these days of leiderhosen

The Brilliant Marnie's latest production: The Little Prince . Awesome. Now if I could just get her to knit me a Fox suit. Mark Bittman's No-Knead Bread has hit 53,774 incarnations, with every blogger bound and determined to improve upon it. Here's the next one I am gonna try. For the record, no wild yeasts occur in Oakland (all the benzene coming off Highway 24 probably). I am going to have to schedule an out of town just to corral a few back to live a coddled existence of feeding and massage in the fridge.

Holy Cats! I've been tagged by Michael G. , who makes us talk of cheese. I adore him. The Lyrical Version of Waterboarding : My Personal Ten Songs of Torture - Girl from Ipanema - any incarnation - Three Times a Lady - Lionel Richie - The Girl is Mine - Michael Jackson and Sir McCartney (Is it the lighting or is McCartney not resembling Eleanor Roosevelt more and more these days?) - Pachabel Cannon - just any version with waves or seagull sounds - Bolero - Ravel - Born in the USA - Springsteen - You Don't Bring Me Flowers - Diamond and Streisand - Rock You Like a Hurricane - Scorpions - Who's That Girl/Where's the Party - Madonna (might as well be the same song. Dang, that girl can get all squeeky .) - Livin ' La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin (Nope. I just don't see it. Not even in the tight trousers.) - Wishin ' and Hopin ' - Dusty Springfield (or anyone else for that matter. I find the content irritating as well as the hoppy , breathless phrasing.) Feelin...

-A theory now verified by BBC: every guy needs their own shed . Every chica need her own studio. and maybe a Wonderwoman jumper . -It was clean-up day at work and I offered to vacuum my co-workers' vents. Sounds more dirty than it actually might have been, but it wasn't pleasant.

The beloved zefrank is doing his part for the Writer's Guild Strike and making sure we get our news whilst (love that word) reminding us that the Writer's Strike in '88 spawned the reality TV genre. Crap: I can't seem to find the link to the First Part. It's on Itunes. Not to be missed. - Toes: Chipped. Need new ones. - Baking: Not, yet, but soon . - Considering: Sajou.com cross-stitch albums. Like I have time. Like I am liable to created anything from cross-stitch that does not use obscenity. (The next one is going to be my favorite mechanic quote: "The fucking fuckers fucking fucked. Fuck it.") And I wonder why Mum doesn't come visit. - Latest odd dream: invading the castle that held everything from my childhood of indulgence and way too many books. - Finished reading: The Godmother. Ambivalent. - Spinning: Nada. The door knobs are filled again. - Knitting: red baby boots, to be felted. - On the 'pod: Podcasts; Dan's sage advice , Karl , a...

Yesterday morning was spent at the laundromat on Telegraph. I got myself some company coming so have been washing up the larger and more awkward Objects d'Art in Casa Del Grant. (For the record it was a very dusty moosehead.) So just as I am settling in for 50 minutes of invisibility behind a novel a self proclaimed hobo marched in, whipped off his pants and jacket, jammed them in a washer then hit everyone up for two bucks in quarters. (He even got the remainder of my bergamont laundry soap. How foodefoo is that?) As the two most vital pieces of his wardrobe attempted to redeem themselves Mister Hobo spent a hour in his boxers, playing some impressively good blues harmonica and ranting mid-set at the spin cycle for making so much noise. He then proceeded to try to pick up any woman in the room. (Oh, here's something for you industrious souls: try saying no to a pantsless inebriated hobo shaking a harmonica. It's just not possible.) Afterwards, attempted recovery at Piz...

It rained all last night and there may be no better smell or sound than rain at night. Today the world looked liked fresh white cotton sheets, cloudless and perfect. There was cafe in Seattle where Steven could get Hawaiian chicken fried rice with bacon for breakfast and that raised the bar for breakfast considerably ever since. This morning we had Trader Joe's fried rice with fresh eggs and basil and more black pepper than is usually used on most things. Today I spun and spun and spun. Most of the fiber was a turquoise Columbia which seems to go with almost anything, although it's got a kinky kind of groove to it that made it really quite easy. All the grey bamboo and alpaca has been dealt with and good riddance; it ends up in the most unlikely places. Slippery stuff. Tomorrow is Veteran's day so the University is closed and I have a day off. Joy!

A word on Despair (previously mentioned): Although our close relationship has taken a sabbatical, that familiarity is still there. Occasionally we meet for dirty martinis and catch up and though we talk, it's not personal. She's seeing other people. I know her ways The last time I could actually count the pores on her chin, I was shaking a illegible prescription at the sky and yelling, "I have always depended on the kindness of modern medications!" It's been a a good chunk of time, but it's irritating to know she's around, pestering the innocent and not so innocent. What ever space she had manhandled in my life is now occupied with merino, Blue Faced Leicester, sock yarn, sourdough anything and the occasional dance number by the resident house hippo. Everything's swellagant, Darlings. No trouble here, just the usual frustrations. Like I can't find the bloody keys to the Honda. and it Friday and I haven't got a plan. Oh? Wooo! Friday! (Burst...