Because I know my place in all of this, I’ll tell you what you’re here for . . . Kayo is going to be fine.  He has the sort of injury dogs, and people for that matter, get from landing straight-kneed in a hole or coming off of a jump.  He gets some pain-killers for a few more days, and the ban on fetching has to continue a bit longer, and he gets to take some meat-flavored glucosamine, chondroitin, and mineral supplements from here on out.  Our charming vet did continually refer to Kayo’s "advanced age," though, which concerns me.  Scott and I have decided that the next trick we’ll teach him is "Be four again, Kayo!  Be four!  Good boy." 

Also, Scott pointed out last weekend that I still had a bunch of Borders gift certificates left over from Christmas.  But did I succumb and buy books?  No, I did not.  I bought music.  Well into the sixth month, and I remain mighty.  As promised, I’ve only bought knitting books, and very few of those.  But damn it, it is a pain in the ass to buy music at Borders.  Their stores have some asinine pricing system that randomly sells some CDs for 11 bucks, and some for 18 with no real middle ground and for no clear reason.  Also,  their stock is terribly limited, particularly for those of us who don’t go in for MTV or classical.  But we’re a bit closer to having all of the recorded Tom Waits and Bjork, and I added another Wainwright and a touch of Winehouse to the mix.

And now for the books . . .

The Areas of My Expertise by John Hodgman.

Being a devotee of hobos, I was bound to like this book.  I was pleased to see someone finally cover the great hobo-wars of the first half of the twentieth century, and the extensive list of hobo names (I just can’t manage to settle on one for myself).  Also, I am happy to now know of the old furry lobsters.  We miss you, furry lobsters.  We do.

But the book did upset me a bit.

Apparently, Chicago is imaginary.  No Chicago.  It’s all a lie.

Which seems to suggest that Rachel and Meg and Jonathan have some explaining to do.  Why the lies, friends?  Why the lies?  So much talk about an imaginary town . . . I just don’t know what to think.

Right.  Read the book if you like well-written fake history and trivia. 

The number of books and films on the right is starting to make me itch now, and after the nutty response I got to that review of several Austen adaptations, I figured I’d just review a few period-pieces at once and duck back into the shadows.

Kate Beckinsale makes a much better Emma than does Gwyneth Paltrow.  This version has a better script, a better cast, and a better director.  Nuff said.

The Illusionist: Edward Norton and Paul Giamatti are really well cast and both give great performances; the story and script are good.  I figured out the twist far too soon, but, well, I do that.  Predictable or no, I like it when justice prevails and, you know, sadistic villains get what they deserve.

The BBC/Masterpiece Theater Bleak House   mini-series is one of the best things I’ve seen in a long time.  I’m not wild about Dickens’ books, so I haven’t read the novel and am in the dark about how accurate this adaptation is.  But I don’t care!  I want to sent Anna Maxwell Martin a box of puppies, she was so good as Esther.  Gillian Anderson was wonderful as Lady Deadlock.  Burn Gorman as Guppy–priceless.  Philip Davis’s Smallweed, Charles Dance’s Tulkinghorn, and Hugo Speer!  I just loved the series.  Every minute of it.   I should break down and buy it.

They pulled it off.  The umpteenth Potomac Celtic Festival happened on Saturday on the other side of Morven Equestrian Center.  The weather was beautiful.  The turn-out seemed good.  Jinann, Jayme, and Janet came out to teach spinning.  We had a good turn out in Living History.  I did relatively little work.  We got to perform for some really charming people.  It was wonderful.  I’ll say more when I get some sleep and dig out the camera.

Kayo had a tough weekend though–he seems to have injured his shoulder Saturday night on the way back in from his walk.  So one trip to the emergency vet Sunday morning, and another trip to his regular vet coming tomorrow, and fingers crossed that it’s nothing more than a strain.  He’s really frustrated that we won’t play fetch or take him to the park, so I think it’s not that painful. 

We also finally beat our not-all-that-old dishwasher to death, so a new one must be acquired.  Grumble grumble.  I can think of better things to spend money on, my oh my.  But the new one will work, and it will not smell, and it will be here in time for the weekend.

I think I’m also nearing the end of the sockyarn blanket.  I have either three or ten more squares to go, depending on whether or not I decide to add another row, and then lots and lots of edging.  I need to start a more interesting project soon so I don’t turn against knitting.

I’d write more, but John Hartford just popped up on my tv.   God I miss that guy.  And I hate cancer–remind me to trap it in an alley and beat it to death . . .  Back to the knitting and the tunes. 

So, I finished copying all of our music to my new ipod this weekend, after more than a week of slavish tending.  Sheesh, what a pain.   I discovered that a few of our discs grew wings, which wasn’t much of a surprise.   Still, losing four out of 800 or so isn’t so bad.  And none of the stuff that ran off will be hard to replace.   What will be tough?  Arranging the myriad playlists I now need to construct so the 40 gig of music I just pumped into my new toy is really accessible.   

And I sifted through hundreds of Potomac Celtic Festival related emails to make sure I’m ready for this coming weekend.  Which you should spend at the Potomac Celtic Festival if you can. 

And we met the Yorks’s new chooks.  Someone stole all of their pullets right out of their coop.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that happening before in this area.  Anyway, the new chicks came from a school in the area, and they’re putting on weight pretty quickly and trying not to look too delicious.

And we got to see the Woodshedders and Furnace Mountain String Band out at Beans in the Belfry over Memorial Day Weekend.  What a hoot.  Dami and her family, and Mike and Tara, and a bunch of their tune-head pals were there too. Both bands sounded great, and there was a fair amount of decent clogging space.  A couple of people talked to me about giving lessons, but they all lived out near Brunswick, and thus outside of an area I’d be willing to drive to regularly to teach.  Man, the exurbs sure are big.

And some knitting happened.  I don’t want to jinx myself, but it looks like the blanket is nearing its final size.  Which is good news for my friend Elizabeth, because she is also making a blanket with leftover sock yarn, and she called dibs on whatever I don’t use.  And since she taught me to really darn socks well, her "dibs" holds water.

And we got to have Zoie and Rooney stay with us for several days while Mike and Tara were at Graves.  Rooney can fold up smaller than any dog I’ve ever met.  I think that’s the only thing Kayo doesn’t like about the pup–dogs that fold up small can wiggle between me and Kayo, and Kayo does not approve.  Still, all three dogs and both people had a great time.  Speedwell decided that Rooney was his employee, and Yarrow, surprise surprise, turned into a total scaredy-cat for the first few days.  I guess the big bad cat isn’t so bad after all. 

I tried to take a bunch of photos, but my digital camera doesn’t reach the speeds I need for these dogs.  They’re fast dogs.  Rooney is the pointer, and Zoie has her back to us: she’s a boxer/lab mix, and one of the sweetest dogs on the face of the planet.  They rarely look like this, though. 

They generally look like this:

Champion wigglers, both.  Kayo, meanwhile, remains serene in his goofiness.

And now that the extra dogs are gone, Yarrow is a holy terror, I miss the other dogs, and Kayo is negotiating for an increase in his bone allotment.

The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkein

I’ve been reading and re-reading Tolkein since I was a little kid.  I grew up with The Hobbit and Roverandom.  I was glad to finally discover a cabal of academics who loved Tolkein like I did once I started grad school.  Celticists are required to like the man:  Tolkein was a philologist, and one of the professors who made sure that the work of the great Celticist Thurneysen made a mark on British academia, and thus made it into my skull.  So I love Tolkein, and everything he touched.

A lot of people have a hard time with the Silmarillion because of its length, and because it’s a bit less action-driven than most of Tolkein’s other work surrounding the Lord of the Rings.  Tolkein died before finishing the book, which he was cobbling together from notes and previous works.  His son took over, filled some of the gaps, and published the book a few years after his father died.

Anyway, I loved the book.  Of course I did.  For the average reader of myth and fantasy, it’s a bunch of good stories.  For a myth-obsessed amateur linguist with a decent familiarity with Welsh, Irish, and Old English, it’s a puzzle plus a novel plus a good pot of tea and a snuggly blanket. 

Salt Dancers by Ursula Hegi

Salt Dancers is the story of a woman coming to terms with her own history as an abused child before she gives birth to a child she never planned to have.  Like most of Hegi’s books, the novel is intensely emotional, and deals with questions of childhood, family, abandonment, loss, friendship . . .  the biggies.

I love everything the woman writes, but I didn’t like this one quite as much as I liked the novels set in Germany.  I wanted a bit more of a story to surface connecting the protagonist and the father of her child.  I wanted her brother to have a bit more to say for his decision to allow her to be abused for years.  And Hegi wants us to want those things–I get that.  I would just have liked a bit clearer of a pay off, I guess.  But still, a very good book.

The next time I have some hideous allergic reaction to the world, possibly blended with a virus, and the mucous is getting me down, and I’m balancing the evils of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride vs. the evils of sinus and ear pain and pressure, nay, even the threat of sinus and/or ear infection; remind me of this day.  Remind me that, while I may feel a bit better two hours after I take Satan’s little red pill; the morning after Satan’s little red pill will make my teeth itch, and my jaw ache, and my stomach churn, and all of the mucous will have just plain come back.  Because even though I have this big brain that can remember songs and stories and strange facts; and even though the meth manufacturers of the world have blown up so many houses that the US finally decided to put things that contain pseudoephedrine hydrochloride back behind a nice counter where it’s hard to reach them . . . some of the Devil’s medicine still lives in my house, and it tempts me with nonsense like "maybe I’ve overcome that particular side-effect."  Evil, evil pseudoephedrine hydrochloride.   I may be shaky, but I can still throw you away, you bastard pills.  And I can wait you out, mucous, because I have all of Firefly on DVD, and the complete Lord of the Rings, and lots of Jane Austen films, and I’m not afraid to watch them over and over again. 

Addendum:
It occurred to me, Gentle Reader, that you probably gave me the benefit of the doubt and assumed that I wrote that gibberish above and promptly got back into bed.  Er, no.  I am a both a smartass and a dumbass, remember.  I got dressed; explained to Scott that I had to go to work so as not to miss a very important meeting; commuted into the city (75 minutes worth, thank you Metro); tried to work; sweltered in our 90 degree office; realized I was turning into a zombie and likely to accidentally eat someone’s brain if I wasn’t careful; then realized I wasn’t really going to be of much help in that very important meeting; forced myself to eat a muffin instead of a brain; gave up; sighed; was reminded by a coworker that, as a salaried employee, I indeed have and am expected to use sick leave instead of subjecting others to my disgusting maladies; banged my head against a desk for a few minutes; commuted home (another 75 minutes–just enough time to finish my book but not long enough to be forced to use its pages as tissues); and collapsed on my couch, buried under very demanding pets, all of whom are apparently without a shred of compassion.  Let’s see if I can be as smart again tomorrow.

Whoops.  We’ve been racing around like mad, here.  Busy busy busy (and yes, I do always and only use the phrase as Vonnegut intended.  He infiltrated my skull way back in the way back, that old coot.)  So I’ll fill all y’all in, and back-post some reviews, and try to mend my blog-neglecting ways.

First, Bodwin and Allerin came in and finished our kitchen floor, corrected some problems with our big counter, did some minor but very important roof repairs, looked over some electrical issues, and gave our dishwasher a good talking to.   It’s good enough having someone come in and do tiling and other home improvement for us.  It’s wonderful for those someones to be friends who our dog and cats love.  I don’t think Kayo has forgiven the guys for finishing.  And I can’t wait to have them back to do more.  All of my years of This Old House viewing are no replacement for their expertise.  I looked over the list, and a bit of paint, a possible new laundry room door, a bit of construction adhesive under the small counter, and some cabinet lighting are all that stands between us and a completed remodel.  Ahhhhhhhhhh.  (This is not the time to remind me that we started when rocks were soft.)

Then, we chicas Celticas went to the Potomac River Shore, like we do.  The weather was wonderful, though the water was a bit too cold for most of us.  There was great music, delicious food, wonderful company, hilarity–everything we demand, basically.

Tara, of course, took the photo with her wacky robot camera.  Thanks Tara!  And I have to point out that I somehow ended up in the tall row.  I think it was the shortest WW ever.  I should really only be in the tall row when I’m hanging out with little kids.   We didn’t bar the tall ladies or anything (well, we did bar the tall men)–a few of the taller women decided to sit on the deck there.   But I think we should all give some thought to calcium, weight bearing exercise, and yoga.

The weekend convinced me that I need an Ipod, so I ordered one and started copying all of our music.  We have a lot of music.  And copying CDs to a hard-drive has to be one of the worst accompaniments to knitting ever attempted.  Blanket progress is dramatically slowed by all of the CD wrangling and button  pushing.  But I’m up to the Is,  have about two weeks of music saved to a drive, and impatiently awaiting my new gadget.

All of the recent travel (Beltaine, MD Sheep and Wool, and the Women’s Weekend) have gotten well in the way of gardening.  But I did get a couple dozen asparagus plants in.  It cost me one of the worst allergy attacks I’ve ever had, and I got to harvest many many rocks from the vegetable bed as I worked.  So I’m afraid I’ll have to turn into one of those people who wears a surgical mask while gardening–at least while spreading gallons and gallons of compost at once.    But fresh asparagus next spring!  Worth it.

Owls Do Cry by Janet Frame

Janet Frame is another one of those authors whose books I ration.  I discovered Frame’s work after I fell for Jane Campion’s work.  The Piano led to An Angel at My Table, which was based on Frame’s autobiography of the same name and some of her other work.  Frame died a few years ago after a life of tragedy, astounding accomplishments, and gorgeous writing.  Some writers wish they would write like Dickinson or Faulkner or Shakespeare . . . I wish I could write like Frame. 

Owls Do Cry was Frame’s first semi-autobiographical novel.  It follows a New Zealand family through the death of a daughter, the mental illness and subsequent institutionalization of another, and the general tragedies of  deeply injured  children.  But the plot isn’t what normally matters in Frame’s books.  her language is intense, and beautiful, and poetic.  And right–always right.  I’m sure I’ll read it again. 

Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser.

I was a bit late to the party with this one.  I was worried that reading the book would either force me to become a vegetarian or make me afraid to ever eat anything again. 

It turns out that, as disgusting as the information about much of our food supply is, I continue to care more about workers’ rights than I worry about personally suffering from food poisoning. 

Not that I like food poisoning–it’s not fun to experience on a personal level, as I re-learned last fall.  And knowing that children, elderly people, and those with weakened immune systems are being killed by preventable food poisoning all the time in this country makes me really angry.   

But the danger to our food supply is really a symptom of how screwed up corporate law and culture is in the US.  Terrifying.  Very bad for communities and workers and consumers.  I started working on my list of who I need to boycott, and I’m afraid I now can’t eat anything that I don’t grow myself, which is a problem since I live in suburbia, can’t have livestock, have a relatively small vegetable garden, and really do like to eat animals.