Fake Band Names I Have Known

If you're anything like me, and I pray you're not because you'd be writing a ten page paper right now, you spend a lot of your time coming up with fake band names. I don't have the dedication, or the musical talent, or even the blinding egotism necessary to get a real band off the ground. What else can I say, but tell you that I spend more time coming up with hypothetical album covers than coming up with possible songs?

Whiskey Clandestino
Where it came from: A Jack Chick tract, by way of another forum. There was a topic dedicated to discussing those creepy little pamphlets, and in one strip that, no lie, involved bootleggers, moonshine was translated to "whiskey clandestino" in Spanish. Someone on the board mentioned that would make an awesome band name. I agreed so strongly, I stole the idea myself.
Description: The only all-cover band with a balalaika.
White Man's Pants
Where it came from: A recent favourite, it came from the self-published novel of some wackaloon linked on the Really.Bad.Novels topic at Snarkfest. Contains what might be the greatest two lines in the English canon: "Take back your white-man's pants. I will not wear them." And thus, a new fake band name was born.
Description: Mostly funk, a little klezmer, always drunk.
The Tsarinas
Where it came from: Who doesn't like the monarchs of Russia? Besides Pugachev. Or Alexander II's assassin. Or the Bolsheviks who executed Nicholas II and his family. Alright, so historically they haven't been a popular group, but their titles are pretty damn cool.
Description: All-girl band who's bubblegum pop hides a darker electronic edge.
Fine Yearling Ass
Where it came from: This hilarious Onion article, "Peasant Wedding Gets Out of Hand."

Delirious from the increasing mayhem, wedding patrons urinated out the windows of their thatched hovels, smashed earthenware jugs and whacked blind beggars with gourds.

The already-explosive situation soon deteriorated when a brawl broke out between members of the bride's and groom's families over the ownership of a pheasant.

Description: Alt-country with a lute and a sackbut.

Side Effects of Caffeine Noted In Jittery Fashion

Artist's Rendition Of Me Wearing The Cardigan. Note Cat Brooch.

Hello! I am SPEAKING IN CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION POINTS because I've had lots of coffee today! Lots!
*crazy hands*
I've also guilted myself into posting again. I made a mental promise that I wouldn't until I had finally finished the coroner's report on the purple sweater fiasco, complete with photos. Unfortunately, it was just too depressing to take them. Pistache kept on wandering into the frame, and the combination of frumpy sweater+ diseased cat was just too sad to bear.

Also, I gave away my "extra" camera cord which turned out to be my "only" camera cord. And, where are my batteries for the camera? Honestly.

So, there would be the sad, sad, corpse of a sweater here. Yep, it looks so whole now. But its benign appearance hides its true nature. Put this on and I gain fifteen years and twenty pounds. So, I'm done. I've dumped it, and I'm already on the rebound with some unused balls. It's the Airy Wrap from Fitted Knits. My last sweater from that book turned out so well I'm sure the stars will finally align for this one. Granted, the Manos is more rustic than the airy mohair of the model sweater, which as a fellow knitter astutely pointed out, will mean that the ties will have to be re-engineered. I figure I have two options. I could decrease sharply and just knit a very thin tie for longer than the pattern requires, for a look I'll christen "granola bondage fetish." Or, I can shorten the ties, and incorporate buttonholes so that it can be fastened neatly at the side. I find this colour of Manos hard to match buttons to for some reason. Purple is just a colour that doesn't come naturally to me.

What else doesn't come naturally? Flirting. Trying to make. Hitting on people, and being hit on in return. Sexing... up. I could go on like this for some time, but my euphemisms would become increasingly obscure and disturbing. I mean, I currently have this weird thing going on with this guy B (much more on that later), but there's also an ever so adorable specimen in my Labour Economics class, who has me rather confused. I'm absolutely hopeless when it comes to telling if some one's hitting on me. Standard policy: everyone finds me repulsive, and are probably trying to con me out of my wallet as well. I was at a computer terminal in Leacock a week ago, idly scanning the Times, when the specimen in question (let's call him Frank) came to use another computer. We chatted about our class, joked about a comment I had made to the prof, and then I... fled like he had the plague. And he doesn't. Boyishly cute, Frank is! It's just that I hate being a bore, so I'll leave before the conversation gets to that awkward point when someone has to make up an excuse to leave. But then, I realized that... hey... he was talking to me. Joking. And smiling at me? Could he possibly have been flirting with me? Or had all the information on the wage gap caused me to lose all sense of perspective?

I've chatted with him twice since then, and I have no clue. But it's certainly a novel sensation.

Blah blah more pictures when I've solved The Mystery of the Missing Batteries, blah blah.

All Wrapped Up

Today, in the continuing adventures of My Major Kicks Your Major's Ass, I got to go to a mall to do some research. Too bad I picked what might possibly be the most depressing mall in Montréal. Décarie Square is a mall on life support. It's most notable feature is that it's home to the Dollar Theater. Actual cost of admission: two dollars. It's one of those places where most of the chains have moved out, except for Winners and a single brave Ardène's. There isn't a Sears, at the Décarie Square mall- there's a Sears Liquidation Store. The units that aren't empty are rented out by local operations, like the Cell-Tec store or The Handbag Two. No, I am not making those names up. I was particularly taken with Quelque Hose, a store which sold well, hosiery. The store must have been forced to diversify after it was named, because it also sold greeting cards and novelty t-shirts. In the corner, a machine labeled Animaland swirled stuffing in a glass box, rather like a popcorn machine. You could stuff your choice of toys, although from pig to dog they all looked as morose as the mall's paint job. I almost bought a couple of tights and a teddy bear just to salute the store's punnery though.

Now I'm back from the deadlands of consumer society, and getting the taste out of my mouth by pouring over knitting patterns. I want to make a stole out of some lovely dove gray Zephyr I picked up at the Stitch Niche over reading week. I don't want the patterning to be overly traditional and fussy- it has to be either eccentric or geometric, because the dress I have in mind for it is a cute flowered halter dress that walks the line between a touch of retro and time bandit from 50s suburbia. There's a crinoline, for god's sakes. The top contenders are (all pictures c/o the pattern sources):
Hanami Stole, Pink Lemon Twist

Stole Notre Dame, Birgit Freyer
Cobweb Lace Stole, Michele Rose Orne
Arctic Diamonds Stole, Donna Druchunas
Who will be the victor? I don't know- I have a purple cardigan that needs blocking.

Posting From the McGill Netherworld

Jeez, I'm surprised this thing hasn't rusted over. Right after my last post, I was thrust deep into pre-reading week school work. In two weeks I had a paper, a presentation, five midterms and a few shifts I picked up at work. I gave up even the basic rudiments of grooming and sacrificed sleep so the world would have my essential essay about the McFarlane action figure of Frankenstein's Monster. Who knows when the fate of the world will depend on what this overpriced toy has to say about feminism? The world must know! So, I promised myself I would get back to knitting- and posting- the first Monday of reading week. Unfortunately, I was too busy raiding the parental fridge and spending money on discount yarn to post anything.

And then I promised to myself I would get around to it at the beginning of this week... which ended up becoming an impromptu Festival of Grilled Cheese. When you assume, because your job is constantly running out of important things for sandwiches like... all the elements of a sandwich, that there will be no supplies at all come Monday, and decide to stock up on bread, lettuce, and tomatoes just in case, that will be the day your boss finally pulls through. So, you're left with a bag of extra groceries- what to do? Well, cut those veggies up into a salad, buy a bunch of sliced cheeses, make a bread pudding (with caramel sauce), and have some friends over for a grilled cheese fiesta.

Not only will you be well-fed, but it will lead to awesome conversations. For example, besides my roommate and her boyfriend, I invited pals Josh and Frances. They are two of the most wonderful people, and two of the nerdiest. I think of myself as a dedicated nerd, so this is a high compliment. Josh, dedicated Trekkie, was complaining about the upcoming Star Trek movie, and the following conversation occured.

"Protagitron: Well, at least the cast is full of pretty.
Josh: That's the problem. It's not Star Trek!
Frances: Josh, I watch Torchwood, and sometimes prettiness is the only thing that makes things bearable.
Josh: How can you say that when you said you didn't like Seven of Nine because she's just eye candy?
Frances: But she is.
Josh: No she's not!
Protagitron: Hey, did you know Jeri Ryan's pregnant?
Josh: Ew, it will ruin her figure!"

So, in Labour Economics the next day, Frances and I were studiously taking notes on wage discrimination against women in the workplace. And by that, I mean we were writing notes to each other out of boredom like we were still in middle school. I will have you know, however, that we do not fold them up into those complicated squares. We're too mature for that. So, I made an appropriate doodle:

It was captioned: "7 of 9 suddenly finds herself discriminated against in the workplace."

Frances's reply: "It will ruin her figure. Ahahaha!"

Well, as they say at McGill: Grandescunt Aucta Labore. "Through work, all things grow."