Mama's Got A Brand New Bag.

This is another attempt at bag felting. I gave it to my mother, because she tries to bring the entire effing office home with her each evening. Once she gets home, she likes to complain about how her shoulder hurts. Gee, I wonder why... I decided to make handles from leather straps because I got lazy, and didn't feel like making an I-Cord. It's just as well, because now she can cram even more stuff into it. See how practicality can be big fun?!

You never forget your first.

Before and after shots of my first felted bag, made with Lamb's Pride Worsted Yarn, using the French Market Bag pattern on Knitty.com. My studly male pig, Trefflé sits next to the finished bag for purposes of scale. Unfortunately, he wasn't feeling particularly photogenic, so he protested by literally, showing his ass. Then again, he is a boar...

Welcome to [Grandma's] Nightmare!

The White House Apartments, located just south of downtown are reputed to be haunted. I love that type of thing...back in the day (like say, the turn-of-the-century before last) it was the original St. Joseph Hospital, which has now morphed into the Creighton University Medical Center, (aka Killer St. Joe). My grandmother had her appendix removed at their location on South 13th Street, which was even creepier looking than this place. It was in the early 1940s, and the surgeon was "three sheets to the wind" as the expression goes. His brother was called in to finish the surgery, and he did so, even if he left a huge amount of scar tissue in the process. Grandma lived a long, productive life, despite the potential for a nice fat malpractice suit. History is fun, isn't it?!

That Easter Bunny is a baaaaaad mutha...

Another one from the Strange-But-True file...and life here in The Heartland just keeps getting better and better all the time. Dig this: "The Easter Bunny got hopping mad Saturday and ended up in jail..."

Who Felted?!

String of Purls, one of my preferred local suppliers while here in the land-that-time-forgot, decided to have a Felted Bag Contest. I dropped by for my bi-monthly fix of Koigu, and was simply astounded by the creativity of the entries! So I returned Wednesday to take a few pictures...

Okay, a few actually ended up to be 36, but I'd like to thank Anne (one of the owners) and Sheryl, who graciously allowed me to take a wad of photos, and even agreed to pose for me!

The winners will be chosen later today, and as much as I'd love to be there to take part in the festivities, I've decided to not venture out of the house today, as people throwing up mass quantities of green beer really scare the hell out of me (and they are very much on the loose right about now). But I'll check on it (when I go back to buy even more yarn I have no business getting), and let you know the results.

Meanwhile, check out the amazing bags by following this link.

Flaming 'gros tas de merde' finally extinguished!

And it only took four months to put it out. (Nebraska, however, will still smell like poo...)

Read and learn, here.

Schooling the Weird-Harold

Finally, someone gets it. How to do a story for Black History Month that honors the contributions of African-Americans without a backhanded slam weaved through it all. And guess where it came from? The little burg of Grand Island, Nebraska, of all places! Read and learn about some of the many aspects of life in Nebraska for people of color, yesterday and today.

(When prompted for a password and username, just enter veritas for both).

More Cousins, More Fame

Although it is true, the Omaha World-Herald sucks ass, they nevertheless did run a story on this rather uniformed debate about the history behind African-American quilts made by slaves escaping to freedom. They also printed a photo of, and quoted my cousin Janet, famous former RN, current Funeral Director, and Quilting Enthusiast, with one of her many chef d'oeuvres.

What the article (as well as the curator of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln's International Quilt Study Center) don't mention is the rather obvious fact that there may not be documentation to support the stories behind the patterns chosen for the quilts because putting info like this to paper might lead to it falling into the wrong hands, thereby revealing points of the journey along the Underground Railroad. (Just a thought). Perhaps one day, the proof some say doesn't exist will surface, so some ninny reporter right out of j-school can find a more interesting angle on which to base her story.

But hey...I'm not bitter, or anything. Just sick and tired of the dimwits who by-and-large inhabit the many institutions of this great midwestern hell hole. That's all.

I have to go roll my eyes now...ciao, belli.

Throwback Poncho, Completed & Posted.

Modelled by Yours Truly in the squalor that is my salon, my first poncho. It's the Villa pattern by Megan Riordan, and posted in Knitty.com in Autumn 2003. I used TLC Amoré in (3628) Dark Thyme with (3627) Light Thyme for the trim. This is because I didn't want to be out a huge wad of cash if I screwed it up. (I didn't). I chose to use 12 mm needles, because I wanted the drape to make it look as if it had been crocheted instead of knitted. That, and I wanted to hurry up and get the entire mess over and done with. (Patience isn't a big part of my skill set). I started in late August and finished something like two weeks later (because I never work on anything straight through...it's just not my nay-cha).

The Contac-C is eating up my brain

...which I hope helps to explain why I felt the need to share this link with you: The Anomolous List of Unusual Names.

Admittedly, I'm much too old to be amused by such sophomoric humor, but I can't help it. I'm stupid that way. Try it, it's fun! Sometime when you're bored in a meeting, or sitting in a funeral/church/memorial service, and you think you'll simply die
if the whole thing doesn't end soon, allow your mind to wander to the names listed on this page. I guarantee you, it'll take you right back to Grade 8, just as if you never left...(and your ass will probably get kicked out when you start laughing uncontrollably in the midst of it all).

Man, this winter is getting long.

Saturday night in the O-N-E...

Since Gary Bettman and the player's union can't seem to get it together, I decided to get my hockey fix by attending the UNO game this past Saturday. The home team lost. But it's all good--since UNO has only had a hockey program for six years or so, they did quite well to lose by only one goal! The group of kids seated behind us was hilarious, and despite our having nosebleed seats, the view was great.

In the event you think I have an obsession with the number 'one,' UNO = University of Nebraska-Omaha, and O-N-E = Omaha, NE(braska).

My main purpose in going was to accidentally-on-purpose, bump into the world's hottest sportswriter, and to check out the Qwest Center (as I'd never seen the arena before). Well, one outta two ain't bad (he wasn't in the press box, but his bloated, insufferable colleague however, was). The Qwest Center wasn't bad, but some of the personnel working there are power tripping kinda hard...

(It's Omaha. I've come to expect running into a few assholes in nearly every situation).

Star Trippin'

The whole 'cult of celebrity' thing is a strange concept. There are any number of people of public interest, whom I've had the pleasure to meet, and/or drool over. The odd thing about them being, that if I knew them before they got huge, watching their ascent to stardom is nice, but it doesn't change my relationship to them. To me, they're still the same people they were before the developed a following. And in truth, it seems curious to find total strangers obsessing over their status.

As to those I star-worship from afar, I hope never to meet them in person, in a meaningful way. My fantasies of who and what they're about are way more exciting than mundane reality. (I'm still recovering from the whole Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy thing).

All that said, I present to you two of my 'famous' kin. First, my cousin Deborah, who has devoted her adult life to the performing arts. She attended university, got an undergraduate and graduate degree in sociology, with very high marks, and decided she liked the smell of the grease paint and roar of the crowd a lot more. She has performed, composed, sang, danced, and worked with George Duke, Kenny Rogers, Lionel Richie, Dweezil and Ahmet Zappa, and casts of thousands more. And yesterday, she phoned to tell us about this joint she's involved in with film director Aaron Baldwin and photographer Bill Jones. So I decided to give her some pub, right here, on my obscure weblog. (She's the one in the middle). To learn more about the project, click on "Hollywood in Black."

Famous relative number two is my cousin Butch, whom I have known since, well--forever. We would spend summers together, hanging out, visiting other relatives, and discussing music of all kind. He was determined to become a professional musician, no matter how many headaches he triggered (in others) by practising the sax. And it actually paid off--he's been a working musician for most of his adult life, played with a lot of Big, Important, Recognizable acts, and even has his own website promoting his many talents. Read all about him!

(N.B.: Butch is the one who isn't Sting.)

There are others I could hype, but I don't want to come off as too well-connected, so I'll discuss those peeps for another time. Meanwhile, do me a favor, and don't start hitting me up for tickets, or laminates, free CDs, or autographs. The most I promise is embarassing stories from our respective "Wonder Years"...

Useless.

In the event anybody out there knows this guy "Dave" who works at Keith's BP Station at 90th & Fort in Omaha, you have my deepest condolences. This guy is as useful as tits on a bull. He's so inept, he'd fuck up a wet dream. He's pudgy, has lousy hygiene, and whines incessantly. He has such lousy social skills, that he shouldn't be wasting his time in the 'service' industry. Instead, I recommend he try working in the civil service. Stupidity like his is genuinely appreciated by the US Postal Service.

What an asshole.

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??