The United States Welcomes You

Have you ever accompanied a jet-lagged sheep through customs?

Our Lufthansa flights from Rome to Frankfurt, then Frankfurt to Chicago were peaceful. In Frankfurt, Dolores wheedled her way into the First Class lounge and helped herself to so much complimentary lager beer that she more or less oozed down the jetway. The flight was unusually empty, and she managed to pass out across two seats before we took off.

Aside from a twitch of the nostrils as the stewardess passed by with a cart full of duty free cigarettes, she didn't stir for eight hours.

I was hoping she might sleep all the way through passport control and customs, so that I could just drape her over a luggage cart and claim her as baggage. But no. When we'd reached the gate and the other passengers began to stagger off, her eyes snapped open.

"Where are we?"

"Chicago. Welcome home."

"Shit. I had a dream we were diverted to Mykonos."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"My mouth tastes like the inside of Rick Mondragon's left shoe." She waggled a hoof at one of the stewardesses. "Ingrid, my little pfefferneusse, I need a Bloody Mary quick as you can get it to me."

"Der befferatch serwice is entet, meddem," said Ingrid. "Vee air on de grount."

"Typical German," Dolores muttered. "A slave to petty detail."

At the gate she commandeered a wheelchair, and drove like a maniac through the crowds of sleepy international travelers. I chased after her and managed to arrive just as she slammed to halt against the immigration control barrier and pitched forward onto the tile floor.

"Your passport and immigration card," said the agent, peering down at her.

"Keep your shirt on," she said, rummaging around in her purse. "Or better yet–don't."

The agent blushed and pulled his collar closed around his notably beefy, tanned neck.

"What was the purpose of your trip?" he asked.

"Pleasure," Dolores cooed. "And let me tell you, young man, I know a thing or two about pleasure." She flashed a smile that might have been seductive were it not for the traces of lipstick and complimentary apple streudel on her teeth.

The agent's hands began to shake, and he stamped the counter four times before finally hitting her passport.

At customs, the man at the x-ray machine asked, "The two of you together?"

"Not in the legal sense," said Dolores. "Outdated marriage laws. I just use him for sex."

"Dolores!" I hissed.

"Sir," said the customs guy, "I really don't need to know about your alternative lifestyle."

"She's joking," I said. "We're not together. We just...live...together."

"Really, sir, like I said–"

"Hey, Barney Fife," said Dolores, "How about you just run our goddamned bags through your fancy-ass machine so we can get the hell out of here and into more flattering light?"

Forty minutes later, after all of Dolores luggage had been searched and customs was satsified that there was no cocaine sewn into the seams of her evening gowns, they unzipped my suitcase. My eyes were glazed over, my stomach was growling and I would have liked very much to pee.

A tap on my shoulder brought my attention back to the bags.

"Sir," said the agent, "I think we have an issue here."

"With what," I said. "All I have in there is a couple of Greek tablecloths and some dirty laundry."

"Sir, are you aware of the laws regarding the carriage of obscene materials across United States borders?"

"Obscenity?"

He held up a small book entitled La brebis galeuse et amourese fait la connaissance du Marquis de Sade. For those whose French might be rusty, a spirited photo illustration on the cover hinted broadly at the scope of the story.

"And there's this, and this, and this, and this..."

Apparently the eponymous brebis had enjoyed a life that was, as Lady Bracknell would say, "crowded with incident." And somebody, not me, had amassed a full set of her memoirs whilst in Corsia.

An hour later, when I'd been interrogated and let off with a warning and the brebis had been taken into custody by the federal government, Dolores and I were at last in a taxi and motoring for home.

"Can I be held responsible if government hacks don't appreciate fine literature?" she said peevishly.

"I am not having this conversation with you right now."

"They could have at least let me keep La brebis galeuse fait boules-de-neige avec Père Noël."

"Please shut up."

"Are you worried that the body cavity search constitutes adultery?"

"Don't make me stop this cab."

"Because it doesn't, even if you kind of enjoyed it."

I'm not telling.

Look Homeward

Today I realized a dream I've had since my first year of Latin, and wandered around the ruins of Ostia, which served as the port for ancient Rome. It surpassed my expectations, so I'm not going to say much about it because when I get all elegiac it makes me gag, and I expect does the same for you.

I'll be sorry to say ciao to the Minerva II, but the ship's time has run out anyhow. Carnival has bought it, and the likely outcome is that Swan Hellenic, after 100+ years in operation, will cease to exist. The Minerva II is going to be gutted, the paneled and frescoed library ripped out, and it and the Wheeler Bar (dedicated to Sir Mortimer Wheeler, one of the founders) will become a casino. Because of course what the world needs is one more cheesy cruise ship full of white trash playing slot machines.

I'm sorry, that sounded snotty, didn't it? Well, for once I don't care if it is. It's been awfully nice to sail around in a boat that came equipped with the Oxford English Dictionary (the full set), that showed documentaries about the Aegean as we sailed over it, the offered fantastic lectures by articulate experts, and that was populated by people who cared where the hell they were sailing to.

Enough, enough. Where was I?

So this morning was Ostia, and this afternoon was Tarquinia. In Tarquinia the chief attraction were painted Etruscan tombs, followed by a ramble around the "modern" town which is mostly two or three centuries old. I was wrapping things up and about to put the camera away when I decided to take one more shot up a winding street that was especially well-lit by the setting sun.

While I was framing the view, something close by snagged my auto-focus for a minute. I realized with shock that it was a rack of...yarn.

I hadn't seen a yarn shop anywhere during the whole trip, and now I'd stumbled over one in the last ten minutes of the last excursion on the last day.

Upon investigation, it turned out to be not only a yarn shop, but a combination yarn/lingerie shop. They arrange these things so well in Italy. Guys, you think it's tough in America going into a yarn shop? Try it when the front window looks like a clearance sale at Victoria's Secret.

The glamorous saleswoman was an utter doll and happily I remembered the words for "pure wool" because they had an awful lot of acrylic going on. She understood and directed me to this pile of lovely stuff in neato colors. I left with enough DK weight Italian yarn, in the same red-brown used in the Etruscan tombs, to make myself a sweater. I won't tell you how little I paid, because it would just piss you off.

A good ending to a good trip. Tomorrow, by way of punishment, I have to deal with the airport in Frankfurt. For that, if past experience is any indication, I'll need one of the words in my meagre German vocabulary: scheisse.

(I'm not sure I spelled that right, but I do know how to pronounce it.)

Next report will appear as jet lag permits.

Not Kidnapped by Pirates

With all one hears about the legendary Corsican pirates, I imagined I might be carried off today by swarthy, rough brigand with large hands whose shirt kept opening to reveal a flash of nipple. But no. There was a sailor keeping an eye on things outside the Eglise des Marins, but he was about eighty-six, visibly soiled, and missing all his front teeth. One appreciates older gentlemen, to be sure, but one has one's limits.

Dolores, no surprise, stayed on board nursing her buttock. I hit the street early on and had breakfast at the public market. It struck me, wandering past the stands of spices and meats and cheeses and baked goods, that you can stand in the middle of my local supermarket all day and you never smell anything except disinfectant. Here, in Ajaccio, the scents were intoxicating and I was busy inhaling I almost forgot to take pictures.

I studied French for about four years in high school and college under the august tutelage of Mesdames Dufour, Plessix, Benard, and Croissy. But until today I'd never set foot in a Francophone city. I screwed up my courage and decided to lose my parlez-vous virginity at one of the baker's stalls. The lady running it looked sort of like my Sicilian grandmother, God rest her soul, which I found reassuring.

"Bonjour, madame," I said. "Tarte a l'oignon, s'il vous plait."* She smiled. Mercy me, I thought, it worked! I'm speaking French! Get me, Charles de Gaulle! Je suis cosmopolitain! Oh, la la! Allons-nous a la plage!

"Is okay. Hi. I spik de Inglish," she said. "What you want?"

Attention, Mesdames Dufour, Plessix, Benard, and Croissy: I expect a full refund.

*Lee Ann: Before you give me any shit, I'm typing on a PC and have no idea how to put the accents in. Just go ahead and use your Sharpie right on the screen. Bisoux!

All at Sea

By popular demand, Dolores was asked to front the jazz band again last night but she decided not to revisit Cole Porter. Instead, she put together a Shirley Bassey/Dusty Springfield/Cher set and called it "The bleat goes on."

Being the supportive type, I decided to sit through the first set. As you might imagine, at this point my threshold of surprise is quite high. Still, the sight of Dolores in the low-rise, embroidered jeans she picked up in Catania gave me a bit of a jolt.

She'd painted a daisy and a peace symbol on either cheek and tied on a headband that looked familiar.

"It used to be your blue tie," she said. "Let's be honest, it was getting a bit tired. Think of this as its rebirth on a higher plane after a life of much merit through suffering. Kanzeon, praise to Buddha, yadda yadda. Hand me those platform wedgies."

Word of a second night of Dolores travels fast on a small ship and by the time I got to the Orpheus Room all the best seats were taken. I was trying to squeeze into a space behind one of the potted palms when the bar manager grabbed my arm and pulled me down front. "A seat for the gentleman," he said to one of the waiters.

"Very kind," I said.

"Is no problem, Mr. Van Hoofen."

The set was a bit late getting started as apparently Dolores ran into the swinging wife from Newcastle-on-Tyne in the powder room just before it was time to go on, and after they'd said hello to one another in several ways she had to re-paint both the daisy and the peace symbol.

It started innocuously enough. She came out and sang the theme from Goldfinger, and ended (quite creatively I thought) by tossing two handfuls of those gold coin condoms into the crowd. Then the bandleader joined her for "I Got Ewe, Babe" and she segued into "Half Breed." Applause, applause.

Just as I was getting comfortable, however, she purred "This one's for Dusty" and launched into "Son of a Preacher Man." I had sense of foreboding, which turned to panic when I realized she had strapped on her wireless microphone and was making a beeline for a distinguished gentleman in the front row, who when he's at work is referred to as the Anglican Bishop of Birmingham.

I'm not certain whether His Grace the Bishop had ever before been the recipient of a lap dance, and his reaction was rather difficult to gauge. That of his wife, alas, was not. Dolores had only just got his collar off with her teeth when suddenly there was a flash of Swarovski crystals as Mrs. Bishop of Birmingham had swung her evening purse and cracked our own dear chanteuse right on the noggin.

Dolores objected strongly to this and leapt off the lap of the Bishop and onto the head of his wife, where she clung, bellowing, as the frightened woman ran to and fro around the bandstand knocking over instruments and amplifiers and microphone stands. The Bishop attempted to calm the situation but only made matters worse when he grabbed for Dolores's legs and instead removed her pants and left her naked except for a hot pink Agent Provocateur sequin thong she claims was given to her as a souviens-moi by Christina Aguilera.

A few women in the crowd felt sympathetic to Mrs. Bishop and so were attempting to remove the sheep from her head, and got their fingers burned by the lit Gauloise she had manged to keep clamped between her teeth. Dolores's favorite waiters simultaneously leapt to her defense against Mrs. Bishop's cohort, suffering severe lacerations from ten sets of manicured nails.

And then Dolores's Gauloise dropped a hot ash into somebody's heavily sprayed bouffant Princess Margaret hairdo and before you could say "Veni creator spiritus" the fire sprinklers had gone off. People started screaming and running and slipping on the wet floor and the Bishop lost his reason and simply stood in the middle of it all madly reciting Psalm 18 at the top of his voice. I was worried about my camera getting wet, and so decided it might be so much nicer to sit out on deck.

I'm told it took simply hours for the security staff to get it all sorted out and everyone back to their cabins to cool down. Dolores is missing a sizeable patch of fleece over her left buttock and is, she says, considering starting a jihad against the Anglican Church.

Weather is beautiful. Wish you were here.

Meet Earl Ray

A guest post by Carol.

Howdy.
Name’s Earl Ray. Earl Ray Fleecenberry.
I only gotta minute. Heading over to that Monster Truck rally and I gotta pick up some brewskis first. So I hear youze are friends of Dotty. [snort]



Yeah, yeah, I know Dotty. I wuz married to her, wasn’t I ? [belch] Geez, that chili dawg I got at the Waffle House sure is repeatin’ on me. Anyways, we was talkin’ about Dotty. Whaddya wanna know about her?

Well, Christ on a cracker, I allus knew Dotty. I grew up just a mile or two down the road. My daddy had a trailer just on the other side of the holler from Dotty’s farm. The Van Hoofens allus thought they were so great, being as they didn’t live in a trailer like the Fleecenberry clan. Thought their sheep-pies didn’t stink. But they’s white-faced dartmoor trash like everybody in that part of the county.

Gotta say, Dotty was a babe from the time she wuz a lamb. Always wuz a sucker for those chicks with a set of big hocks. Yowsa! We did have us some good times, for a while leastaways. That gal loved to get it on in the back of a John Deere tractor. And in the top of a hayloft. And in the pig muck. Come to think on it, wasn’t a place Dotty didn’t love to get it on….

Anyways, we got the preacher to marry us as soon as we wuz old enough. ‘Spose it wuz a mistake, though. Dotty, she ain’t never gonna be the kinda ewe who mates with only one ram. Nosiree.

Guess I shouldn’ta been surprised that night I come home from work early. Open the door, and there’s Dotty with a bottle of Eucalan in one hand, pair of handcuffs in the other, and my best friend Johnny Lee hogtied on the waterbed with a pair of sheep clippers up his bee-hind. Took a cornfield fulla whiskey to get that pitcher out of my mind. [shudder] Woke up the next day wid the biggest hangover I ever did have, and nothin’ but a note on the fridge. Never forget what it said:



You boys ever been in love with a woman? Other than Pamela Anderson? You want to know what it feels like to be in love with someone, and have that someone be fucking someone else? It's like having a rat in your stomach, chewing and crawling its way through all your organs, stopping only long enough to shit, piss and laugh at ya. And that rat gets up into your heart, and stays there sometimes for years. Sometimes forever.

I´m With the Sheep

So this morning right on schedule we sailed into Minorca, where we´re presently docked in Mahon* right at the foot of the steps that lead up into the town from the harbor. The blue water here is very blue, the white houses very white.

I was fairly certain Dolores would not be joining me for this afternoon´s excursion to Ciutadella (the old capital) as she and the band whooped it up in the Orpheus Room until heaven knows what o´clock. I woke up this morning and found her sleeping on the floor with her legs up on the sofa and the skirt of her evening gown over her face.

Around 11 in the morning, a large bouquet of tropical flowers and a bottle of champagne arrived along with a note from the band: "Hot-cha, baby! We get a kick out of ewe!"

Over breakfast one heard about nothing else but the song stylings of that divine American sheep. A lady named Moira, who I believe is from York, leaned toward me over her kippers and whispered conspiratorially, "My dear, I´ve never been one to swing both ways, but I confess when she got up on the piano and flashed her knickers during `Begin the Beguine´ I went positively moist all over."

It put me right off my apple fritters.

Meanwhile, Galina is feeling jilted (Dolores having moved on like a freight train without a break system) and is taking it out on our cabin by leaving the pillows improperly fluffed and giving me the wrong sort of cookies on the tea tray. Hell hath no fury, you know.

P.S. to Those Who Would Pretend to Be Me: We left Rhodes behind days ago. Do please try to keep up. And they don´t drive camels there, they smoke them. I was going to tell you all about the naughty fireman in Sardinia, but now since I don´t feel I could compete with such a story I´m not. Hmph.

Dolce far niente

Darlings,

We're...oh, hell...somewhere off the coast of Sardinia. There's a lot of water all about, and stars.

Just a couple notes, as much for me as for you. Always best to write down the momentary impressions as soon as possible or they evaporate, no?

1. International music moment: walked into Orpheus Room (club room at the fore of the ship) last night to find 12 British suburbanites doing funky chicken to "Achy Breaky Heart" as performed by Croatian dance band.
2. You know you've traveled far from home when you realize it's been four days since you last saw a McDonald's.
3. You know you've not traveled far enough when you pause on picturesque street in Sicilian fishing village and from behind charming lace curtain comes the unmistakable melody of "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas.
4. My little secret is still safe. There's a very large deluxe spa whirlpool on the prow that nobody else seems to know about. To get to it, you have to go through the changing rooms attached to the fitness center and pass spa reception. I think most people assume that to use it requires a spa appointment. They are wrong, but I am not a big enough person to tell them so. When you lie in the whirlpool floating on the bubbles, the sea spreads out around you 180 degrees and it feels as though there's not another soul on the planet. The space is so private that I've been able to tan without getting a tan line.
5. If you're sailing on the Minerva II and reading this, I'm just kidding about number four. There is no whirlpool on the prow. They just store mops and buckets out there. You should continue to use the chilly and miniscule jacuzzis on the pool deck.
6. I've been walking so much every day that I'd be down to 120 lbs except that I've taken to eating dessert twice at dinner. So much for my "no sugar" experiment. I find I am constitutionally unable to face winding up a meal with a nice piece of melon. Especially when requests such as "I'll have the bavarois a l'orange and the Paris-Brest, please," are received without comment and quickly fulfilled.
7. When we arrived in Kritsa, in early evening, all over the village women had pulled chairs out in front of their houses and were crocheting. Every one of them. I photographed one group, and then pulled out my work-in-progress and was immediately pushed into a spare chair and plied with tea and candies. Learned that language barriers do not affect a stitch-n-bitch in the least.
8. Then I went along the main street of Kritsa and all the lady shop-keepers were sitting in front of their doors working on new pieces. Their finished works were beautiful and shockingly inexpensive. When I showed my own knitting, prices were cut further. My resolve to buy nothing for myself crumbled. And I'm not sorry I spent the money. These women work hard and deserve an appreciative market for their product. I should mention their technique of choice is crochet. If you think crochet is inherently ugly, wait until you see what I bought and you'll change your tune.
9. Frame count so far is approximately 2,000. Out which I've probably, if I'm lucky, taken four keepers. We shall see.
10. Minorca tomorrow. Corsica follows. Am looking forward to Corsica. Have always had a soft spot for Napoleon, as fellow shortie.

Have to head to lounge now. Croatian dance band has asked Dolores to join them for a set of Cole Porter standards. Have had to deal with her gargling and spritzing her vocal chords all damn day.

Etna, I'm Glad I Met Ya

So, we made our first stop in Sicily today and I had the unaccustomed experience of being in a place where 1) just about everybody looks sort of like me and 2) I'm really not all that short, comparatively speaking.

This morning, we were guided around a country garden by the lady who owns it, Princess Borghese. Cool chick. Wide and varied knowledge of horticulture. Good taste in hats. Had a signed pic of the Queen Mum on the table in her library. Widow. Alas, not looking for a short, swarthy American husband to help mow the lawn.

Catania is a fun place but just a smidge rough around the edges. I signed up for ship/shore shuttle service and set off on my own. I'd been off the bus and in the public market for maybe five minutes when a screaming match broke out and quickly erupted into a full scale brawl. You know the Montague/Capulet fight at the beginning of Romeo and Juliet? Like that, only instead of Escalus breaking things up it was a butcher who looked like Ernest Borgnine.

No, I did not take pictures. I got the hell out of there.

Most of the other travelers hated Catania but it's the sort of place I enjoy as long as I have a camera to play with. Most of my favorite shots have come from stops where there's "nothing to see." Probably because I have no preconceptions about what I should shoot.

Dolores, it turns out, was on the ship. She had just taken up with a couple from Newcastle-on-Tyne who'd organized a swingers party after hours in their stateroom. I was drifting off to sleep when she burst in and said, "Listen, do we have any more of those shortbread fingers they put on the tea tray?" (I like them, and have been hoarding them as bedtime snacks.)

"What for?"

"Better you shouldn't know."

And she grabbed a bunch, and was gone.

I'm never eating shortbread again.

I don't know how she does it, but by the time I got up and dressed and out on deck this morning she was already there, smoking a Gauloise and looking satiated.

"Ready to meet the princess?" I said.

She just let out a long drag.

About an hour later, we filed off the motorcoach and into the Borghese family chapel at Case del Ribbiere. Signora la Principessa stood in front of the Rococo altarpiece and said, "Welcome, my dear guests, to my home..."

And then she squealed.

"Dolores! Bella mia! What you doing in Sicilia? Why you not call me?"

I should have known, right?

Il ritorno di Francesco in Sicilia

Well, I made it out of Malta alive. But man...that place is spooky. I think the lady at the Tourist Information Office put a curse on me and all I did was ask the way to the post office.

Should you visit, stay out of the churches unless you have strong nerves. I've never seen so many works of devotional art with such convincing renderings of blood and gore. The typical Maltese altarpiece looks like a still from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A full day of this makes one jumpy.

Oh, and I have to mention that after I sent the last message from the Internet Cafe-cum-Opium Den, to pay my fee I first had to wake up the proprietress, who had fallen asleep on a sofa in the corner with a lit cigarette between her fingers and one shoe falling off.

I used half a bottle of hand sanitizer after touching that keyboard.

Anyhow, now that I'm calmer I feel compelled to clarify that I don't actually mind what my guest writers wrote. Well, I mind a little. I mind that they were often funnier than I am. Also, I mind that they felt compelled to mention the almond-shaped space between my toes, when they know I'm quite sensitive about that.

But now, really...how could you be a regular reader of this blog and think that I'm a big fan of Queen? Cookies, if you've been around this joint longer than a month you know I'm the kind of pretentious git who thinks Die Fledermaus is pop music.

Anyway, we're halfway through this little scoot across the sea and you can see people starting to go a little nuts. The Yanks have stopped trying to be right and proper around the Brits, and the Brits are starting to let their hair down. Tonight a lady from Milton Keynes distinctly said "Shit!" when her evening wrap got caught in the elevator doors.

Last night there was a deck dance, with a live orchestra. It's always an interesting thing to watch folks in their eighties do the jitterbug, but watching them shimmy on a rocking ship near a swimming pool is positively fascinating, especially after cocktails and dinner. It feels sort of nice to be the universal strong shoulder, and I led several worn-out matrons to their cabins (leaving them at the door).

It's time to sleep. I've taken to leaving the door of my balcony open at night so I can drop off to the sound of the water going past. I think I'll miss that more than anything.

But I'm also missing a Certain Person like mad. You get attached to somebody, it feels weird to go two weeks without them. On the other hand...it's nice to have somebody to go home to.

Dolores says hi. Or would, I'm sure, if I could find her. I hope she's not still in Malta.

Ahem.

Listen, kids. If you read carefully, you might notice that not all the recent posts are mine. Some of them have been written by friends* who said that in the event I couldn't get to a computer they would look after this blog** for me. So until I return, do take whatever shows up in here with a grain of salt, eh?

I'm writing from Malta, in what must be one of the weirdest Internet cafes on the planet. There's one computer, a couple of depressed-looking Maltese girls sitting around, and gigantic poster of Jimi Hendrix on the wall.

Malta is, in general, creepy. Fun creepy, but creepy nevertheless. The Maltese are very closed off and you get the feeling that in general there's a whole lot going on here that outsiders don't know about. Add to this the winding streets, the decaying Mannerist architecture, and the rather grim Catholic shrines every five feet and you have the perfect setting for a horror film in which I wind up as a blood offering to some kind of neolithic earth goddess.

On the other hand, they have a Caravaggio in the church of the Knights of St. John.

I decided to eat off the ship today (we sail in a few hours) and had some sort of Maltese national dish. It was labeled "beef" but I'm certain I ate some parts of the cow to which I am not accustomed. I don't want to know, honestly.

I'm going to sign off now, as this place is really giving me the creeps.

*evil bitches
** destroy my hard-earned readership

Meet Neville

A guest post by Carol.

Um, hello?

I’m, er, um, Neville. [clears throat nervously] I’m, um, Dolores’s college boyfriend.



Oh, didn’t she tell you about me? I’m not really surprised. [resigned sigh] It was a long time ago, you see. We were quite young then, just barely weaned, you might say. It didn’t last long, but perhaps you already presumed that.

I met Dolores many years ago, while I was working on my doctorate in advanced numbers theory at MIT. She was waiting tables at Grendel’s Den, on break from her studies in radical ovine feminism at Harvard. She’d just decked some silly Delta Gamma who was getting snotty when her potato skins were taking too long. I’m not one for senseless violence, but Dolores was poetry in motion, my own fleecy Million Dollar Baby…

I never thought a beautiful and, um, experienced girl like her would notice a man like me. You know, a nerd? You don’t have to look uncomfortable; I know I’m a nerd. All my life I’ve been laughed at and made to feel inferior. I know some of you out there know what I mean. When you went to school, you might've been called a spazz, or a dork, or a geek. Those of you that have ever felt stepped on, left out, picked on, put down, whether you think you're a nerd or not, you know what I mean, don’t you?

Well, it seemed inconceivable that a hot tamale like Dolores would ever go out with a dorky Coopworth like me, but she did. Yessiree, that one glorious autumn in Boston. She, ahem, made a ram out of me, yes, she did. Always had a voracious appetite, if you know what I mean, and I’m not talking about hay. [dreamy look] I don't mean to be indiscreet, but Dolores' devil-may-care attitude was a very heady drug for me. For instance, before my...er...deflowering, I dutifully retrieved the condom from my wallet (it was a natural lambskin one...they feel like I'm not wearing anything), and Dolores laughed at me and told me it wasn't necessary. The excitement was dizzying.

All good things must come to an end, they say, and so it was with Dolores and me. Broke my heart into a million pieces. I scraped together my work-study money and bought her a diamond ring. Well, it was only a promise ring, and okay, it was really cubic zirconium, but I truly loved her. She shoved the ring up my -- well, never mind – and told me she wasn’t about to “get shackled to some ivory-towered pointyhead who didn’t know his ass from page twelve.” [sighs deeply] Oh, she looked marvelous when she was angry, fire coming out of her eyes, stamping her little hoof on the ground.

If you see her, tell her I still love her.

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.