Archives for December 2003

Thanks, JStrizzy, for this: Knit New York

Holy cow. I may have to move to New York.

I am in love, and I don’t know what I was waiting for. I have put off getting to really know this person, and it’s been my own foolish pride standing in the way, that’s all.

Rufus Wainwright.

Oh, baby, and it’s so fine. His album Poses, listened to on the way into work this morning, has blown my ugly machine-knitted black work socks right off my feet. I was only listening to him because Christy*, Bethany and I are going to his concert on Friday night (right after they fly in from Atlanta), and I figured I oughtta know him a little bit more. Before this morning, I only knew I liked his Moulin Rouge songs, and I loved the idea of his “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” song (two of my favorite things, too).** But I had never taken the time to listen.

Oh, yes. Torchy, campy, bitter and sweet. I’m so in love.

Other news: Have joined the ribby cardie together, and I’m working on the body decreases, going up. I’ve never joined anything this way (only ever worked from the top down) , and I like it. I like everything about this sweater so far, and I’m hoping it stays that way. No more bolero disappointment, please. Pics over the weekend, I promise. Lord, I love me some Jo Sharp.

* His biggest fan – When she learned to knit, she made me and Bethy scarves, and then one for him. A long, skinny, stylin scarf. According to her, he took it and wrapped it (with elan) around his neck.
** Still not smoking. Twenty-one months. And a lot of sweaters.

So I’m at work yesterday, and I get a call from a guy who says there’s a woman struggling to change the tire on her car. I explain the police don’t change tires for people, but is she perhaps blocking traffic?

Guy – No, but she needs help. The car fell on her.
Me – It fell on her?
Guy – Well, not on her, but it fell off the jack and she needs help.
Me – Is she elderly?
Guy – No, she just needs help! You need to get someone out here now!

It turned out to be my SISTER!

Yesterday was the last day of finals in Christy’s graduate program at Berkeley, she’s had over a hundred pages or work due just this week, she had an upcoming final at 5pm and an imperative meeting at work that she couldn’t get out of.

She had gone out to her car to find a flat tire. (This is the same car that cost her $800 earlier this week in transmission problems.) When she tried to change it, she found that the SPARE was flat. While she was realizing this, the car dropped off the jack and landed on the rotor.

She called, just as upset as I was that the neighbor reporting party didn’t help, and walked (in the rain) to the PD where she got my keys to use my car for the day. That’s when I inherited her day. Work got crazy, I got a ride home from work and realized just as we were pulling up that I didn’t have a KEY, as it was on the keyring with the car key. Dur.

I live in Oakland. My windows are shut tight when I’m gone, and I’ve never thought about leaving a key outside for In Case (actually, I thought about it briefly last week and dismissed the thought, yup). This was at five pm, so my friend who dropped me off and I went to dinner (big burgers and fried mushrooms) and then I waited at a neighbor’s house until Christy’s final was done. I had a Koigu sock on the needles, so it wasn’t no thing.

But by now, Christy’s in the air, winging her way to Atlanta to see Bethy! Wheee! She had a glitch in ticketing and had to get a first-class* seat on the way home. Even though it cost her more, don’t you think she deserves first-class? I do.

First-class all the way, baby! See you Monday.

*I’ve never flown first-class myself. It’s a goal, though. And footnotes rock.

Welp, Friday, actually. But it’s my Monday, and I’m at work this fine day. As I drove in this morning, the sky was a deep dark blue/purple, a smudged bruise. It’s what I imagine the sky looks like before snow. Except, of course, this is the Bay Area, and all we’ve had recently is some damned good rain. That heavy, wool-coat soaking kind of rain that’s fun to run through, not so fun to hail a cab in. *

Driving to work this morning, however, I wondered AGAIN why people feel it’s okay to come up on your a$$ at ninety,** slam on the brakes (because you’re only doing seventy-five) and swerve around you, almost clipping your bumper and causing the next lane to slam on their collective brakes. My time, the way I figure it, is just not as precious to me as theirs is to them. I hang back, willing to get there when I get there, and I don’t understand their mentality. I don’t understand how angry they get at the space I’m leaving between me and and the car in front of me. It’s like a personal affront. So they near-miss me, go around, wedge themselves in the gap I’ve left, and then do it all over to the new car in front of them, their new problem on the road.

I like to drive. I like to zen the traffic. I wish THAT were part of the driver’s training these days: How to relax when cut-off. How to keep your middle finger on the steering wheel at all times. How to leave the house a little early to account for traffic. How to sing really super loudly and groove your head and make everyone think you’re on meds (but really good ones).

Knitting content: Working on BonneMarie’s ribby cardie in Jo Sharp Silkroad (a tweedy red), and it’s working up fast, just the way I like. Pics over the weekend (not sure if I mean my weekend or yours, but I like the vagueness). Also working Christmas gifts, but hey, who isn’t?

Happy Friday(ish)!

* I just like the way Em does this and I’m copying.
** I have no idea why it was okay for me to write fuc(wad yesterday and today I’m having issues with ass — mood-bleeps, I suppose.

All together now: good, healing, strengthening and peaceful thoughts to our Greta…… Today’s her surgery day, and I woke thinking of her. That’s one passionate, wildly interesting woman who NEEDS to be able to see her glorious world.

And speaking of health, damn, I hope my mother has giardia. There. That’s a sentence I never thought I’d write. But she’s been so sick for the past few months, losing so much weight and feeling crummy, every day. She ran all the tests to make sure the colon cancer hadn’t come back, and did more tests, and then some more. The worst part is that she lives in a small-town rural area with very few doctors that accept her medical plan (the only plan that works for them, and the PPO cost at open-enrollment was just prohibitive). So she has to go to a fuckwad of a doctor, who, the last time she saw her, never entered the room fully, standing in the doorway WITH HER ARMS CROSSED. Mom had armed herself with a list of questions and self-diagnoses and Dad, and the doctor (if she deserves to be called that) got away in under four minutes, answering and prescribing nothing, saying “This isn’t my field, I just can’t help you.” But this is her primary doctor, and she needs her approval for all the referrals, and there’s no one else accepting new patients in the area.

Bitter? Why would you say that?

But good news: Mom kicked and screamed (in her very polite quiet New Zealand way) until she obtained the referral to the gastro-guy, who said (after a four-week wait to get an appointment),

GG – You been camping?
Mom – Yes.
GG – The mountains? Yosemite?
Mom – Yes.
GG – When?
Mom – Late August.
GG – And you’ve been sick since *flip of the chart* late August?
Mom – Oh!

She first got started feeling this way the DAY she got back from Strawberry Music Festival. Here’s a snap of her, waving the three girls in their three cars on their way…. (way zoomed in, she was a speck on the original)

It’s treatable with a five day (nasty) antibiotic treatment, so DAMN, I hope she has giardia.

I just think that’s funny.

Hey, Beth’s back on the road! And she’s cold! I think she’s in Iowa. The goal is for her to get to Atlanta by Saturday, when Christy’s flying out to meet her and they’ll tramp about for six days and then fly back together for Christmas, leaving her home/truck in the long-term parking lot. They’re both so cool.

Dude, I’m always sitting next to the star, and I love it that way. Brandy called me tonight (Brandy of the red sweater in post below) and said she was going to sing, spur of the moment, at the Freight and Salvage’s Open Mic Night.

Let me tell you. It’s pouring here tonight. I mean real rain. Not that showery drippy crap, but real live downpours. And I worked ten hours today on my day off, and I had to stand in line after work to return things at places like Radio Shack, so I wasn’t sure I was in the mood.

But I used to sing. I suppose I still do, still can, but I don’t perform anymore. I remember that feeling, that asking someone if they’d like to come hear a performance, saying “it doesn’t matter, it’s a little thing, no big deal if you can’t,” but knowing deep inside, yes, I want to someone to hear me (or now, to read me).

So I put on the Must-Bolero (I’m liking it more and more, I gotta say) and an old Marsan watchcap and my Italian raincoat (I like to call it that, but I didn’t get it in Italy, I wear it TO Italy) and met Brandy at the Freight.

If you’re from the Bay Area, you know this place. An old boxcar of a building (thus the name), it’s historic and dark and sweet, with incredible acoustics. I’ve seen a lotta performances there but have always avoided the Open Mic nights, picturing…. I don’t know what I thought would happen onstage. I think I had my high-school’s Mock Rock in mind when I thought about Open Mic. Kids leaping with screeching untuned guitars, flailing arms to disguise sheer lack of talent. I forgot that:
1) It’s the Bay Area.
2) It’s the Freight.

Oh, yes, there were the people who were stone tone deaf. Couldn’t have got a C out of orange juice. I’m still not totally sure that one guy wasn’t just having us on. He sang the way my sisters and I do after a couple bottles of champagne, and WE’RE KIDDING.

Then there were a bunch of good performers. The ones who are leagues better than I would be if I got back up on stage, with good, clear voices, and gifted with their instruments of choice.

But there were four incredible performers. One man took a guitar and a computer and made magic – a whole orchestra wielded with a foot-activated touch pad. He used a BOW on that guitar at times. It was so mesmerizing I actually had to put down my knitting. Heaven.

And three of the female singers ROCKED – Marie Aquiles, Corrinne May, and Brandy Gadson. They were so flipping good that they were networking afterward. From the stage, the coordinator asked Brandy if she had also driven up from LA (as May had). People were asking for Brandy’s website (which she ain’t got yet, but will). And, might I add, she was the best looking of the bunch, too (she took off the yellow “Iron before washing” sticker on her new pants just before she went up).

I sat and was happy and proud to be in the audience where my friend knocked the crowd outta their chairs. Granted, it was a small crowd by then, having been thinned out by people leaving after they performed…. (I was so irritated by that. I wanted to chase each departing performer out and tell them that Brandy hadn’t sung yet, that they were going to miss the best part.)

Oh! I almost forgot to tell a fine moment – she wrote the song she sang, and used “glass house” in the lyrics. I just about bust at that point.

She was so good. (And if you get a moment, click on Corrinne May above – she’s got a stunning voice, too.)

Now I’m home, and it’s still pouring. Digit is grumpier than hell about it. He knows when it’s like this that in the morning it’ll be muddy, and mud means he gets his paws wiped when he comes back in, which he HATES. The sound of the rain makes up for tomorrow’s trauma, though. At least in my mind, if not his.

Long post. Happy to be back. Hope your night is warm and dry.