Moonlight Mohair Madness

Here is a pic of the poncho/shawl/wrap, etc., I made using the free pattern courtesy of Lion Brand Yarn. I chose Moonlight Mohair in Safari 203, rather than Purple Mountain 206 used in the pattern photo, because I'm difficult that way. Actually, I found this color to be a bit louder than the purplish shades, and after having been subjected to so much beige for the last few months, something gaudy just felt right. It knits up quite fast, with size 13mm needles. (What this really means, is that I have yet to get the stronger progressive lenses I so desperately need). Therefore, I shall continue to knit with bigass needles until said eyewear has been purchased.

Word.

A slot maven, I'm not.

Please forgive me if I've offended those of you who really enjoy wasting time and losing coinage in casinos. (If you're the type who wins a lot, I'm hating all over you right about now, but that's not important now).

The thing is, I have two more bags to felt, and I'm desperately short in quarters. Actually, I'm desperately short of money, but hey--things are tough all over. I'm not at all lucky when it comes to anything that involves gambling (or hell, winning). Therefore, trying to win a stash of quarters so I can finish the bags isn't bloody likely.

Meanwhile, here are some pics so you can get an idea of what said bags might look like...eventually.

N.B.: I really wasn't going for a camo theme on the smaller bag--it just turned out that way. I have been feeling particularly aggressive lately, but not G.I. Jane-ish or anything.One thing's for certain--I'm feeling the green thing very intensely!

Must Corporate=Evil ?

I've been trying to shake the vestiges of these cluster headaches which have been wrecking havoc on my being for several weeks now. Just as I was about to return to health, I go in for my weekly volunteer gig at a not-for-profit agency, and am slammed between the eyes with the news that one my favorite employees (and friends), is, as the expression goes, "no longer working there..."

Suffice it to say, my headaches have returned in full glory, and I'm really getting sick of this whole corporate thang--no matter what their particular profit motive is. Supposedly, her job has been eliminated, etc., etc. Riiiiiiiiiiight. I know what that means. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more...

I'm too queasy to rant right now, but I"ll get back to this topic later. Meanwhile, I have pills to eat, and pain to ease. (Physical and otherwise).

Pearlie the Piggy & Yet Anotha Felted Bag

Pearl is getting a pedicure tomorrow. If she's good, I'll drive-thru Wendy's and share a salad with her. If she's not, I'll probably do the same thing. Who can resist that furry little face? She's such a sweetie!

The correlation between game & hideousness.

This is just plain wrong, but I have to concur with the Sam Cassell and Larry Bird thing...

Big ups to The Phat Phree site for breaking it down for us all.

Best of all, it qualifies as Can-Con!

You too can make a wallet from duct tape. Courtesy of our friends at 3M.

Plus, it makes a great gift!

Fingercorn.

I just made up a word. See, all this obsessive knitting, combined with my lousy-yet-inventive technique has given me this weird looking bump on the front of my right index finger, just between the first joint and the bottom of my nail. It just sort of sat there for about a month or so, and I wasn't even sure if it wasn't one of those mid-life finger crisis things that I'd imagined, so I didn't mention it to anyone. (Seriously, I was worried that it might be a wart, or something I've prided myself on never having, you know--like lice). But after consulting carefully with a trusted few, it appears to be like a corn on my finger; hence, the word "fingercorn".

I figure if you can have peppercorns, why not fingercorns?

I've tried using those little Dr. Scholl corn and callous removal products, but they're not particularly helpful. Dear Glenda from Touché told me to try Neosporin, while one of the SNB knitters suggested Bag Balm. (This is after all, an agricultural region. If it's good enough for udders, it's good enough for my fingercorn, n'est-çe pas?)

I'll keep you updated on developments as they shrivel up and go away...because anything less would seriously impair my career as a hand model. And we just can't have that.

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??

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.

How special.

You Are From Neptune

You are dreamy and mystical, with a natural psychic ability. You love music, poetry, dance, and (most of all) the open sea. Your soul is filled with possibilities, and your heart overflows with compassion. You can be in a room full of friendly people and feel all alone. If you don't get carried away with one idea, your spiritual nature will see you through anything.

What Planet Are You From?

Merry Christmas & Have A Nice Kwanzaa.

Aunt Helen & Aunt Ruth, modelling their Chrismas presents.

Scarf and hat for Cousin Janet.

Christmas was delightful. We celebrated at my cousin Janet's home, and she prepared a sumptuous feast. After the repas, we did the gift thing. Those who were chosen to receive my hand-knitted items seemed to like them quite a lot. In fact, Aunt Ruth kept her hat and scarf on for the rest of the evening, and it wasn't even cold in the house! Most flattering of all, I was told that Aunt Ruth also wore them to church today, so I'm certain she really did like them. Aunt Helen is always gracious (yet sincere), and she seemed to be very pleased with her gifts from me, as well. Janet was extra happy--which put my mind at ease, since I couldn't decide which colors to chose for her stuff. But I knew she might like them for herself, since she really really liked the brown scarf made with the same yarn, that I gave to her daughter, my cousin Lisa. The yarn I used, "Stars" by Adriafil, was purchased at Mangelsen's in Omaha, a town I thoroughly detest (thought you should know).

'Tis the season for eating mass quantities.

The esteemed group of knitters in the secret, underground, Montreal Knitting Collective had a festive holiday party chez Mouliné Yarns, located at 2679 Notre Dame W. in Montreal, not far from Atwater Market and Métro Lionel-Groulx. Our brief-but-obligatory knitting session was taped by a cameraman/reporter for Radio-Canada's "Culture Choc" program. The angle was about the resurgence of knitting (particularly among the young), and the role of blogs in promoting it all.

The majority of the evening however was spent eating, drinking, exchanging cookies, chatting, eating, and eating some more, which was simply fabulous, due to the generousity of Mouliné's owner and operator, Mme. Svetlana Kudrevich. I mean, she really had an exquisite spread. Fellow knitter Lee Ann tried to get me well drunk by pouring me a bigass glass of wine. (Thanks, Lee Ann!) Every time I thought I had finished eating, I'd see something else I felt compelled to stuff down my pie hole, and would rapidly scarf it down. Just when I thought I had made a big enough pig of myself, Reina offered up an ultra-delicious flan. And then, Svetlana produced some huge trays of pastries along with coffee, then sat them right in front of me! (How could I refuse?) Mona and I, had a nice conversation about accidents involving knitting needles, and the like, and Molly Ann joined in with her own stories of misdventures. Véronik impressed me with a story about the time she inadvertantly sewed her finger while using a sewing machine, and well--the whole thing pretty much ended up as our own decadent tribute to gluttony...

It was divine!!

However, before I forget, I simply have to show some love to the five other knitters who participated in the cookie exchange (see the picture of the cookies just under the heading):

Margaret: Butter Pecan Cookies (at 4 o'clock, on the plate)

Mona: Hildabrötchen (right in the middle)

Svetlana: Gingerbread Men (at 6 o'clock)

Véronik: Chocolate and Almond Swirls (at 1 o'clock)

Lee Ann: Hazelnut Orange Biscotti Dipped in Dark Chocolate (11 o'clock)

Yours Truly: Snickerdoodles (at 8:45-ish).

They were all simply delicious. Big ups to Svetlana for making the Gingerbread Men extra gingery! Those little men had a kick--I adore spicy food. And please accept my apologies for making the snickerdoodles sweeter than I intended. But look at it this way--if you see someone going into insulin shock, just shove one of 'em in their mouth. It should send their blood sugar soaring in no time.

For those of you who have requested it, I'll provide the recipe soon as I can make one up. I'm strictly from the "dump-n-dash" school of culinary arts.

Because two mitts are better than one.

I offer to you proof that I finished the other "Gifted" mitten, and whipped up another pair of slippers for some lucky, unsuspecting family member.

That first pose with the slippers may have caused me to pull a muscle. Don't expect me to do that shit again...fallen arches, notwithstanding.

More Stuff.

My first mitten with the requisite companion hat for the scarf. Maybe one day, I'll make another one so I can have a pair. Or perhaps not. Whatever.

This is fo' da knittahs...strictly fo' da knittahs...

(Apologies for modelling my own creations, and mostly because I have large, narrow, bony feet. Plus, I'm still pigeon-toed). These slippers were made from 85% wool, 15% mohair yarn, called "Lambs Pride" in Seafoam, supplied by the Brown Sheep Wool Company of Mitchell, Nebraska. (Don't ask me how to get there; I never venture anywhere past Sidney, and even then, it's only because I'm en route to Denver). I used big 'ol needles; a size 9 mm, if memory serves. I gave these to my cousin Roz who was happy to have them.

Odds & Ends, but mostly odd.

This is what happens when you have a lot of leftover junk yarn and don't know what to do with it. This lady had a pattern that seemed easy enough to follow using a bunch of squares stitched together...it was easy, but far more work than I really felt like doing. Once I did it, it still looked jive. (So I gave these to my cousin Rachelle, Roz's sister. She's good about taking my rejects).

Okay, so I'm cheap...

But it's the thought that counts. And here's what I'm thinking of doing with this stuff: I'm going to give them as Christmas gifts to other unsuspecting relatives. I chose acrylic yarn because it launders well, and the recipients are elderly, absent-minded as hell, and highly likely to toss everything into the wash. Had I blown money on the good stuff, I'd have to freak if they inadvertantly felted everything.

That's all, folks! (for the time being, anyway)

This cost me a bit more to make, but nothing horribly extravagant. I saw a pattern that appeared similar, committed it to memory, and kind of re-created it at home. There's a hat that goes with it, but I'll get around to all that later. Right now, I'm working on other things that are even louder, and more outrageous than this is. I think I'll give this to my friend Tracy's daughter, Sidney. She can handle it.

Nice cheekbones, but no neurological activity whatsoever.

My dear friend Anthony told me about this woman. He said she represented everything I loathe, and that I would gladly kick her ass if I met her in person. I wasn't sure who he was talking about, since I rarely get up early enough to see her. Finally, I got a taste of her inanity. You too, can experience her font of stupidity by following this link.

I only wish she hadn't sullied Elmo the way she did.

For No Apparent Reason

A photo of my mother wearing fake cat ears on her birthday, while at work.

Steve Pederson...especially for you:

"For want of a Nail the Shoe was lost;
for want of a Shoe the Horse was lost;
and for want of a Horse the Rider was lost,
being overtaken and slain by the Enemy".

-Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

Gratitude not Greed

Although this probably pisses the hell out of advertising and/or marketing types, I'm one of those freaks who refuses to do the whole Christmas decoration thing until after American Thanksgiving. People seem to be more and more obsessed with consumerism instead of concentrating their efforts on getting instead of giving. Just when I thought humanity had reached it's nadir, some asshole finds a way to to lower the bar even further...

My dearly departed Aunt Dorothy was one of those people who meant well, but she had this tendency to cause nervous disorders in several of my blood relatives. That aside, her heart was genuinely enormous, and whether it was food, shelter, or clothing, she was all about giving (whether we liked it, or not). Those of us blessed enough to be related to her, learned from her example, and this indeed has proven to be a gift that truly keeps on giving. She had some other personality traits (or perhaps, disorders) that have infected some of us, as well. But we won't get into that right now. I'm trying to keep this up on a positive tip. Her gifts were given through kind acts as well as items of necessity. She was all about sharing, which is becoming all too rare, of late.

My rant has comes from a spiritual place as well as a worldly one. In this world of excess, it can be a real struggle to live a life that embraces simplicity. Nevertheless, one way of making a contribution can be something as simple as making time to volunteer for a social cause that promotes giving instead of taking. Another way is by setting an example of giving like my late Auntie did. And then, as another way of making a small statement against consumerism-gone-crazy, I invite you to join us who will be observing "Buy Nothing!" Day, November 26, 2004.

Learn more about it here:

Peace,

- D.

Actual Star Power vs. Self-Indulgence Run Amok.

This is how it should be done:
http://www.starandal.com

This is not:
http://tinyurl.com/4nsxf

Just a hint: it works so much better if you're a celebrity, and/or more than two people actually care who you are...

Introducing...My New Pigs!

Princess Nala Alizé Tajuana

The Princess was adopted from the Nebraska Humane Society. Although her previous family stated on her adoption papers that she is 3 years old, her demeanor and size indicate otherwise. She was unbelievably tiny, even for a guinea piglet, and since moving to Grandma's Crib, she has put on a bit of weight. She remains rather timid, but we're working valiantly to socialize her a bit more. Grandma claims that she communicates with her, but I suspect it's more a case of my mother speaking for her (as she does for most people, it seems). She drinks and (subsequently) pees very, very frequently. I hope this is only a nervous habit, and not some weird water addiction...




Trefflé Chanceux DeQuan

The exotic Trefflé came to us from the Capital Humane Society in Lincoln. His previous owners had named him Pepé (ugh!), which is ironic, since he doesn't pee nearly as much as Princess Nala. He is about a year old, and smells like a real boar if you know what I mean. His fur color is called 'brown agouti', and his swirly fur pattern is known as 'abyssinian.' (It's so nice to have that link with Mother Africa, you know). I introduced him to Nala one day, and of course, he tried to force her into assuming the position. Fortunately, I was there to stop any freaky stuff, because the Princess is kind of young for all of that. Trefflé being a male, probably found her youth and beauty irresistable, but I had to get him hip, that he's now in a Matriarchal Domaine. But he is a pig, so I don't expect him to pay me much attention. They never do, it seems.

Take that, you....

"Fucking hillbillies!!"
- Bill Callahan

"Oklahoma! " (Where the hicks throw oranges in the rain...)

From the "Guns 'n Produce" Department, this just in:
"I am distressed when people are shooting off guns and throwing fruit at our players. I just have a hard time with that..."
- Bill Callahan

The case of Edward Lee Elmore

Read, learn, then act.

http://www.prisoners.com/elmoredr.html

http://www.truthinjustice.org/elmore.htm

http://tinyurl.com/672ay

http://tinyurl.com/6pa3e

How deep is this?

Quote for the day: ""I'm on the Zoloft to keep from killing y'all."
-Mike Tyson

Is it something in the water...?

...Good question.

Qué serà serà.

Recently I discovered that I can vote legally in the recent US general election...and a lot of bloody good it did. The Wrong Elements were elected, all across the board, which will no doubt continue to take the world straight to hell in a handbasket. Perhaps I should have attempted to vote for my many dead relatives--but no. I foolishly played by the rules, and look at the trouble we're all in because of it!

I should have known better. Damn.

Things went from bad to worse on Wednesday, when I took my beloved elder guinea pig Val-Dijon to the vet for surgery to remove a giant raspberry-looking tumor from his ass. He made it through the surgery, and was even up and about for a few hours, when the Grim Reaper of Rodents made an appearance, and whisked him off to the Rainbow Bridge. Although I will miss him terribly, at least he gets to be with his dearest pig pal, Stella, who made the journey this past May. My grief is more intense than usual, because I wasn't well prepared for his dying. (He was otherwise in good health--or so I thought).

To add another insult to major injuries in my life, I think I've put my back out digging Val-Dijon's "final resting place."

Things just aren't working out for me this week...but maybe things are working out the way they're supposed to. Perhaps the answers will come later.

I gotta go now...I think I'm getting my period.

A mind is a terrible thing to lose.

My cousin Jimmy is a paramedic/fire captain. He was summoned to an address is a Jerry Springerish part of town. After the injured party was patched up, the resulting paperwork was addressed. The victim's son provided answers until one of the questions left him utterly confused. The resulting dialogue went something like this:

Paramedic: What's her first name?

Clueless son: "Uh....Mama, what's yer name?"

I swear to God I'm not making this up. At least he didn't say "Mama".

Youthful indiscretion(s) and midlife consequences.

My high school was bearable due to the fact that it didn't have a lot of cliques. This was primarily the case because most everyone at the time was buzzed out of their minds on weed. Details on whether or not someone has the most fashionable clothes or drives the nicest ride are lost when you can't remember your own name. Added to the fact that all this took place at the end of Disco Era, it all combined to demonstrate that for brief snatches of time, "we all really can get along." (But we did have to party in the car beforehand--just to mellow out a little).

One of my classmates (who should go nameless, but everybody already knows him) had what began as a small gathering in his parents home, while they were out of town, of course. I remember sitting on the couch in the living room, in the dark, with only the faint glow from the fluorescent light of the kitchen as backlight. With me were two or three others (of course, I can't remember who), and we were having this deep-yet-meaningless conversation about something or other, when this kid comes crashing through the front screen door glass, head first. He didn't seem to bleed much. I do remember him dusting himself off in time to go back outdoors to finish fighting. At the time, I didn't know who's house I was at, but that wouldn't be the first, nor would it be the last time that would happen.

I attended the senior awards banquet, largely forgetting who was awarded what. My prime motivation for attending was a free meal. I do recall friends getting awards, but the only one that remains clear was the award for "Senior Boy With the Most Children," and "Senior Boy with the Most Children by the Most Girls." This honour was bestowed by the athletic department, with various team members compiling the stats. And as virility would have it, the same guy won both awards.

Aside from making it sound like I graduated from the most drug-infested, out-of-control, ghettofied high shool in the world, I mention these stories because of my 25th year high school reunion, which was held this past summer. Although I've kept in touch with several of my former schoolmates (whether they be in or out of correctional facilities, 12-step programs, and the like), I elected not to return and attend. It's nice to know that those who organized the event were kind enough to tape the obligatory "class picnic," and have posted it online for the entire world to see and no doubt, laugh at hysterically. One of the men in the video just happens to be the same guy who threw the party, and impregnated so much of the female student body (present company excluded). See if you can guess which one it is!

It's a miracle any of us can remember anyone else, all considered...

One,
- D.

P.S. No prizes will be awarded to those who guess correctly. So don't get too worked up or anything.

The Perils of Tree Hugging

or "A Case for Epilation."

I'm not sure if it's a true story or not, but it is different. I'm thinking either this guy is the filthiest person ever, or more likely it got wedged up in there after it got snagged on his sweater. Or he's just lying in the hope that he can get his "fiht-ayne" minutes.

Some people got no shame, baby--no shame.

I used to sing...

I used to sing a lot. In fact, I sang so much, I gave in and minored in vocal performance at University. (It was easier than piano, if only because I didn't feel like getting off my arse at say 23h and go all the way downtown to practice). You see, I've always been a Night Person, so that's when my synapses were firing best, etc., etc. So what if I've studied piano since I was five? (You'd think I'd have learned it by now...) I figured the voice thing can't be that hard, so I gave it a shot. And lo and behold, it worked out. Who knew?

Among my many claims to fame, were the performances I gave in my final year, which included a Christmas Concert in which I wheezed through with an asthma attack (then drove myself to the hospital for the second time that day), and the spring concert performed with a mass choir and symphony orchestra. I was recovering from a hellish case of food poisoning and warbled my way through Bach's Magnificat before easing off stage to resume my activities as human cuisinart.

I think it was karma, because I was notorious for attending recitals of others and doing my best to distract them, and thus, ruin their performance. But hell, it was fun. Crazy kids, and all that. You get the deal.

Since that time, my singing has curtailed considerably. But by chance, I happened to hear a song I sang for an audition many, many, (many) years ago, and it got me thinking about it all. It was Laschia Ch'io Pianga from the opera Rinaldo by Handel. Not the easiest piece of music to sing, but I have a thing for baroque and singing in Italian (which helped).

In some of my ensemble work, I recall the people who I sang with, and wonder what's happened to them. Rob McCartney is the evening news anchor on KETV. He had this girlfriend who was always with him. I believe she's still with him, because they married and have three kids. And while I normally find that type of thing annoying as hell, with her it was cool, because she was quite nice. Another (who you can read about by following this link) is currently serving a hella long sentence in prison for 2nd degree murder of her boyfriend. I guess he got on her nerves in a serious way, because she stabbed him to death with a knife from the kitchen, then poured gasoline around his bed as he lay there bleeding to death. I don't know that she lit it up, however. I forget. Anyway, it was all very tragic. And she was extraordinarily talented. She had an amazing voice, and was studying art. Her tastes were a tad gaudy, but she had a good eye for colour. That much I recall.

My voice teachers ranged from angry and obese (some cow named Eileen), to tiny and neurotic, with an overactive bladder (that would be Connie). It's amazing I learned f*ck all. Then again, that's what I get for going to Dear Ol' Nebraska U.

By the way, I'm a mezzo. I used to be a coloratura soprano, but as the sands of time poured through the hourglass that is my life, my voice changed. It happens. And if anyone's interested, I'm available for weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, birthdays, retirement parties, and any event involving large quanties of curried foods. Drop me an e-mail and maybe we can work something out.

One,
- D.

A word to the wise (you know who you are).

“Patience is the key, those who didn't have any for Frank had darned well better have it for Bill C., because the road to ruin is paved with the contracts of former coaches.”
- Mike Nolan

Patience emphasizes calmness, self-control, and the willingness or ability to tolerate delay

Calmness emphasizes patience, self-control, and the willingness or ability to tolerate delay.

Self-control emphasizes patience, calmness, and the willingness or ability to tolerate delay.

- Steve Gomez

No, it's not Jack Todd, either.

So stop asking already.

More stuff that's...

Wrong.

"Retro-Chic Crush Groove"

I'm having a midlife crisis. Those of you who know me, realize that much of my life has been lived in a state of crisis, but this one is different. It involves hormones. No, really!

Instead of triggering migraines, acne, and fluid retention, this one has me thinking lascivious thoughts and making cow eyes at a certain person who writes for a certain newspaper, and has had his own byline for a quite some time. (Okay, not that long. We're not talking 'Methuselah" here. He is a little older, but damn. I'm not into the geriatric set, y'know).

To protect the guilty (and most of all, myself), I will not be naming names. But I love the way he styles. The only thing he's missing is a fedora with one of those little press cards sticking out of the band. And no, dammit. It's not Matt Drudge. Blecccch!

Enough of this daydreaming (for now). I have to go renew my auto insurance. Life can be such a buzzkill at times...

One,
- D.

L'autumn c'est merveilleux!

As many of you may know, autumn is my favorite time of year. It affects me hormonally in ways most people feel springtime. It's a very sensuous time of year. When I go outdoors, I smell fireplaces and wet leaves, and the drunks on the bus don 't seem nearly as putrid. I feel warmth and furry things against my skin, enveloping me like a coccoon. It's a nice feeling. If I dwell upon it, I can even conjure up a smellucination of a deep dish apple pie being served in a cozy inn off the beaten path. The colours are brilliant and ubiquitous. When I sleep at night, I dream of flying through the Laurentians with an abundant carpet of colour and texture. It's lovely.

If I may, I wish to offer a 'cyber novena' for some friends and their relatives. Vijay's grandma is in hospital with heart trouble. The medical experts aren't sure what to do. I will say a prayer for her to make a speedy and full recovery. Jacques father, Docteur Pierre-Paul, is having hip replacement surgery today. I will pray for him to get back to health soon, too. My dear friend Susan's mother-in-law is recovering from a stroke. I will continue to pray for Susan and her family, because they've been through so very much in the last year.

Today the veterinarian told me that I have a very healthy guinea pig. He weighs 2.7 lbs. and hates getting shampooed. That's a pity, because he has a long and flowing mullet of fur from his ass that requires regular maintenance. It doesn't bother him, but as a mother, I worry. No doubt all you other mothers out there are feeling me completely, right about now.

I really ought to put the trash out. I've been putting it off all day, and I'll be damned if I let it sit in the vestibule until Friday!

One,
- D.

P.S. Today is Patrick Roy's birthday.

Oy...more kvetching! Enough Already!!

These so-called sports fans are getting to be a bit much. They raise a fuss, because they didn't like Frank Solich (formerly, hand-picked head coach of the Nebraska Cornhuskers football team).

Then they got all worked up because they couldn't find anyone to replace him that the megaputz athletic director was willing to hire. Or even make an offer, then deny he did so. Finally, Crazy Al Davis kicks Bill Callahan to the curb, and he magically becomes available to fill the void which grows more and more immense by the moment...fast forward to today, and now these same cry babies are disgusted that he wasn't able to immediately produce a juggernaut of old, à la Tom Osborne.

Is there no satisfying these deluded farmers?

Never mind. I know the answer to that question. We all do.