Fortunately, I'm 60 miles upwind.

A huge mountain of cow manure is seen smoldering at a feedlot near Milford, Nebraska...

No doubt this explains (partly) why Nebraska does indeed, smell like poo. Personally, I'd rather have the smog.

That HAD to hurt...

Culled from the craftster.org website, after being sent the link by my dear friend Susan, who is an extremely avid knitter:

"It was a day, like any other. I was rushing to get to the school on time. I was going to be a substitute one-on-one for a special needs kid. I hed to get there early enough to get him off the bus. I threw my knitting in my humongous vinyl Nine West bag I bought about 6 years ago. Back then it was my stylish diaper bag in disguise. Now it served as my knitting carry-all. With the bag slung over my right sholder behind me I opened the car door and pushed myself in. Just then a searing pain in the ass made me leap out only to realise a size 10 needle had ripped it's way through the bag due to the weight and force of my body. I saw it had also stuck into my ass. Yes, ladies and gents, I impaled myself with my own knitting. And just like a cowboys and indians movie from my fathers childhood, I grabbed it like an arrow, clenched my teeth, and pulled. The needle was in there, the fleshy side of the cheek, about an inch. Hospital e.r. sent me home with a script for an antibiotic. No stitches for fear of sealing in any bacteria. Now I knit with a limp."

What's wrong with this picture?

Nothing brings a smile to my face like really bad art.

Wunnerful, wunnerful...

The Saturday nights of my very early years were spent watching The Lawrence Welk Show in it's entirety. To this day, I can bore anyone shitless with details about the cast. I was imprinted to the point that I actually bought my dearly departed grandmother tickets to his band's road show in 1997--and yes, I went with her. (My Great-Uncle Earle once told me he owned a clarinet that had belonged to Henry Questa). But the best part about the show, to my four-year old mind, was the bubbles used in the opening and closing of the show. (And they didn't use one of those little lame plastic things that came in the soap bubbles bottle, either. They had a straight-up fo'real bubble machine. Now that was da bomb.)

Although Mr. Welk was born in North Dakota, he didn't actually start to speak English until he was 20-years old, and some would argue, he never did truly speak it--but that only adds to his charm. His 'Welkisms' are absolute classics. Follow this link and learn (or learn not) to communicate like the Champaigne Music Maker...

Exactly the same, only different.

This is going to Baby Marcel, who was born May 26, 2004, which would have been his grandmother's 70th birthday, had she not passed away in March of last year. Marcel's mother (Toy), has three of the most adorable kids, who are also baby geniuses. (His oldest sister, Serena, was holding her head up on her own, the day of her birth, and hasn't slowed down since!) Although this looks a lot like the hats and scarves made for Aunt Helen and Aunt Ruth, it was actually made with Coats & Clark Red Heart Baby Clouds yarn in color number 9010 Pastels. (It's washable, and babies seem to like spitting up on things, I've noticed).

For Anna B. Graves (Nanna)

Anna B. Graves is the name of my great-grandmother. She is the one responsible for me learning to knit when I was the tender age of 7. She was my first and only baby-sitter, fried the best chicken in the universe, and died in 1980 at the age of 97 (we think). She was so old, that the family bible with all the vital statistics was misplaced (she out lived her three brothers), and we had to guess that she was born in 1882.

Nanna (as I called her) was so pleasant and good natured, that she never fussed at me--even when I broke her metal meat tenderizer by banging it repeatedly on the linoleum floor. For Christmas each year, she would knit sunburst pillows, dishcloths, and slippers, then give them out as gifts. Since nobody else was carrying on the tradition, I decided to revive it after her death.

...But I draw the line at ceramic ashtrays. That's one tradition that's going to remain in the past.

The photos of the sunburst pillow and dishcloths respectively, show projects made with Lily Sugar & Cream yarn, of which I have entirely too many bolts, in far too many colors. The two photos show square pillows I either knitted or crocheted in really cheap yarn I got at White Rose/W.H. Perron in N.D.G. before it closed.

Another couple just begging to be slapped.

Who the hell thought this was a good idea??

You Can't Be Serious

According to "Men's Fitness" magazine, Omaha, Nebraska ranks as the 11th Fittest City in America.

Surely they jest.

Maybe they're talking about people who are "Fat & Fit." Or perhaps they're confusing the place with somewhere else. Who knows?

From The "Just Thought You Should Know" Dept.

I Still Detest Omaha. My mind hasn't changed. What's more, I detest the driving here. The weather is manic-depressive, and nobody can dress. Plus, the local newspaper is written by and for idiots.

I hate it all.

Okay, bye.
- D.