Papal Bull

Honestly, I thought I had a shot. 

In fact, I'd even picked out my new name:  Erasmo I.   It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

But it wasn't to be.

I'd like to think I got at least a few votes.  Maybe even that it was close, and I just lost by a cardinal or two.  But of course since they burn the ballots, I guess we'll never know for sure.

Luckily, I've got a plan for consoling myself.  You see, I've been hoping for some time to find a new companion.  Someone who is a good listener.  Who doesn't argue.  Maybe even someone who doesn't openly object when I spout nonsense.  After all, if I'd gotten the job I'd be infallible - that would've been fun.  And since I didn't get the job, I'm still plenty fallible.  But now I've found someone who doesn't seem to notice.

Here she is.  Isn't she lovely?  She was needing a new home, and being of a charitable disposition I thought it was only appropriate that I offer her space in my home.  To take off the chill of the evening, I'm letting her borrow my Winter of 2012/2013 scarf - done in Malabrigo worsted.  I hadn't tried brioche stitch before.  Love the result.  Didn't particularly enjoy the knitting as it seemed to take a long time to finish - what with knitting every row twice.  Mrs. TSMK was kind enough to lend a hat I'd made her for Christmas - but also insisted that she be somewhat decent and put on a skirt.

I haven't decided what to name my new ladyfriend yet.  If you have an idea for a good name, shoot me an email at the address to the right of this post with your suggestion.  I'll take suggestions until the end of March - and then announce her new name at that time.  To the winner goes the prize: a skein or two of my new favorite yarn.

Brian

Conclave

I figure I've got a shot. 

In fact, I think I've got a better shot than most.  Here's how I see it breaking down.

First of all, the world's population is roughly 50.25% male.  I doubt I have to explain to you the probabilities of someone lacking the Y chromosome getting the job.

Second, roughly 26% of the world is under the age 15.  That simply isn't going to happen.  If nothing else, consider the vocabulary of that demographic.  Can you really see someone wearing the mitre who uses "like" or "dude" in every sentence?  I didn't think so.

Third, almost 8% of the world population is already at retirement age.  Now sure, this job isn't one that exactly requires youthful vigor - but the last guy just retired for reasons of old age.  He took the job at the spry age of 78 - you'd like to think that the college has learned its lesson.

Fourth, consider the ugly fact of race.  The reality is that there hasn't been a guy in the job yet (possibly excluding the first few) who wasn't -ahem - pale of complexion.  Now I know what you're saying.  You can flip a coin 49 times in a row and come up heads, but the odds of heads on the 50th toss are still 50/50.  And you're right.  But this isn't a coin flip.  There are people and their prejudices involved in this decision - and if I had to handicap the race I'd suggest that the roughly 66% of the world population that is of Asian descent is at a decided disadvantage for this particular position.  Not that they're not qualified.  Many of them are.  In fact, many are far more qualified than me.  But the likelihood of that college electing an Asian dude? Pretty slim. 

So add it up.  Take the folks with the right plumbing, exclude the young guys, the old guys, and all the Asian guys, and what are you left with?  Of the original 7 billion or so, you're down to 700 million and change.  In other words, we just eliminated 90% of the potential applicants.  I'm in the top 10%.

So like I said, I figure I've got a shot.

Now it is true, that there are some problems.  First, I'm not actually Catholic.  But I did briefly attend Catholic school in the 7th grade - before the incident, that is.  And I've matriculated from not just one but two Jesuit universities.  So that's got to be good for something.

And, it should be noted that just because I'm married and have children doesn't necessarily mean I've got no shot.  After all, I wouldn't be the first guy to hold the job with those particular traits. 

In fact, let's just lay the cards on the table.  My not being Catholic (and being married with kids) might actually be a positive.  Bring some fresh thinking to the position, and all that.  Nothing radical - maybe just a redesign of the vestments, banjo music during the mass, fresh coat of paint on the company car.  You know, stuff like that...

Well, on the off chance that I am elected, I'm pleased to announce that I've got the time for the job.  I've just finished the commitment made last fall to do four items for a charity auction.  This last piece is Gwendolyn, by Stefanie Bold.  I've done it in a Madelinetosh lace weight.  This one is going to KJ, the mother of a good friend. 

For the photos, we were pleased to get a sunny day.  This time of the year, that's got to be some kind of omen. 

See?  I'm a shoe-in for this gig.

~Brian

Crochet

Although I spent several years in high school and college studying French, I afraid I've lost most of what I learned.  And that is somewhat sad considering that, at the peak of my skills, I had the vocabulary of a precocious and yet largely illiterate 5 year old French child.  L'enfant terrible indeed.

But if I'm fair to myself, I've really only had two occasions, outside of the classroom, to use my French.  One one occasion, in Disney World of all places, I was asked by a French couple for directions to the toilet.  At least I hope that's what they asked, because that's where I sent them.  It is entirely possible I misunderstood, and that those particular tourists left the Magic Kingdom with a very confused understanding of Mister Toad's Wild Ride.

My second opportunity came when I myself was a tourist - visiting Montreal.  In a grocery store I was asked whether I preferred paper or plastic bags for my purchases.  I'm pleased to say that I nailed the answer.

So it was with some trepidation that I weighed learning to crochet.  It sounds, after all, quite French.  Just the attitude with which one must pronounce the word gives it away. 

But recently, I was asked to make an alligator.  This would be project 3 of 4 for my firm's auction for a local food bank.  And try as I might, I really couldn't come up with a good knitting pattern for an alligator.  In fact, I expanded my search to look for patterns for cayman, crocodiles and ill-tempered iguanas with glandular disorders.  But no luck.  The only pattern I found that I liked was for crochet.

Zut alors!

So despite my failure to recall my French, or indeed even appreciate the finer points of French culture (honestly, all wine tastes basically the same to me) I've learned to crochet.  Not particularly well, mind you.  But well enough to finish the project.  Here he is -
 

~Brian

Dinosaur Smell

Greetings Internet,

 It is been some time since my last post.  Let me fill you in on the details of the last several weeks.

 First, I’ve been experimenting with gravity.  As it turns out, heavy things tend, when unsupported, to fall toward the center of the Earth.  Now, I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking that light things too tend to fall toward the center of the Earth.  And you’re right.  But they do fall less spectacularly.  So, if for example you were to drop the left rear of a late 90s SUV off of a floor jack and have it hit the ground within inches of you – that would be pretty spectacular.  Yep.  Gravity is serious business.

On what I assure you is a completely unrelated note, I was out of knitting commission for a while.  It turns out that it is difficult to knit with a cast-type-thing on your hand.  Almost as difficult as it is to determine whether you’ve broken your scaphoid bone after multiple x-rays.  But not nearly so difficult as keeping yourself from sniffing the cast.   If I could ask The Echidna one thing, it would be why I find myself compelled to smell something even after I know it is noxious.  Whether it be the dog’s feet or a slab of Stilton, my nose is ready for duty.

Having divested myself of my foul-smelling accessory, I returned to the task of making auction items for our recent food-bank fundraiser.  The next item on the list was a sweater requested for Leo, the son of a co-worker.  Specifically, Steggie.  I was more than pleased to do this, as I’ve always liked the pattern.  In fact, I suspect I’d wear this sweater myself if I could find or make it in the right size. 

I was given free rein to choose the colors, which led to an interesting philosophical question: would dinosaurs wear purple?  So-called scientists would have us believe that dinosaurs ultimately turned into birds.  And I’ve seen birds with some crazy plumage.  But I can’t say that I’ve ever personally seen a bird sporting purple feathers.  Ultimately, I concluded that dinosaurs must have been willing to wear purple.  How else could you explain Barney?

So here it is, Leo’s Steggie.  It is largely identical to the pattern, but with a slight variation on the plumage of the hood.

~TSMK

 

 

Will Knit for Food pt 1



The Republic of Dadifornia

Summer, it seems is on its last legs here in the Pacific northwest. There is a decided chill in the air. Though we gave it a good try, we were unable to match our record for most consecutive days without rain (51 days, set back in the 1950s). The rain has started to return. The mosquitoes seem to have departed - replaced by droves of spiders.

It is, in short, the time of year when a (relatively) young man's thoughts turn to sweaters and fleece. And quiet evenings sitting by the fire in the Republic of Dadifornia with an attractive redhead after the kids have gone to bed. Good stuff, really.

It is also the time of year when a fellow starts to feel seriously that he must put aside the laissez-faire of the summer, and get to business on his obligations lest Uncle Arvide spread it all over town that he is a welcher.

So that is precisely what I've begun to do. Several weeks back I agreed to make a number of items for a fundraiser put on at the firm. A contest among several local law firms to see which can raise the most money for a local food bank. Four of my colleagues agreed to donate good money to have me make something, and since I didn't want to disappoint, I got to work.

The first is now complete. This is my interpretation of Juno Regina, knit in lace weight Shibui. My good friend J.R. was the first to pull the trigger on the donation and, roughly 660 yards of mohair and silk later, her project is the first off the needles. I delivered it to her today, and I'm pleased to report that she seems to like it. I know I liked making it.

~TSMK

     

Best Foot Forward

This morning, on the way in to the office, I ran into a friend.  A former colleague, he and I share many interests – scotch being among them. 

Grabbing my attention, he told me he needed to share something with me.  In fact, he said he needed to share something about me.

Being somewhat prone to narcissism (I do blog, after all), I was naturally interested in what he might need to share.  Unfortunately, however, the opportunity for him to share this great secret didn’t arise during the commute, and I made my way to the office in suspense.

A short while later, I shot him an email.  What did he need to talk with me about?  Was everything ok?

He responded with a cut and paste from facebook.  One of his friends.  And as I read the text, my head began to swim. 

Mr. Rogersish normal looking guy. Felt man purse holding his knitting.  Vibram shoes. #onlyontheferry

In the immortal words of Keanu Reeves: Whoa.

First of all, I look very little like Mr. Rogers.  And I never interact with puppets.  Well, almost never.  There was that one time in college.  But that was just a phase.

Second, what’s wrong with Vibram shoes?  They are comfortable, sporty and yes, just a little bit quirky.  In essence, they are the Fiat 500 Abarth of footwear.  Sure, it may not be for everyone.  But that’s just because not everyone has the necessary forza di carattere.

 

Third.  It isn’t a man purse.  It is a satchel.  But it is felted.  By me.  It kicks ass.

And it does hold my knitting.  Currently, it is holding the first of four projects I've agreed to make "to order" as part of a fundraiser for a local food bank.  The first is my interpretation of Juno Regina.  I cast on this past Saturday, and hope to share the finished product soon.

~TSMK

Of Vice and Arugula

Let me be frank.  I loathe arugula. 

I want to like it.  Badly.  But I just don't.  And I feel the same way about Kale and Swiss Chard.  As far as I can tell, Swiss Chard is about as useful as a Swiss Army Knife.  Sure it can do the job you ask of it.  But it won't do it particularly well and you're likely to be left with a bitter taste in your mouth and a strong suspicion that something else might have been better.

In the case of the Swiss Army Knife, that something else might simply be a rock.  Come to think of it, there are probably also some rocks that taste better than Swiss Chard.

The problem is, these so-called vegetables are supposed to be good for me, so I feel like I should like them.  And in my experience, any time I feel like I should something, but don't want to, the should feeling is closely followed by the three horsemen of the psychosalypse: shame, remorse and failure. 

At the same time, I've noted a predisposition toward enjoying things that may not be good for me -  like high-velocity two-wheeled transportation, firearms and striking up occasionally incendiary conversations with complete strangers.  These can be fun and exciting events.  But of course I don't often feel pleased with myself after these escapades.  They haunt me.  Like the time I told the folks soliciting on the sidewalk for a noble cause that I couldn't support their mission because I was not, in fact, in favor of human rights.  Honestly, how could I say such a thing?  Or the time I looked deep into the eyes of the very earnest young woman collecting signatures for a petition on an undoubtedly worthy state ballot initiative and said: "I'm sorry; I don't speak English." 

I know that I shouldn't enjoy doing or saying these things.  But sometimes I really do.  There's something to be said for the thrill of doing things slightly outside the ordinary course.  This is precisely the reason you'll see my honorary doctorate in metaphysics hanging neatly framed in my office - but the law degrees are nowhere to be found.

Here in Seattle, we lost a great institution a few years back: The Lusty Lady.  It was a landmark.  A peep-show environment right across the street from the Seattle Art Museum and right next door to The Four Seasons.  It was, in every conceivable way, a thumb in the eye of respectability and decorum. 

Outside the Lady, the marquee offered up funny snippets or clever sayings - designed to attract attention.  So every St. Patrick's Day, for example, you could count on it reading "Erin Go Braugh-less" for a few days or so.  Classic stuff.

The establishment had a habit of giving away a t-shirt to anyone who could come up with a new saying good enough for use on the marquee.  And I tried for years to come up with something good enough to get used.  But no luck.  I worked on crafting tawdry double-entendre for years but none ever made it to publication on the marquee.  Just once, I thought I'd done it.  There was a group of somewhat notorious crab fishermen in town for a media tour - but apparently "Deadliest Snatch" wasn't precisely the message that the Lady was trying to convey.

Oh well.

And with that as background, my most recently completed item kind of makes a bit of sense, I guess.  Mrs. TSMK's brother and his wife recently welcomed the birth of a son.  When asked if they might like something made for the little one, her brother mentioned a viking hat I'd done for one of my sons a while back.  The thought of a newborn in an absurd hat is always fun - so I was happy to oblige.  Willem's hat is below.  I've made it slightly big so that he can wear it once he begins to toddle about.   After all, you can't really pillage until you can toddle, now can you?

~TSMK

Getting Cold Feet

Way back when - when I was an undergraduate student at a certain university, I was one day summoned to meet with an academic advisor.  It seemed that I'd amassed quite a number of credits.  Enough credits to mean that I would theoretically need to graduate the next semester.  But there was a problem.

I hadn't declared a major.

That isn't entirely true.  I had declared a major (music) when I initially enrolled.  But I hadn't actively pursued that major for some time and had actually managed to avoid classes within that discipline for a few semesters.  This had the academic advisor types somewhat troubled, and my advisor told me - without even cracking a smile - that I would need to declare a major immediately or else I would be persona non grata on campus.  She kindly showed me a list of options that she'd pulled together - potential majors for which I'd already satisfied a large percentage of the requirements.  By picking one of these, she said, I could remain in good standing, take the final courses necessary to complete my degree, and graduate.

According to her analysis, I had two clear options available: Philosophy and Linguistics.

I looked at the course catalog.  One of these options gave me the chance to take classes like Metaphysics and Epistemology.  The other did not.  It was an easy choice.

But in hindsight, I think I also would have enjoyed studying linguistics.  I have always found language (and really all types of communication) to be a fascinating topic.  In fact, just recently I spent an enjoyable afternoon discussing with a friend a SETI analysis of the frequency of certain dolphin vocalizations (with the implications that there is intentional content - i.e., meaning - being conveyed among the animals making the sounds).

But linguistics would need to wait for another day - leaving me to explore language on my own.  As part of that exploration I find myself consistently fascinated by idioms.  To say that I use them a lot wouldn't exactly be letting the cat out of the bag.  In fact, I'm on idioms like white on rice.  As a rule of thumb, I use them for the whole nine yards.  Get the picture?  Because I could beat this particular dead horse until the cows come home to roost.

And with that as background, I should mention my most recently completed project: a new pair of socks for Mrs. TSMK.  She gets cold feet.  Literally. 

The yarn is Malabrigo Sock - and the pattern is a slightly modified version of Riff by Lise Brackbill. 

I'm pleased to report that she likes them.  And, linguistically speaking, I'm glad she doesn't seem to be getting cold feet about the whole marriage bit; we're celebrating our 16th anniversary this next week.

~TSMK

Naked

Recently I was asked why I’d kept this blog quasi-anonymous.  Was I afraid of the stigma associated with being a guy who knits?  And wasn’t I perpetuating the stereotype of knitting as somehow effeminate by “selling myself as a novelty”?

Weighty questions, these.

The first is easy to answer.  I’m not afraid of people knowing that I knit.  In fact, most people who know me on a personal level have seen me in the middle of a project.  And since I’m a big proponent of knitting in public, and do so essentially every workday, I feel like if I had anything to prove in terms of knitting bravery I would have proved it long ago.  I’m afraid of many things - spiders, for example - but having people learn that I like to knit isn’t one of them.

The second question, though…  That’s a doozy.  Am I perpetuating a stereotype with this blog?  I hope not as it certainly isn’t my intent.  For that matter, I’m not particularly comfortable with the idea of “selling myself” – regardless of whether it is as a novelty or otherwise.  There’s something a bit too transactional about that notion for my taste. 

But regardless of whether perpetuating a stereotype was my intent, is it a consequence of my actions?

I don’t know.  

But after discussion with my most trusted advisor (Mrs. TSMK), I’ve decided that it makes sense to clear the air, state my position on a few things, and try to put to rest any questions that might otherwise linger about who I am, or why I write these intermittent and frequently goofy posts.  So here goes.

My name is Brian.

I am 38 years old. 

I grew up primarily in the Southeast and now make my home in the Pacific Northwest.

I am happily married (15 years) to a woman I began dating when I was 17.

I am the father of three boys.

I am a practicing Buddhist.

I believe that my purpose on earth is to try to help alleviate the suffering of others.

I believe that the idea that one’s gender or sexual orientation dictates all of one’s choices in life is false, and that this falsehood is one significant cause of suffering.

I am hopeful that by writing these posts I may help to eliminate this suffering.

And I am hopeful that by writing these posts I may provide some small measure of enjoyment to those may read them.

Whew.

With that out of the way – let me share with you my most recently (almost) finished project.  It is a messenger bag, knit and then highly felted.  All that is left is to attach buttons for the front flap.  But with this bag, I’m thinking that I want something handmade for buttons.  So I’ve found some particularly nice beach rocks – which I hope to make into buttons for the bag. 

I like this quite a bit, and plan to use it for my commuting bag for the foreseeable future.  In fact, I like it so much that I've decided to part with what was previously my favorite bag.  I put that one up for auction.  Should someone of a particularly crafty mentality decide to buy it - I hope you will let me know as I'll make sure to include some sort of yarn or other knitting goodness inside when it is shipped off.

may you be free from danger

may you be healthy

may you be happy
may you live in peace

~Brian

(TSMK)

We Are Stardust

March is now memory.  Or is it?

For the past few weeks, I’ve been spending some time on the existential hamster wheel.  Spring is finally here – and in a gesture inclined toward seasonal solidarity I have thrown off all vestiges of facial hair.  With luck, a freshly shaven chin will help usher in a season of growth in the garden.

But it isn’t just the garden that seems to be experiencing growth.  And it isn’t only our rabbits that seem to be multiplying. 

In these past several weeks I’ve learned of three additional arrivals.  One is here, and two are expected any moment.  None are relations, but all are indeed related inasmuch as I find that their arrival impacts those around me and I am in turn changed by their arrival.  And, though I know that suffering finds roots not only at the rejection of the unpleasant but also the grasping of the pleasant, and acknowledge full well that they are not exactly “new”, I nevertheless find myself feeling joy in welcoming these friends to this particular corner of the neighborhood.

The first is a girl.  As I write this, she has not yet arrived.  But I have seen her mother, Chanel, almost every weekday for the last several years.  In fact, she is often one of the first people with whom I converse.  When I see her, she greets me with a smile and a cheerful voice:  “Are you having your usual?”  And with those five words, and the promise of hot coffee in hand, my workday begins. 

A short while ago, I noticed that she wasn’t standing behind the register any longer.  Instead, she had begun propping herself up on a stool.  And it was only then that I noticed something was different. 

Now in fairness, I stand by a firm rule that I will not insinuate, suggest or acknowledge the fact of a pregnancy unless either: (i) I have been informed by the expectant mother of the pregnancy; or (ii) the child is actually crowning and assistance is required.  Standing by this rule has allowed me to avoid congratulating many not-yet-expecting mothers.  And since I am capable of embarrassing myself quite well enough without committing this particular faux-pas, I think this is a rule worth keeping.

When I saw her leaning against the stool, I almost violated this most sacred of rules.  But at the last moment my wits returned to me and I was able to reshape the question that was swirling in my mind: “Are you feeling ok?  It was a great relief when she took the bait – telling me that the baby was starting to make her feel very uncomfortable.  A few mornings later, I learned she was having a little girl.  This was helpful information, since I had already decided the child needed a blanket.  Nothing too fancy, but something with bright contrasting colors to attract the little one’s eyes.  I decided on square, with mitered corners. 

But procreation, it seemed, was in the air.  For when I was about half finished with the blanket, I found myself on the phone with a good friend and former colleague, Megan.  A few years back, I saw Megan nearly every day.  Now, I talk with her quite a lot but rarely see her in person.  And as we chatted about the crystalline beauty that is the federal regulation of securities – she seemed distracted.  In fact, she seemed unwell.  Without knowing the cause of her discomfort, I asked if she was feeling unwell.  “Heartburn” she replied.  I let it pass – but, seeing as we were at the lunch hour I suggested at the end of the call that she might benefit from a bite to eat.  “Wouldn’t help,” she replied.  “Pretty much anything I eat these days gives me heartburn.  But I only have about three weeks left…”. 

To say that there was a pregnant pause on the phone would be both an understatement and a bad pun.  So I will avoid such a comment.

But sure enough, when I expressed disbelief Megan confirmed the truth.  She was indeed expecting, and quite soon.   A boy.  I redoubled my efforts on the blanket – wanting to get it finished so that I could get started on something for the little fellow.  I decided on a toy, found a pattern and set to work.  The pattern is 60+ years old – originally published in a newspaper in Sydney.  And although it claims to be a bear, I think it might serve as a stand-in for a mouse.  Either way, however, I’m hopeful that the moss stitch texture will feel good in little hands.

But good things come in threes – and there was still one shoe left to drop.  For Mrs. TSMK’s mother called and began dropping hints.  A friend was becoming a great-grandmother.  It would be a little girl.  Could I make something?  Just something small – like booties.

I resisted the urge to go with booties – too pedestrian.  But the footwear theme seemed right.  So how about a pair of mary jane shoes, done in sparkly pink with a pearlescent button?  Too much?  Probably – but I had to make them anyway. 

Welcome to the neighborhood kids.  Have a good time.

~TSMK