Bamboo Yarn

It is so, so, so soft. I have been coveting this bamboo yarn for almost a year now and I still can't get over how soft it is!
It's been a while since I've knit with anything except acrylic or wool and I've never tried knitting lace before, and I must say, knitting lace is frightfully addicting.

My one big complaint is that there is a disappointing lack of brightly dyed bamboo yarns. I like bright colours, and I really like to knit with them. Admittedly, the yarn pictured above is pretty bright, but there was a different brand of bamboo yarn at the store that was just as soft (perhaps softer), a few cents cheaper, and had a very interesting texture. But what were my choices of colours? White, beige, grey, light blue, and pastel pink. Terribly boring colours.

Though one probably would get a wider variety of colours at a specialty yarn shop. But then one also has to deal with the higher prices. Sigh.

Okay. Okay. I'll shut up about yarn now. Happy? No? Too bad.

Two Stories

Two stories by Edward Gorey, placed here for your enjoyment. Or not. It's really up to you whether you enjoy them or not.
They're from the book Amphigorey, which if you happen to find a copy, you should definitely take a look. Not only are there some really good stories in there, but the illustrations are excellent.

THE OBJECT-LESSON
It was already Thursday, but his lordship's artificial limb could not be found; therefore, having directed the servants to fill the baths, he siezed the tongs and set out at once for the edge of the lake, where the Throbblefoot Spectre still loitered in a distraught manner.
He presented it with a length of string and passed on to the statue of Corrupted Endeavor to await the arrial of autumn.
Meanwhile, on the tower, Madame O____ in conversation with an erstwhile cousin saw that his moustache was not his own, on which she flung herself over the parapet and surreptitiously vanished. He descended, destroying the letter unread, and stepped backwards into the water for a better view.

Heavens, how dashing! cried the people in the dinghy, and Echo answered: Count the spoons!
On the shore a bat, or possibly an umbrella, disengaged itself from the shrubbery, causing those nearby to recollect the miseries of childhood.
It now became apparent (despite the lack of library paste) that something had happened to the vicar; guns began to go off in the distance. At twilight, however, no message had come from the asylum, so the others retired to the koisk, only to discover the cakes iced a peculiar shade of green and the tea-urn empty save for a card on which was written the single word: Farewell.

THE BUG BOOK
There were once two blue bugs.
They lived in a teacup which had a piece missing from the rim.
They were frivolous, and often danced on the roof.
There were also three red bugs, who were cousins of the blue bugs.
They lived nearby, inside a blue bottle, which made them an interesting violet colour when they were at home.
They were house-proud, and frequently polished the glass on both sides.
There were also two yellow bugs, who were cousins of both the blue and red bugs.
They lived a little farther off, on the topmost leaf but one of a plant.
They were pensive, and sometimes sat on the topmost leaf and looked into the distance.
All the bugs were on the friendliest possible terms and constantly went to call on each other, and went on excursions together, and had delightful parties.
And then one day a black bug, who was related to nobody, appeared in the neighborhood.
The other bugs were dubious, but nevertheless made an attempt to be friendly.
It was not a success.
After that, the black bug broke up their parties
And waylaid them whenever they went visiting.
Social life came to a standstill.
A desperate secret meeting was held.
At last they decided on a plan.
The next morning they rushed from their homes and dashed to the top of a certain cliff.
The black bug followed them to the foot of the cliff, where he jumped up and down, and shouted personal remarks.
Meanwhile, they were pushing a large stone towards the edge.
It went over, and almost at once a horrid noise came from below.
Presently they descended and rolled aside the stone.
The black bug had been squashed quite flat.
They slipped the remains into an envelope and left it dropped against the fatal stone to be mailed.
After which they had a party complete with cake crumbs and raspberry punch, and everyone enjoyed himself immensely.
The End

Oh, the things I do to avoid doing actual work.

New Moony

I was going to write something witty and biting that would lay out the sorry excuse for a plot and the flat, characterless characters for what they really were, but this list just about says it all.

I came out of the theatre after letting New Moon rape my eyes for two hours with one firm conclusion: vampires are evil and need to be staked.

Besides. Real vampires don't sparkle.

I don't wanna know who really pulls the strings just so long as it's not you or me.

A thought.

Is it possible that every upcoming generation, maybe even to the end of time, has and will think that 1984(the novel, not the year) is exceptionally appropriate for their society?

In a way that idea really scares me. But then again, if it ends up being true, then I guess that could be considered comforting. It could be taken to mean that things are always going to be bad (they always have) but they're never going to get really, really bad?
I don't know. I think I hope that's true.
Maybe. I think I'll stop thinking now.

"I drug my heart with doublespeak
All my misgivings disappear
It helps to keep my conscience clean, the ends will justify the means
Still I'm always careful what I hear

I don't want to know
Who really pulls the strings
Just as long
As it's not you or me

There's a jackboot toe tap keeping time
While the children dance and play
Honey, if you think you've seen a crime
You just look the other way

I slowly carve my soul away
Piece by piece, I sacrifice
To comfort and peace of mind, I keep my toes on the party line
There's nothing wrong, dear, don't think twice" -Thrice, Doublespeak

Clearly I need to work on my attitude.

I have a love/hate relationship with the Christmas/Holiday season, as I'm sure some of you know.
I love the religion side of it. I like Advent services. I like an excuse to bake. I love the smell of pine trees.
I hate the consumerism side of it.
Now, as far as the secular world is concerned, the Christmas season begins the day after Thanksgiving, on Black Friday, and ends on Christmas day, as soon as all the presents are opened.
But now, guess what! People aren't going to wait until after Thanksgiving to start their shopping!
oh no.
We're going to start three weeks before Thanksgiving. Right after Halloween, in fact (Thanksgiving is too boring a holiday to even bother thinking about. There are no presents, no free candy, and no card - sending. Bo-oring!) . All through November we're going to have pre-Black Friday sales, put out the little girls' Christmas dresses (What, might I ask, is one supposed to do with a velvet sleeveless Christmas dress in Wisconsin?! It's only warm enough once or twice in the summer to wear sleeveless dresses(not that ever stops the fat chicks from going out in their sleeveless attire in bloody freaking March), so you can imagine what winter here is like (or if you live here you don't need to imagine. You just need to step outside.) I remember very vividly how miserable the 30 minute long car rides to church in short-sleeved dressed and thin tights were when I was little. It is not fun. Seriously. Put some sleeves on those things.) and pretend that the holidays have already begun.

We play bad, secular music on the radios and in the malls. (There is no love lost between me and Let It Snow and Walking in a Winter Wonderland, much less the more modern crap they're spewing out of the speakers and mislabeling as music) We pretend that we have Christmas spirit, that we even know what the spirit of Christmas is, when really all it is it greed and gluttony and more greed.

It is disgusting.

But it would give an outsider an excellent look into our American culture, if you can call it culture.
If an alien came into one of our malls in the next few weeks, what would it think? That we are so very materialistic. All we care about is things. We pretend to care about people but we don't, really. We care about ourselves and we care about our stuff and we lie to ourselves about this because we want to pretend that we aren't really selfish, greedy monsters, that there is some fragment of a decent soul underneath all of the layers and layers of make-up and face lifts and perfume or cologne and designer clothing and designer jewelry and designer bags not to mention expensive cars and fancy houses and fake christmas trees.

Going off on another little rant, we already have fake christmas trees. When will we start selling fake kids? People clearly care so little about their real kids I'm amazed some corporate genius hasn't thought the idea up already and started marketing it.

But back to Christmas. It sucks. Not the holiday, at least, not by itself. The holiday is awesome, in it's original strength and purity. Christmas American-style sucks.

And because of that, and because all of this makes me so fucking mad, I'm going to avoid going into any place that is even semi commercial from now until after New Years. I'll do what little shopping I need to get done on State Street, and like-minded places.

I actually am kind of impressed. Usually it takes until at least the second week of Advent to get me this mad about the "Holiday Season".

It was a nice day so I rode my bike to the library. Not a short trip, I might add.

I noticed that, when its not snowing or raining or sleeting or overcast, and when you aren't surrounded by nincompoops, Southern Wisconsin actually is very beautiful, in it's own way.

I still don't want to live here though.

To Whom It May Concern,

I miss you and I hate you. All of you.


Bethany people(You know who you are), you know exactly what I mean.