An Old Dream Comes True

Disgruntled resident dumps trash in mayor's office 

That was the headline in the online version of my hometown newspaper.  Out here the garbage collectors rule fucking everything.  Before they invested 17 billion dollars in a new recycling system with one giant bin and no sorting, they would glance into one of my bins, decide they didn't like the looks of my recycling, and dump it out on to the street.  I can't tell you how many times I fantasized about dropping it all off at city hall.  Ah, memories. 

Of course, I hope that when I made my imaginary city hall dumping, I wouldn't have yelled, "Free Speech" and walked out like that guy did.  Free Speech, jesus fucking christ.  Free Speech is like the middle aged white dude version of No Homo.  This has been my fascinating thought for the day. 


Shiny Things

I went on a yarn voyage with my mother on Monday and scored this amazing thing.

It's a spool of tinsel.  A spool full of tinsel.  I've never felt so rich.

I could knit myself the most useless chainmail ever.  Or spin it in with some fiber.  Did I mention my terrible spinning here before?  I spin, it's terrible, I haven't touched it in months because every day I wake up feeling like I live in a giant's sweaty armpit.

I could knit it in with some very special project.  Or I could stare at my tinsel some more.

It's also super reflective.  look at that wacky hand reflection. 

I've seen other spools of shiny thread before, but they felt stretchy and yucky in my hand, where this is smooth, flat and exactly like tinsel.

Even though it goes against my stop aquiring craft supplies pledge, I'm psyched about it.  Oh, also, I got it for 1.50.  ONE DOLLAR AND FIFTY CENTS. I cannot say no to that.


This Week in Yarning

I haven't been, really.  Mystery Yarn tank top is a pain in the ass, and while I'm not quite ready to go out and buy the red heart the pattern calls for, I have put it down until I come up with a new plan.  

But, just so my blog doesn't get boring, here are some pictures!  A friend saw this at a yard sale or something and picked it up for me.  
I hope that it wasn't a hint, because I'm not knitting that thing for a Christmas gift.  

It must be the square dancing version of Grumperina's buffalo sweater, although instead of the dude with the pipe, I've got a lade who is seriously displeased with her whole situation.  

To me, that look says, "I can not fucking believe I got roped into this stupid job.  When I get out of here I'm going to murder whoever made this booking.  Oh Jesus, am I wearing an ascot?  Fucking horseshit."

Any other brilliant interpretations of this poor woman's state of mind?


The Trouble With Everyone Who Comments

The real trouble is when it reveals how fucked up we are.  Yesterday I read this article about the stupidest fucking Internet Argument I've ever heard.  Sean Lennon posted a photo of Lady Gaga playing the piano at his mom's house.  Fans of John Lennon respond petulantly, because anything that John Lennon touched should be shoved into a stone and only the Truly Worthy can touch it and make music with it again.  They, of course, get to decide who's worthy enough.  

 Maybe this is just me, but a musical instrument that doesn't get played by anyone is a fucking waste.  When I was growing up people were playing music all around me.  My mother sang and played the guitar, my father was always in a band.  They'd sit around playing music together, or with friends, and nobody didn't deserve to play with them.  Nobody ever showed up in fishnet thigh-highs and a sequined leotard, but I'm sure even if they had,  they would have been invited to play along.  It seems to me that this is an important part of music that most people have lost, being a participant instead of just an audience member, and thinking there's a thick line separating the two.  (This is not to say that it's okay, EVER, for you to take out a guitar at my house during a party and start playing Dave Matthews Band songs.  I will kick you the fuck out)

When people believe that musicians are Gods of Pretty Noisemaking instead of studied noise artisans, it leads to dangerous hero worship that no human being will ever live up to.  Like John Lennon.  He was a mean abusive shit.  To his credit he did try to break away from being that guy.  Not always successfully, just like any of us who've looked at ourselves and seen what horrible assholes we are.  But to put him up on a pedestal and think that because he wrote Imagine, that he was always That Guy is naive and dangerous. 

So don't diefy John Lennon's (or as the article explains, Yoko Ono's) stupid white piano.  He was in the beatles before he had the piano, and now he's dead.  The piano didn't absorb his Magical Powers.  If Sean was anything like I was as a kid, that piano probably had the jingle to New England Telephone played on it more than any song John ever wrote.  

What fucking brilliance, I know.  We can't let some hit making whore come and sully the Magical Messiah of Noise Making's Piano of Power.   

This is where I get to the part of the story that made me laugh in the face of our blindingly stupid fuckedness, instead of just roll my eyes.  The fucking comments.  When in the course of human history did we decide every person's opinion was so important that it needed to be publicly shared with the rest of the world at all times (says the person from their free blog template nattering about yarn and assholes)?  Here's a sampling of those pieces of brilliance, I'm going to spend my day carving them into marble to preserve them for future civilizations to find.  

The other day I heard an unemployed stoner friend of my brother call the actresses from Sex and the City "all ugly bitches.  Only that brunette, she's the only one I'd fuck" 

She calls her fans lil monsters, and encourages this creepy cult of  emulating her.  Rich at fourfour, one of my favorite blogs ever, wrote more about this.  The "love, peace, and Gaga" signoff is the creepiest part for me.  I mean, I love italian grinders, but I've never signed my emails "love, peace, and italian grinders"  Until now.

Thank you so much kind Yahoo Music User, for thinking my decapitated body is fuckable!  This is the greatest honor ever.  

Making fun of fanatics is too easy, so I won't go there, even though she offered that polite invitation to test her. 

Does prayer work like that?  I didn't know. 

What I like best about this one is the implication that the worst thing a person can be called is a man.  You're so right!  They are pretty terrible. 

So now instead of just praying she dies, we should tie her to a fence, rob her, and beat her to death like poor Matthew Shepard.  There's just no topping that. 
I stand corrected.