Notes of a Nervous Harpist

All Drama and No Comedy Makes Me a Cranky Girl

Well, I'm awake. And cranky.

Tonight is a television night in the new season where there are two shows that my beloved, Au Contraire, is developing a habit of watching. "Lost" and "Invasion" are the shows.

I admit I did not pay much attention to the first episodes and so don't really have the thread of the things for tonight's second episode, but I don't need to: these are just the kind of shows I hate.

They are dark and full of sweaty, dirty people lost in threatening, inexplicable situations. The people are always in danger and crisis, and we don't really have a grasp on why they are there. But they are pretty darn exercised about the whole thing.

I will say this: the networks certainly save money on sets. All the dang rooms and scenes are shot in the dark. Will someone just flip on the bleeding light switch occasionally so we can see what's going on?

The costumes are non-existent. Everyone looks homeless and we are grateful we can't smell them, too.

And even Au Contraire, who always understands the dark and the science fiction and the unexpected plot twist (he figured out that Bruce Willis was dead in "Sixth Sense" right away), doesn't really understand what's going on.

But the thing that grinds me most of all, past the streaky, sweaty overacting faces and the dark rooms and the inexplicable plots, is that there is not one ounce of a sense of humor anywhere to be found. Only dramatic displays of anger and fear and menacing, overwhelming negativity.

That's why you can give me a good old "Poirot" or "Midsomer Murders" or "Monk" or "Columbo" any day of the week. They burn electric lights on the set, people are got up in wonderful costumes, and there is witty dialogue and a sense of style and good humor that is pervasive and very entertaining. Plus, a mystery has a beginning, a middle, an end, and you can bask in the cleverness rather than drown in the murk of a bunch of dead end plot twists disguising what I believe is a lack of cleverness and creativity.

To be sure, a traditional mystery always begins with murder, which isn't a very positive thing, but it does cut down on the overcrowding, especially "Midsomer Murders," where half the village seems to get knocked off every episode.

Au Contraire sits through interminable mystery shows with me, especially on Sundays, so it's only fair that I'm stuck with this season of grime and gruff.

And I'm awake. And cranky. But not as cranky as when I began this rant, because Au Contraire has adjourned to the bedroom to ride the exercise bike and finish watching "Invasion," freeing me to enjoy a good "Monk" re-run.

What the Heck

Pictured here is a hank of yarn. It's a nice, chunky, soft, expensive hank of yarn. Why am I posting a picture of a hank of yarn?

I'm looking for some explanations. Some clue.

Since I began knitting, I naturally have been looking around at knitting blogs.

It's interesting. For instance, did you know there are yarn snobs? People who look down on yarns that are not made of natural fibers, or are not hand-spun, etcetera?

But the strangest thing, the thing that has me puzzled is this: 99% of the knitting blogs I have found are written by anti-Bush, leftwing ... knitters. There apparently was even a "Knitters Against Bush" ring of knitters in 2004 who all put a button on their blogs that said "Knitters Against Bush." I don't know where the button led, because after they LOST, the K.A.B. web page came down.

Here's my question: What is it about knitting that would attract so many leftwingers? Or what is it about leftwingers that makes them also love knitting?

Should I be using gloves when I knit lest I be infected by the needle?

Comments. Please!

Space Travel From My Living Room

I'm having an allergic reaction to the SCOTUS tsunami and to the lynch mob forming beneath Karl Rove's window, so I went looking for other things to think about.

I took a gander today at New York Magazine online. I like to do that sometimes. It passes for space travel in my world.

A guy being interviewed on the beach in the Hamptons:

Do you have a house in the Hamptons?
No. When I come I stay with friends. My ultimate goal is to have a picturesque beach cottage in Amagansett. Aesthetically, I’d borrow from the Jackson Pollock era and the contemporary surfer world.

And this is a straight guy, mind you. Who would last about 15 minutes in a Red State before someone has him admitted for observation.

Here is an old woman with the right side of her hair died blonde, and the left side died black:

Orlan, Multimedia Artist, Main Beach
What do you think of all the fake breasts out here?
As an artist, I use plastic surgery to create something different, but everybody is free to deal with existential problems in their own way. It’s about inventing yourself.

Being flat chested. Was Nietzsche thinking of that, do you think, when he drooled out his theory of existentialism? Is it really about using plastic surgery to invent yourself? Or is it about whether or not you are destined to become one of those inhabitants of the nursing home that no one comes to visit?

Oh well. Is that too dark?

Now, here's another question: if freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, is "waste of time" just another phrase for "interview with Bobby Brown"?

Here are some of his gems:

So who approached whom? How did the show come about?
Just from wanting to, you know, do something. It didn’t take much. Some friends of mine brought the idea to me when I first got out of jail.

Within five years time, I predict that the only exclusive club left in the world, surpassing the exclusiveness of even former Presidents of the United States, will be the club of people who have not had their own reality show. Wake me up when we get to "Being a Crossword Puzzle Constructor."

And where did the central idea come from? “Being” Bobby Brown?
That’s what it is. I’m just being me, on an everyday basis. Everybody wants to know what Bobby Brown is doing, so I figured I’d give it to them without the middleman.

Someone call and take the suicide watch off the middleman, okay?

Is there another reality show you’ve seen that you’ve liked?
Nah. I may have seen—what’s his name?—Ozzy, a few times. But that show’s nothing like ours. This is a whole different household.

Thank you for clearing that up, Mr. Bleeding Obvious. Over-50 white British drug addict vs. under-50 Black American drug addict. What do they have in common? In this case, too much money and attention.

...She winds up playing a large role in the show. Was there ever any talk of changing the title to Being Bobby and Whitney?
It was my idea to do the show.

So she was happy playing a secondary role?
She is Bobby. I am Whitney. There’s no difference.

Ohhhh. Deep, man. Caterwaul on, Boitney, or Whitobby!

My husband calls these kinds of posts the 21st century version of what would have been written in tiny, tiny letters on lined notebook paper and mailed to newspapers in tne 20th century.

Crying Uncle

I have always enjoyed Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" or whatever it's current title is. I love his monologues about Life in Lake Wobegone. I like the skit with the sound guy, I like Guy Noire, Private Detective, I love the comical commercials.

But more and more I notice that mostly what his show has become is just a place where Garrison Keillor can sing to a captive audience. And sing. And sing.

His voice is reedy and awful. So is his choice of songs -- well perhaps not reedy, but definitely awful.

Ever notice how some people are really supernaturally gifted at one thing, but all they want is to be successful at something else?

I think this is Keillor's problem. He's a great writer, a gifted monologist (is that the word?). But he wants to be a singer.

Listeners can surely be doing nothing less than suffering through all those endless, corny, reedily rendered songs, waiting for the wonderful speaking parts.

I'm not sure it's worth it anymore for me.

Survey Says...

There are plenty of current affairs to blog about, but I saw this old survey in an old Lileks blog entry, and I thought it was interesting, and I changed it slightly. If you want to take the survey, please send it to accidentalharpist@yahoo.com. I'd enjoy reading it. I will take the survey myself, too.

WHAT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT INVENTION OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY?

WHAT BOOK INFLUENCED YOU MOST AS AN ADOLESCENT?

YOU HAVE A GUN, ONE BULLET, AND COMPLETE IMMUNITY -- WHO DO YOU KILL?

DOES THE END EVER JUSTIFY THE MEANS?

MADELINE ALBRIGHT OR CONDOLEEZZA RICE?

MARILYN MONROE OR AUDREY HEPBURN?

CHRISTIE OR GRISHAM?

NAME YOUR FAVORITE WEBSITE.

WOULD YOU APPEAR ON THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW IF YOU WERE INVITED TO?

WHAT WAS THE FIRST RECORD, CASSETTE, OR CD YOU BOUGHT?

WHAT WAS THE LAST CASSETTE, CD OR DVD YOU BOUGHT?

MOVIE/TELEVISION CHARACTER YOU FEEL MOST EMPATHY FOR:

HOW MANY YEARS OF TELEVISION REALITY SHOWS ARE “ENOUGH” YEARS?

DO YOU THINK UNUSUAL NAMES ARE COOL AND CREATIVE, OR A SIGN OF DERANGED PARENTS?

NAME THE PLACE THAT MOST FASCINATES YOU, IN OR OUT OF THIS WORLD, THAT YOU'LL PROBABLY NEVER VISIT FOR FEAR IT'LL DISAPPOINT YOU:

COMPLETE THIS SENTENCE: "YOU COULD NOT PAY ME ENOUGH TO ..."

IF YOU HAD TO CHANGE YOUR NAME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE IT TO?

IF YOU COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT YOURSELF, PHYSICAL OR OTHERWISE, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

WHERE/HOW DO YOU WANT TO DIE?

WHICH IS MORE THRILLING, SPEED OR HEIGHT?

CROSSWORD PUZZLE: PENCIL OR INK?

RICHARD DAWSON: DEAD OR ALIVE?

IF YOU COULD MORPH BACK AND FORTH INTO AN ANIMAL FORM, WHAT ANIMAL WOULD YOU BE?

IF YOU COULD WALK INTO ANY PAINTING AND EMERGE IN THE WORLD IT PORTRAYS, WHICH PAINTING WOULD YOU CHOOSE?

ARE NOW OR HAVE YOU EVER BEEN A WELDER?

A TIME MACHINE WILL TAKE YOU ANYWHERE YOU WANT TO GO FOR ONE DAY. WHERE DO YOU GO?

YOU CAN ONLY WEAR ONE SET OF CLOTHES, WHICH WILL BE MIRACULOUSLY CLEANED AND REPAIRED EVERY MORNING WHEN YOU WAKE UP -- WHAT WILL THEY BE?

WHAT IS THE PERFECT MEAL?

Conversations at Our House: NASCAR

Larry, emerging from the bedroom at 9:43 CST on Sunday night: "The Viagra Chevrolet just went into the wall at the Coca-Cola 600."

Martha: "Do you think he went blind?"

In Which I Make My AWOL Excuses

Didn't post today, nor did I have a chance to keep up with the news. The first story I became aware of today was a local man (I use the term loosely) in Collin County just north of us who boxed up some kittens and threw them over a bridge into a river. They drowned before they could be rescued. The observer got his license plate number. I hope they throw the book (in Texas, more of a pamphlet) at this jackass. After that, I'd had enough news for the day.

One of our sons is getting married on Saturday, so some preparations are necessary on my part, and I've been busy with that. Like a rehearsal dinner for 30 people -- about one out of 4 people attending the wedding, as far as I can tell.

If that wasn't enough, we picked up Johnny Domino from the shelter again today. He's in week 1 of heartworm treatment, but they don't have any big cages. He's about 40 pounds. And they said he was going cage crazy. So we brought him home to foster for awhile--could be five weeks... where we promptly had to put him in a cage, albeit a larger one than the one he was in at the shelter. Heartworm treatment requires cage rest, and on top of that, he hates cats, so it's not as if we can integrate him into our house. He's cooling his heels in the garage, gentlemanly and sweet. How one little dog can increase the workload 100% when you already have nine other dogs is amazing.

I realize I sound like I'm complaining. I guess I am, and I got myself into it by picking the little guy up off the street. I think the complaining is just a result of a bad mood I've worked myself into. Too many irritants today.

I did take my second knitting class tonight, which turned out to be another beginner class instead of a "middle" class. So that was about an hour of wasted time, except for the 15 minutes in which I learned to PURL. I think I like it even more than the KNIT stitch. I'm finished with my first scarf except for the fringe. You can see that it cheers Hambone up no end to be used as a cheap dog model.

I think I am going to knit some stretchy, colorful dog neck cozies. I'll find a model around here somewhere and can post photos when I get that done. I expect I can finish at least one of them tomorrow on the four hours of trips down and back to Longview, Texas, where we are hosting that rehearsal dinner.

Larry will be doing the driving, and one happy outcome of knitting is that it takes my attention away from his driving, which usually drives me to distraction and/or frightens me. Now he can weave all over the road while looking around instead of in front of him and, concentrating on my knitting, I am none the wiser.

Considering how many times I've had to holler Uncle when he was bearing down at full speed onto a line of stopped cars in a traffic jam, though, I guess I better learn to knit and pray at the same time so I'll be prepared to die at all times.

Boy, am I in a foul mood.

Knitting Away

Either the medicines I am taking are really good, or I'm just having an allergy attack instead of a cold. Felt much better today.

Earlier this week I took a knitting class. It seems like a good way to pass the time -- I've read every book in my house, some more than two or three times, my favorite mystery writers are not writing fast enough, and I cannot just sit and watch television without doing something else. I don't have enough patience left for counted cross stitch, which I used to do when I was single. Ditto needlepoint.

So I'm trying knitting. I guess this is early warning: if you know me, be prepared to receive a scarf for Christmas this year! Here is my first project, a scarf knitted with multicolored ribbon. I'm a sucker for rainbow-like configurations of color. I wish you could feel how great this fabric is -- soft and stretchy. The colors are cheery and brilliant, and it's nubbly and scrunchy all at once. The ends of the scarf will be finished off with a long fringe of the ribbon.

This ribbon is knit using a large pair of needles (size 13) and that makes the knitted fabric grow really fast. I got about a foot of scarf with only about two hours of knitting. That includes a lot of stopping and starting and trying to remember what it is I am supposed to be doing. No doubt if this was being knit in normal worsted yarn, you'd be able to see all my transgressions and mistakes. But the ribbon and the big needles are very forgiving, and the mistakes don't jump out at you, I hope. I do get a little disoriented at the end of the rows sometimes, or if someone speaks to me in the middle of a stitch, and I still am working on learning to manage the ribbon so that the tension remains constant, but by this time next week I hope I'll be flying on the needles.

Next week I think we tackle the purl stitch.

Just About...

Reading a story today about Al Gore's newest bright idea reminds me of something that I really hate - I hate people who begin descriptions with this phrase: "I'm all about..." or "We're all about..."

It's lazy. It's hackneyed. It's inaccurate. It's stupid. Let me translate. It means: "I am inarticulate."

Unimportant Opinions of a Nervous Harpist

• Despite the fact that I’m just the right age to fall victim to it, the whole Star Wars thing passed me right by. It bored me to death. The Force has never been with me.
• I think Michael Jackson is a pedophile. I don’t care how much you like his singing or how empty your life is that you must fill it with obsessing about a mutating, washed up child star.
• A sofa without arms is not a sofa at all; it’s a wide chair.
• My recipe for un-fitness: never stand when you can lean, never lean when you can sit, never sit when you can lay (or lie – this rule of usage continues to baffle me well into my 40’s).
• Call your mama.
• Most of the female pop singers today are caterwauling gymnasts, and the corollary to this is that I will not spend one more minute of my life listening to singers who sing lyrics in a way that they cannot be understood (even by specially trained assistance dogs). If you do not want us to be able to distinguish any of the words in the lyrics, I have one word for you: instrumental. (A note to my husband: Yes, I can understand Michael McDonald’s lyrics. You just need to tilt your head a little bit.)
• I am tired of panhandlers. It’s against the law in our city, but there they are anyway. If I still subscribed to a local newspaper, I would keep the employment classifieds handy in my car for sharing with these panhandlers. Recently, I bought a home subscription to the Wall Street Journal. Maybe I will save those employment classifieds for my neighborhood panhandlers.
• Bill Maher’s career: Why?
• Why do young men who cannot grow a decent beard like to hang out in half price bookstores?
• I loved Cedric the Entertainer’s variety show and was sorry to see it cancelled.

• Car design has become so homogenous these days that it takes me a glance or three to identify whether it’s a Ford Focus or a Mercedes.
• Will someone wake me when the era of reality shows is over. From what I’ve sampled, the entertainment value of these shows registers somewhere between the cringe of a carnival freak show and the witty, snappy dialogue available in grocery store checkout lines.
• I’m sure this is a simpleton oversimplification, but as someone who contributes a modest amount of money every month to a 401K, ignores it for months at a time, and then is stunned by the fast growing balance every time I remember to check it, I’m in favor of President Bush’s Social Security plan.
• This saying of my mother’s about fashion can be customized for many uses, but always remains true: “If Jackie Onassis walked down Fifth Avenue with a raw cowhide on her back, there wouldn’t be a cow alive in the country by morning.”
• A Florida lawmaker wants a tax on toilet paper. Pay as you go, I’m sure. I believe they could make more money if they enacted a word tax on legislators.
• Air America is coming to Dallas, where we live. I’d rather see these Clean Cover automatic toilet seat covers come to town. They are smart, entertaining, and promote good hygiene, something I don’t think Air America can promise.