, like mad dogs, go out in the noonday sun. Did not realize they did it fully dressed and in sweaters. Cannot quite get over sight of British matrons pulling their cardigans about them when it's 80 degrees Farenheit and sunny, saying "It's rather draughty, isn't it?"
2. After having become an Albino through living in Chicago, am now resuming my proper nut-brown color.
3. Greeks are awfully nice people.
4. Driving past beach on Rhodes saw boobies aplenty. Two American passengers screamed.
5. Favorite passenger quote so far, from a British woman upon seeing ruins of Minoan palace at Malia: "Oh, look how it's gone all crumbly."
6. Dining room menu items that remind one that one is traveling English style: kedgeree, kippers, Weetabix, grilled tomatoes. Scottish note struck by offering of wild pheasant with haggis. Haggis is pretty good, actually. (How about that, Jean and Lorna?)
7. Dolores seems to be gaining ground with Galina. Her ardor continues unabated. "Big-boned gal," she said over dinner, sucking down a cosmo. "Lots of meat on her. All I need's a bowl of gravy and a side of potatoes." Our dinner companions quietly excused themselves.
8. On the other hand, Dolores seems to be attracting something of a following. Several of mousier housewives have begun acting up, sporting cat's-eye glasses, and chasing the cabin boys.
9. Final exam in college course on Bronze Age Greek art/architecture included labeling plan of ruins at Malia, with explanations. Was delighted to find I remembered enough to skip guided tour and move myself about solo.
10. Air around Malia smells of licorice. Anise growing wild?
11. I am allergic to olive trees. Did not know this until landed on island with 100,000 of them.
12. Is hard to take pictures while sneezing.

Notes from Istanbul

Darlings, very quick as am paying by minute.

1. Am glad that C is handsome, sweet boyfriend as all Turkish men under fifty frantically good looking.
2. Bargaining in Grand Bazaar is fun. Shopkeeper from whom made major purchase got very angry with me but I kept starting to leave shop and he kept lowering price. After making purchase (got two things for 3/4 price originally quoted for one) he handed me bags and said, "You do this better than most American."
3. As usual most abroad do not think I am American until I open my mouth. Lufthansa crews invariably addressed me in German, and in Istanbul was generally assumed I am Italian or Spanish. Ship's crew thinks I am Jewish, chefs keep advising me which dishes contain pork.
4. Dolores has taken fancy to Galina, our chambermaid. When expressed surprise at this she said, "Nothing virgin about this wool, cupcake" and advised me that if I return to find beaded handbag on cabin doorknob I should sleep in ship's library.
5. If you visit Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, do not skip Harem. Pay the extra 10 lira. Will never read the Thousand and One Nights again without picturing those beautiful rooms.
6. There is one other gay man (British) on ship and he is pointedly ignoring me. As usual only passes come from "straight" married men. Am avoiding sauna at all costs.
7. Woke at 6 am to watch passage through Hellespont (Dardanelles). Saw "windy plains of Troy" with own eyes. If had to return tomorrow would still always remember this as amazing trip.

Tomorrow 6 a.m. we arrive Rhodes.

Meet Mary Theresa

A guest post by Carol.

Hello dearies. Just a sec – let me check and make sure they’re really gone. [sounds of doors slamming and general looking noises]

Phew. Jesus be praised, they’re off on their little trip to Sodom and Gomorrah, or whatever heathen place it is they’re going. It’s a shame that Franklin can’t meet a nice girl. Sure as God made little green apples, the right girl and he’d give up that sinful lifestyle of his. (I bet the right girl could convince him to give up that hoo-doo he calls a religion, too – what is it? hari krishnas or something? -- and accept the Lord Jesus Christ as his own personal Saviour.) Anyhoo…

I’m Mary Theresa. Nice to meetcha. Maybe you guessed this, tee-hee, most say there is a resemblance, but I’m Dolores’s sister. Big sister, in fact. I was born the litter before she was. And oh my, what a difference a litter makes!

You see, I’ve been listening to Dolly natter on – oooh, didn’t she tell you that was my nickname for her? – for a little while now. She’s a panic, isn’t she? If I wasn’t so worried about the state of her soul, I’d get quite a kick out of her. It’s a little hard getting used to the smell of those Lucky Strikes, but my late husband – God rest his soul – smoked, too, and you get used to all kind of smells on the farm.

Yep, I’ve known Dolly her whole life. Born and bred on Twelve Willows Farm, both of us, a few too many years ago, tee-hee. (And if Dolly tells you she’s a day less than fifty, don’t believe her! tee-hee)

Really, dearies, the details of Dolly’s life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? Our father was a relentlessly self-improving Rambouillet from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery (he was always wont to help out a lonely sheep farmer). Our mother was a fifteen year old French Romney named Chloe with webbed feet. Our father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. Our childhood was typical. Summers in Putney, luge lessons. But you don’t need to hear all that, do you? You don’t really believe that someone’s childhood can warp their whole outlook, and my Lord, look at me! Why, I’m as healthy an ovine specimen as you’ll ever meet, praise Jesus!

Well, I’m off now. Only in town for a few days to visit a cousin or two. I just wanted you to know that Dolly comes from a nice family, with good Christian siblings that don’t go for that drinking, and whoring, and using the eff word. Tsk, tsk. I knew no good would come of her listening to our father’s ridiculous stories behind the pig pen when she was supposed to be in church, worshiping our Lord. And I know most of you girls who read this blog are nice ladies who knit and just love Franklin’s drawings of those cutie-pie animals (my sister excluded) but really don’t care for the, well, let’s call it “potty-mouth that passes for humor.” I mean, my Lord, who wants to read about cock-rings, and men marrying dogs, and those other perversions that go in the big city?! [fanning furiously] Just stick to the knitting, and nice stories about your sister and her ruan—whatever that shawl-thingy is, and a few more doggie drawings wouldn’t hurt. But where was I now?

Good-bye, and God bless you!

P.S. And don’t think that Dolly is the only one who can cable a mean gansey. You didn’t think that Scottish girlie who likes to sue people thunk up all those fair isles by Herself, did you? [Wink.]

Byzantium or Bust

I'm sure it was extremely unpleasant at times for my immigrant ancestors to cross the Atlantic in glorified tin washtubs with only one small satchel and a change of underwear. On the other hand, just at the moment it seems that it must have been wonderfully simple.

How many times I've read that piece of travel advice that chirps, "Pack your suitcase, then take out half what you put in." Whose bright idea was this originally? Most likely a WASP travel writer who was built, like so many of her brethren, without sweat glands.

When you're a mixture of Mediterranean and Semitic peasant stock, you can't recycle shirts three times without becoming an olfactory nuisance to every person within a fifty-foot radius. And I'm bourgeois enough to wish not to be remembered by my university travelers as "that smelly dwarf with the knitting needles."

My bag is full, but not stuffed. After five of these trips I know enough to leave room for whatever flotsam I might accumulate along the way. (I'm not a souvenir hunter, as my favorite souvenirs are photographs. But I'm on a mission for bellydancing clothes for Susan in the Grand Bazaar. And of course, books fly off shelves and cling to me like lint, even when they're in languages I don't read.)

Dolores, meanwhile, has managed to whittle her absolute necessities down to the regulation one suitcase, one carry-on, and one purse. We nearly came to blows over the issue of paying extra so that her seven vintage Lily Daché picture hats could come along in their own boxes, but a bottle of Stoli liberally applied helped her to see reason. (Well, sort of. After she passed out I smuggled the hats up to Buzz, who is going to hide them in his apartment until after we leave.)

This is the part of traveling I detest. When I'm ready to go, I'm ready to go, with no fooling about. Once the stasis is broken, I 'm certain I'll feel better and stop trying to bite people.

Guest Writers

I may blog a little while I'm away, but rumor has it that Web access on the ship runs about $15 for 30 minutes, none of which I can expense unless I'm engaged in university work.

So, to keep the place lively, I've invited the Wolverinas–the jolly band that I met at Rhinebeck last year–to chime in as they wish on whatever topic they choose.

Consider yourselves warned.

Next stop, Istanbul. As they say in Turkey, "Peace out."

The Van Hoofen Papers

Cute Animals 'n' Shit

Those who know me well know that in the days immediately before I'm due to set off on a big trip, the best thing to do is keep away from me. I cease entirely to be the sweet-tempered frolicking teddy bear beloved of millions. The combination of packing, the anticipation of air travel, and the wrapping up of a thousand work details turns me into Vlad the Impaler, only without the wry sense of humor.

About the only person who seems to be able to calm me down is C, who managed to get me out of the apartment and into the fresh air (or what passes for it around here) for much of the weekend.

On Saturday, he good-naturedly accompanied me to the Zen Center to celebrate Vesak–Buddha's birthday. A merry time was had by all, though I was disappointed that they did not attempt to put 2,500 candles into the cake. The cake was very pretty, topped by a blue frosting elephant. C said if he were Buddha he'd rather have a big Mrs. Field's cookie with a Power Ranger on it.

On Monday, we paid a visit to the Lincoln Park Zoo, a short distance from our neighborhood, and I was able to lose myself for a little while in photography. I will be using a new telephoto lens on the trip, and this was a great chance to work with it.

We saw a leopard. Leopards always make me think of Gloria Swanson.



We saw a feisty, one-legged bird of some sort.



I often look like this on Monday mornings.

We saw a monkey who was contemplating the fact that George W. Bush still has more than nine hundred days left in his final term.



We learned that in monkey families, just as in human families, naptime is often mostly for the benefit of the adults.



We found a monkey who has evidently been practising yoga.



If I could do this, I'd give up my day job and go into porn.

And I took a picture of my favorite monkey of them all.



Gotta go. Break's over. Time to slap a couple people.

Believe It or Not

Like I Have Time for This

Little Buddha Thundercloud or whatever the hell he's calling himself this week is trying to get his affairs in order before we jet off, so he asked me to fill in for today. I'm supposed to stick to non-controversial topics and not say anything embarrassing.

Pull up a chair.

Oh, my sainted aunt, you should see this guy pack. On any given day he can't find his own ass with both hands, but give him a ticket for a cruise and he's Sir Edmund Hillary casing Everest. We got lists all over the house. Lists for the camera bag, lists of outfits for every day (subdivided into morning, touring, and evening), lists of masculine beauty products, lists of knitting junk and writing crap and travel papers and lists to keep track of all the lists.

We went shopping this weekend to fill out the holes in his wardrobe and I swear to God I almost killed him dead in the fitting room at Marshall Field's. Did you know that every piece of clothing the man owns is either black or gray? And a minimum of ten years out of date?

So I tried to help, because I live a life of compassion. He had carried a big pile of...I dunno really, all I know is everything was ecru...into the cubicle and when his back was turned I grabbed it all, plus his pants, and ran out of the fitting room. He started yelling, but sometimes it's time for tough love and so I stashed his trousers with the very accommodating salesman (kisses to you, Schuyler) and threw a bunch of Sean John and Lucky Brand and Ben Sherman over the door.

He shouted at me that it looked like he'd been playing strip poker with a boy band and they'd lost, and that he wasn't wearing any of it.

So I said he could try it all on or take the bus home in his Arthur the Aardvark underpants.

Don't judge me harshly. You have no idea what I'm up against. He has three basic looks: James Dean manqué, Brokeback Schlub, and Herbert Hoover on the golf course. It gets depressing to be around. I'd just like to see a little color around his face, maybe get him into a pair of pants that don't sag in the butt, you know what I mean?

He went into one of his typical monologues about refusing to be a slave to the corporate fashion machine blah blah blah blah, so Schuyler and I went and had a snort at this little bar on Wabash and by the time we came back he had just finished talking and was standing in front of the three-way mirror in a pair of tight Luckys that gave him a snooker-ball bottom and a precious acid-green destroyed t-shirt that said "SHRED MY TUBE" in curly seventies lettering and he actually looked almost his own age instead of forty years older.

"Be still my heart," I said. "You look good enough to abduct and defile."

"Me first," said Schuyler.

"Give me my damn pants back," he said.

"No," I said. "I think you should charge what you've got on and wear it home."

"Give me my damn pants back now," he said.

"I think we should accessorize you with a pair of flip flops," said Schuyler.

And then he just came at us, waving a pants hanger and saying very unkind things and so I swung my purse quite forgetting that I'd slipped a split of Veuve in there in case I needed a pick-me-up and suddenly he was on the floor and not shouting any more.

"Holy shit," said Schuyler. "We gotta call security."

And we did, of course, but first we took a moment and rang up the outfit. Like many men I've known, Franklin is so much more cooperative when he's unconscious.

Some day, he'll understand and he'll thank me.

What Is the Sound of One Bitch Slapping?

So. I have now been practicing Japanese-style zazen (silent meditation, both sitting and walking) for about a month. I've left the sangha I'd been sitting with on Thursday nights and begun practicing at the Chicago Zen Center, which offers the community I need under a teacher who impresses me mightily.

(Also, I get to wear a kicky brown floor-length robe.)

The upside of this is that I notice already a shift in my bearing. Less of my time is spent fuming over things that make me angry, more of it is spent being productive.

You might not think that facing a wall for 30 minutes a day at home, with an additional two hours or so at the zendo (meditation hall) twice a week would make much difference in a person. I certainly didn't expect it. And to be sure, I'm not becoming a goggle-eyed automaton. I still want to slap at least twelve idiots upside the head every day.

The change is more like the faint tinge of green you'd see at the base of a plant which appeared dead a month ago, but which with water and care is beginning to show the smallest sign of revival.

Certainly nobody else would notice such a subtle shift, right?

Wrong. Other people are making it crystal clear to me what a sour-pussed bitch I've apparently been.

I came into work a couple days ago feeling good, but not radiant. Just a normal me, on a normal day, following the usual routine.

Passing the reception desk, I said good morning, then went upstairs to my office. I'd just sat down in my chair when the phone rang. It was the receptionist.

"Um, Franklin," she whispered. "You can tell me. I'll keep it a secret. You're so...happy...today. Did you get a new job?"

Later that day, I was in conference with my boss regarding a pain-in-the-ass bullshit project that's been plaguing us for weeks. He told me a point of design about which I had been adamant was being overturned at the caprice of a big-spending volunteer. I said that on reflection, it didn't seem like such a big deal and I was fine with the change.

My boss leaned over the conference table and said, "Is there something you'd like to tell me? Did you get a new job?"

Still later, there was a small meeting of about seven of us from different teams within the organization. Nothing remarkable about it at all, that I noticed.

Afterward, I stayed to go over copy writing with one of the directors. We were in mid-edit when she sat back in her chair, crossed her arms and said, "Come clean. You're out of here, aren't you? I can totally tell. You're in much too good a mood."

When I was about five years old and living in Tucson, Arizona, my kindergarten class received monthly visits from a Native American teacher. He taught us a bit about the indigenous culture of the area and over the course of the year gave some of us "Indian" (his term) names.

Mine was Little Thundercloud.

Now I guess I understand why.

Inked

I detest doing posts solely about the shop. It's like inviting guests in for cocoa and then trying to sell them insurance. Please consider this a bit of housekeeping. I promise I'll try to be more amusing in the next entry.

Breasts Do the Darnedest Things

I'm starting to understand (though not condone) the penchant of fashion designers to hang their clothes on models who look like clothes hangers with poor appetites. Breasts are nice and all, I suppose, but the fact is they often seem to get in the way.

For the second time now I've had a comment that one of my shirt designs misbehaves when draped over a bodacious bustline. This time it's the original Dolores shirt, which for some buxom persons aligns the copyright notice and Web site address directly with said person's nipular regions. Oy. I'll fix the design as soon as possible, and do please accept my apologies. In the meantime, caveat emptor unless you're built like Olive Oyl. [Author's note: It's fixed now.]

(Dolores commented that she was amazed I'd managed to correctly locate female nipples at all, even indirectly.)

Knit in Public Day Gone Wild

My offer to add new cities, countries, or organizations to the list of those available on the Knit in Public Day shirts and bags has been eagerly taken up (thanks, y'all) and the following are now available:

Atlanta
Austin
Berkeley
B'nai Shalom
Boston
Cairo
Chicago
Columbus
Dayton
Denver
Eugene
Honolulu
Iowa City
Kathmandu
Lexington
London
Montréal
Minneapolis
Munich (München)
Nashua
New York
Omaha
Ottawa
Paris
Philadelphia
Pittsburgh
Portland
Providence
Rochester
San Diego
San Francisco
St Louis
Sapporo
Scotland
Seattle
Sydney
Tel Aviv
Tokyo
Toronto
Ulaanbaatar
Vancouver (and I fixed the date)
Vienna (Wien)
Washington, DC
West Hollywood
Wichita

And there's a "generic" version with no city, just the date.

I have my doubts about orders reaching Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia by 10 June, but I admire the optimism of the request.

And One More
A new design called "Peaceable Kingdom" is ready on a bag and a card, and will make its way onto other stuff as time permits.

Make a Spectacle of Yourself

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the following message on behalf of Aidan, aka Mollywobbles.

The second annual Worldwide Knit in Public Day will take place on June 10, 2006. This event was the brainchild of Danielle Landes, who maintains a site with details and history here. There are listings of where local meet-ups are happening and who's in charge of them.

As is so often the case around here, Aidan has taken the burden of local organization on himself. If you're a Chicagoland knitter, here are the details for what should be quite a happening:

Millenium Park, Chicago
Boeing Gallery South (just east of the "Faces" fountain) - barrier-free access
Noon–4 p.m.

Bring a lawn or folding chair, sunscreen, and your knitting.

In case of rain, kniters will meet up at the Randolph Cafe on the first floor of the Chicago Cultural Center at 78 E. Washington St. If that happens, you can skip the folding chair and the sunscreen.

Aidan asked me to design a flyer for the event, which I've done. Then I decided to put it on a shirt. Then I decided to put it on lots of shirts, marked with the names of places in which people might be knitting in public.



If you not only wish to have been there and done that, but also wish to have bought the t-shirt, have a look in the shop. There's a bunch of cities already available on shirts and bags, chosen off the top of my head.

If your city, town, or country isn't there, let me know at franklin at franklinhabit daht cahm by Wednesday, May 24 and I can create a version for you. Please use the subject line "KIP T-SHIRT" or your request may well vanish into thin air.

If you use the above e-mail address to write and say, "Franklin, you stupid pig, how could you make a shirt for __________ and not for my beloved, sparkling municipality of _________," I will send Dolores over to your house to do something nasty on your doorstep.

If you are one of Danielle's local leaders and you'd like to use this design for your KIP Day flyers, write to me and I can send a blank version in PDF format that you can fill in with your local information. (I'm sorry I can't do local information layouts for anybody...it's a touch busy around here.)

Danielle Landes, if you're reading this, I think that for this idea you ought to get a free shirt. Drop me note, won't you please?

Bill of Fare

David is absolutely right. If a fellow intends to be truly professional, he ought to have a schedule card of services and rates available.

To that end, I have prepared the following for the ladies I'm hosting on the tour.

Franklin, Your Host for "Islands of Antiquity"
Discreet • Educated • Steadfast

Conversation (prices are per hour)

• English fiction, history, art history, opera ($2)
• Shopping and clothes ($2)
  
• Parents these days ($5)
• Your grandchildren ($5)*
• Previous travels ($5)
  
• Your cat(s) ($350)
• Knitting (complimentary)

We regret that we no longer discuss the Bush administration or your Republican politics under any circumstances.

For parties of six or more, a 15% gratuity will be added.

*If pictures are displayed, there will be a surcharge of $10 per image.

Dancing (prices are per dance)

• Waltz ($2)
• Foxtrot ($2)
• Quadrille ($2)
• Polka ($2)
  
• Texas Two-Step ($2)
• Lindy Hop ($20)*
• Mazurka or Tarantella ($50)*

For parties of five or more, lessons in country line dancing can be arranged for a negotiable fee. Before engaging in dances marked by an asterisk (*), customers must present a doctor's certificate of sound health and sign a liability waiver.

Shopping (prices are per hour)

• For tacky souvenirs ($150)
• For clothes or jewelry ($35)
  
• For books or yarn (free)
  

Please note that for the 2006 season we are offering an entirely new selection of fitting room compliments, enthusiastic squeals, and reassurances that no, it doesn't make you look at all fat.

Fetching and Carrying (prices are per quarter hour)

• Purse/handbag holding ($50)
• Forgotten item retrieval (free up to 1/4 mile, $10 thereafter)
• Purchase of small items from ship store ($5)
• Assistance in crossing cobblestones, going up or down stairs, alighting from motorcoaches, etc. (free)
  
• Drinks from the bar (ask a steward, it's what they're here for)
  
• Diplomatic removal of drunken husband from dining room or bar ($50, plus $50 surcharge for men weighing more than 200 lbs)

Lectures/Demonstrations (prices are per lesson)

• Basic knitting (free)
• Basic photography (free)
  
• How the heck does this e-mail thing work, anyway? ($150)

Other

• Harmless flirtation is always complimentary. However, as your host is queer as a three dollar bill, we recommend that you inquire of the concierge should you desire actual rumpy-pumpy.
  

Le Gigolo malgre lui

After a bit of pondering I've realized that what Cheryl wrote (and about four dozen of you echoed, thanks so much) is essentially true. My nominal title for the upcoming tour is "host," but what I really am is a man-whore.

Quite an epiphany to experience over one's morning oatmeal.

Mind you, though I may be dancing with the passengers, all of said dancing will be vertical. The only time I've ever been propositioned by a traveler on one of these tours, the suggestion came from one of the husbands. (And no, I didn't.)

On the whole, I think I make a most unlikely man-whore. I guess I can handle it for two weeks, but I'd never pursue it as a way of life.

Problem number one: I'm short. I think about the only sexual kink you can't find through Google (not that I've looked) is a fetish for men of low physical stature. We have our admirers, of course, but they aren't numerous enough to constitute a viable consumer base. I would have to be a niche market tottie, and I doubt a sensible business plan could rest upon that premise.

I also don't spend enough time in the gym. To be a proper studmuffin-for-hire, I'd have to do something about my abdominal muscles. Try as I might, I've never achieved real definition down there. Although at one point I was able to muster a strongly-worded recommendation with ample supporting documents.

And there's the question of flexibility. I am the Little Engine Who Can't unless I'm genuinely interested. I've known two "men of pleasure" and both were able to make the magic happen with whoever was paying the bill (male or female). One of them said he'd trained himself to snap into action at the sound of money changing hands. I wonder if that ever caused problems at the grocery store?

I am quite certain that when confronted with more esoteric requests I would be far too inclined to scream, "You want me to what?" thereby spoiling the ambience.

And logisitics. How does one deal with the logistics?

If I decided to do only out-calls, I'd need to get a car or at least enough cash to pay for taxi fares all over the city. It would not be sexy or good for trade to have to call a client and explain that I'd be over to play Where's Waldo just as soon as the number 36 bus showed up.

Working from home, on the other hand, would mean keeping the living room free of the snowdrift of sketch books, knitting supplies, reading material, and boots that never seems to melt away completely. And there would be laundry. Piles of it. One would need, I expect, rather more than the usual supply of linens, and the cost of having them monogrammed would be prohibitive.

I'm tired just thinking about it all. It sort of gives you a new appreciation for Fanny Hill, doesn't it? Such a demanding career and she still had time to write a book. I'm lucky if I can get the dishes done after a busy day at the office.

That's all for now. Back to packing. I'm trying to decide whether to take the leopard-print Speedo or the lycra trunks with the peekaboo pouch.

Sail Away

Know any good knitting shops in Istanbul? (Not Constantinople.)

I haven't said anything about this, because I've been waiting for the dear officials at the Turkish embassy to send me a document promising they'll allow me into their country, but I'm going abroad on June 2.

My job is not heavy with perks, but when they do come along they're big. I'm being sent on a tour with a bunch of the university's high rollers, which happens roughly once a year. I have to smile and make chitchat, provide an arm to lean on as we walk across cobblestones, host a cocktail party, and make sure all the ladies get to dance. All these things are, for me, quite a pleasure.

I've seen my list of 11 travelers and it's a comparatively youthful crowd, average age somewhere in the early seventies. That's nice, because it means that chances are we all listen to the same kind of music, and there are usually at least two other knitters.

It's not exactly a vacation. Although there are travel directors and guides to do the heavy lifting, as it were, on these trips I'm expected to be always "on" and usually find that by the return flight my face hurts from looking pleasantly interested in everything being said to me.

The Itinerary

We leave Chicago and fly to Istanbul by way of Munich. Munich is always fun because even when changing planes you get a full pat-down by a burly Teutonic security guard in tall boots.

After two days in Istanbul, we embark on the Minerva II for a two-week tour entitled "Islands of Antiquity." These will be our ports-of-call:

• Rhodes
• Crete (Ághios Nikólaos)
  
• Malta
• Sicily (Catania and Palermo)
• Sardinia
• Minorca (Mahón)
• Corsica
• Civitavecchia
• Rome

I hope the citizens of Palermo have at this point forgotten why it was my mother's family was asked to leave back in 1903.

Travel Knitting

This paramount question is already settled. Susan's Maine stole, for the rare moments when I'm alone and can concentrate. And a Koigu vest (just begun) for the rest of the time. The Koigu was a rather stunning birthday gift from Kathy Merrick, the lady who changed my mind about crochet. (She'll change yours, too, if you check out her designs in Interweave Crochet.)

Travel Hostess

Except for my very first university tour, when my brother-in-law assisted as able co-host in the English Lakes, I've always been solo. Not this time.

Yup.



I've finally faced facts. It's easier to drag her fleece-covered butt along than try to deal with the City of Chicago Police Department via ship-to-shore lines. Besides, her game of bridge is better than mine, which will take some of the pressure off me.

When I extended the invitation, instead of gratitude I got a startled gasp and a poke in the chest with a sharp hoof.

"Shit," she said. "You're giving me two lousy weeks to get ready for this?"

"What exactly do you need to do?"

"I have absolutely nothing to wear, shortcake. Zilch. One Diane von Furstenberg isn't gonna get a girl through two weeks on a lah-dee-dah cruise. Where's my purse? I need to get to Barneys."

"It's almost midnight."

"And I have to call my girlfriend Menekshe and let her know I'm coming through Istanbul–"

"Not Constantinople!"

"That wasn't funny the first time. And if we're going to be in Greece, I want to look up some old Navy buddies."

"What?"

"I was in the Greek navy for a couple of weeks back in the seventies. Or should I say vice vers–"

"I can't hear you I can't hear you I can't hear you."

But she was already burrowing through the pile of clothes on the floor of her closet.

"I know I still have that Dolce and Gabbana thong in here somewhere. It was a big hit at Cannes a couple years ago. You think the Minerva has a topless sunbathing deck?"

"I rather doubt it."

She paused in her rummaging and frowned. "Cannes. Goddamn. You don't think Catherine Deneuve might be on the ship, do you?"

"I have no idea. Should I even ask why you're concerned?"

"Nah. It's ancient history. But of course she's got a memory like a elephant, that one. With hips to match."

Ms. Deneuve, I thought you were wonderul in Belle de jour. On the off chance that you might be joining us, will you please accept my apology in advance?

To Mom

A selection of five memories of me that I'm absolutely certain my mother treasures:

1. The time I crawled into the ash-filled fireplace with the dog.
2. The time I watched Captain Kangaroo draw on the wall, and decided to do the same thing with my crayons in my bedroom.
3. The time I couldn't find my glasses, and I was wearing them.
4. The time I got tomato soup on the kitchen ceiling.
5. The time I called her in Honolulu (from Boston) to ask how to make a can of Campbell's chicken noodle without a microwave.
   

And yet she still admits that I'm her son. (At least when I'm around.)

Love ya, Mom.

xoxo
Spud

Together Wherever We Go

I got home late last night to find Dolores in the living room. Her open suitcase was in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a litter of knitting needles, purses, hats, dresses, and a set of maribou-trimmed unmentionables from which I quickly averted my eyes.

"Are you leaving?" I said, trying not to sound too excited.

"Just planning ahead," she said, shifting a couple balls of Rowan felted tweed inside the suitcase. "I need to make sure I can fit everything in here and still have room for a couple bottles of something bubbly. How much stuff are you planning on bringing?"

"What?"

"To camp. How much stuff are you planning on bringing to camp?"

"Dolores, I'm putting a stop this right now. You're not coming with me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Me, I am going to knitting camp. You are staying here. Or taking a vacation of your own. Or sleeping under the bar at the Lucky Horseshoe, if you want to. But you are not, I repeat, not coming to camp with me. Don't take it personally. It's just that they have limited space, and I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to bring guests."

Dolores blinked, then pulled an envelope out of her purse and handed it to me. I saw a Wisconsin postmark and felt the blood drain out of my face.

"Read it."

There was a handwritten note in the envelope.

Dolores honey,

We were all wondering where you've been all this time. Of course you should come up for camp this year. Don't worry about the expense–as far as we're concerned you're family.

And sure, we'll see about finding room for the fellow you're living with...Fred Something? His application is here somewhere. He sounds harmless enough. Nice handwriting. And I'm sure you're exaggerating, I can't imagine you living with anybody who "missed his calling as a librarian at the cloistered monastery of St. Rigid."

Anyhow, gotta run but all the gals say hi and they still remember that trick you did with the cherry tomatoes from the salad.

Hugz,
Meg

After Dolores helped me up off the floor and brought me a glass of water, I sat on the sofa and fanned myself with the Halcyon Yarns catalog.

"I figured you'd be excited," she said. "Oh, and I took care of our ride, too. Martha and Susan from Ohio called to say I can ride with them, and it turns out they also have a seat for you if you don't bring too big a bag. I had to promise them you're not the sort who needs to stop for a pee every thirty miles. Think you can you handle that?"

I'm beginning to question my ability to handle anything.

Notes on Camp

When I was about ten years old or so, I went to summer camp with a troop of unruly Boy Scouts. I did it mostly to please my parents, as Scouting (aside from the uniforms and boots) was not my cup of tea. Our session lasted for a week. We slept in tents pitched here and there across the face of an enclave known as Camp Hugh Taylor Birch. Camp Birch was infested with skunks and poison ivy, and sopping wet from the incessant rains of Ohio's thunderstorm season.

None of this was designed to please a finicky, bookish child who was deeply attached to his blow dryer. To make matters worse, first-year campers were sequestered in a separate program which kept us from anything that might have been remotely interesting. On the archery range, for example, we were not allowed to shoot arrows at proper round targets. Instead, we shot blunt sticks at a line of empty plastic milk jugs suspended from a length of clothesline. We were not permitted to row on the lake, to build fires or cook over them, to go on overnight hikes, or whittle with our pocket knives. Compared to Camp Birch, sitting in my backyard reading Vogue was an Outward Bound experience.

Most of the other boys, I might add, were not the squeaky-clean Boy Scouts of popular imagination. I smuggled Judy Blume novels in my backpack, whereas most of them had smuggled alcohol, cigarettes, dope, and Playboy. My priggish nature recoiled at this and it made socializing awkward.

There were certain perks, I will grant you, like getting my first boy-on-boy kiss from another Scout. (Hi, Brandon–wherever you are.) But on the whole, when I pondered the prospect of the second year of this, I responded by leaving the Boy Scouts altogether.

There were no summer camps before that, or since. Until now. I'm going to camp. Knitting camp. Meg Swansen's Knitting Camp, in Wisconsin.

Judging from the descriptions in my acceptance materials, Knitting Camp differs in several key respects from Boy Scout Camp. For example:

• I will not be expected to sleep in a padded bag on rocky ground that smells of skunk urine.
  
  
• My breakfast will not consist of a granola bar, an apple, and a piece of burnt Wonder bread.
  
  
• I'll be allowed to shower daily, and by myself.
  
  
• The toilets will flush.
  
  
• Upon hearing the schedule for the day, I will not feel inclined to drown myself in the nearest body of water.
  
  
• Meg Swansen will probably not call me a "stupid pussy" when I screw up my project.
  

I doubt there will be any boy-on-boy kissing (at least for me), but these days I get plenty of that at home anyhow.

My next step is to figure out exactly how I'm getting up there. If you're reading this and you're passing by or through Chicago on your way to Camp 2, give me a shout, won't you please? I'm small and polite and clean and I have gas money. I should probably also mention that Dolores will be staying home.

Alone.

Which is something I really just don't want to think about today.

My Knitting is Full of Holes

Meet Glencora



The Glencora Baby Shawl is finished. There was a question in the comments awhile back about what exactly a "baby shawl" is. Good question. I've been calling this a baby shawl because that is the name given in Elizabeth Zimmermann's Knitter's Almanac, whence comes the basic pattern. I've decided that for me, a baby shawl is a baby blanket you'd rather not see dragged around on the floor by the intended recipient.

Here's the dossier.

Pattern: basic method for center from Elizabeth Zimmermann's Knitter's Almanac; patterns inserted from Barbara Walker's A Treasury of Knitting Patterns (Vol. I) and Sharon Miller's Heirloom Knitting. Knitted-on edging, "Wave," taken from Heirloom Knitting.

Yarn: Dale Baby Ull, pale yellow and pale green (2 skeins yellow, 1.25 skeins green)

Finished size: roughly 3.5 feet by 3.5 feet

Comments: Knitting this was more fun than playing Twister with a room full of frisky Marines. (Almost.) When you begin the center on dpns, work over a table unless you wish to flirt with insanity. Now that the shawl's finished, it'll be wrapped up and laid away to await a baby, as yet unborn, who might need it.




Squaresville

One of my favorite things about the whole knitting/spinning game is that you can be simultaneously productive and peaceful. On Saturday I installed myself at my favorite coffee shop, listened to three hour-long Zen lessons and knit like a demon on swatches for Susan's State of Maine lace stole.

It don't get much better than that. I'm not sure I believe in auras, but if I have one I'm sure it turned blue. Or pink. Or green. Or whatever color is the opposite of "murderous rage."

The design for the stole has changed considerably since my first sketch many months ago. I've tried about two dozen stitch patterns, and it looks like six or so will show up in the final object. A few details have been firmly settled. It's going to be made from Zephyr, it's going to be pale gray (the colorway is "Steel"), and I'm knitting it on a 24" US size zero circular.

Most of the lace swatches are done now, so the charting has begun. I'm doing it the old-fashioned way, since at present I haven't found a Mac-friendly charting program that looks inviting. Anyhow, I'm supposed to be trying to live a mindful life. Nothing makes you mindful like the prospect of erasing and re-drawing the contents of 400 itsy-bitsy squares if you don't pay attention.

More Buddha for Your Buck

C and I went out for a stroll this weekend and wound up at Architectural Revolution, a dashed amusing shop in our neighborhood that sells all sorts of goodies from Asia, South America, and the Middle East. I was looking for a small statue of Buddha, and as our local Buddhas Galore franchise has been replaced by a Baby Gap this seemed the best place to go.

Dolores, as usual, came along.

"Whoa," she said. "It's smells like 1973 in here."

The saleswoman behind the jewelry counter bristled slightly. "That's patchouli incense," she said. "Sir, perhaps your pet could wait outside?"

"I'm gonna go look at whatever's in the next room," said C, and vanished.

"She's not exactly a pet," I said.

"Damn straight," said Dolores. "I prefer to think of myself as his life coach."

"Um, yeah, okay...well, let me know if you or your...coach...need anything."

"I've been thinking of getting my nose pierced," said Dolores. "You got anything in silver, with rubies? That's my birthstone."

"I'm having nothing to do with this," I said, heading for the back room. I found C standing in front of a display of cat carvings from somewhere in Mexico.

"Was there blood?" he asked.

"Not yet," I said. "Now help me pick out a symbol of enlightenment before my aneurysm kicks in."

The selection was extensive, ranging from Buddhas about a half-inch high in brass to a bronze Thai Mega-Buddha roughly as tall as my mother (and with her signature penetrating gaze). There were clay Buddhas, and metal Buddhas. Fat Buddhas, skinny Buddhas. Buddhas reclining, sitting, and standing. Buddhas that lit up. Buddhas in really cute hats with slimming, vertical lines.

"How about this one?" asked C.

It was Indonesian, about ten inches high, wooden, carved, and painted in very cheerful greens and yellows. The attitude was meditation. The open eyes were intense but the overall expression was serene.

"He's kinda cute," I said. "And he'd match the rug."

"He's fifty percent off," said C.

"Wrap it up and charge it," I said.

We went back to the front room, to find Dolores and the saleswoman lying on a pile of velvet cushions and giggling madly. There was a dense cloud of smoke over the two of them that did not smell like patchouli.

"And so there I am in Morocco," Dolores was saying, "sitting in a hamam with Marlo Thomas and this Ethiopian hermaphrodite, and Marlo suddenly drops her towel and says–"

"Ahem," I said.

"Oh, hi," said the saleswoman, sitting up. "Hey. Did you find, you know, what you were looking for?"

"Maybe he should try Hare Krishna," said Dolores. And the two of them collapsed in another fit of giggles.

"Your life coach is awesome," said the saleswoman. "I mean, wow, she has lived."

"Oh hush you," said Dolores, batting her eyelashes.

"No, I am so serious," the saleswoman continued. She looked up at me, "I mean, just being around her makes me want to totally reconsider my living situtation. You know what I mean?"

"Intimately," I said.

"Listen, you guys go ahead home," said Dolores. "Lupe here goes on lunch in a couple minutes and she's going to introduce me to this guy around the corner who does wicked tattoos. I'm thinking getting a little something cute inked on my tuchus. Maybe a rosebud. Or a butterfly."

"How about a warning label?"

Whereupon they both started giggling again.

We were about halfway back to my apartment when C turned to me and said, "Remember when you decided not to get a cat because it would just be too much trouble?"

"Shut up," I said.

Happy Friday, Kittens

Winter Into Spring

When I first moved to Chicago, I thought of winters here as being like Freddy from the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. Just when you began to feel it was really gone, up popped a sequel, even though nobody had enjoyed the last one and certainly didn't want another.

These days, I think of winter in Chicago as being more like Madonna. It returns, year after year, shrieking and wailing and trying desperately to impress. Fact is, honey, we've seen it all. Blow all you want, but you done used up all the tricks in your bag.

Now when October comes I just sigh and do my best to ignore it.* And please don't give me any hippie New Age crap about how one ought to "live in harmony" with the seasons and enjoy what each of them has to offer. People who say such things do not live in Chicago. Trying to live in harmony with a Chicago winter is like trying to do buddy yoga with a wet cat.

Winter 2006 was relatively mild, meaning that:

1. There was a day in mid-February when I walked three blocks with my face uncovered.
2. The wind off the lake slammed me into the side of my apartment building only twice.
3. It's May and I'm not still wearing a wool overcoat and earmuffs.

I've just begun my annual springtime ceremony of Trying on Last Summer's Clothes. After a bad winter, this can be a supremely depressing exercise. You pull out this kicky pair of shorts that you wore all over the place, and think of afternoons on the grass in Lincoln Park, or bike rides along the lake, or a music festival where everything was just as it ought to be for an entire day. Then you put the shorts on, and discover that what hung loosely and fetchingly about your hips in the best Boystown fashion in August now clings like Tom Cruise on Katie Holmes.

It takes the zing right out of the daffodils.

This year, not so bad. Small repairs to the trim, rather than major renovations to the infrastructure. And I'm not looking at anything I wore and wincing, as I did in the Year of the Capri Pants. (All pictures have been burned, as have the pants, so don't even ask.)

Of course, other gay men tend to look at my wardrobe and wince. If I lived in New York City and walked through Chelsea in my usual summer ensemble I'd get shot. When I used to have to hang out for hours every Sunday with Mr. Ex at one of our big local bars, the only guys who ever hit on me were the ones with a straight guy fantasy. They assumed from my sub-par attire that I had ventured to the Other Side of the Tracks for an afternoon.**

I can make it halfway to gay–maybe get the shirt right, for example. But then I put on shorts with a belt instead of without, or whatever the regulation is that week, and Greg Louganis starts pounding on my door demanding the surrender of my membership card.

Spring is supposed to be a time of renewal and rebirth. Maybe I need a gay makeover. Any of you Chelsea boys make house calls?

*Also my approach to Madonna.
** Apologies to the metrosexuals. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings. Go get a pedicure, you'll feel better.

The Girl Can't Help It

Say about her what you will, but Hester Prynne was certainly the most famous gal in the village. And it seems that history is repeating itself.

I was without an iPod (horrors) for about two weeks and so hadn't been in step with Brenda Dayne's Cast On. Just imagine my surprise when I listened to Episode 22 and heard her dedicate a song to my Sheep in Residence. Not to me, mind you. To Dolores.

Dolores took it all in stride.

"I suppose I should have warned you this might happen," she said. "Le spectacle, c'est moi. There's just something magnetic about me."

"I thought that was static electricity."

"Envy ill becomes you, munchkin," she sniffed. "In any case, Brenda obviously knew of my avant-garde dance career in the mid-seventies and chose to acknowledge it in song."

"Dolores, you were a stripper in a hay bar in Times Square."

"It was site-specific performance art. I was making a comment about the exploitation of livestock by modern agribusiness. I had a grant from the NEA. Did they teach you anything at Harvard or what?"



And now Little Miss Popular even has a mention in the Museum of Kitschy Stitches curated by Stitchy McYarnpants.

"At some point," said Dolores, "I think we may need to discuss the fact that I sleep on a cushion next to the Victrola."

I wonder if Bo Peep had to put up with shit like this?

Your Number One Source for Dubious Advice

"Dolores," I said. "Dolores, I've been asked to contribute to a symposium."

"Well, bugger my behind," said Dolores. "What's the topic, where's it at, and can we get a suite on the concierge floor with a view?"

"It's online," I said. "An online symposium about lace knitting."

"Oh," said Dolores.

"I'm sorry if you're disappointed," I said.

"No," she sighed. "It's just that I worry about your rock star lifestyle catching up with you."

***

Lace Symposium



The online, lace-oriented community Knitting Beyond the Hebrides is hosting a week-long online lace symposium. No need to register, no need to pay, no need to be frisked by a big, burly security guard named Lou. Just head over to their Web site and check out each day's "schedule."

While there will be no hospitality suite, no banquet, and no illicit whoopee in the coat check room, there will be a lot of articles, patterns, contests, and so forth. Skill levels from basic to advanced will, I am told, find something of interest.

Well, Since You Asked

I know perfectly well that I am the worst blogger in the universe when it comes to answering reader questions. I will try to be better about it, pinky swear.

My half-assed attempt at improvement begins today, which as it happens is the first day of the rest of my life. It's half-assed because I will be answering two comments I know I came in recently but which I now cannot locate.*

Commenter A wanted to know of some good basic books on Buddhism. I can recommend two that have been a big help:

Buddhism Plain and Simple by Steve Hagen
Awakening the Buddha Within by Lama Surya Das

The former makes good on the promise of the title: the basic ideas, without the outer trappings of the many sects.

The latter is more inspirational, with a lot of thought-provoking takes on the dharma.

These have both been useful to me, with no prior background in the subject.

Commenter B is a new (or new-ish) guy knitter who wanted to know of good basic books and sources of instruction.

First of all, I am so excited for you. You will be assimilated. That is, I mean, uh, welcome.

I wrote an article about books to learn from for the first MenKnit online magazine, so I guess I'd start there if you really want my opinion. Online, where technique is concerned, try:

• The Knitting Curmudgeon's tips on lace knitting (see her sidebar)
  
• Go Knit in Your Hat is packed with practical advice on buying, choosing, and substituting yarn
• See Eunny Knit is full of good commonsense and remarkably clear explanations
• String or Nothing is a virtual encyclopedia of technique

That's not an exhaustive list by any means. It's limited to blogs which offer information that has been of recent, direct, practical use to me. There are many others (see my sidebar) and the thing to do is explore.

I tried joining the fabled KnitList, just to see for myself if it deserves its reputation, but all three applications were rejected for reasons unexplained. Perhaps my reputation as a roughneck troublemaker preceded me.

***

"But I've never been to a symposium where nobody threw the hotel furniture out the window," Dolores whined.

"Get away from the coffee table," I said.

*I expect the comments are in a secret, central holding tank along with my spare keys; my copy of To the Lighthouse; my ability to digest potato chips; 73 gym locks; 4,000 pairs of socks and 286 stitch markers.

Sheep Shop Shipshape

I put Uppity Dolores , Singles Bar, and the Itchy Lamb into the shop today. The first two are on shirts for now, but when I have a moment to adapt the images for cards, notebooks, pedicure sets, and so forth, I'll add them in. As always, if you want something, ask.

I realized the shop is getting a little large and unwieldy, so I've begun renovations. Should you venture forth to browse, kindly watch your step and keep an eye out for flying objects. I'm hoping the new arrangement will make it a bit easier to see what's available.

It's a lot of work, but fortunately I have assistance.



It's going to be a long weekend.

Look, Mommy!

I made some yarn. All by myself. Except Carol did the coloring part.



This is the green Wensleydale, after a mostly successful encounter with the Navajo ply process. Thank you, Black Bunny Fibers! You changed my life! I'm going to start having my paychecks sent directly to you! I don't need food, clothing, or shelter!

I have to go now, because I stepped on my glasses and need to get new ones in order to see clearly beyond two feet. I'm rather hoping I don't overshoot the optometrist's office down in the Loop and wind up in Missouri.

Curmudgeonly Candles

One of my knitting and blogging mentors just celebrated a birthday. Today's cartoon is dedicated to the Knitting Curmudgeon, because she has been encouraging and supportive, because she makes me laugh out loud, and because I stole the caption from her.



Many happy returns, Marilyn.

Please don't miss the essay she has posted as part of this entry. It's a lovely piece of work. Even Dolores got the sniffles after reading it.

Dolores Regrets

Dolores has something she would like to say. If she knows what's good for her.

Go ahead, Dolores.



Good people of Canada, especially the knitters,

It has come to my attention that some of you Canucks were a little miffed when I rudely expressed annoyance at your recent gift of a large mass of arctic air.

Please forgive my thoughtless words. I am truly quite fond of your country, having made several memorable visits to the Shaw Festival, Banff, and Le Petit Coochie Coochie Bar des Danseurs Nus in Montréal. (Hey, Guillaume!)

My host informs me that Canadians have been extremely good to him, and that if he has to choose between you and me, I'll be getting my mail delivered to the knothole in the oak tree across the street. You don't have to tell me twice.

So, I apologize. I realize that an arctic air mass is fair trade, considering that in recent years we've given you Britney Spears and Herbie, Fully Loaded. (I'm not going to bring up Anne Murray. I'm not I'm not I'm not.) I'm very sorry for what I said.

I know I should probably say this all over in French, but the only French expressions I know are "Où est le lavabo des dames?" and "Plus forte."

Okay, how was that? Am I done?

No. Go on. Do it.

Fine. And a one, and a two–

O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!

From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

Am I done now?

Yes. That was very nice.

It would have been better on my harmonica.

I'm not giving you the harmonica back until you apologize to Mrs. Teitelbaum in 1503 for what you did to her cat.

Jesus, I need a cigarette.

Rough Night

We've been having a most unusual spring in Chicago. We've been having it now, in April, instead of the more usual month of June. For the past week or so, temperatures have soared and skies have been blue. The startled populace has been wandering about among the tulips, grinning goofily. The one fly in the ointment was Dolores' announcement that on Wednesday morning she would begin hunting for the perfect new bikini.

Our idyll came to an abrupt end last night at about two in the morning. I was in the middle of a terribly interesting dream involving Viggo Mortensen and a pair of leather wrist restraints when suddenly there was a terrific WHUMP! and the whole apartment shook.

From the other room, I heard Dolores mutter groggily, "Whatever that was, I hope it's dead now."

I got up and went to the window. "It" was the north wind. The sky that had been more or less clear was now threatening and full of fast-moving, low-flying clouds. There were breakers on the lake–big ones. It was raining. And the gusts kept coming. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!

"Mother Nature is now officially on my shit list," said Dolores, retiring to her cushion and pulling the blanket over her head.

When I came into the living room this morning, Dolores was lying on the couch watching the Weather Channel. A very bright-eyed anchorwoman was explaining that our little taste of February had arrived courtesy of a large air mass sailing down from Canada.

"Fucking Canadians," said Dolores, turning off the television.

"Not nice," I said. "When you're down in the Loop today, could you stop by Field's and pick up some black socks for me?"

"Heh," sniffed Dolores. "You think I'm leaving the apartment in this muck?"



"What about the perfect bikini?"

"I've decided to start shopping this weekend," she said. "They say the weather will have cleared up, plus you can go with me. Mama likes to have somebody to hold her purse. Say, would you mind fluffing my pillow?"

Attention, Mother Nature: You're now on my shit list, too.

Paging Dr. Freud

I had that dream again last night.

You know, the one where I'm standing in the middle of Wrigley Field wearing only my watermelon-print Gap boxer shorts, trying to knit a Clapotis out of Rowan Kidsilk Haze with one broken needle. I look up, and the stands are full of screaming people. Then I realize it's 40,000 Lily Chins yelling at me to knit faster, knit faster.

Every Lily is working a crochet hook the size of a Louisville Slugger, producing a gigantic swatch of "Nolita" that streams onto the field like a tidal wave. I drop my needles and try to run, but the flood picks me up and carries me right over the top of the bleachers and suddenly all of Wrigleyville is inundated by "a fun dusting of eyelash." I start screaming for everybody to head for the lake, but when we get there Rick Mondragon is waiting on a giant scallop shell dressed as the Little Mermaid and holding an Uzi. He pulls the trigger and this jet of cheap bouclé shoots out at us and Mayor Daley screams, "All is lost!" And then I wake up.

Yeah, that dream.

Big Fat Bobbin

I finished a whole bobbin of the Wensleydale from Black Bunny Fibers.



I like the greens even better spun up. If I were eight years old, I would have faked being sick this morning so I could stay home from school and ply this.

It's good thing I didn't knit as a child. I'd have been a complete delinquent, hanging out in the alley behind the yarn store, huffing Kookaburra Wash, trying to score a bit of cashmere from the big kids.

There, but for the grace of God.

Oy, Friday

I don't know how your week was, but after mine I need a laugh. I hope this will give you one.



Meditation

Last night's meditation was the best for me yet. I've been drifting aimlessly in my post-Catholicism life. I've dallied with the Quakers, the Episcopalians, and the Unitarians. All terrific groups with many merits, but none a perfect fit. My relief at having found what feels like a refuge cannot be described.

Relief often gives way to joy, which is the case with me. It was in the spirit of joy that I wrote yesterday's entry. I was therefore a bit perturbed by the anonymous (aren't they always?) comment that I was belittling a spiritual practice.

I am devoted to exploring this philosophy, but I do not equate devotion with either gloom or a self-consciously serious tone. My teachers and fellow students approach their practices with hefty doses of humor and this is one of the reasons I feel so at home in my sangha.

As for Buddhist meditation leading to a trance, which Anonymous informs me is not the point, "trance" is the word used in three of my study guides and by two of my teachers as the state of mind that comes from successful meditation. As a novice, I can but use the vocabulary I've been given.

Read carefully before writing, Anonymous. Snap judgements are not indicative of mindfulness.

Namaste, y'all.

There's No Place Like Om

So, I've started going to this gay Buddhist meditation group on Thursday nights. It's called Rainbow Lotus Sangha.

I'm an embryonic Buddhist.* My involvement with the philosophy dates back to February, when I acquired a small pile of useful books from a friend who's a hardcore practitioner in the Tibetan tradition. I liked what I read, so I read more. And I liked that, so I've kept on going.

Meditation is a hoot. Our group is small, and meets in a physical therapy room in a medical center. Not a pretty place, but the leader always hangs a string of colorful Tibetan prayer flags to jazz it up. You know how the gays are.

We sit on the floor, in a circle, on little blue cushions. How cute is that? The first day I was there I had a flashback to kindergarten story time, and Mrs Wortman reading Clifford, the Big Red Dog. It was a real page-turner, but I couldn't concentrate on it because the kid next to me was picking his nose and eating his own boogers.

When you meditate, you're supposed to focus on your breath. Beginners are told to count each exhale, from one to ten, and then start over again. Ultimately, the aim is to achieve a sort of trance state in which insight may occur.

Well, guess what? I've only had four visits and it's already working. I must be quite the prodigy, because I've had two brilliant insights right in the middle of seated meditation. I feel compelled to share them with you. Buddhism is making me very generous.

Insight One: "Rainbow Lotus Sangha" is kind of a dippy name. No zing to it. You'd have a hell of a time marketing a group called "Rainbow Lotus Sangha." How are you supposed to spread the Dharma with a name like that? My zippy alternative: "Fruits of Meditation." That's a brand name you can push, kids.

Insight Two: Om socks. Somebody should design a pair of meditation socks with "OM" worked into the soles, so that when you sit in full lotus with the soles of your feet up everybody can read it. You could also play around with other two-word designs, like "TANTRIC TOOTSIES" or "KOMFY KARMA." I don't mind telling you that when this flashed into my head I almost fell off my cushion.

Amazingly, the basic books I've read about Buddhism say nothing about meditation leading to the discovery of new ideas for knitting. If you ask me, they're really missing the boat.

That's all for now. I've gotta go find the Dalai Lama's e-mail address.

*Don't worry. I don't plan to write much about this, as I don't like talking about religion. I'm rather like Emily Dickinson, who said the open discussion of divine subjects "embarrassed her dog."

Evidence of Fiber Manipulation

Every so often I do remember to post pictures of what I've been working on, to remind you (and myself) that one of the key topics around here is knitting.

Exhibit A: My First Niddy Noddy, in Use.



It contains 44 yards of my first yarn, spun from the corriedale/montadale fiber I got from Susan, who got it from the school janitor/shepherd she knows in Maine. I only had one bobbin, and wanted to empty the bobbin, so I used Navajo ply to turn it into a 3-ply. Dashed clever people, the Navajos. As yarn, it sucks. But it's my first yarn, and I love it for that reason.

Exhibit B: My First Yarn, in Ball Format



Because I just can't stop looking at it. I mean–it's yarn! And I made it! In comparison, the thrill of graduating from Harvard was minimal. (The little sheep are a present from C, who found them in New York City. They glow in the dark.)

Exhibit C: The Glencora Baby Shawl, Edging in Progress



Glencora started off as the February baby shawl in Elizabeth Zimmermann's Knitter's Almanac. She said I'd get bored with the plain stitching and she was darn tootin.' So I threw in the tulip, which is Tulip Lace II from Barbara Walker Volume I. Then I added the rosebuds, which are from Sharon Miller's Heirloom Knitting, a book I have come to love more than some of my previous boyfriends.

I'm slightly disturbed by the proximity of the outer rosebuds to the edge of the shawl, but am pretending I can ameliorate this in blocking.

Exhibit D: Close-Up of a Screw-Up



The edging on Glencora is the Wave Edging from Heirloom Knitting. You get a lot of bang for your buck with this edging–it's enjoyable to work, looks pretty, and is far simpler than the uninitiated would imagine.

On my first go at it, I was attaching it with the usual k2tog. It looked like rubbish. So I switched to s1, k1, psso. This I liked - it gave a cute little plait along the joined edge. When I got the corners and began to insert extra rows for fullness, I considered what to do, and tried it out, and found it wasn't working properly. There's an apparent difference, as you can see. I toyed with undoing all those rows and starting the corner over.

And then I decided to just repeat the mistake equally on all four corners and call it a design feature.

Forgive me, Jean Miles, for I have sinned.

Shop Note

Yesterday's full-length portrait of Dolores in her traveling couture drew requests for a shirt. So I put one up, with what I think is an appropriate caption. Click here.

Welcome to the Fold

And Dolores Makes Four

On Saturday morning, I got up early, showered and dressed, and slipped quietly to the front door. Not quietly enough.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" said a voice behind me.

I turned and saw this.



"Well now," I said. "You're all dressed up."

"Yeah," said Dolores. "These are traveling clothes. You know, such as one would wear when travelling."

In the elevator I noticed her brooch had a lock of long blond hair in it. She caught me looking.

"Rod Stewart," she said.

"Why do you–" I started.

"I'm not allowed to tell you under the terms of the settlement," she said.

A Field Trip

We set off to Oak Park, and the charming home of Meg and Jonathan, the Two Sock Knitters. If they were startled to find two guests, instead of one, on the doorstep, they were much too polite to say so.

Our ultimate destination was The Fold, a spinning shop in Marengo, Illinois–about as far west of the city as I think I've ever been. I'd never been there, but Jonathan and Meg had, and from their descriptions it was like Shangri-La, only with a better selection of spinning wheels.

Jonathan drove, Meg worked a frog sock, and Dolores fell asleep. As the city sprawl gradually disappeared we turned into genuine countryside, complete with farm fields and big stands of trees, and even the occasional horse. We turned off the highway on to a smaller road, then an even smaller road, then an itty-bitty road, and we were there.

"Dolores," I said. "Dolores, get up."

She sat up, looked out the car window and frowned. "Where are we?" she said.

"At the Fold."

"The what?"

"The Fold. The spinning shop."

"Spinning shop? What the hell are you, Amish? I thought we were going to a casino. You kept whispering on the phone about fun at the wheel."

"Spinning wheel. Not roulette wheel."

"Fuck. I gotta get my hearing checked."

"Well, look, " I said, "There's a whole flock of sheep over there. You can hang out with them if you don't want to look in the shop."

"Fab," said Dolores, waddling off toward the pen. "This will be some hot time. Hey, girls, what the hell do you do for kicks around here?"

"I'm a little worried," said Meg.

"We'll be fine," I said. "As long as there are no particularly good-looking farmhands in the vicinity."

The Fold lived up to its description. There are two sections to it: a yarn portion, into which I did not allow myself to step (though Meg quite a frolic in there); and a spinning portion, where the wool is stacked literally to the ceiling, and spinning wheels of sizes from teeny to titanic crowd the floor. If you prefer a hand spindle, there's a wall of them. A wall.

I was so dazzled I hardly knew where to start. Happily, I'd made a list beforehand and Toni, the owner, led me gently around to the things I needed. Niddy noddy, oil can, bobbins, tensioned lazy kate, orifice hook. All handsome and sturdy, all at fair prices. Toni herself is the model of what a shop owner ought to be: knowledgeable, patient, enthusiastic, and able to make everybody in the room feel like she's been waiting expectantly all day just for them.

Jonathan, meanwhile, had been exploring the wools. Blue-faced leicester caught his attention, and Toni sat him down to try it out.



I envied his skill. The guy spins like champ. The blue-faced leicester looked dreamy, flowing easily out of the fiber mass. Toni saw me drooling and suggested I try out a wheel.

Now, I'd never spun in front of anybody else who could spin, let along somebody who makes a living at it. I felt my face go red, but before I really knew what was happening Toni had me sitting in front of an Ashford Elizabeth with my own length of leicester. After a couple of deep breaths and a very embarrassing bad start, my nerves relaxed and everything went all spinny - in a good way.



From the Elizabeth, I moved on to a Lendrum Saxony. Toni suggested I try it when she noticed that I draw with my left hand. The model in the shop had a right hand orifice, and she thought it might be more comfortable for me. She was right. The wheel was so much fun to play with it qualifies as a sex toy.

But did she pressure me to buy it? No. Quite the contrary. She told me to stick with my Ashford Traditional for now. "Practice, learn, and shop around for a long time. Try lots of different wheels. Don't rush it. When the time comes for you to get a new wheel, you'll know it."

I could have stayed all day. I think we all could have. But with great reluctance we totalled up our damage and headed for the car. Dolores was still hanging around in the sheep pen.



"Time to go," I called.

"Oh, gee," said Dolores. "What a shame. We were just about to start a game of strip poker."

Back in the car, Jonathan asked Dolores if she'd had a nice time.

"Swell," she said. "I haven't been around such an exciting bunch since the last time I went to a Methodist funeral. Can we stop somewhere for a drink? I'm fresh out."

"We're going to have tea with Meg and Jonathan before we go back into the city."

"Tea? Oh God," she said, closing her eyes and lying back on the seat. "Please tell me that's just a euphemism."

[I'm indebted to Meg for taking these pictures, and to Jonathan for sending them to me. You're the best.]

Rotten Egg

(I had a mighty fine fiber adventure on Saturday, but I'm not going to tell you about it just yet. My gracious hosts took pictures which they've offered to share with me, and once I get those I'll write an account. In the meantime, an Easter memory.)

I was about twelve years old, and a dedicated goody two-shoes, when I signed up to join the Catholic Youth Organization associated with our base chapel. There was pressure at home to get out of the house, do something, make some friends my own age. Trouble was, I didn't like most kids my own age. The boys were as obnoxious as they'd ever been. The girls, who had always been my buddies, suddenly sprouted breasts and withdrew into giggling secrecy.

The CYO met near our house once a week, and was supervised by a quartet of happy, shiny adult volunteers. I hoped the adults could keep the other kids in check. If the whole thing became too much to deal with I'd simply walk home.

It wasn't so bad. Most weeks we'd just sit in a circle and talk about a topic of deep import (drug abuse was a favorite). Occasionally there were spaghetti suppers, field trips, or craft projects. Every once in a while we'd indulge in Good Works.

Most of the Good Works were pretty dull. We'd pick up trash along a stretch of road, polish the pews in the chapel, or sort clothes donated for homeless. As Easter Week approached, we were asked if we'd dye the eggs needed for the Interfaith Easter Egg Hunt. That was the kind of Good Work I could get into, even on a Saturday afternoon.

A lot of the other kids felt the same. About twenty of us showed up in the chapel kitchen, where 500 white eggs had been boiled by the Christian Ladies Circle and were awaiting decoration. One of the ladies directed us to a tall stack of dye kits in the corner, told us to help ourselves to sodas from the refrigerator...and left to get her hair done.

Big mistake.

Not that, at first, you would have noticed anything untoward was going on. We didn't fling eggs or cups of dye at one another. On the contrary, as we sat dipping eggs with teaspoons and showing off our handiwork, we could have been an ad for Wholesome Teen Fun.

Then I found the crayons.

I was startled to find that some of my coworkers didn't know that if you drew on an eggshell with a crayon before you dyed it, the wax would resist the dye. You could decorate a egg with a message or drawing that way. It was much more fun that using only solid colors. I showed off a festive "HAPPY EASTER" egg and everybody clamored for crayons. There weren't enough in the kits to go around, so one of the boys snuck into a Sunday school classroom and came back with a box of Crayolas.

After the fifth egg, writing "HAPPY EASTER" lost its novelty. But Easter is short on alternative taglines. If these were Christmas Eggs we could have written "Joyeux Noel" and "Season's Greetings" and "Ho Ho Ho" and whatnot, but with Easter you're pretty much stuck with "HAPPY EASTER."

I did a bunny face, just to be different. But it's very hard to do fine detail with a crayon on an eggshell, so I gave that up. Then Satan, who was hanging around the chapel looking for somebody to bother, came over and whispered in my ear, "You know what would be funny?"

I picked up a blank egg. Giggling to myself, I wrote "THE EASTER BUNNY HATES YOU" and dropped the egg in the dye. As the dye coated the egg and the message showed up in large block capitals, it seemed unbearably funny and I burst out laughing. Heather, who was sitting next to me, looked over and squealed.

"Omigod I cannot believe you wrote that! That is so funny!"

This was an entirely unexpected reaction. Most of the CYO kids never noticed anything I did or said. Now they all crowded around my subversive egg and hooted.

"I'm totally doing an egg like that," said Heather. "Do another one!"

How could you top a slam from the Easter bunny? No problem. In these situations one has merely to wait, and Satan will oblige with inspiration.

"TOUCH THIS EGG AND DIE," I wrote. And dropped it into a cup of pink. As the message appeared, the crowd went wild.


All the way down the table things were haywire. About half the finished eggs going back into the empty cartons were suddenly saying the most dreadful things. Heather held up a two-tone (orange and blue) on which she had written "YOU'RE UGLY" in a legible, if lopsided, hand.

Suddenly I was the most popular kid in the CYO.

"YOU WIN A FREE PUPPY!"
"YOUR DAD IS AN ALIEN"
"NOBODY LIKES YOU"
"A CHICKEN DIED TO MAKE THIS EGG"
"YOU WERE ADOPTED"

And perhaps most ironically, from a kid who probably went on to become a Nietzsche scholar:

"GOD IS DEAD"

We were so enthusiastic that we finished 500 eggs in record time. When the Lady in Charge came back from the beauty parlor, the filled cartons were already in the refrigerator.

"Great job!" she said. "You'll be back tomorrow to help hide them, right?"

Oh yeah. We sure would.

I didn't go. In fact, I didn't even go back to CYO after that. It wasn't out of fear of punishment. All twenty of us had written nasty things, and one of the side effects of being a goody-goody is that when somebody points at you and says "He started it!" the adults don't believe it.

I just knew, somehow, that my brief, shining afternoon of popularity was a temporary fluke. I wasn't a bad child, really,* and when the others realized that I'd go back to being the little nobody. Better to go out on top and leave a fabulous memory behind you. Even if it's only written on an egg.

*I felt so guilty about this that I brought it up in confession. The priest told me to say ten Hail Marys, do something nice for at least one little kid, and think about pursuing a career in advertising.

Enough Already

Hi. It's Dolores. His Majesty is lying on the sofa with a cold compress on his head and said it's his deathbed wish that I announce the winner of the latest Celebrity Smackdown. Oh, the honor. If only I'd had time to get my hair set. Hold my drink, will you, so I can open the envelope? Thanks.



In our little re-enactment of the sex contest between Empress Messalina and the prostitute Scylla–now that's in such good taste–here's how the numbers, ahem, stacked up:

Thel (Scylla): 255 men (60%)
Cathy (Messalina): 169 men (40%)

The winner gets this commemorative loving cup–ha, real cute–and a gift certificate for a complete gynecological examination.

Thel couldn't give us a statement because she had to run home and dye Easter eggs with the kids. Run? I'm surprised she can walk.

All Cathy could say was "WAAAAAAAAH." So what else is new?

Now, if you'll excuse me, the little patient wants cinnamon toast and I gotta go buy some Febreze. Trust me, you don't want to see what 424 lust-crazed men can do to an oriental rug.