Photogitron

Tuesday, I decided that I could only hide out in my room playing Online Boggle for so long. For one thing, I was starting to imagine possible Boggle grids in my head. Then coming up with fantasy grids, grids that would allow me to spell seven letter words with ease, or specially themed grids. I had to admit that I was clearly going nutty, and decided to head out with my camera to the Oratoire St-Joseph, as decided by my roommate's boyfriend. Unfortunately, by the time I decided to leave I couldn't find my lens cap. I was not leaving unless I got some pictures from the whole thing, so I took even more pictures of Oliver in between ransacking my room for the tiny little plastic thing. So, not only had I become a Boggle-playing crazy cat lady, but I had become a well-documented Boggle-playing crazy cat lady. Whatever, Oliver is crazy photogenic. Thankfully, I found it eventually, and headed out. For those of you non-Montrealais, the Oratoire was built in honour of Blessed André Besette, at the foot of Mont Royal. It has the largest copper dome beside St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, and it looms above the surrounding Cote des Neige neighbourhood. Pilgrims crawl up its (many, many) steps hoping to be cured of their afflictions, and there's a special chapel lighted by votives and watched by the crutches of those who have been healed. I need to take the tour guide's words for the last bit, because being a non-Catholic I chickened out of actually going in, preferring instead to photograph exteriors and such. I always feel weird being in religious places or events, particularly when I'm not a member of the faith. So, some other time I'll have to drag my Catholic roommate down as my guide. I got some decent, if dull shots of the place. It still feels like winter here, with all the snow we've been getting, so I'm getting a little sick of everything having that grey, muted patina of winter.

My next goal was to get a decent shot of the big cross on Mt. Royal. Here's where things started to go embarrassingly wrong. It's important to remember that, as its name implies, it's a GIANT METAL CROSS ON A HILL. Because, I could not find that big iron cross on a hill. There are signs, with arrows, on the paths that will supposedly direct you to that big cross. I followed the signs. The first one even had distances- 0.8 km, it said. "Well, a bit of a trek," I said, but nothing extreme. Why, I walk that far from my apartment to McGill each day." So I walked. And walked. Avoided joggers. Avoided power walkers. Was nearly trampled by a gang of people pretending to cross country ski with poles but without skis, but I continued walking. I followed the signs, and I followed the arrows, until another sign had a distance marking on it: 1.7 km. Why? Where did I go so terribly wrong? I should have let the faux skiers get me. The cross is visible from St. Urbain, and yet I could not find it. Please send help, and perhaps a compass. However, the day was not a complete write-off. I saw a fox on the hill who came pretty close to me, although none of the other walkers looked as impressed. I'm guessing that foxes are probably like pigeons on that mountain- chummy and used to humans. Here's Rabies Fred the fox, next to his favourite beer.

And then I went to see Grindhouse, since I was damned tired and it was late. I'm the odd person who likes Robert Rodriguez better than Quentin Tarantino. I think Rodriguez does what he does with a little more verve- I never feel dull after watching Desperado or From Dusk 'Til Dawn. I do have to admit, if only grudgingly, that Tarantino has had a profound influence on film, particularly American film, since the early nineties. But so much of that influence is confined to things I'm a little sick of in movies. Crime dialogue that's too clever by half, crime dialogue about pop culture, and shots of people's damn feet, for example. Which is why I ended up liking Planet Terror a lot more than Death Proof, and not just because I'm a zombie freak. Planet Terror is zippy, and has Rose McGowan with a gun leg. Death Proof has some amazing stunt work, and Kurt Russell is well-used, but any part not involving cars is rather dull. Still, three hours of fun, particularly the fake trailers. Please make either Hobo With a Shotgun or Machete real movies, film powers that be. I love Danny Trejo.

And, one of my good friends got herself a boyfriend and is being all cute. It's so nice when good things happen to good people, isn't it? Hopefully there's some of her magic left to spread around.

Dear Montreal Weather:

You can kiss my ass.
Yours,
Protagitron
P.S. By tomorrow, it should be all over but the blocking for the $1.50 cardi. Hooray!

Knitting Night in Canada

The Dollar and a Half Cardigan slowly grinds to a close. Once I finish this cabled cardi front, there's just the finishing left to do. I'll try and finish in a timely manner, instead of neglecting the unseamed, unblocked bits as I usually do. The pattern has the sides reversed (if made up according to the directions, the cabled front would go on the other side than in the picture), but I just knitted it as is. It doesn't really matter to me whether it looks like the picture, or whether the cable goes on the right or left side. I did wing the decreases in lace pattern, though. I'm pretty sure it's not the right thing to do, so I won't reprint what I did here, but trust that it looks fine. I also knitted this in wool instead of a linen yarn. Briggs and Little Regal in Brown Heather to be exact. I love knitting with this stuff- the tweedy flecks and heathery mix of colours, its honest wool hand, and the idea that it's a very Canadian yarn. Yes, there's a lot of vegetable matter, but I just pick most of it out as I go along, figuring whatever I don't adds character. I knitted it a size smaller than what I usually knit, since all of my knitted sweaters turn out larger than I usually want them to be. I figure if it comes out too small after blocking, I'll just give it to my roommate. Or cry, as I burn it and my Poppy on my balcony.


And here's a baby blanket, made in (Canadian- I spy a theme) Koigu following the Mason-Dixon log cabin directions. One of my dearest friends/mentors back home (frientors?) is pregnant with her second child. Since her first is one of the sweetest kids ever, I know she does good work. And since I couldn't knit when he was born, I decided this one must have something knitted that is more than my usual baby hat. Then I realized that I had no money left for yarn. Which turned out alright, since I did have a stash of Koigu. The purple semi-solid and the red and purple mix were supposed to be a modular scarf, but I didn't know how to pick up stitches the right way for reversible modularity, so it looked kind of stupid. The one with purples and greens was bought on clearance online. After it came in the mail, I realized it was on clearance because it was pretty much spun of the mid-nineties essence. Together I think they work, and since she's all artistic and such I'm sure she won't mind putting all that purple on a baby boy. What do you think- garish? Too gendered?

Happy Easter

My Grandma has a lot of weird stuff.

I hope everyone had a safe and happy Easter, Passover, or whatever you celebrate during spring. I visited Ingleside. It's hard to describe Ingleside, a small town not all that far from Cornwall in Ontario. It's where my Dad spent most of his childhood for a start. It's also the place where, a few days before Christmas, my brother and I were wasting some time at the lone dollar store, and heard the sounds of musical cards singing "Happy Birthday" and "Feliz Navidad" and the like an aisle over. Next, we heard a female voice say: "Hi, Jan! Sometimes I just come here and listen to the tunes!" I'm sure it has some great qualities, or at least better than the ones it has in my mind. Part of the problem is that we were conditioned by my Dad, who made sure to blow that Popsicle stand as soon as he could, that Ingleside is about as much fun as a case of herpes.
There's a sign just outside the town that says "You are now half-way to the North Pole."
You're also half-way to nowhere.
But, the grandparents still live there, and we love them. And her delicious, delicious pies. Plus, its closer to Montreal, and Ottawa where my brother lives, so we usually do Easter there. It was nice to see the family again, especially since my parents brought Smitty up. Remember the little gaffer with the white spot from all the puppy pictures? He looks like this now. And has the personality of a politician with ADD- charming, but exhausting. I tried to smuggle the cuteness back to Montreal, but no dice.

And expect more, and better, pictures. I went into Henry's in Ottawa, a great camera store on Bank, thinking I would just wander idly while my brother priced tripods, and walked out with a Canon Rebel XT. The body was used, but in perfect shape (they hadn't even put the strap on), so I got it for a measly four hundred bucks. And my brother gave me one of his cheaper lens until I could afford better ones. I've now become one of those annoying people who run around believing everything is for photographing, and for photographing at least five times. Yes. Also, I hit up Yarn Forward, and bought some cable needles and a Chibi. The Rowan RYC Classic Alpaca book managed to overcome my reserve, but I'll write about that later.

Other Goings On

In my absence, besides temporarily dropping out of McGill, I somehow made my way to MAC and am now in possession of a reasonable stash of make-up.

Yes, I know that those two ideas seem incongruous, but bear with me. I never wear make-up. Well, hardly ever. I was never really taught the correct way to go about the application of various facepaints and the like, so on the rare days when I tried, I would religiously blend and blend until I may as well have been wearing nothing at all. Even my prom in high school. I did my make-up myself because I had spent a ridiculous amount of money on my dress, which ended up amounting to tinted gloss and mascara, with the barest of eyeliner. I did my hair too, which with all my skill was left to dry in all of its curly, thatchy glory. I was Boadicea at the top and Audrey Hepburn from the neck down. I shaved my legs, yo. I tried my best.

Anyway, I figured I could at least try and learn the ropes. So, I begged my most fashionable friend to be my wingman at the MAC store. Fortunately, the salesperson was a kind, earthy type in a pixie cut, instead of the vampiric, cult-eyed foundations mavens you sometimes see working the aisles. She gave me a nice, basic look that doesn't make me look like a lady of the night, and I am almost capable of repeating it at home. I would grade myself at a B+. Now, I just need to get my hair cut again and I'll look semi human.

And yes, I know that cosmetics are just another tool of the patriarchy, or something. Women's Studies students, take the lead here. But it's a useful tool to have in my arsenal, and I'm too damn lazy to match my actions up to my feminist ideals. I even wear heels sometimes, the horror. But they are Fluevogs, which I think should be given a pass- I need to support my countryfolk.

My adorable foster cat Oliver is still looking for a home. I want him to find a good place before I have to go back to Guelph. He went to one adoption day, but I guess no one wants an adorable love magnet with a yen for food. Maybe his size puts people off- he's a little girthy, but the boy is a big cat. I swear he's about the size of my old Sheltie, Brydie. I would adopt him myself, but my parents have a new puppy, and just hate cats as a united front. He's calm, and patient. He's never malicious, and he wants nothing more than to be around us. He'll lay on the couch and watch TV with us, or on my bed as I work in my room. Like a good child, he loves his parents equally and will spend one night with me and the other with Katie, sleeping at the foot of our beds. He's come up with many clever ways of getting more food. Waking us up at separate times so he'll be fed twice. Opening the latched cabinets to eat his food. Tearing into a bag of Temptations cat treats like it was a freshly killed zebra carcass. But he has sweeter moments too- rolling on his back to show off his orange belly, or nuzzling my head while he purrs. He's simply an awesome cat, so if you know anyone in the Montreal area who could give him a fabulous home, get in touch with me.

Knitting Cowboy

Here we have a pile of brown wool, also known as the finished back and sleeves for the 1.50$ Cardigan. Since my last knitting project, Poppy, turned out a little hinky in spite of my best attempts, I'm just winging this. Like the decreases for the sleeves. Sure, I understood part of the instructions, but then again I understand part of Russian, and where did that get me? Making speeches about "easy pens "and "really big shorts". The prof used to dread my speech time. So, I decided to be a knitting cowboy and just do things my way. Yeehaw. It may not work out, but at least it will be an educational experience.
Yesterday, I went on a mini used bookstore crawl. Ever since dropping out of all my courses this semester (oh, the shame), I've had a lot of free time. And you can fill only so much of it by baking before running out of eggs, and starting to think of your now dim future. So, I decided enough was enough, I was going to do something productive, and that something would be trolling the used bookstores. I was hoping that one might have some Graham Greenes in the editions I've been collecting, or dare I hope, one of Elizabeth Zimmerman's knitting books, but no dice. I did find a copy of Rowan #31 for twenty bucks. And while this is not a bad deal, it was a bit more than I wanted to pay for a book whose designs, while lovely, just weren't firing me up. J. Westcott Books, close to my place, finally redeemed the whole thing. Not only do at least three cats live there, and as we all know the mark of a good bookstore is the quantity of cats, but they also had a trove of vintage knitting pamphlets. This Monarch Yarn pamphlet is from the twenties, and it features some truly awesome patterns. They are also very insistent that they are "MADE UP TO A STANDARD AND NOT DOWN TO A PRICE". Suck it, Toronto Dominion Woolens, and your skank-ass yarn, too! Some of the instructions have become hard to decipher with time. No gauge, naturally, and I think "ridges" means either garter or reverse stockinette stitch. But dabbling in some knitting archaeology would be worth it to knit an updated version of that jacket, no? I'm thinking a touch shorter, with buttons all along the button band. Maybe a bit more fitted too, but I love the art nouveau design. The pattern was originally knit in Cherry and White, but I want a different colour scheme.

I'm also fond of the vest in the upper right corner, although I would knit it in worsted, shape the waist and definitely shorten the v-neck. Thank God the colourwork designs are charted. The shawls and hats look interesting too. And there's the rest of my haul. A sock book from the fifties with some interesting patterns, Woolcraft with some nice basic patterns and boffo beehive hairdos, baby pattern book, and Paton's "Astra Easy-Knits For the Family", another artifact from the sixties. My Dad has been angling for a v-neck vest with very specific requirements, and I think this vest fulfills them. Plus, it's from one of his glory decades. I'm thinking Silky Wool, Calmer, or Wool Cotton. He has heat issues.

The Worst List Yet

This post is just turning out awkward any way I try and write it, so I'll just try and be as businesslike as possible. Okay. In a list. I like lists, as you may have gathered. Go list!

• Over the past couple of weeks, I went kind of nutty
• I spent a lot of the time crying
• Everywhere
• Anytime
• And by last couple of weeks I mean the whole damn year
• I realized I was not very intelligent
• Or attractive
• Or charming
• And everyone knew it
• So I started doing shoddy work in a bunch of my classes
• Which led to poor grades
• Which only strengthened my conviction that I was a dumbass
• That's why I started missing a lot of classes
• And phoning home crying every night to Mom and Dad like a homesick kid at summer camp
• Eventually I decided to drop out of McGill and run along home
• Through many events, even too banal to recount here, I commuted that to dropping all but one class this semester
• And not returning to McGill next year
• Which makes me embarrassed, sad, and frustrated
• Because I am coming home a complete and utter failure
• It also sucks that I will be missing out on my delightful roommate and cat for the rest of my life
• Also, Montreal
• Home of delicious chocolate
• And forced to live with my parents
• Hip-flipping Hooray!
  

What am I going to do with the rest of my life? I don't know, peeps, I don't know. I do know, however, that Gerard Butler looks mighty fine in nothing but leather manties, heh heh heh? Am I right, certain ladies and dudes? Crickets? Anyone?

The Top 5: Things That Would Somehow Manage to Make My Fortnight Worse

The last couple of days blew. The blew as if the vessels for the wind of the mighty Zeus himself. I would write more, but then I would get all snotty-nosed and nobody needs that. So, here are three things that haven't happened to me yet but probably will.

1. Herpes. Sure, I know it's not that big of a medical deal, but neither is eczema, and that pisses me the hell off. And rather like eczema, herpes never goes away.
2. While trying to dash out of my trash heap of my room and to class, I trip over my pile of dictionaries and Interweave back issues, becoming wedged underneath my bed. Forced to subside on stale gummi worms and half a bottle of Aberfoyle Springs water, I succumb after a week. Roommate finds me only after Oliver the cat has gotten a touch peckish.
3. I lose my arm in a fake metro accident. Prof asks me to provide a medical note of excuse.
4. I lose all my money to high-tech thievery.
5. Leprosy

The Top 5: Places I Want to Visit In The World

1. Australia
2. Russia and the Ukraine
3. Cyprus
4. Thailand
5. Chile and Easter Island

Almost Snow Day

I woke up in the middle of a snow globe set to spin, and still they didn't cancel school. Public schools were cancelled, but unfortunately not university.
Which meant I trekked out of the house at 8:50 in order to have a super-fun time with Professor Woodlouse and Elizabeth Smart's many cultural allusions. I've been avoiding getting my awful, awful paper back in that class for, oh, a week now. Also, avoiding my drama paper. And my Russian presentation grade. Russian in general. Cultural Studies quiz.
Life, ahem.

Anyway, after my arctic trek and first class were over, I tried to finish up the Foucault reading. Unfortunately, I can barely read him when I'm in a good mood, and trying to do so when I'm cranky and wet... leads to me going "O RLY Frenchie?" and tossing it angrily back in my backpack. Also, urgings to burn my course pack. Decided to just wing it in my Cultural Studies conference instead. Thank God that focused on the Kafka short story we had to read.
Oh, Kafka.












Remember when I had a strange, inexplicable crush on you in high school? Crazy times, you Czech weirdo. Crazy times.

Finally finished "Long Day's Journey Into Night" between naps at the library, which didn't improve my mood what with the morphine addiction and drunkenness. I was ordered by my brother to go to a concert tonight, 120 Days at the Mile End Centre, and I really wanted to, but I was cold, hungry and tired, and... it was all the way in Mile End. So I finished off the day by watching A Room With a View while eating bulk almonds and drinking tea with my roommate. And you know what?
That was actually a pretty good end to a crap day. Tomorrow is supposed to be mild, so I'm going to take advantage of that with a trip up the mountain and then Nuit Blanche.