So, I Have This Idea

But First, A Word of Thanks

Your messages about the arrival of Abigail have been icing on the cake, a delight to me and to my entire family. Thank you all so much for taking the time to write words of encouragement and congratulations.

I can't wait to record my impressions of the new arrival after our first opportunity to meet in person, which is scheduled for next week. (Note to Susan and Phil: Auntie Dolores is coming with me. Please tie up the dogs so we don't have a repeat of the Christmas Eve incident.)

Oh–And a Word About the Shawl

I've tried four or five approaches to writing a nice, fat entry about the christening shawl and admit defeat. The fact is, even if I had hours to style a good photograph it would still only look like a pile of string. Since it's on a circular needle, I can't spread it out to show you details.

So, a mere slip of an update. I've nearly finished the main portion of the border, which is worked in the diamonds-and-mesh pattern I showed you last time. Then there will be a narrow strip of buttercups on a stockinette ground. Then, and I can scarcely imagine it, I will work the edging.

At the moment, it feels as though I were born knitting this piece, and that in my next incarnation I will emerge still clutching it.

Now, the Idea

Ages ago a photographer who was acting as my mentor encouraged me to take on a large project, something that:

• could not be completed in a month;
• was outside the normal scope of my work; and
  
• that pushed one or more of my fear buttons.

I decided to undertake an ambitious portrait series: 1,000 gay men from Chicago. I still think the idea has merit, but the logistics have proved beyond my ability. For every man who has agreed to sit for my camera, there have been ten who:

• consider themselves model material and feel I should pay them a sitting fee plus royalties,
• are really looking to live out a sex-with-the-photographer fantasy, or
  
• back out at the last minute because, suddenly, they feel fat.

At this rate, I'll drop dead before I have thirty images.

But I'm still fascinated with the idea of capturing concretely something as nebulous and ephemeral as a community. And last week, as I was lying in bed contemplating mortality, the ill-fated portrait project intersected with an essay I've just recorded for Brenda Dayne's podcast, and a new idea emerged.

Why 1,000 gay men? They're not my only community. Why not honor 1,000 knitters?

Announcing: The Thousand Knitters Project

Beginning today, I'm seeking anyone who self-identifies as a knitter to become part of The Thousand Knitters Project. Here are the particulars:

• Subjects will be photographed anywhere from half- to full-length, displaying a work-in-progress or finished object.
• There will be no payment for sitting, but subjects will be given either an electronic file or a finished 8"x10" print.
• Individual sittings will take no longer than 15 minutes.
• The portraits will be assembled for display in at least an electronic venue (i.e., Web site), and other formats depending on how the project evolves.
• All subjects will be asked to sign a standard model release, giving me permission to use the images in my work and waiving the right to compensation.
• Subjects can (and I hope, will) be any and every age, shape, size, race, religion, gender, orientation, nationality. The only thing that matters is that you knit and/or crochet.
• For the time being, sittings will take place in Chicago, so you'd need to be able to get here. If this takes off, we'll see about shooting in other cities.
• Yes, if you crochet or spin, you're welcome to join in. But I have to draw the line somewhere, so let's wait see how this goes and then maybe I can get to the quilters and the cross-stitchers and...
  

Knitters have always given, and still give, so much to the world. But with a very few exceptions they are lost to history. Let's see if, in some small way, we can change that.

Interested? Write to me at portraits at franklinhabit daht cahm with the subject line "1,000." That's it, just "1,000." I'll be using the subject line to pre-sort the messages, so please be sure to use the correct subject. Give me some idea of when you might be available and we'll go from there.

And one more thing: If possible, I'd love to tap into the crowds coming in for Stitches Midwest. If you'll be a vendor at the market, and are willing to discuss the possibility of allowing me space to set up a chair and small backdrop–about as much as you'd need for a book signing–contact me at franklin at franklinhabit daht cahm. In return, I could offer advertising, photography, and possibly some monetary compensation.

*Not a ground-breaking idea; Richard Avedon's American West series is my inspiration.

Man in Crisis

No, not me. Not this time.

My friend Jonathan, the boy half of the Two Sock Knitters, has misplaced his copy of Simply Shetland 2 during a household move and this has brought his Fair Isle sweater (which is freaking gorgeous) to a standstill.

If you are in a position to loan a copy, won't you please let him know? The world needs this sweater to be finished. Seriously. It's that beautiful.

I hope to be back with a shawl report tomorrow. It's crunch time here. I'm heading out to Maine next week and have to finish the remaining artwork I promised for the nursery. (The bunnies and the giraffe, at least, are already there; so Abigail won't spend her first night at home in a room with bare walls.)

This is how she looks when she's sleeping.



Yeah, another baby picture. But it could be worse. I could have a cat.

Call Me Uncle

Abigail Ann was delivered today, wriggling and dancing, at 10:36 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Parents and baby are doing fine. Susan made it through the whole thing without anaesthetics. Abby weighs 7 pounds, 15 ounces and has dark, wavy hair. 19.5 inches long. Ten fingers, ten toes, and all the rest presumably in order.

After she was born, she was given to Susan and started nursing in a split second. Typical of our family–upon arrival, the first thing she wants is lunch.

At what point do you suppose I will stop jumping up and down and grinning like an idiot?

This just in! Pictures!



I see Grandma Ann made it through the experience with her manicure intact. I'd recognize that shade anywhere. Way to go, Grandma.

We Interrupt This Blog

I was in the middle of posting, finally, about the Looptopia knitting event and the Loopy Yarns "yarn tasting" that preceded it, and then my mother called at 2:39 p.m. CST to let me know my sister's in labor.

And now I can't really focus on anything. I'm going to go light some incense and say a prayer.

And I should probably work on this here shawl, too.

God Is a Woman

How do I know?

Yesterday when it was sunny and in the seventies, I made a joke about going to the beach instead of motoring ahead on the christening shawl.

This morning, it's in the mid-forties in Chicago and raining.

Alright already, I'm knitting.

Cross Your Legs and Wait

I am (still) working the borders of the christening shawl. They must be getting deeper, as I've put in at least seven dedicated hours on them in the past three days. Therefore, I will not let it worry me that they measured (unstretched) 4.5 inches on Sunday, 5 inches on Tuesday, and 4 inches a few minutes ago.


From the ménu fixe at Ye Sygne of Ye Boyled Asse*

Indeed, I have no reason to worry at all. Susan's baby was due two days ago, but is taking its sweet time to make an entrance. At first I thought it might have decided to hide until Bush is out of the White House. (Wouldn't you, if you could?)

But then I remembered Stephanie's dictum that "Babies always wait until their knitting is done" and it all made sense. My little niecephew, who obviously knows that it's the Fabulous Gay Uncle who gives the Really Good Presents, has decided with precocious tact and courtesy to wait for notification that the final blocking is complete.

This might mean a baby born in September, rather than May; but autumn in New England is so picturesque, no? In the meanwhile, Susan, maybe you could stuff some fashion magazines and a Sudoku book up there so the kid won't get bored.

Hey! Now I have time to go to the beach!

*It's a Rabbitch joke. You don't read Rabbitch? What the hell's wrong with you?

Dawn of the Dumb

My favorite neighborhood coffee shop is always buzzing, but for the past several weeks it's been especially packed with students cramming for exams.

Such a comforting sight, with their weighty stacks of economics and medical texts. It takes dedication to focus on gross anatomy while listening to your iPod, having three Yahoo! Instant Messenger conversations, talking on the phone with your girlfriend, and updating your MySpace profile with pictures from last night's beer wallow.

These are the people who, one day, may be called upon to remove my gall bladder. The thought makes me want to dig it out myself, pre-emptively, with a grapefruit spoon and a pair of embroidery scissors.

Last week I slipped deftly into the lone vacant chair, and a moment later felt a tap on my shoulder. The tapping finger was attached to a nacsent trixie, still in the fledgling (university) stage, with a couple of medical books and a fully-grown sense of entitlement.

"Are you, um, going to be here much longer?" she asked.

"Yes, I just sat down," I said.

Her brow furrowed under her Depaul baseball cap.

"Um, okay. Well, I have a lot of work to do, and I was really hoping you might be getting ready to leave."

"Well, no. Sorry. I just sat down," I said slowly and distinctly, "and so I plan on staying put for at least an hour."

"There are no chairs right now," she said, biting her lower lip.

"I know," I said.

"And I really need to study," she said. "I have a midterm."

"Maybe somebody else is ready to leave?"

"They're all working, and you're just crocheting or whatever. So I thought maybe you wouldn't mind giving up your seat. This test is really important."

"Oh," I said, suddenly smiling. "It's an important test and you need a place to study."

"Right!" she chirped, visibly excited that the weird old man's brain had finally encompassed the gravity of her situation.

"You're a Depaul student?"

"Well, yes." She pointed to her cap and giggled.

"Are you homeless?"

"What? Um...no."

"Did the Depaul library burn down?"

"Um...no."

"Then I believe I've just solved your dilemma. You're very welcome."

She didn't say anything, she just stared at me. Probably memorizing my face so that one fine day she can exact painstaking revenge upon my gall bladder.

Dolores and the Siege of Lakeview

Last night I was sitting in the big armchair, alternately working on the christening shawl and wondering how in the hell Giada De Laurentis got a cooking show, when the front door banged open. Dolores staggered in, breathing hard, carrying a whimpering Harry under one arm.

"Let me guess," I said. "Ann Coulter's violated the restraining order again, hasn't she?"

And suddenly Dolores was pinning me to the back of the chair with a pointy hoof and glaring with a hatred she normally reserves for the bartender who announces Last Call.

"You...fool," she hissed, still panting. "You're going to get us all killed."

"Come again?"

"They tried to rip off my ball band!" screamed Harry.

"Harry," said Dolores, "Round up the other guys and get under the bed and don't come out until I give you the all clear. And stay calm, goddammit!"

"We're gonna diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie," Harry squealed, skidding toward the bedroom.

Outside, on the street, I heard the rumble of many angry voices. A crowd was seething around the corner, blocking traffic and yelling...my name?

"Shit," said Dolores. "They cover ground faster than I thought. Quick, we gotta pile the furniture up against the door. You take that end of the sofa."

"Dolores, put the furniture down."

"This is all your damn fault," she said. "You just had to go and shoot your mouth off in that freaking blog, didn't you?"

"What did I do?"

"You insulted the crafters!"

"I did?"

"Yes, you did. And now–"

The rest was drowned out by a sound not unlike a heavy hailstorm, as thousands of tiny objects began to ping against the living room window.

"They're shooting Popsicle sticks at us!" shrieked Harry.

"Get back under the bed!" shouted Dolores.

On the street, lights flashed. The cops had arrived, but their patrol cars were immediately overrun by a pack of women who unfurled an appliqué banner suggesting that I do something Addi never intended with my knitting needles.

The phone rang.

"This is Ernie at the front desk. I got all these people down here say they wanna découpage your mouth shut. What the fuck is découpage?"

"Ernie, don't let them in here, please–"

"What? Hang on, hang on. No, lady, I don't want my picture taken. No, I don't wanna be in your scrapbook. Jesus, lady, back off...Ow! Franklin, what the hell am I supposed to–Ow!"

There were sounds of a scuffle, and then suddenly another voice boomed into the phone.

"Is this Franklin?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Listen, you stuck up little yarn sniffer, my name is Loretta Fortescue and I'm from Grand Forks, North Dakota, and I'm here with my Mama and my Granny and our cousin Bruce and about ten thousand of our best crafter friends and we'd like an apology."

"Um. How about if I just apologize from up here?"

"Oh yeah?" said Loretta. "Well, you got two minutes to reconsider that idea before we bust up there and give you the Rubber Stamp Treatment."

And she hung up.

I just stood there, limp, with the phone in my hand. Dolores was pacing back and forth, brow furrowed. And then I uttered a sentence I never imagined would come out of my mouth.

"Dolores," I said. "Help."

"Gimme the phone," she said. "I gotta call in a favor. It's a longshot, but it's the only thing I can think of."

I collapsed into a chair. Dolores tapped at the phone and talked to a seemingly endless number of different people, passed along from one to the next until finally she shouted, "Martha! How the hell you been, girl? It's Dolores Van Hoofen...Dolores...Right, from Woolrich! You do remember! Uh huh. Yeah, as a matter of fact I do still have the negatives from our duo shoot after that gig. That's kinda why I'm calling. We have a situation. There's ten thousand pissed-off crafters outside, looking to make my boss into a tree ornament because of something he wrote. I was thinking, you say the word to 'em, and these pretty pictures go back into the vault. And wouldn't that be a good thing?"

I heard some yelling on the other end of the phone. Dolores listened placidly until it stopped, then said, "Aw, I knew you'd help an old girlfriend out. Say, while we're talking, any way I could get tickets to the show?"

More yelling, then a click.

Almost instantly, the shouting downstairs ceased. I ran to the window, and saw the protestors leaving the building in a steady stream, two by two, in docile silence.

"She works fast," whispered Dolores with an unmistakable tone of admiration.

"Let's just hope she never decides to use her powers for evil," I said.

"Not on my watch," said Dolores.

News Flash: Late Night Knitting

Darlings, are any of you in the Chicagoland area going to this?

Knitting at Looptopia: A Knit-Night On the Town
May 11, 2007
10pm – 12am, 1st Floor Garland Room
Chicago Cultural Center
Hang with knitters, crocheters, and spinners at the Windy City Knitting Guild’s first late night craft circle. Knit a boa, crochet a flower pin, or craft a bracelet or two. New to crafting? No worries, the Guild members will teach you the basics and get you started on your first project.

It's part of this. (Special thanks to homegirl Katerina for alerting me.)

I'm tempted, in spite of the copy, which can't have been written or approved by anybody who actually knits or crochets. I mean–crafting?

I refuse to get into an argument about whether knitting is an art or a craft; the distinction is artificial and arbitrary and silly. However, will you non-knitters kindly remember that knitting is not synonymous with "crafting"? Using ancient techniques to fashion warm socks, handsome sweaters, or ethereal lace from spun fiber is not akin to making trivets out of Popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue.

Now, who's going? I might be tempted to forego a twirl in the arms of a studly cowboy at Charlie's if I can be assured of not sitting alone in a corner talking to my shawl.

Apples for Everybody!

In honor of National Teacher Day, I salute those who stand up in classrooms every week in a valiant attempt to stem the rising tide of mediocrity that threatens to overwhelm the nation.

By way of tribute, a sampler of unforgettable things my teachers said to me, and what I learned from them (whether they intended it or not).

Teacher	What S/he Said	Why	Lesson Learned
Mr.Wortman (kindergarten)	"Fine, fine, I concede."	My indignant rationale for including a black-and-white photo in a collage of Things That Are Yellow. "It's a banana. Bananas are yellow. This banana is printed in black in white, but it's still yellow."	If you can defend your work cogently, oftentimes people will shut up and get out of your way.
Mrs. Herayda (first grade)	"What a nice bunny! I think you may have a quite a talent for drawing."	My arithmetic paper was covered with doodles in the margins.	When unsure of your subtraction skills, create a diversion.
Mrs. Brown (third grade)	"Charlotte had to die at the end because otherwise the story would not have had truth."	I was deeply, deeply pissed off at E.B. White.	Beauty is truth; and truth, beauty.
Mrs. Hess (fourth grade)	"I don't believe you. This is not real food. I expect you to take my assignments seriously. No credit, and no recess for you today."	We were told to draw last night's dinner at home. We'd had Lebanese food. She had never heard of tabouleh or pita bread.	The person with the biggest desk is not necessarily the person with the biggest brain.
Mrs. Bain (fourth grade, art)	"You're taking the easy way out. Stop drawing the same bunny over and over and show me what you can do."	I had worked my hitherto no-fail bunnies into four consecutive assignments.	No risk, no growth.
Sr. Mary Regina (fifth grade)	"God made you the way you are for a reason. It means you're special. Your life may be hard, but that's not your fault. Be who you want. Don't ever give that up."	We were discussing my tendency to be more...artistic...than the other boys.	You can't judge a nun by her habit.
Mrs. Baldessano (gym, sixth grade)	"I don't care if you're a goddamn pacifist. Kick the ball!"	I wasn't in the mood for soccer, thank you very much.	Not all angry dykes are interested in politics.
Ms. Scharf (twelfth grade English)	"When people in a town like this don't understand you, take that as a compliment."	A female classmate called me a "freak" after I admitted to a fondness for Sophocles.	Better to be a noted weirdo than a noted mediocrity.

Nibble, Nibble

There's a standard motif in Japanese painting of a teeny-weeny mouse chowing down on a great big daikon. In some renderings, instead of a mouse it may be a rat. Or instead of a daikon, it may be a radish. But the basic idea is the same: small thing eating big thing.*


Mouse and radish (detail). Not my scroll, but the motif is the same.

I've a nice specimen of this is in my collection. I'm so fond of it that I kept it over my altar for two months; usually I change the altar scroll every thirty days. The image of the little guy fearlessly tackling a gigantic project appeals to me at a very basic level. If you've ever stood next to me when I'm barefoot, you know why.

Last night as I was giving the homestead a general wash-and-brush I replaced the mouse with a painting of Jizo, the bodhisattva who watches out for expectant mothers and unborn children. (My sister is half a continent away, but she's uppermost in my mind at the moment.)

The mouse is rolled up and tucked away, but I'm reminded of it every time I pick up the christening shawl. The rounds are getting really long now (somewhere in the area of 600 stitches). When I consider how long they'll be before I start the edging I begin to teeter like Dolores after a wedding reception with an open bar.

So I try not to consider that. The mouse, you will notice, is not standing back casing the daikon and wondering whether he should have ordered the shrimp appetizer instead. He's just eating the bit that's in front of him. And that's what I'm doing. I'm knitting what's in front of me. 50,000 stitches? Big and scary. One stitch? Not scary at all. No sir. No reason to be scared of one tiny stitch.



(Squeak.)

*Omigod, that totally reminds me of a wild story about something that happened in Ogunquit one summer which I'm not going to tell you because I'm sure my mother is reading this.

Potpourri

I must be getting better. Instead of not blogging because the prospect of getting out of bed and going to the computer makes me cry, I'm not blogging because it turns out my employer does, in fact, own me body and soul. Or so they think. I'll be setting them straight a little later on today.

Depending upon how that meeting goes, I may have all the time in the world to blog very soon.

For now, whilst I eat my morning oatmeal and yogurt like a good gym boy, I offer the following bits and bobs.

The Mother's Day Project

Reader Anne, my neighbor to the north in Milwaukee, has begun a collaborative art project to express opposition to our own, dear Mr Bush's little undertaking in the Middle East. I've read her description and find it to be a fine idea. Read for yourself, and perhaps you may be inclined to participate.

Old Yarn

Those nice ladies who run Arcadia Knitting are pulling out all the stops for the shop's birthday week, May 1-6. There's a full calendar on their Web site. I've already missed Point Protector Day and will have to miss Spinning Day because I'm working, but there's still a Norah Gaughan Trunk Show coming up and I rather think I must show up for Book Day.

Fun fact: Kathy and Sharon say they've sold 14,000 point protectors since going into business seven years ago. According to my calculations, if you laid them end-to-end, 14,000 average-sized point protectors would form a line 583 feet long. (Of course, this could never happen. We all know it's impossible to locate two point protectors when you want them, let alone 14,000.)

Schadenfreude Corner

Gym membership: $50/month
New, smaller Levi's 501s that fit recently refurbished physique just so: $75
New heels for favorite cowboy boots: $35
Round of drinks for old friends at Charlie's Bar on Saturday night: $35
Running into the "younger man" that Mr. Ex dumped you for and realizing he's easily put on forty pounds in the past year: Priceless

I Shall Scream and Rage If I Can't Have One

Stephen Fry persists in ignoring my offers to relocate to Caviar-on-Toast, or whatever English village he lives in, and be his love slave and knit him socks.

However, thanks to this ingenious device I could still live out my fantasy of waking up to his voice purring in my ear. Unfortunately, the Web site does not indicate whether "Franklin, you titan among men, please do that to me again!" is among the pre-recorded sayings.

I admit that installing an electronic man in my bedroom is slightly pathetic; but I've just about had it with the Genuine Article. They should all come with off-switches.

Dolores On the Air

Speaking of flipping men's switches, Dolores asked me to pass along word that she's going to be recording her maiden (?) Podcast as soon as her voice recovers from an accident during rehearsals at the Lucky Horseshoe. Apparently there was a mix-up in the sound booth, and her backup track for "I Would Die 4 Ewe" transposed up three keys and by the end of the release she had shattered a chandelier, the mirror over the bar, 138 beer mugs, and the glass eye belonging to Jimmy, the bouncer. Didn't do her vocal cords any favors, either.

The ENT guy put her on total vocal rest which has made the apartment remarkably quiet. Were it not for the usual aromas of Kookaburra Wool Wash and patchouli, I'd barely know she was here.

Shawl Come Back Now

My sister, Susan, is due any second. I've never known nine months to flit past so quickly in all my life.

Athough she has reassured me that the baby won't be christened for quite some time, I still feel a sense of urgency about the shawl. It seldom leaves my side these days, and I am pleased to find that a few stitches here and there does, in fact, add up.

This is it as of five minutes ago, looking crumpled and forlorn as unblocked lace will insist upon doing.



The center panel, which was knitted flat is complete. I've picked up stitches all around the edge and am now working the borders round and round and round and round. And round.

The first bit of border is just a simple band of stockinette with the flower motif Sharon Miller adapted (in Heirloom Knitting) from the traditional cat's paw pattern. I wanted something to buffer the transition from the center to the borders; this seems to have done the trick.

The borders proper - of which I've worked exactly one round - will be a mesh-and-diamonds motif. It should pick up the geometry of the center panel, but instead of diagonals made from decreases, it has diagonals made from yarn-overs.

Reader Richard from DC asked about picking up stitches from the center panel. I made it easy on myself, Richard. When casting on, I added an extra stitch to either side of the pattern, then slipped the first stitch of every row as I knit. Since the standard rule for making a square is to knit twice as many rows as cast-on stitches, when it was time to pick up those edges I had the perfect number of little loops on either side waiting for me. No guesswork, no fuss. Not a revolutionary idea–it's the way Mary Thomas (and many, many others) work the edges of the heel flap on a sock.

I've also eliminated a lot of fuss by restricting myself to patterns that have a plain row every other round. Now that I'm working circularly, it means every other row is just knitting, except at the corner points where I increase by 1 yarn-over on either side of a central stitch. This is the same increase method (out of Elizabeth Zimmermann) that I used in Glencora and it reasonably approximates the look of the grafting done in traditional Shetland Shawls. (By "reasonably approximates," I mean it looks sort of the same if you have no idea what you're looking at and you squint.)

So you see, it's not much of an accomplishment to work this piece on the subway. (You want to see really impressive stuff, go here and here.) The stitch patterns are small - the largest repeat being 12 stitches wide and sixteen high - and grow so logically that after four rounds I don't need the pattern for reference.

Of course, when it's finished and everyone's getting ready for the christeninig and I unfurl it and they all say "ooh" the Official Story will be that I had to sit naked in a mountain hermitage for six months and learn Tantric breathing just to work the provisional cast-on.

Eleanor's Library

My dears, thank you all for the kind wishes you left while I was under the weather. I'm still somewhat cloudy, but as my father the pilot might say, visibility is improving.

No knitting today, if you don't mind. Knitting soon. Books today.

You may recall that a little while ago I wrote about buying books for a colleague's daughter, newly turned thirteen. In that post, I delineated at length my opinion of most novels being published for the not-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman market. In brief, they want to make me gouge out my own eyes with a grapefruit spoon.

I don't wish to retract a word of what I wrote, although one or two commenters did make me wonder whether I ought to have been nicer about Meg Cabot. Thanks to your dizzying 194 comments, I did think deeply about the books we read when young, and how dear they can become to us.

I turned from my desk and faced the five-foot Victorian case where I keep humor and children's books, with Eleanor's Library on the topmost shelf.

To tell you about Eleanor's Library you'll have to step back with me to the early nineties, when I was a recent graduate working for starvation wages at New England Conservatory in Boston.

One good thing about starvation wages: they really teach you to focus your spending. I was quite the thrifty housekeeper in those days, making one chicken and two dollars' worth of vegetables bought from the stalls at Haymarket last for a full week. I didn't eat in restaurants, I didn't go to movies or theater, and I didn't buy clothes that weren't marked "final clearance."

Looking back, I wouldn't have minded so much, really, except for one thing: the budget left me little or no money for books.

When I really couldn't stand it any more, I'd let myself shop a little at the Brattle Bookshop near Downtown Crossing. In the vacant lot next to its tall, old building, the shop would wheel out a fleet of library carts piled with hundreds of books in absolutely no order whatever. They were unguarded and totally unprotected from the elements. These were the rejects, acquired en masse in estate sales and deemed unsellable at retail prices.

And every book cost a dollar.

However, on the money I was making even that was too pricey for more than carefully planned visits. I was pretty careful to stay off Winter Street if I hadn't made sure of my finances in advance.

One day, however, I slipped. I was in the neighborhood to buy dress shoes. My only pair had crumbled to dust. I had to either replace them or go to the office barefoot in February. I got the shoes, but was left with eight dollars: enough to just pay for food until my next check arrived three days later.

It was an awful feeling, and I walked toward the subway in a gray stupor, head down. Passing Winter Street, something in me snapped. I felt sick, and I needed a book to make me feel better. One book. One damned book, or I might well go insane. Surely, I could spare the dollar. Far cheaper than a month in a mental hospital.

I'd been among the carts for about ten minutes when I spotted a decorated spine with the title Hester Stanley's Friends. I picked it up; the cover design was classic Edwardian:



I was surprised to see it outside; normally the Brattle (and most shops) charge a premium for this sort of artwork. Looking inside, I found this inscription on the flyleaf:



I was torn. On the one hand, this was a splendid binding. On the other, it wasn't something I was likely to read. An interesting curiosity, yes. But my circumstances did not permit spending on interesting curiosities. I decided to put it back.

Then I noticed the book next to it. Another decorated spine: Kitty Landon's Girlhood.

Inside, an inscription:



I looked at the shelf again. More decorated spines. Inside each, the same name the same bold script. Somehow, in the midst of all this chaos, these six of Eleanor's books had landed together in a neat row.

My heart started beating. For a bibliophile, this was a moral quandary. I felt like I'd stumbled over a basket of abandoned, infant sextuplets and been asked, "Which one do you want to save from certain death?"

I pulled them all off the cart and held them, debating. I wondered who Eleanor was. I imagined what these books might have meant to her, since they'd been kept together all this time. I wondered if she'd sold them herself, or whether they simply arrived in a mass shipment after her estate had been broken apart.

I looked at the inscriptions again. Eleanor. Eleanor. Eleanor. From Mother. From Uncle Bill. A Happy Birthday. A Very Merry Christmas 1911.

And then it started to rain.

I was hungry for a couple of days, but a sense of Having Done the Right Thing can be very sustaining.

This has been a long post, longer than I intended. More about the books themselves will follow, if you're interested. Plus knitting, I promise. Believe it or not, the christening shawl has grown.

Bleargh

Am (and have been) sick as a dog, and an overly-full work schedule is not helping. Posting will resume as soon as possible.

Lacy Nothings

Today for a change we shall have no squiggly drawings about knitting, no parables about knitting, and no explanations of why this, my knitting blog, contains no knitting.

No, today we shall have knitting.

This, friends, is a close-up of the near-complete center square of the christening shawl, at present my sole project and constant companion.



The icky pink acrylic at the bottom is a provisional crochet cast-on, and it will not be part of the finished piece.

For those of you who don't get into the whole shawl thing, here's a brief overview of how this one will be constructed.



Beginning at the bottom of the square (A) I cast on the full number of stitches needed for the central panel. The panel is knit upwards to completion.

Next, the live stitches at the top of the square, the stitches on both sides of the square, and the stitches at the bottom (freed from their crochet bondage) are all picked up on one circular needle.

The borders (C) are then knit round and round and round, with double increases at each corner point every other row.

When the borders are complete, the edging (D) is begun near one corner and knit back and forth widthwise, with a k2tog joining the edging to the border at the end of each inward row.

When the edging has made a full circumnavigation, the begining and ending are grafted together (E) and you drink an entire bottle of Veuve Cliquot and lie down.

Then, to stretch the piece to its full dimensions and open up the lacework, the whole is blocked severely. I know that "severe" blocking sounds harsh, but il faut souffrir pour la beauté. It also appeals to one's sadistic proclivities, which one seldom mentions in one's blog because one's mother is a regular reader.

I invented none of the above method. It's a perfectly standard, modern way of working a shawl in the Shetland manner, as described by that lovely Sharon Miller in Heirloom Knitting. You'll notice there's no real cast-on or cast-off edge in the entire piece, which I'm thinking must make for an incredible amount of elasticity in the finished object.

We will now take a moment to bless the memory of those many, and mostly anonymous, Shetland knitters who figured all this out so we don't have to.

Two notes on some of the stitch patterns I'm using.

The alphabet, which you can see in the swatch I posted here, was designed by Bridget Rorem and can be found in Piecework, the May/June 1998 issue, which you can still buy here. I'm indebted to Jean's commenter Susoolu for finding that out so I didn't have to.

The pattern for the center panel



can be found in the first volume of Barbara Walker and she calls it (with an uncharacteristic lack of specificity) Leaf Lace/Fern Lace. Well and good. But this baby is going to be born in Maine, and Maine's state flower is (I kid you not) the fir cone. And to me, this looks like a fir cone, and it's my shawl, so as far as I'm concerned it is a fir cone. Hell, if even Barbara can't decide whether it's a fern or a leaf, I figure it's an open question. If you wanna fight about it, let's step outside.

There is, of course, a Shetland lace pattern actually called "fir cone," but I found knitting it to be supremely annoying (it puckers), the motif doesn't look much different from Leaf/Fern, and it lacks the lovely diamond grid created by the decreases in this pattern.

At least my sister isn't giving birth in West Virginia. West Virginia is a beautiful place, but I'd have to come up with my own pattern for the rhododendron and right now I don't even have time to walk to the dry cleaners. I tell you, sometimes I wonder how poor Margaret Stove doesn't run mad in the streets.

Zen Interlude: Spring Awakening

It's terribly unfair.

Chicago, like most of the United States, is experiencing wintry weather that has no business showing up in mid-April. Mind you, I know better than to expect a balmy, shirtsleeves spring beside the Lake. But I do look forward with desperate longing to the arrival of the daffodils every year. Once they bloom, I feel a certain sense of accomplishment in having survived yet another nasty go-around on the Hivernal Carousel.

This year, they bloomed, and then got sucker-punched by snow squalls and freezing temperatures. The bed of daffodils I pass every morning on the way to the office is blackened and shriveled, and I don't feel so well myself.

On the other hand, the other spring arrival–baseball fans–is right on time.

I've nothing against professional baseball. Truly. In general I regard it as most Americans do the opera season, which is to say not at all. Because the transit line I ride services both ballparks in Chicago, however, I do have to deal with baseball fans. Especially Cubs fans.

And yesterday was the home opener.

Illinois is supposedly a blue state, but I've noticed that North Shore (i.e, white and affluent) parents who bring their offspring into the city for Cubs games turn a violent shade of tomato red.

I've tried to understand why this is so. I've concluded that it's because they see a trip to Wrigley Field as a to connect their children with their own past, in those halcyon days when America led the free world, gasoline was cheaper than milk, and Certain People had to sit in the back of the bus.

As the train heads south and Addison Station looms, the parents become so emotional that some actually produce handkerchiefs to deal with the tears. "We're almost there," they gasp, choking on rising nostalgia. "Can you watch for the stadium, Caitlyn? Do you see it coming up?"

I'd be the last person to have a problem with this except that in the midst of a crowded commute, the parents get pushy about art directing the experience and become visibly (and sometimes audibly) annoyed at any extras (that would be the rest of us) who don't fit the motherhood-flag-apple pie aesthetic they're after. For example:

• Passengers occupying window seats, including the elderly. (I once saw an able-bodied man unblushingly ask an old woman if she could give her seat to his five-year-old daughter so she would have an unobstructed view of the Wrigley Field sign.)
  
  
• Persons of African, Latin or Middle Eastern descent.
  
  
• Persons speaking languages other than English.
  
  
• Persons whose appearance deviates in any way from the white, suburban, middle class idea of "normal," i.e. goths, punks, transvestites, homeless people.
  
  
• Males of any stripe who are knitting lace.

During yesterday's commute, I of course fell into at least two of these categories. Possibly three, depending upon how you feel about earrings on men.

This was a source of enormous consternation to a father whose daughter–she was perhaps six–was interested in the progress of the christening shawl.

I didn't notice the family of three–Dad, daughter, son–at first because I was, well, knitting lace. But the daughter kept getting up from her seat and leaning toward my needles. After she'd done this three times I glanced up and gave her a smile.

She smiled back. And then her father yanked her away and pushed her firmly into her seat.

But she got up again, and came over, and this time asked if the design had flowers in it. I was about to explain that the shapes were fir cones when her father yelled, "Halley! Get back here now."

I honestly thought he was concerned that she might be bothering me, so I smiled and said, "It's okay, I don't mind questions."

To which he replied, "You leave my kid alone!"

And then, not directly to me, but just as audibly, "Goddamned freaks."

Rude? Oh yes. But this is not supposed to be another man-knits-in-public-and-attracts-idiocy story. Those are too common to be interesting in and of themselves.

This is a reminder to myself that my own brain's not so different from his.

I may not be inclined to tell a stranger on the subway she's a freak, but it doesn't mean I don't think it. I do it all the time. In fact, I did it at the beginning of this entry, no?

I look, I categorize, I judge. And just as I believe that man got me wrong in believing me to be a threat to his child, I'm certain I often misjudge others.

One of the aspects of elusive Enlightenment I'm pursuing through Zen Buddhism is (I hear) a genuine understanding that between yourself and myself, there is no difference. If I didn't believe that to be so, I'd probably give up sitting zazen. But even though I believe it, I haven't grasped it sufficiently to act upon it.

Hmph. Back to the damn cushion.

Tomorrow: actual knitting. (I know! I can hardly believe it, either!)

Dolores Announces

Hi, it's Dolores.

What a freakin' week, cupcakes. Not only have rehearsals for my upcoming revue at the Lucky Horseshoe kicked into high gear, but I have big news about some other new projects.

First: the Boss has finally agreed to launch Dolores Bébés, my new line of clothing for the Very Young and Impressionable. Check out the shop for designs and details. It's never too early to expose your children to a positive role model, so spend lavishly. Furthermore, I get a cut of the profits and I need not remind you that Virginia Slims don't come free.



Second: response to my call for questions has been, in a word, tremendous.

I knew the world was full of troubled souls, I just didn't know so many of them read this blog. Harry got emotionally overwhelmed trying to screen the letters and so I'm sending him to Branson, Missouri for a couple of days to chill out and maybe catch a few shows. (Ever since he discovered Franklin's hidden stash of Donny and Marie bootlegs, he's been a big fan of the Osmonds.)

Now I've read your cries for help, and I've decided there's too much good stuff for just a blog entry. Would Oprah settle for a blog entry? Would Dr. Phil be content with 200 measly words? Would those smug bitches on "The View" consider the humble written word a suitable outlet for their messages of hope and goodwill?

Me neither.

The networks don't seem to be returning calls this week, so I've decided to sidestep them and pour forth my wisdom via a Podcast to be produced by the newly-formed Dolores Van Hoofen Omnimedia. I've taken a leaf out of Barbra's book and designated myself producer, director, and star. I'm trying to get Sondheim to write me a love theme, but he doesn't seem to be returning calls either. What's the matter, Stephen? You still sulking in your tent over Bounce?

I guess maybe I would be, too.

A Whole Lotta Harlot

I was having a typical, ulcer-inducing Tuesday morning at the office when I got a message from Stephanie "Yarn Harlot" Pearl-McPhee.

She was in Chicago for a book signing. She had just been awoken from a nap by all the civil defense sirens going off. She had been reassured by the reception desk that we were not, in fact, being invaded. But she was not going back to sleep, and wanted to know if I felt like bumming around the neighborhood a bit.

I did. We did.

I'd met Stephanie twice before, but only in the frenetic atmosphere surrounding her personal appearances. This was the first time I could look forward to seeing her off-duty, as it were. To glimpse the Knitter Behind the Mask.

Well, I can tell you without doubt that the rumors you've been hearing are untrue. At no point in the afternoon did she kick little children into the street, throw her cell phone at the paparazzi, or press me to procure illicit hallucinogens so that we could trip while picking the angora fluff off her Bohus. She's quite normal, on the whole, although she does tend to say a lot of things twice–first in English and then in French. But I understand this is not so much demented as merely Canadian.

The three of us–Stephanie, her Traveling Sock, and I–strolled up Michigan Avenue in blessedly temperate weather for a visit to Millenium Park. The park is home to one of Chicago's newest but most popular attractions: Anish Kapoor's gigantic, reflective metal sculpture Cloud Gate. Only nobody (except perhaps the Anish Kapoor) calls it Cloud Gate. It looks exactly like a colossal, alien kidney bean and so we all call it The Bean. (Sorry, Anish.)

Stephanie loves the Bean. The sock loves the Bean. The sock was, of course, photographed in front of the Bean. Here, I offer you a glimpse behind the scenes:



I also took this very meta shot of me photographing Stephanie photographing Stephanie photographing the Sock.



Maybe we were tripping a little.

That might explain why, for example, we not only took a spin through American Girl Place, but actually considered–for one chilling moment–eating lunch at the American Girl Café.

However, the sight of overprivileged children, many of whom were dressed as princesses, waiting in line to have their expensive poupées professionally coiffed at the doll hair salon snapped us out of it and we fled back to the street, swearing never to speak of this to anyone.

Sorry, Steph.

The hours simply flew past and suddenly it was time to head out to Oak Brook for the signing.

It was what many of you will recognize as a typical Yarn Harlot event.

There were boatloads of enthusiastic people:



Stephanie's presentation was top-notch:



I was delighted to encounter adorable friends:



(Clockwise from back left: Knitting Camp buddy who prefers to remain nameless, Jonathan and Meg aka the Two Sock Knitters, and the Sock Knitters' very delightful friend Thorny.)

And quite a few nice readers–many of whom I'd never met–came over and said hello to me. I love that. That does not get old.

Meanwhile, Stephanie signed 25,683 books, posed for pictures, blessed babies, petted the socks of strangers, and generally handled the situation with unflappable élan. Except when the nice woman from the bookstore brought her Perrier instead of Evian and it was chilled to 67 degrees intead of 64. She'll never do that again, let me tell you, even if it turns out there won't be a scar where the podium hit her in the head.

And then, high on the energy of all those knitters rallying together, we rode back to the city. I wished her good-night at her hotel, then headed north to my place. And realized, sitting in the taxi, that I'd forgotten to have her sign my copies of the book.

It figures.

Notes on Shawl Design

Now, as Miss Cleo was wont to say in her heyday, I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking,

"Cut the crap, child. We know perfectly well that the extended ruminations on literature and the squiggly cartoons and the guest appearances by your fictitious slutty sheep houseguest are mere smoke and mirrors intended to distract us from sad reality. You haven't been knitting anything interesting, have you? Have you?

To which I can only respond, in the words of (I believe) Oliver Wendell Holmes, "Neener neener neener."

Because I have been knitting my furry little fingers to bits. But since you had to get huffy, all you get to see for now is the swatch.



This is the "final" swatch, in which the yarn, the needles, and the stitch patterns at last got together and danced in perfect lockstep around the living room while the orchestra played a spirited rendition of "You Got to See Your Mama Every Night (Or You Can't See Mama at All)."

We have here a laceweight cashmere/silk laceweight procured my homie in Boston, manipulated with size 1 Addi Turbos using stitch patterns collected by that nice Miss Walker, plus a lace alphabet to which I was introduced by one of the goddesses in my household pantheon.

As I will never have the pleasure of regaling a child of my own with stories of the labor pains he caused me, I instead look forward to forcing my niecephew to listen as I tell of how Uncle Franklin turned the world upside down and shook it so as to discover novel, seldom-seen lace patterns to put into this christening shawl.

As evidence I shall present a series of swatches which, laid end to end, would stretch all the way from Rhinebeck to Toronto and back again, except these days good luck getting customs officials at the border to cooperate. These swatches include motifs from the Estonian, Shetland, Orenberg, Asian, and Eastern European camps. They were begged from august lace knitting authorities, painstakingly recreated from fuzzy magazine illustrations, puzzled out of antique books and magazines.

And, ultimately, the winning patterns were taken from Barbara Walker, volume one, where they are located on facing pages directly opposite one another.

(But don't let that make you feel guilty. I did it out of love.)

And, as you will have guessed from the A-B-C, there will be a special message for the little kid worked into the finished piece. I'd like it to be a surprise for the parents on the Big Day, so I'll just share some of the options that were considered, then rejected:

• WHERE DID YOU COME FROM, BABY DEAR?
• WELCOME TO THE CLUB
• GOD BLESS THE CHILD THAT'S GOT HIS OWN
• PEE ON THIS SHAWL AND YOU WON'T GET ANOTHER PRESENT OUTTA ME UNTIL YOU'RE FORTY-SIX
  
• BE THANKFUL THIS ISN'T A BRIS
  
• DON'T WORRY, YOU CAN STILL BECOME A BUDDHIST LATER ON

That's my problem, you see. I just have so many good ideas, there could never be enough time to knit all of them.

Fuzzy Thinking

Hi. It's Dolores.

So, I was sitting around the other day having afternoon tea at the 'Shoe with my friend Gracie. (I know, it seems like an odd place for it, but the staff there is always quick with the teabags.)

I don't think I've mentioned Gracie before. Nice kid. We met in the fitting room at Victoria's Secret, when she diplomatically stepped between me and the saleswoman who wouldn't sell me a Miracle Bra because "the name of the garment is not to be taken literally, madam."

Bitch.

Anyhow, the least I could do for Gracie to make up for the hoof abrasions and the small bite on her left ear was buy her a drink. Over a couple of cosmos, she told me her story. And wouldn't you know, it's so similar to mine.

After they crowned her Miss Chickasaw County, she moved from Iowa to Chicago to parlay her good looks into a modeling career. So reminiscent of my own rise from a simple Vermont farm girl to the face and body of Woolrich back in the...whenever it was.

Gracie's getting a decent amount of work around town doing catalog shoots and the occasional television ad for this podiatrist who has the hots for her left foot. She really could be going places fast, except for one thing. She's dumb. As a brick. As a box of hair. As a parcel of Dubyas tied up with a Condoleeza bow.

Seems like every time we get together I have drag her perky tush out of yet another morass into which she has sailed with all flags flying. Man problems, weight problems, fine points of etiquette and wardrobe–some days, let me tell you, she's enough to give Sigmund Freud a migraine.

But I don't mind helping, because she's got a big heart to go with her big rack and she's always grateful. Like the other day, I'd helped her over a difficulty she was having with sentence structure in Cicero's speeches, and she looked over at me with those deep, brown eyes and said, Dolores, you're such a role model and inspiration. And I said, I know honey, I can't help it.

And then she said it was a shame that more people couldn't benefit from my several advanced degrees including the big-ass PhD I earned from the School of Life. And I said, honey you're so right for once.

So, in the spirit of noblesse oblige (which is French for "If you got it, flaunt it") I would like to open the floor to all those out there wandering in darkness. I got my own e-mail address and everything, it's dolores@franklinhabit.com. My faithful assistant Harry and I will consult to decide which letters I'll answer in here.

Just don't send me any naked pictures this time, got it? Not that I have an issue, but the Boss got all twitchy and shouty last time when I set them up as his screen saver.

Some people have no sense of humor.

Out of the Sketchbook

Let's Catch Up On...

Books

Your many, many reading suggestions for Violet and other teen-aged girls were wonderful and overwhelming. Both the birthday girl and her mother (who thanks you all, as do I) have read them.

I took care to indicate when inscribing Violet's books that some of the content might be a little "mature" for her mother's comfort; this seems to have had the desired result on her level of interest in them.

I needed something fun for bedtime reading, so I picked up the new Penguin edition of The Tibetan Book of the Dead. They did it up right, translating the whole megillah into English for the first time and snagging the Dalai Lama to write the introduction. Pretty cover, too.

It makes a nice counterpoint to the other thing on my nightstand–the latest volume of the Complete Peanuts series.

The older I get, the more I understand why potential husbands have often fled my presence when the conversation turned to books.

Knitting (Mine)

The new Baby Surprise Jacket is complete except for weaving in ends and choosing buttons. Pictures forthcoming. I tried something new this time, and instead of making yo,k2tog buttonholes as Elizabeth specifies, I turned to her one-row method from Knitter's Almanac. It works like a charm. By the third buttonhole, I had the method memorized. Highly recommended.

Knitting (Other People's)

I've been hearing from many the ten colleagues to whom I taught the basics back in February, and the word is encouraging. A summary:

• One has pressed onward with her scarf, refusing to rip back, amazed by the improvement in her technique since the cast-on row. She's doing very well, with even tension and neat edges. Her first ten rows or so are fascinating, as in places the results are unlike anything I've ever seen anybody create with needles and yarn. Perhaps I should encourage her to send the finished object to Debbie New for analysis.
  
  
• One threw her little bag of supplies into a suitcase at the last minute before leaving on a business trip. She was delayed at the airport for hours. She says the knitting saved her sanity. I tried not to look overly smug.
  
  
• One decided she didn't want to continue on in the yarn from the class, so she went to the yarn store and bought her own. She emerged unscathed with a bag of wool she likes very much. She's well into the second ball and can see the Promised Land.|
  
  
• The student who didn't want to put down her needles after she picked them up found somebody to teach her to purl and is now, by her own admission, addicted. She is asking questions about lace.

Okay, Headquarters: where's my toaster oven?

Podcasting

Brenda Dayne has asked for a new essay for the end of the present Cast On series, which delights me without end. I finished the first draft last night, once I pried Dolores (who was cruising Craiglist for temporary companionship) away from the computer.

A couple people have asked if I'm going to do a Podcast of my own. No plans to at present, no. It's a lot of work to do it well, and I can barely keep up with what's already on my plate. However, I've toyed with the idea of an occasional audio "supplement" to this blog, because I've been building a Podcast for my employer and have fallen in love with the process.

Movies

Following my review of 300, we learned via comments that Véronik Avery (who knew you were reading?) is not only so talented that she designs stuff like the "Salt Peanuts" sweater from Interweave Knits Spring 2004, she's also married to one of the Spartans from the film.

I could so smack her.

E-mail

I think there are about 340 people waiting for e-mail from me. Now that I'm starting to emerge from the black fog that has enveloped me for two or so months, I'm working through the pile. Your patience is appreciated with an almost weepy level of gratitude.

The Shop

I haven't had the energy to do much with the shop, either; but my ink bottle is once again full, so to speak. Watch (if you've nothing better to do) for the arrival of P2tog and some other stuff in the next week or so.

Tonight We Dine in Hell, Tomorrow We Brunch in Lincoln Park

Last night I did something completely uncharacteristic and went to the Navy Pier IMAX to see 300. Unless you count Henry V, I'd never before willingly sat through a war flick.

I'm not afraid to fight if I must, but I don't like violence and I hate war. I particularly detest the glorification of war, even at a remove of several thousand years.

So what the hell drew me to see 300?

There were many reasons.

The first: I was graciously invited by a fellow from the gym who had recommended it highly.

The second and third:



I'm not going to lie to you. If this had been a World War II picture and the soldiers were all running around France covered up in fatigues, I don't think I'd have been interested.

The official title is 300; but me, I'll always think of it as 600+. Yeah, there was occasional female nipplage, too, but I quickly figured out that if I squinted those parts just looked like a Tressamé commerical.

Before the lights dimmed, I found myself conflicted about which side to back. The intended heroes are the Spartans, of course. But my Middle Eastern ancestry gave me a certain sympathy for the Persians. I decided to withhold my allegiance until I got a look at both kings.

Leading the Spartans, you have 300's central character, Leonidas. He bears a startling resemblance to the soi-disant Mask of Agamemmnon excavated by Schliemann at Mycenae:



Leonidas is tough but tender, with great nobility of character. He also has an ass upon which one could serve breakfast, lunch, dinner, afternoon tea, and a midnight snack. (I regret that I have not a picture of the ass to show you.)

All admirable qualities, and I was prepared to root for Leonidas and His Merry Men. Then, after a bunch of fuss and botheration and decapitation, Xerxes showed up, carried in by slaves on his own traveling Ziegfeld staircase:



dressed in a get-up that was clearly an homage to supergay disco legend Sylvester:



The word "fabulous" simply shrivels and dies when confronted with such as this.

How on earth is a man to choose?

There was a too-brief moment in which it looked as though the two forces might merge


and render the question moot. But just when the wokka-chikka music should have started, somebody threw a spear or something and then Leonidas bellowed again and we were back to serial decapitations in slow-mo.

Even though I knew *SPOILER ALERT!* the Spartans were going to wind up as shish kabob, ultimately I finally found myself howling for Big Daddy Leonidas. Xerxes was a little too much the posing Pretty Boy for my taste, though I'd consider doing him in exchange for his earrings.

To my great surprise, I enjoyed 300 from start to finish. Granted, it lacks certain things. Character development, for one. And it would have been nice to see the Spartans actually making out with one another between battles. However, as my companion for the evening suggested, we have but to wait patiently for the pornographic director's cut on DVD.

As they say in Sparta, "Arrrrooooooooooooooooooo."

Le Coochie Dancer Malgré Lui

If you've been coming here for a while you know that when it comes to making good on her Big Plans, Dolores ranks somewhere between President Bush and Mr. Toad.

I've been stuck at work so much lately that home, when I was there, seemed relatively quiet and I'd grown hopeful that this, too would pass. I inquired of Harry, who answered evasively and quickly returned to the Ida B. Wells page of his Sistahs with Attitude Coloring Book.

Then, last night, I found something stuck between the sofa cushions:



I confronted the resident chanteuse with it this morning when I got home from the gym.

"I wondered what the hell happened to that," she said. "Much obliged, cupcake."

"I take it the show is still on?"

"When an artist is announced, an artist must perform."

"And you've recruited your chorus line?"

"Yeah. Didn't you read the back of the page?"

"The front was more than sufficient."

She flipped it over and held in under my nose.

"Why is my name on this list?"

"I guess I forgot to mention it. I need a novelty act. You're a little long in the tooth, but Lucky Horseshoe people told me I have to cater to all tastes. Do you still have that cop shirt Lars gave you?"

"Yes, but–"

"Fabulous, we're all set. Don't worry, I'm scheduling evening rehearsals since a buncha the other guys got day jobs, too. You know, Genghis is only five-five...how do you feel about a duo number? No tongues."

"I'm not–"

"Listen, I'd love to chat," she said, "But I have an early appointment with the costume designer. We can catch up later tonight. No, I have a date. Tomorrow night, then. Meet and greet with the other guys before the choreographer gets here. Wear something stretchy."

Anybody in the Chicago area have a spare room to rent?

Why I Am Going to Be a Lousy Uncle

I'd like to take a moment to say thank you for all the encouraging words that followed my last post. I am, you will notice, still here. I am even feeling rather better. The Baby Surprise Jacket continues charmingly. Dum spiro, spero.

The daughter of M, a dear colleague, is about to celebrate her thirteenth birthday. In celebration I went out to buy her a couple of books as a present. I've done so every year since M and I began working together. I don't often socialize with co-workers, but M is a delightful exception, and her daughter, whom I'll call Violet, is a good egg.

Until this year, choosing which books to give has been no problem. More often than not I wrapped up new copies of old favorites–Laura Ingalls Wilder, Roald Dahl–and sometimes later discoveries like Karen Cushman (author of Catherine, Called Birdy and The Midwife's Apprentice).

Thirteen is a big birthday. I decided to move out of the kid lit section and into the hitherto unexplored stacks labeled "Teen Readers." M told me that Violet is fond of Meg Cabot's "Princess" novels and so I thought perhaps I'd pick up something in that line.

An hour later, I staggered away from the "Teen" books bent double under deep misgivings about what's being fed to young readers by modern publishing. The available stock at Barnes and Noble leads me to conclude that:

1. Teenaged boys do not read books any more. If there were, let's say, 500 works in the section, perhaps ten were not explicitly aimed at girls.
   
   
2. Girls who read are encouraged to pursue one of three paths: princess, witch,* or slut. Should she find any one role limiting, she can blend them to become (for example) a slutty princess, or a royal witch.
   
   
3. Whatever she wishes to be, she is taught that life's chief goal is to get a boyfriend, whether she has to buy him (princess), put a spell on him (witch), or wiggle her skinny ass until he capitulates (slut).
   
   
4. All girls have three tools with which to nab the boyfriend: connivery, sex and submission. This last is true even if, according to Debrett's Peerage or similar, she outranks him.
   
   
5. A girl can either have the boyfriend or her own life/interests, but never the two at once.
   
   
6. Meg Cabot's idea of being a royal princess appears to be modeled on the life of Tori Spelling, except that instead of living in a big house in Beverly Hills one lives in a big house in a fictional country in Europe.
   
   
7. Most girls in "Teen Readers" books probably could not point to Europe on a map if it were lit up and flashing. But it doesn't matter, because being smart turns boys off and if you are smart, you better hide it.
   
   
8. I saw three books with non-white teen girls as their chief characters. One girl was a slave, one was marching to Selma, and one was having a baby and getting over a heroin addiction.
   

Here's what I got Violet for her birthday:

• Crowned in a Far Country: Portraits of Eight Royal Brides by Princess Michael of Kent
• Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
• Nicholas and Alexandra by Robert K. Massie

None is from the "Teen Readers" section, and I'm pretty sure none is on Violet's wish list. But I figure I'm giving her two glimpses of real royal history, and the ur-Harlequin romance. I have no idea if she'll read them.

Maybe if they sit on her shelf for a while, she'll get curious and step away from the Meg Cabot.** Maybe she'll discover there's more out there than the latest crap designed to groom her as a docile consumer of The Rules, Bridget Jones, and He's Just Not That Into You.

*I don't mean a practitioner of Wicca. I mean Lindsay Lohan, but with the secret power to give her nemesis a giant zit, and make Jeremy ask her to the prom.

**I realize this is a snobbish thing to say, especially as Meg's Princess has a boyfriend and I don't. Perhaps I should read the books myself, and learn.

Solace

Since my last post, the weather in Chicago has turned freakishly warm. It's only a temporary spell, says the weatherman, but for the moment we've moved from bleak midwinter to early June.

I expected my mood my elevate with the thermometer, but it hasn't. I'm stuck in the doldrums and my head isn't properly screwed on. It has been thus for an annoyingly long time–my energy keeps ebbing, and all I want to do is crawl under the bed and ignore the world.

I don't often write about feeling blue. That's a difficult state of mind to pin down with words; it almost always comes out as whining.

I hate whining, and have extremely limited patience with those who indulge.

It'd make me feel better to write about where I'm seeking comfort. Anybody care to guess?



Yup.

It's a Baby Surprise Jacket. The yarn is Rowan Felted Tweed, bought in Amsterdam a couple of years ago. Unlike the first jacket, this one's not going to Mongolia. I know the baby who will (I hope) wear it, although we have not yet been formally introduced.

Since I began it, this project and I have been inseparable. It's giving me exactly what my brain craves right now: a clear path with a definite ending. Cast on, knit, cast off, fold, sew. No room for uncertainty.

My life right now is a great tottering pile of uncertainty. I was coasting along in a dull little rut when suddenly things started to splinter. Possibilities have arisen involving my life, my work, and my romantic entanglements. All are distantly promising, but the promise could evaporate at any moment. And there's only so much I can do about it.

I hate, hate, hate that.

These are two things Buddhism has taught me, and that I believe:

1. All things are impermanent and change is constant.
2. Suffering arises from the desire to hang on to things that are impermanent or control that which cannot be controlled.
   

Smart cookie, that Buddha. You look at those two points, and you see a clear way out of my difficulty. Stop fretting over what I can't change anyhow. Let things run their course. Relax.

All the people reading this who know me well just had a laughing fit.

If I can't control the big things, dammit, I'll try to control the little ones. Give me two needles and yarn, and I can make one stitch after another until the thing I want is in my grasp. I'm going to knit this jacket, and keep on knitting, until the other stuff I want either shows up or doesn't. It gives me the illusion of control. And I know it's just an illusion, but sometimes illusion is enough.

It Must Be March

How do I know this? Because of the hint of spring warmth in the breeze? The almost indiscernible aroma of fecundity among the flowerbeds? The palest green promise of buds on the bare branches?

Fuck no. Are you kidding? I live in Chicago. Everything here is dead, gray, and frozen with no end in sight. It's like Narnia without the exotic animal life. If I'm not still wearing my frigging overcoat in June, I'll feel lucky.

Ah, that's it. That's how I know it's March. It's because I have offically Had It with winter and have withdrawn into my own season, the Season of Crabbiness. If Mother Nature were to peek her smiling, ruddy face through my window right now, I'd rip it off.

Knitting: Big Whoop

At such times it would probably be best to keep me away from all undertakings involving sharp, pointed implements. Nonetheless, I knit. Nothing spectacular, but at least with both hands full I can't smack random passers-by.

Here is what I have to show you right now. It's (are you sitting down?) a square-in-progress.

I wouldn't even show this to you except that even in my present state of mind I think the combination of yarn and stitch pattern is quite successful.



I got the pattern out of one of the Vogue Stitchionary books. I can't remember which one, and the book is all the way over there. It's called diagonal lace or prettyprettywow lace or happyshinyfuckitlace or something like that. The sample shot uses green yarn. I think. I'm not sure. Like I said, the book is all the way over there.

I had to re-do this dazzlingly complex work of art three times before I finally realized that there's a mistake in the three-row pattern and that if you follow it verbatim, your left edge gradually decreases and you will wind up with a right triangle instead of a square. Now, if you want to knit a @#%!* right triangle, why, it's just the very thing.

The yarn, which is soothing even to hands that might otherwise be hurling chunks of ice at widows and orphans, is from Black Bunny Fibers. Carol, one of my favorite Yarn Pushers, sent it to me along with instructions to knit it up to certain dimensions and not to ask any questions.



I may be a bitchy mood, kids, but I still know better than to argue with a lady who sends me free yarn.

Casting Call

You know it's not going to be a nice, quiet evening when you come home from work and find that somebody has posted this notice on your front door:

AUDITIONS
3:30-9 p.m.
Please have your headshot and resume ready.
Dancers please remove your shirts.

I took deep breath (which sounded more like an exasperated gurgle) and stepped into the foyer. Mrs Teitelbaum was there on a folding chair next to a card table, reading a copy of People magazine.

Her head jerked up as I closed the door. "Did you make an appointment?"

"No, Mrs Teitelbaum," I said. "What are–"

"Well, okay," she said. "You're kind of short but she did say she needs all kinds, so give me your photograph and take off your shirt and wait in the kitchen and maybe we can fit you in somehow."

"Mrs Teitelbaum," I said, "It's Franklin. Franklin."

She lifted her pince nez onto her nose and stared at me.

"Ohhhhh," she said. "It's you. She didn't think you'd be home so soon. I'm afraid she's not going to be very happy about this. We're right in the middle of things."

"Things?"

Suddenly from the living room I heard what sounded like an asthmatic Corgi singing "I Want Your Sex" with piano accompaniment.

"DOLORES!" I screamed.

The piano and the Corgi broke off in mid-phrase. Dolores huffed in, followed by Harry, who was carrying a notebook and a stack of 8x10 glossies.

"What are you doing home?" she said. "I thought you had a date."

"Not this month."

"Can you go get one? And not come back before, say, nine or ten?"

"What the hell is going on in here?"

"I am trying to conduct auditions, cupcake, in preparation for what will undoubtedly be the musical and terpsichorean sensation of the Boystown summer season."

"I don't even want to know."

"I have been engaged," said Dolores, "to present my song stylings at a venerable and beloved Chicago boite, and for this I require a top-notch supporting ensemble."

"Huh?"

"She got hired by the Lucky Horseshoe to sing three nights a week and introduce the coochie dancers," said Harry.

"What's a coochie?" said Mrs Teitelbaum. "Is that French for cookie?"

"Will you all please shut up?" said Dolores. "I am paying the pianist by the hour and we have talent stacked up in the kitchen waiting to be seen."

"And they already used up all the ice in the freezer trying to keep their nipples perky," said Harry. "So one of the guys was asking if he could crack open that box of frozen soy nuggets."

"I like chocolate chip coochies best," said Mrs Teitelbaum.

"Are we done? Should I put my pants back on now?" shouted the Corgi voice from the living room.

"Yes!" I yelled.

"No!" screamed Dolores. "I haven't seen you do the dance combination yet. Harry, let's roll."

The piano launched into the opening bars of Kylie Minogue's "Your Disco Needs You." Mrs Teitelbaum bobbed her head in time and snapped her fingers.

"Aren't you going to take your shirt off like the others?" she said vaguely.

"No."

"Oh, that's too bad. Say, when my shift is done would you like to come over to my apartment for a coochie?"

I think I'm going to start sleeping at the office.