Katz on Dogs: A Commonsense Guide to Training and Living with Dogs by Jon Katz

That’s me caught up on Katz’s dog books.  This time around, he focused on training advice and anecdotes, rather than just relating his own stories about his own dogs.  It’s not my favorite, but it’s not as heartbreaking any of Katz’s books where his dogs die.  I don’t know that I learned anything new about dog training, but I did appreciate having a famous dog-person agree with lots of the decisions we’ve made about our own dog and his training.  That’s plenty.

Oh, and Kayo thinks that Katz should expand his personal dog experience to Chessies

300 by Frank Miller, and 300, by Frank Miller, Zack Snyder, Lynn Varley, and some other blokes.

Comic books are good.  Frank Miller’s comic books (I’m not going to mess with the "graphic novel" distinction today) are better than most.  We finally got a copy of 300 this Christmas, so I snagged it once Scott had read it.  The artwork is what most expect from Miller–evocative, strong, violent, dark.  The story is essentially a mythologization of the Battle of Thermopylae–Miller wasn’t shooting for historical accuracy.  I like it. 

The film is, well, a movie made from a comic book.  It’s not historically accurate, and it’s not supposed to be.  Leonidas, interestingly enough, is a Scot this time around.  All of the Spartan soldiers are ridiculously sculpted.  The Persians don’t look very much like Persians.  It’s loud, violent, testosterone-laden eye-candy made using similar techniques to those used in Sin City.  Some of the lines are leaden, some are unintentionally hilarious.  But I like it.  Not everything has to be Jane Austen.

It’s easy to forget what your home town has to offer.  That’s particularly true in DC.  The traffic in this area can be so horrid that many of us hole up away from the city as much as we can.   I know it’s tough for me to work up the gumption and go back to the city after spending all day surrounded by the federales and lobbyists on K Street.  Thankfully, Scott and I remember to head in to town when folks come to visit.

This time around, Meg got us out of the suburbs.  Well, in to a different suburb, and then into the city proper.  The Uncle Earl show on Friday night was great.  At times, they are a bit too twee for me on CD–their second album, She Waits for Night, was so clean and pretty.  I’m not always a fan of pretty–I scuff things very quickly, and I offer bourbon to kittens–punk rock has stained me.  The Uncle Earl girls grit up well, though, and their tendency to group up around one mic and just play like mad won me over.  (No pictures at the Birchmere, so just believe me when I say that the musicians were lovely and charming and their stage presence is great and Kristen can still dance like a fiddle puppet and and and)  I fell down and ordered a bunch of music–just couldn’t help myself.  And and and—talk of Maryland Sheep and Wool and playing tunes and clogging is really heating up.  Woot. 

Sunday, we did what all visitors to DC must do: we ate excellent Ethiopian food.  DC has one of the largest Ethiopian communities outside of Ethiopia, so lots of Washingtonians have serious, incurable  Wat addictions.  When Meg mentioned that they were planning to go out for Ethiopian while she was in town, I’m pretty sure I bounced a bit.  I love the stuff, and the lone Ethiopian place in my neighborhood hasn’t met DC’s standards yet.  If you’ve never had Ethiopian food, um, why haven’t you had Ethiopian food?   Remedy that, please.  Right. Ethiopian food consists primarily of very flavorful stews eaten from a communal plate using pieces of a spongy, sourdough flatbread called Injera.  It’s great fun, and it’s a good place to bring people with a wide range of tastes: Injera is made from Tef, a grain few people are allergic to, and most Ethiopian restaurants serve huge amounts of very good vegetarian dishes (says an avowed carnivore who hates beans with the burning white intensity of a thousand suns).

Anyway, we had a great dinner, and Meg and I managed to talk very little about knitting while we were sharing a meal with three non-knitters.  We deserve a medal for that. 

And I’m temporarily knitting in secret . . . I’ll find something to photograph. 

I’ve been on a bit of an Austen-spree over at Netflix.  I watch one, and the tea-drinking, knitting, misty-eyed fun is just too good to let go of, so then I order others, and more, and more, and it’s all Austen all the time, and my poor dear husband has to flee to a room without a crying wife and a screen full of Brits in silly pants with stifled manners.

This time around, I started with the Colin-Firth-plays-Darcy version of Pride and Prejudice.  I’m guessing this mini-series is still seen as the gold standard of Austen adaptations.  Feature films just do not allow enough time to really get Austen’s work out to an audience, so the extended length of a mini-series does everyone better justice.  The only qualm I’ve ever had about this version–and I admit this is both petty and unimportant–is that the actress cast as Jane isn’t enchanting enough to be Jane.  Lizzie is supposed to be the sharp-tongued, less attractive sister.  Jennifer Ehle makes a great Lizzie, but you need to cast a breathtaking stunner as Jane to make the novel’s pairing of the two sisters make sense.  I love Susannah Harker’s portrayal of Jane’s grace and passivity, but they should have dolled her up a  bit more. 

Next, I finally found the Rozema-directed Mansfield Park.  I know this film has gotten a lot of criticism because Rozema broke from the text and inserted material from Austen’s personal correspondence and her juvenilia .  But, people, Rozema made that clear as day by running a little text saying exactly that during the opening credits.  Her revision of Mansfield Park is funny and bright and really enjoyable to watch.  I probably would have proposed to Frances O’Connor‘s Fanny Price too, given the chance.  The novel itself is difficult, the original Fanny is less enticing than most of Austen’s heroines, and Rozema had a point of view to get across about Austen cum Fanny (holy hell, that sentence is going to send strange people to my site).  I loved it, and I’ll probably buy it and torture my charming, Austen hating husband with it for years.

Next, it was on to the newest take on Pride and Prejudice starring Kiera Knightly as Lizzie and with luminaries like Donald Sutherland, Brenda Blethyn, and Dame Judi Dench in supporting roles.  I was prepared for disappointment.  I had high hopes for Knightly after Bend it Like Beckham, which were dashed when she was in some utter crap and seemed to be going down the brainless skeletal actress track, instead of the witty, athletic, ballsy actress track I had envisioned for her.  Well, I think the girl went and redeemed herself, and also ate a sandwich or two and played some more sports–praise be to muscle mass.  The film is gorgeous, as the best Austen films always are.  The cast is pretty damn impressive, and they fill their rolls well.  I wouldn’t necessarily chose this version over the Firth-led mini-series, because since it’s a feature it cut lots of goodies.  But it’s a really enjoyable film made with an excellent cast and lovely cinematography.  I think I’ll wallow in it too when I get the chance. 

Tomorrow is Scott’s last day working for the man.  Next Monday, he ascends the totem pole of  professional Geekery when he begins working for the game company that is making a big fancy schmancy on-line version of Warhammer.  Web Monkey no more:  Scott is now a Web Silverback.  To celebrate, go get  Bananaphone stuck in your heads please. (Weebl is slowly but surely invading my skull, what with his dancing badgers and geographically-confused big cats and strange, pie-obsessed egg-men.)

And tomorrow, I get to go see the Biscuit Burners and Uncle Earl with Scott, our tune-head pals Mike, Tara, Suzanne, and a particular Sock Knitter who will be in these parts. 

Knitting, sewing, blah blah blah.  I know you’re all here for dog pictures, and I have no new dog pictures today, so just scroll back down to Kayo. 

Kayo would like to remind you all to take the time to stop and taste the croci.

Ours apparently taste pretty good.

Spring has sprung, and projects are progressing along nicely.  Including these new fingerless mitts.

The pattern is from a Meilenweit sock yarn pattern booklet, and the yarn is Knit Picks Sock Memories in Cape Cod.  They fit very well, are toasty warm and very soft, and drove me to try two circs.  I may be a convert.  As much as I love DPNs, I had terrible trouble with ladders at the beginning of the first mitt, and switching to two circs fixed everything, and made markers much less important.

I started making a holder for circular needles ages ago, and then turned against it because I’d put some goofy machine embroidery on it.  But the lovely weather drove me back into the studio, and the need for a useful tool overcame my distaste for the machined stitches.  I keep wavering between viewing it as a prototype and viewing it as good enough.  It’s made from linen scraps backed with twill scraps for stability, both leftover from Crazy Lanea’s.  Those are some recycled glass beads there dangling at either end of the dowel I scavenged from somewhere.  The cable ends and toolie-bits from the interchangeable needles are in that little bag hanging at the top.  The holder itself is made in three levels, which allows the central strip to hold short circs and needle tips, while the back section holds longer circs. 

The numbers are hand-embroidered.

And I coincidentally made the central bit just wide enough for the Knitpicks Options tips, which was pretty lucky, since I started this little thing before they introduced their needles.   

I also finally hung the corkboard I made a while back.  I can’t bear to put much stuff on it, but a few inspirational artists’ cards from last year’s American Craft Council show found new homes.

It made me a bit less morose about being ice-bound for the 2007 show.  And reminded me how much stuff I have clanking around in my skull that needs making. 

Ghost Riders by Sharyn McCrumb

I’m a big fan of McCrumb’s.  Some people read romance novels when they need something light. . . I read regional fiction, particularly from Appalachia, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland.  I studied a lot of Appalachian lit when I was an undergrad and was pretty well immersed in both the Appalachian Studies community and the actual local Appalachian community there in Blacksburg and its surrounds.  I had the pleasure of meeting McCrumb several times, and I think I can say without reservation that the lady is astounding.  Every time I spoke to her she either made me laugh like mad or dropped some little bit of truth or inspiration in my waiting palm.  Her books are light, but her head sure isn’t. 

This may be my least favorite of her Ballad novels, and I think that’s because Nora Bonesteel isn’t making many appearances, and the music itself is figuring less in the mystery.  And, truthfully, this novel isn’t really a mystery like most of the others in the loosely-connected series.  It’s still a good read–don’t get me wrong.  But it didn’t ring as loudly in my head as its predecessors. 

As is always the case, the book is well researched, and McCrumb does a great job sketching out historical and fictional characters, male and female.  She does seem to have a tiny bone to pick this time, chastising Civil War reenactors several times through the plot itself and through the voice of Rattler, this novel’s lead seer.  I can’t call her out for that though–Civil War reenactments give me the willies sometimes, probably because so many reeneactors in Virginia seem to be rehashing a political and ethical conflict more than 100 years gone. 

The shining stars in this novel are the characters Malinda Blalock, a woman who ends up serving in both the Confederate and Union armies, and North Carolina’s Confederate Governor Zebulon Baird Vance, a historical character McCrumb places front and center in the novel.  Vance is great fodder: he was a pro-Union politician who ended up serving the Confederacy in both military and political roles because he felt bound to his locality.  I’m certainly no expert on Vance, but McCrumb’s characterization of him is fascinating and rings true throughout. 

The only band for whom I will act like a groupie has finally released a new album for me to flog.  And flog it I shall.  Get to buying:  Tinsmith: An American Wake .  If you’re one of those kooky kids who must hear tunes before forking over the cash, it’s no problem.  You can listen to track upon track right there on CD Baby.  Hells yeah.  Keep your eyes out for a release party soon.  Woot!

The Devil’s Backbone is a sort of prequel to Pan’s Labyrinth.  Set in the Spanish Civil War, adults again endanger children, and children save the day.

This film is set in a boy’s boarding school attended primarily by the sons of rebels.  The school is haunted by the ghost of a murdered student, and the students and teachers are terrorized by a duplicitous handyman.  This film is a bit less dream than its sibling but still wonderful and hugely affective. 

Knitting Memories by Lela Nargi

I picked up this sweet little book at the Knitters Review retreat last fall, read a tiny bit of it, and then lost it in one of the piles of unread books in my house.  I picked it up again, and found it to be great subway reading.  As is generally the case, some of the essays shine out from the rest.  I particularly liked Lela’s essay, Clara’s essay, and the piece called "Virginia" by non-knitter Cedric Chatterly.  As is also generally the case, a few of the essays fell a bit flat for me.  I can accept that, though–I’m just so happy to see outlets for writing about knitting and its role in our culture.