This morning I fed my iPhone an OK GO song. Go, go gadget Genius Mode. Make me a playlist.
I got Fountains of Wayne. Good. Joan Jett. Sure. Rancid, Everclear, and Garbage. All fair choices. Green Day, Me First and Gimme Gimmes, Marilyn Manson, Zeppelin, the Ramones. Cool.
And "Fun, Fun, Fun" by the Beach Boys.
I'm not un-American so don't even go there.
First of all, I was born here, so by definition, American, thanks so much. And secondly, I'm in favor of things like democracy and civil rights. I think I was pretty lucky to be born here, all things considered, and I think this country has a lot to offer.
I also think it has some room to grow up.
Enough with the preface. My point is I'm not dancing in the streets today because we killed a guy.
I was halfway through writing a flippant post about trivial things. It will have to wait.
I got a text from my dad this afternoon. Call home, is what it basically said. With gravity. I had time to think, “Dad’s had to make too many of these calls lately,” before I went outside and pushed call back.
Out of respect for... out of respect... Jesus, I don’t even know. I’m not going to share it. That’s the point. It took Dad a full five minutes to get the words out to tell me. I don’t know what I could possibly say to you.
A sinkhole opened up in my neighborhoodthis week. No joke. Right across the street from the park. It started as a underground pipe with a crack in it. Water flows down-gradient, as my soil science professors in college were so fond of chanting. The groundwater found the pipe and the soil stuck with the water. Erosion through the layers and before you know it, there's a frog on the bump on the log in the middle of the sea.
Or a hole in the middle of the street anyway.
Hey folks. I know a few of my readers are from Woodland, CA. My friend lost her pup. It’s a white llamalese. If you’ve seen it, shoot me an email and I’ll put you in contact with the owner.
Getting dressed on Saturday morning for our family outing took longer than usual. Luke shuffled back and forth through the box we pulled down for him, modeling different outfits and mismatching pieces before he finally decided on a Peter Pan shirt under the long tunic with the wooden sword. While he filled a pouch with coins from his piggy bank, Shawn and I took turns doing each other’s hair. Shawn hunted down various peripherals while I decided what basics I could manage to carry in a costume with no pockets what-so-ever. This is why I generally dress as a peasant.
I walked Luke to an aisle at the back of the fabric store. Surrounding us were bolts of brightly colored fabric in neat rows and columns nearly to the ceiling. I spun him around to face the wall of felts.
"This is Robin Hood Hat fabric."
My son's old green play hat, which has served us well on adventures from Neverland to Sherwood Forest has grown too small and today we were questing for a replacement. This one was to be a Robin Hood hat.
Two Robin Hood hats, actually.
I have a serious case of startitis. This is not my standard m.o. I’m a serial monogamist when it comes to needles and skeins. I pick a project and slog it through to the end. Okay, sometimes there’s a little socks on the side, but that’s in the name of a travel project.
I’m sick. It’s one of those colds that’s wiped me out so badly that I can’t conceive of knitting anything but stockinette in the round and no matter how much I’d like to watch DS9, crossing the room to get to my DVDs is just too much work. It’s also one of those colds that gives you pause to contemplate the human body, its various fluids, and how gross we really are. Objectively speaking. I’m talking earthworm-gross.
“So where are you off to? Someplace fun?”
“A yarn conference.”
“A... yarn conference...”
“Uh huh.”
“So... would that be a yes then?”
It’s hard to explain Stitches to unindoctrinated. You can’t easily explain to your boss that in a mere two-hour’s drive you’re going to be in a land where picking up a skein of yarn, burying your face in it, and taking a big whiff is a perfectly excepted ritual before purchase. He’d think you were nuts. More nuts.
