There Will Be Blood, It Might Be Yours

How to Make a Horse Ears and Mane Headpiece, Shabbily and In a Hurry!
Approximate time: 3 hours
Difficulty: BWUH? I can has make a needle threaded.
Cost: $10, for ears, felt, and yarn, with loads of yarn left for another project.

Well, as I have mentioned, Strudel decided she was going to go as Bad Horse for Halloween this year. Display and Costume could give me no love on the plain brown horse ears or a mane, so I was forced to make my own. This is very bad, because I am the shoddiest seamstress in the world. There’s no quality control, no pride of work. Only “CRANK THAT SHIT OUT, YEAH.” I am conversant with the deadly art of the sewing machine, but I prefer to handsew. I sew fast as HALE, too, WHAM WHAM sewing ninja!

Bad Horse is just some brown horse that Joss Whedon rented from somewhere in Hollywood, so my main objectives were to provide brownness, in the form of suit and ears, with a black mane and tail. I am going to paint her face night of, if she holds still.

I started with these ears because they looked the horseiest in shape. I decided to use them as a “frame” so I didn’t have to stuff ears (buy fluff) or attach them to a headband. Plus they were like two dolla.

As you can see, I already started sewing brown felt to them. I sewed white triangles to the inside of the ears and WA-BAM, done. If you look too close, though, it looks like Horse Ears of Frankenstein, so, err…don’t look too close.

Then it was time for the mane event. HO HO HO, Lame Giant. Okay, I was puzzling how to make the mane. I wanted something that would kind of cascade, but not just be strings hanging down from the headband. Ultimately I decided to cut a piece of brown felt to about 12″x3″. I made black yarn loops to sew onto the felt piece. I left a space on the felt piece for the headband, which I would need to attach when I was done.

Yarn loops!

I cut the yarn about 14″ long.

I was doing this part while I was watching Dexter, so I was sitting on Hester Prynne. Please admire caps lock, the most used BUTTON ON MY KEYBOARD!

Then I doubled the yarn twice…

And tied it in the middle with a piece of yarn that was the same length as the loop. Yarn Loop! This means that some ends were loopy and some were straight. I liked the texture, but once sewn on you could cut all the loops in half to make all the hairs straight.

Then I took the loops and sewed them to the felt by their middle knot in rows of twos and threes, alternating rows until it was jammed and your couldn’t see the brown. About a half an inch seemed like enough room between rows. I made sure that I was securing the knot by sewing it down well.

Then it was done, lurking like an unholy keyboard mirkin!

I sewed it to the headband, and voila! Quick and dirty horse ears and mane! I sewed the felt to the underside of the headband, and then sewed in a couple of rows of yarn loops on top of the headband so it was not a brown gap in the middle of the mane. I did not make the length of the yarn loops shorter, though the headband stuck up in the middle. It didn’t seem to matter.

I hope she will use it for dress up after Halloween. Pictures on the kid later.

Now go kill someone!

Signed, Bad Horse.

Two Things, But Maybe Three

Holeee shit I got wicked acid stomach yesterday after goofing around with my system like that. I have to think the scotch set it off. Also, waiting to have breakfast til eleven a.m. WTG, assgenius. Anyway, it finally settled down around ten. Sometimes nothing works! I tried a whole cornucopia of things yesterday, and the only thing that worked was time.

Today on Blogher I bring you crack journalism about miracle berries, and I am enjoying the sweet potatoes out of this imagining of the presidential candidates (and more!) playing D&D. Just wait til Ron Paul shows up. Oy. Via BK.

In Other News: HOW IS ERROR FORMED?

Et tu, toolbar?

Lunchtime Scotch with Notwist

What a fun afternoon! My musically-omnivorous friend Ruby invited me along to this cool lunchtime concert thing KEXP is doing at The Triple Door. I felt like such a flaneur, drinking Laphroaig before noon, people watching, and then seeing this band I’d never heard of (the last part is unsurprising, I think). The sets range from 30-45 minutes, five songs or so. I think they played for a half hour. That is exactly the size of my rock show attention span nowadays. Ruby says she will go see hippity hop shows with me since I have no one to go with. Woot! I can’t remember the last time I was at a rock show, let alone enjoyed myself at one.

Pictures by Ruby, who has a nicer camera, a better eye, and actually remembered to bring her camera.

This certainly made up for this morning when I was at the dentist being savaged by a strange hygienist, since mine was out of town. She got out this thing called the Cavitron (I am not making that up) to blast off my nasty teeth and I thought I was going to go through the roof because the cold water it was blasting me with was so painful. And then it was my fault because my gums are receding a little. I did not enjoy my lunch today, because I could tell it was just reheated Monday’s dinner, and the server made like it was just me, since customers usually clean their plates. Today it is my fault. Feel free to let me know what you blame me for. However, Ruby was nice and blamed me for nothing.

Uppity Womens

Hey Team,

Just a quick note to say that one of my internets BFFs, whatladder, started a message board on current events, general discussions, etc, as they relate to feminism and Lady Issues. We are kind of tentatively hoping it will fill the void left by Twisty Faster’s message board, RIP. I don’t think it will be the same, but I think there is a desire and need there.

It is called Uppity Women, and please join us. I’ll be there, I needs my BBS fix. Unsurprisingly, I am Assmitten there, which I have been since what, ’03 now? You know what they say, always an Assmitten, never an Assglove.

Brigid Keely, Dorrie, Changepaluda, and MORE, I am looking at you. (Serious eyebrows.)

Life on Mars: A Crazy Mixed Up Jumble That Works, Mostly

It’s fall; what better time to retreat into the house and melt your brain and grow your ass at the same time? As you may know, the new show Life on Mars is a remake of a perfectly good British show that won a bunch of awards and crap. Even though it is in the same language, American TV executives had to steal it and translate it from British language to Amurican. I find this to be a brilliant money-making scheme. I’m going to rebuild the Segway, paint it purple, add an espresso machine, and call it the Transitshun. I’ll make MILLYUNS.

To give you a little background, the show is about a detective who gets bonked by a car in 2008 and wakes up in 1973. We’re not given much more explanation than that, because, you see, it is a mystery. The show is part standard police procedural, where cops run around solving shit (or not), and partly the detective, named Sam Tyler, trying to figure out why he is in 1973 and he pines for his 2008 girlfriend, who is played by Denise Huxtable. (They are even hiding her behind furniture a la The Cosby Show pregnancy, because lo these 19 years later, The Bonnet is pregnant again!) Because of the time travel, there is also a science fiction aspect to the show, where Tyler has visions of 2008 and weird little robots that resemble the Mars landers plague him (there are allusions to the Mars landing as well, since it was historically current).

Anyway, new Life on Mars. The first episode was a somewhat disjointed mess, with Tyler being thrown back into time and spending most of the episode going WTFBBQ, and trying to integrate into his new police department and apartment. The cops there are told he’s a transfer, which makes his arrival more plausible, and prevents Tyler from having to pretend he’s someone he’s “been all along.” I enjoyed Freaky Friday back in the day (mmm, beetloaf), but I’m glad they didn’t go that route. I watched the second episode this morning, and I think I’m going to stick with it, although there are some hinky parts that are bothering me.

Because it is set in a roughy-toughy New York police precinct in 1973, it is important for the viewer to know that the “real” cops, who are all men (more on this in a minute), are very dirty and do not follow approved procedures. Your first hint anvil that this is a sketchy place manned by sketchy mans is that Harvey Keitel is the boss! Well, that settles that. If they couldn’t have gotten Keitel for the role, they could have just hung a picture of him on the wall for a similar effect. But of course it is fun watching him act his face off. He punches people and calls his drawer-of-illegal-crap-to-pin-on-recalcitrant-perps “Aladdin’s Cave.” Keitel swigs out of his flask and puts his shoes up on the desk, and spends what seems like half of the second episode beating the poo poo out of Tyler. What’s not to enjoy? After his time travel mystery, this is conflict number two for Detective Tyler: having to work with a den of rogues who majored in evidence tampering and minored in gleeful face-kickery.

So Detective Tyler spends a lot of time saying, “You can’t DOOO that!” and “This are a crime scene!” while the other cops look at him blankly or like he’s simple. Tyler is also hampered, of course, by a lack of technology. He boggles when he hears that they will get the results back from the lab “really fast now! Only two weeks!”

Unfortunately, this is the end of his boggling and protesting. I feel conflicted yet fascinated by the female characters on the show. Of course, they are held to the yardstick of 1973 standards (or what the writers imagine 1973 was like), and this was well before Cagney and Lacey. There is a “lady police squad,” who is represented by Officer Norris, played by the pretty, blonde Gretchen Mol. In the first episode, Officer Norris tells Tyler that her job as a lady cop is to rescue kitties and calm down hysterical girlfriends.

I want Officer Norris to be a prototypical feminist in the series, and in a way she is. The cops call her “No-Nuts Norris” and she accepts that she is given almost nothing to do, despite the fact that she has a college degree and a quick mind. Tyler calls on her for help in the first episode in one of those police pow-wows where everyone gets assigned leads and people share information (can you tell I don’t watch a lot of police shows?) and the male cops look at Tyler like he just declared that he wants to make sweet love to Spiro Agnew, and Officer Norris looks horrified and embarrassed to be called out. This is the only moment in the two shows so far that a female character has been shown as complicit to her circumstances, which I think is actually pretty realistic.

However, Officer Norris still shows up for work every day. She is still there, plugging away, a fictional representation of all the ordinary women who broke boundaries back in the day. It irks me that in episode two she is shown tittering with another boss cop guy from brass or somewhere. Tyler is interested and the viewer knows at that moment that Officer Norris will be the love interest that will replace his 2008 girlfriend, and there will be conflicts over the triangle, pushing her from the role of capable, if constrained, cop, to sexual tension and a prize for the main character. What I really want is for Officer Norris to work with Tyler to solve cases and such, even if it’s on the DL.

(I had this vision of Norris fleeing the force and marrying the cop she was talking to, and really, who could blame her? What would her future be like? Years of being called No-Nuts while the cops around her get promoted up and the respect they deserve?)

It all makes the subtext of the show complicated, and at least as interesting as the plot itself. The writers kind of hit you over the head with how “backward” everyone was in Ye Olde 1970s, with Detective Tyler in the center of it all, taking it all in. It’s fun to compare and contrast the cop shows that were made in the 1970s, which in many ways Life on Mars strongly resembles; you do have dudes running around shooting at each other, climbing fences in skeezy alleys, and kicking aforementioned faces. (This is FUN to watch. I kind of feel like I’m getting away with something even more deliciously mindless that usual.)

The difference is this overlay of self-consciousness about how bad the time was for people, and it results in a tediously moralizing tone from the script. The squad chases a perp through the park. Detective Tyler runs the fastest because he is hella fit and does not smoke, because this is a virtue in 2008. They catch up to the perp and Keitel pushes him into the water (“HEY! You can’t DOOO that!”). None of the other cops can swim, of course, because they are just not as good as Tyler, so Tyler must rescue the perp from drowning. You get the impression that even if Tyler wasn’t there, and the perp wouldn’t have been rescued, they would have called it a job well done and nicked off to the bar.

What’s missing from 1973 New York City is racism and diversity. Every female character is minor, unempowered, a caretaker, or all three. This and police corruption (thank goodness we’ve abolished that!) seem to be acceptable targets. My point is, if the show had a diverse cast, then the writers would have to tackle the casual racism of the 1970s. That’s touchy.

None of the main characters appear to me to be anything but white. The police station is white. The street scenes are white. This is supposed to be NEW YORK CITY, for crying out loud. There are a couple of brown perps at a big warehouse bust scene, but blink and you’ll miss them. Is it that the writers decided not to touch this at all, so as not to alienate their audience? We, meaning the white audience for this show (who presumably does not want to be racist or be perceived as racist), are thrown the small diversity bone of knowing that Detective Tyler’s 2008 self was in a relationship with Lisa Bonet’s character, who the audience understands is black. Does this somehow negate the fact that there are no other non-white people on the show? I think it fooled me for a little while.

I can’t say for sure, but I would think viewers who are non-white would notice the lack right away, and so perhaps would not become part of the audience for a show like this. I admit it took me two episodes to notice this, so perhaps the audience is people who either don’t think of themselves as racist or don’t want to be racist, and yet don’t notice a lack like this. Perhaps it doesn’t affect the realism for the writers and the audience the show may develop, similar to Seinfeld Syndrome. It also makes me ask, why is it okay for the characters to call the strongest female character on the show “No-Nuts,” but then to completely exclude non-white characters?

I think it’s complicated, but in part because the inclusion of racism and racial conflicts would make the white male cops completely unsympathetic. It would have the same effect on Detective Tyler, who remains likable though he mostly stands by while the 1973 women are treated in a sexist fashion. To watch the main character remain silent in the face of racism would be too much, as it has nothing to do with the manliness of the cops. The message we get from these rough-and-tumble cops that they are manly, and though misguided, are still tough, cool cop guys who are to be admired on some level.

But back to the women! A few lines up I mentioned that all the female characters are weak (or at least unempowered), minor, or caretakers. Another thing they are, all across the board, is Good.

Officer Norris is the good, long-suffering lady cop who worries about Tyler’s mental state and covers up his lunatic ravings about how he misses his universal remote (okay, kidding about the remote part). A precinct secretary sets up a crime using her resources at the police station to help her criminal boyfriend. But she was a GOOD person at heart, just lonely and in need of some attention from a smooth-talking lawbreaker. Out of nowhere, hey, there’s a crazy free love hippie girl that Tyler meets in his apartment hallway. Hippie girl is starkers and since we are constantly reminded that Tyler is a nice guy, superior to his 1973 brethren, he discreetly looks away. The naked hippie girl is good, innocent, and harmless, and serves to loosen Detective Tyler up by making him dance and caring for him by feeding him marijuana lasagna. There are no female criminals in this world, not even some bedraggled police station hos. Women in this world do not even have the power to commit crimes or perpetrate evil in their own capacity in this 1973 world.

And the men, except for Mary Sue Tyler, are Bad. They are lazy, sexist, corrupt, condescending, drunken, cannot swim, one cop is gunning for Tyler’s job, they all call Tyler a rat (because he has a hunch about the crime involving the precinct secretary, follows procedure, and investigates leads.). Tyler is completely good and blameless like the women, and though he will treat them respectfully and as equals one-on-one, he is not their ally. The viewer must never forget that he is just a visitor to this crazy, messed up 1973, when in Rome, etc.

So. Life on Mars has its problems, but not really more so than every single other show on television. I admit I am sucked into the mystery and I find the main characters compelling, and the maintext of the writing isn’t awful. I like that it’s complicated–that’s one major thing, of course, that a ’70s cop show does not having going for it. I’m going to stick with it for now.

They Say It’s Better The Second Time/They Say You Get to Do the Weird Stuff

Woo! Today I spent a jolly morning at the DMV. My picture makes me look like my head was farmed in one of those melon containers that makes melons grow all square. FFS, people. At least it’s not stroke victim. It’s more perturbed blockhead.


Artist’s Representation of New Driver’s License Photo.

Then, as a reward for finishing that hein (tm Maisnon) task, I went to the costume store to get missing bits for the girls’ Halloween costumes. Strudel is going as Bad Horse, so I have to make her ears and a tail, and she has a set of brown clothes. I was going to make her a horse head, but her little body is so wee I thought she would do better with face paint. I got myself some bad ass gloves for my Captain Hammer costume. I wouldn’t have fussed with it at all, but on Saturday I am going on a fun run with a cross-dressing superhero theme. I have been wearing the shirt all summer.


Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em.

Yeaaah. I have no explanation for my behavior.

Quickly changing the subject, Calliope the Easter Egger laid her first egg. Alas, it was on the glass fake eggs in the broody box, so it incurred a dent. I think it will be okay til tomorrow in the fridge, since it looks like the membrane is intact. Eyuck, these early eggs are so bloody on the inside. But if I was laying eggs for the first time, I imagine I would bleed some too.

My complaint is not about the bloody eggs or even the hole, but the COLOR. Calliope! You are laying grey eggs! BOORING! REFUND! What a rip.

I am going to start slow-cookin’ stew made out of some animals and stuff I found (freegan, lol A) and go for a little run. If you see some crazy lady running around on Saturday running and shouting “The Hammer is my PENIS,” then please move to one side and do not obstruct the flow of impending justice.

Now, See, Joint Custard Would Be Delicious

It’s been about two months since Franny’s dad up and fucked off to an island, and things have really changed. When he was talking about moving before, I spent a lot of time looking at research and opinion on child custody. After four years of 50-50 custody, I knew I had an opinion about it: it sucked.

Yes, the child gets to experience both houses “equally” and doesn’t become a “visitor” at one of the houses. It’s better than that! The child is a disjointed visitor at both houses. I can’t tell you how many times in the last few months we’ve sat down to dinner and Franny’s tucked in and said, “Mmm, I’ve never had this before,” and before I can think, I say, “Really? I’ve made this several times.”

Whole weeks go by and you can’t stop living your life or pushing onward with your family. The 50-50 kid gets to hear about this later. There is a sense of unease, because the kid is coming and going and you have to say these Significant Goodbyes and Awkward Hellos because you won’t see/haven’t seen your kid for two weeks. They come back, and they are TALLER. You always have to plan appointments and playdates on the first half of the month, or your week. You say “no” A LOT because of timing. You don’t want to send her out to sleepovers because you feel like you hardly see her, but you want her to have a “normal” childhood. You don’t feel as close to your own child as you could, as you should, because there is this wedge of not enough time. You hear about sicknesses incurred, suffered, recovered from, all without any input or nurturing from you. “You had pink eye again?”

Now that she is here most of the time, things have changed. I feel closer to her, and I think she feels the same. There is relaxation and comfort where there was clinginess and rushing. There are inside jokes now. When she leaves, it’s just for three nights, every other weekend. She still complains about having to leave my house, but now she can say, “Oh well, it’s just the weekend,” and we can kind of laugh it off and talk about what we’re going to do and have for dinner when she gets back on Monday. I feel as close to her now as I did when she was a little baby and toddler, before the divorce when I got to see her whenever I wanted. Sometimes I ask myself if I could see the future, that I was going to lose access to my kid half the time, would I still carry on with the divorce? I honestly don’t know.

We’re Calling This a Duck

I went downtown yesterday to begzor for a job. There was an open house at a downtown shop for retail work.

I have been out of retail for ten years now. I quit working halfway through college so I could really focus on my school work, and then I got knocked up anyway. I was lucky that I didn’t have to keep working then. After that I had grad school, writing gigs, or work I find more satisfying than selling stuff. But here it is, two months into my job search and I’ve turned up nothing, and done office-type temp work exactly once. I am working on some content writing stuff for websites right now, but one I accepted for trade and experience, and the other…I don’t know when I’ll see that money. As usual, I am juggling about twelve balls, but none of them are resulting in regular paychecks.

I found myself staring at the bottom of receipts when I would come back from the drug store or the department store. “Now hiring for seasonal help!” How long is too long to wait before taking the kind of work that you can get but does not line up with your 75-year plan? I guess the only way to answer that is to factor in your mental state and where your bank account is at. I decided I would apply for retail if it went two months, but that I would try not to get 100% wretched retail.

So the idea of an open house is that while you fill out your application, the managers chat you up. I dressed a little boho so I would give the impression that I would fit in with the vibe of the store (not a stretch really, which is why I applied there). I was wearing my red mary jane Fluevogs and just kind of rocking the funky monkey thing. Someone who worked there recognized my shoes and said, “Oh, vegan shoes! They do the vegan ones!” I kind of smiled at her with the knowledge that not only were my shoes leather, but that I also had two garage sale furs in my closet and a death mink. Also that I would probably eat an animal of any size whole in front of anyone at any time. Send the evite; I’m there. Move out of the way, I might accidentally take a bite out of your rump. There was a lot of vegan chat. Apparently world Vegan Day is November first.

Then I got into a conversation about what I have “been doing recently.”

“Oh, I’m a freelance writer,” I said. “It’s slow right now. I need to make some money for the holidays.”

“A writer! Are you going to write about us?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I will change your names.”

Later I got into a conversation with the manager, who told me she was vegan. We chatted about Oprah and PETA and Prop 2 in California. Another associate popped in and asked if I had tried a certain product and the manager informed them that “No, SJ is vegan.”

EEP.

Today I got the call. I’m in. Training starts in two weeks.

It made me think about vegan shoes. I have heard of “recyclable” vegan shoes, but I imagine most of them go on the tip, and we know that leather shoes usually last many times longer than plastic ones. Since I guess I am an inherently cruel person who endorses many varieties of subjugation, I guess I’ll have to go with the renewable resource: a cute cow with big blinky eyes.

It’s all about the Hamiltons, baby

I know that symbolically, fall is supposed to be a time of harvest, followed by death, but I always see it as a time of renewal, probably because many of us have to retreat into our houses in the winter, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to go quietly into a dirty and cluttered one.

Today I decided to move my bedroom around until it was more to my liking. It made the whole thing feel bigger, which is a good thing now that my true love and BFF Hester Prynne is up here. I like the fact that I moved a bit further away from the box, which I can still hear a little when she’s in sleep mode. (For Vista, there is no sleep, only WAIT.) But in this neighborhood, a little white noise is a good thing.

Come into my boudoir! Je voudrais un croissant! If this goes well, you can meet my parents next.

Before!
Here’s the bed before, tucked up against the east wall. The Bandito and Imelda lurked overhead. I never really liked them together like this; it was a little too Dejeuner sur l’Herbe for my liking. I was in the process of taking down an old and faded Dios de los Muertos paper cutout that I got downtown. The black squares were so light they turned that grody brown color that my coolio black jeans used to turn in the ’90s, making me all sad panda. Yes, my bed is a mess, but in my defense I knew I was about to move it. Yes, I know that my house looks like it was decorated by clowns on LSD. We LIKE color, mmkay?

After!
I turned the bed to be against the north wall. This made more space in the middle of the room. I also turfed out one of the nightstands and put it next to Hester Prynne, which sort of hides the cords. I like it. Aren’t you supposed to face north, according to those those juju feng shui peoples? Whatever. I likes a change of pace. Now I have just the bandito over my head, as it should be. He is my patron saint.

On the table, not that you asked, is this week’s New Yorker, Sophie’s World, which I am rereading for the third time, Are You Really Going to Eat That?, which looked great at the library but feels very been-there, done-that once you dive in. WOT, people eat durians you say? And they are super stinky, you say? To the author’s credit, they are older essays, from before the era of being a click away from reality show models narfling dog stew. She actually writes an interesting blog, I must say. Also there is a rented Curious George DVD, which Strudel is currently partaking in and enjoying very much.

Before!

Here’s Hester’s newish home. It turns out you can put baby in the corner. Notice the sad, sickly, and neglected arrowhead plant over the computer. The pot is so large that it made it hard to hang up a picture in that corner. I trimmed off the dead leaves and gave it a little shower to get rid of the dust, and popped it into the girls’ room, which gets more sun, and stole their philodendron.

After!
I moved Imelda to the south wall so I can gaze upon her lovely boobsage first thing in the a.m. I can stare at her while I am trying to think of what to write next.

I am kind of chuckling as I’m posting this, because I think about those fancy bloggers who make changes in their house and photograph it all and run it through special filters so it looks like a fucking home decor magazine. At my house you have wires and clutter, and nothing that looks like it came from Crate & Barrel, because nothing did. More like, Cardboard Box & and Barrel Made Out of Cardboard Printed with a Barrel Pattern. Oh, and IKEA, so same diff, really. Tomorrow I will clean off the top of my dresser at least, and photograph it with shimmery burning candles and moody wicker balls in a hand blown glass basket made by armless peasants in Madagascar.