I’m shocked and horrified by the devastation caused by the hurricane and the resultant floods, which means I’m also avoiding computers and TVs because they show me things that make me cry.  I hope you and yours are safe and sound, and that you can help by donating time and/or money to reputable relief organizations.  I’ll talk about knitting soon.

The Thackery T. Lambshead Pocket Guide to Eccentric & Discredited Diseases by Mark Roberts and Jeff Vandermeer is silly and cute and a pretty fun read.  I picked up a copy for my friend Tara when she finished her bio masters program at Hopkins, and I couldn’t help but grab one for myself.  The book is an anthology of imaginary diseases invented by a slew of sci-fi and fantasy writers.  A few are priceless, and I was not surprised at all that Michael Moorcock and Neil Gaiman wrote most of the reports that were the funniest and most inventive.  It’s not an Earth-shattering good book, but it’s nice way to pass the time here and there.  Toss if on your coffee table and read a disease or two a day.

First, sorry about the low knitting content.  But there was no knitting in the Iron Age, and I am the crazy, like it says right up there.  So I didn’t knit while I was away, because it might have ruined someone’s dream.  Soon I will talk about knitting again.  I just got a lot of Mission Falls wool, and it’s one of my favorite yarns to knit with, and they’re apparently going to stop making it, so I have to have it all, at least the pretty colors, and I love run-on sentences today. 

Second, I was lazy with my camera there on vacation.  I did take some pictures.  I just haven’t downloaded them yet.  But Anubh has.  She is quick like bunny . . .er. . . mousy.  Whatever.

Let’s make a deal.  I will send you to some lov-er-lee photos of out trip to Celtic summer camp, and you will promise to believe me when I say that I normally look oh so much better than I do in one particular picture over there in the album.  Cuz I am not looking my best, no no.  Deal?  Deal. 

Oh, and I’m headless, but in one particular picture I am carrying an exquisite Swedish reproduction of a ridiculously intricate Iron-Age claw goblet . . . we call her "pimpy the cup."  Know what’s in it?  Pabst Blue Ribbon, my friend, PBR.  Many large dollars worth of glass work (since, um, well, kind of broken but still pretty on a shelf.  There was an incident involving placement on a southern pole and then a meeting with a wicker man and . . . nevermind ) filled with a few cents worth of cheap but delicious beer.  I was drinking that in honor of our Volsunga, all of whom have the audacity to exercise their darn free will, which I’m not sure they’re even supposed to have in the first place, and all of whom were not with us at summer camp.  Durn blasted free will.  So guys and dolls, Etaine, Keegan, Olis, and I drank your beer for you.  Because we are true friends, yes yes, and we are willing to take many for the team, and to defend the PBR from defamers, and to eat sausage. 

It’s official: Cheaper than Therapy will be out on September third, and it will include a little something something by little ol’ me.

The Hoghead, hatted:

And prepared for the krotchpunting.  He must be wearing the Green Boot.  Yes yes, he must.
We can tell that your knee is laughing Samir, and we are not pleased.  Perhaps the Green Boot is destined for you?  Or perhaps, since you have obviously toiled under the (delicately embroidered, silk and linen, with the lovingly hand-tooled accoutrements) sign of the Krotchpunt, you are a man without fear?  Either way, you tempt fate, my friend.  Your employer stands beside you positively kvelling and you giggle. Brave.

Hoghead: Proud as an Ass-yrian God, we say:

That man knows how to appreciate a fine hat with fine handles, particularly suited to pulling him out of whatever mess he gets himself into.  And for that, we salute you, oh fourth recipient.  And we encourage you to wear it in cooler weather, so as not to fall down with the heat prostitution er, prostration.  Because if you fall down, someone may take your hat, and then all would be lost.

And here, the first shadowy member of the mafia, finally captured on film.  Eeeet’s veerrrrrryyyyy scaaarrrrryyyyy if you clicky clicky . . .

Seriously, she is so scary, that brownie with the fine hat, that she giggles with the delight the entire time she threatens a life.  No joke.  I think she eats babies.  Or at least tender little lambies.  We were fortunate to escape with all of our digits.

Saluti il primo membra, l’uovo.

During our adventures, we measured many many crania and discussed the colors of wool and the options for decorations.  (We love) Drac (and he lives here) was wise enough to name a couple of colors and trust all else to the hatters.  Scaigheach had wishes for leafy goodness, to which the hatters were immediately drawn.  The ladies, during gaity time, discussed hopes for a hat of such masculine aspect . . . but I should say no more lest I betray the vision of my fellow hatters.

And, as we suspected, Feltuna was too demure for Richard (who the ladies again declared dreamy, and who has apparently been cast in a movie produced by the ladies–of intrigue!).  It will be remade yes yes, and it will be awe-inspiring (but perhaps rather warm and a little itchy).

Dear Diary,

Not so much with the sunrise counting anymore.  The weather has been really really hot.  The stick-fighting got under way and I tried not to miss it all that much, and that seemed to work.  The heat probably helped convince me that abandoning my more martial hobby was a good idea, what with my lack of heatstroke. 

I did a little more shopping and some more browsing and found some great stuff.  I also managed to photograph a thing I made before you were around.  I know I know, I always told you that before you there was just me waiting on a block of ice for a Diary of my very own.  I forgot to mention that I occasionally worked with fiber while waiting for you.  Don’t be mad.  I did it for all the right reasons.  Namely: love of craft, because I could, and shits and grins:   

Those are hand-tooled little green boots.  And the image, of course, is one of the illustrations from Master Gustav Von Snicktengruben’s Krotchpunt: A Fectbuch.   One of the funniest most edifying things I’ve ever read.  See my handiwork em-biggened:

This is from the section of the buch that explains ridding yourself of children who vex you.  It is both the handy and the dandy, with the numbered steps for tot-removal.  Creating this was quite a public service.  The gold is linen (out of which I made Richard a tunic) and the blue silk (out of which I made Skutai and lurvly Mongolian tunic).  But please don’t look at the stick very hard.   I am not eligible for a woodworking merit badge.  Someone who is might could replace that thing. 

I photographed the best bits and bobs I have picked up:
Bronze and antler sickle:

Hot damn giant granulated silver lunik:

Horde of goodness:

Which includes the lovely atlatl and darts Keegan gave me as a gift, last year’s awesome repro pitcher and this year’s awesome repro bowls, and the fantastically beautiful felted rug I snagged from Liadan as soon as I found out it was available.  I heart it.  She and Dubh made it in the traditional Mongolian manner out of undyed wools in a traditional pattern.  It has some leafy bits on it because I had no choice but to use it constantly while we were still in the woods. 

I guess I don’t know what else to tell you about Celtic Summer Camp, Diary.  It’s over, and that’s sad.  It was mostly very very good, with a few dots of not-so-good for spice.  It was the best day ever.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything.  Yep, I finished it fast, and then immediately started reading the series over again. 

Another step towards a darker storyline with more mature themes.  I thought the parallels to the "war on terror" were well placed.  I wish I was surprised by the big surprise at the end, but I wasn’t.  I knew it was coming a couple of books ago, and I’m actually surprised it took this long.  It has more parallels to the Lord of the Rings and some standard fantasy tropes, but many young readers will find such ideas new, so that’s all good. 

I love that Dumbledore loves to read muggle knitting magazines, and that we have Mrs. Weasley busy at her knitting.  I am glad that questions of romance are bubbling up, and hope we see some of the main characters continue to move towards real adult paths, full of promise for love, success, and happiness.  I guess I won’t say any more about it though.

Like I said, I took the opportunity to reread the rest of the series, and I’m glad I did.  A couple of weeks of power-reading got me through all six and cleared up some foggy bits in the story-line for me.  And it was fun.  Yay that.

Dear Diary,

I finished my class prep for Early Period Arts and Sciences Day next week.  This one’s a killer:
How to Be a Bad-Ass Bard in Three Easy Steps
Step One: Be F’ing Brilliant
Step Two: Be Really Charismatic
Step Three: Work Your Ass Off
It worked for Etaine, it worked for Anubh, and it apparently works for me.  If this class doesn’t make me rich, nothing will.  Sheesh, I should have put it into book form first.  Doofus. 

What else, what else.  Days run together here at summer camp, you know.  Ooh, I gave Roderick his very silly hat.  And he jumped around and laughed, and I issued an order that he not wear it much during the daytime, what with it being hot as blazes and him turning purple while wearing it.  Gretchen seemed pretty tickled by it too, which is good. Gotta impress the ladies, you know.  She also said that the embroidered banner I gave them last year hangs in a place of honor in the Mandrake office, which made me all misty.  Richard’s hat is, as I thought it would be, too small.  Which means I get to do it again, but better.  He laughed a fair bit when he saw it and again when he wore it up at the shop, so I won’t have to eat it.  I think eating it would have had rather detrimental effects.  What a story to bring to the ER, eh? Oh, and we are, slowly but surely, turning Hannah’s eyes towards the iron age.  Teeheehee.  This year: a striped linen tunic and some pants.  Pants on a young woman who was raised doing mostly 14th Century stuff–Earth-shattering!  Next year: a torc.

I’ve been sewing like mad.  Lots of hems to finish off.  And some luceting.  Which I hate.  Ooh, but Etaine likes it, so I showed her how and she made one of the cords I needed for Scott’s hat, and then her art bees started clamoring to make strange luceted things out of handcut deerskin lace.  I wonder when she picked up the crack habit?  Anyway, I took her up to the merchant area and she picked out a lucet and some books at Brush Creek Wool Works.  And I accidentally got some lovely flax to spin, using my inscrutable spinning bowl of course.  And some lovely roving for Jayme, who has developed a spinning habit. 

Oh, and we were sitting up on the crassy knoll, like we do, having eaten some fine sausage (still a  fest, of course) and some delicious ribeyes and some baked potatoes.  And Keegan offered Etaine and me icy cold PBRs, and we drank them gleefully and asked for more.  And, apparently, that really confused many of the guys–the highly educated, brilliant ladies drinking the beer of the cheapness.  I wish I’d had a tape recorder.  Adon may never recover.  "Those aren’t really PBRs, are they?  Those are expensive beers wearing disguises, right?"  Barharhar. 

And then Scott got here, and a stupid evil little yellowjacket stung him in the middle of the night.  When vespids are supposed to be sleeping, not stinging my fellah.  So he’s in charge of the extermination program now, which is good because he’s so much taller than I am.  And thus swats way higher up in the air with the special vespid-squishing expensive Israeli sandal.  If you’re gonna do it, do it right. 

It was the best day ever.

Dear Diary,

The queens are dead.  Long live the Queen (o’ da Bog).  I am no longer covered in bees, though I am likely to continue murdering yellow jackets for at least the next two weeks.  Every day or so, assume that I’m lighting the ground on fire.  Ahem: “GROUND’S ON FIIIIIRE.”

Today I set up a proper tent in its proper location and bribed some of the fellahs to bring me a picnic table, and some other fellahs put some stuff together for me and hung my nice homemade fly while I swooned and fanned myself and offered them cold ones.  It was nine million degrees.  And then with the kitchen building and the wall hanging and the organizing and the wearing of the pretty linen and silk clothes and the aaaaamberrrrrrr.

And then came the bronze-ogling and the linen trade.  Richard and I have a deal.  I think we came up with it not long after I was inclined to weave him the maddest of all belts–white on white wool of varying weights in an intricate stripey pattern visible only to the most intent of starers–and he was inclined to give me a replica of Altuna.  In addition to the helmets, he makes a few fantastic little things out of bronze, and I make clothing that he finds fantastic, and we trade.  We trade first.  No one else gets to pilfer the bronze items until I’ve gone through them, and no one else gets to go through Crazy Lanea’s basket of handmade clothing until Richard has gone through it.  And while I understand that many people don’t have a way with the fabric, I think I’m getting far too fantastic of a deal in all of this.  I mean, making clothes is easy.  Pouring bronze and carving antler and hardwoods would likely cost me some fingers and toes-es.  And maybe a leg.  Apparently, I am a danger to myself.  Anyway, each of us spends the first few days of Celtic Summer Camp listening to little comments like “why don’t you two go trade instead of sitting here yakking like middle schoolers” or “I would be so much more inclined to do some camp work if I knew I would have a nice new outfit to change into” or “Richard, get your butt over to Lanea’s now–cuz I want some fricking new clothes and she won’t let me see what she brought until you’ve picked out what you want, slowbee!”

I walked away with a gorgeous antler-handled bronze sickle and he got some tunic-y goodness.  All is well in the universe.  And then the first of the guys descended on the basket and it was a madhouse.  It’s like they have no Mommies to sew for them or something.  (Oh man, what a sad thought, Mommy-less-ness.  Now I’m all teared up again.  Sap.)  Have I mentioned that Etaine and I are the only girls here so far?  This year, well, it’s kind of a sausage-fest first week.  Seriously–we’ve decided to eat sausage every day in honor of the sausage-fest that is this event.  Saturday, we ate fantastic Boar’s Head hotdogs.  Man, those were good hot dogs.  Sunday: Chicken and roasted garlic sausages.  Monday, well, Monday is far away.  I think.  The wasp-piiizon is still in me, and it’s apparently mixing with some adult beverages and makin’ my head foggy.  ThankyouandgoodnightPittsburgh.  It was the best day ever.

Dear Diary,

Today I stayed awake for several days in a row.  I got to my favorite place in Pennsylvania, set up my temporary tent, avoided the unwashed masses, and wandered around like an eeejit until I found Bodwin and Keegan, snuck down to an empty field very early in the morning, wandered around some lovely wooded hills, rounded up some uppity tables and, um, moved them to areas they would find more comfortable, encouraged them to feel secure and remain faithful, and then found Dog and Bannon wandering around laughing about their own version of the same dance.  Then we sat around laughing at other folks with no night-vision at all looking for tables and cursing at the ones they found, which were strangely difficult to move.  Then we walked back to the soon-to-be-baking-plain, and I gave the boys a very big bottle of vodka, which may or may not have kicked their narrow behinds.  And I retired to my tent for some lounging, but no sleep.  Never sleep.  And then Adon and Llyr showed up and made lots of noise.  And then we woke up the neighbors who were silly enough to try to camp next to us, what with our guffawing and our shouting and our general tendency to hog all of the fun.  HAR HAR HAR.

And then some really dumb people slowed down my day by thinking there was any use in arguing about how much land my friends and I planned to use.  And then I got my way, like I do, and all was well.  And then I drove down to Mid-High-Boggia and started unpacking.  And then I was covered in bees. 

Seriously.  I. was. covered. in. bees.  Well, yellowjackets.  I don’t recommend it.  They had decided to move into the sacred "Crazy Lanea and Skutai’s Ancestral perfect 10×10 leveled spot with the spirally edged paths and the kitchen area all marked out and the green sky and general wasp-less loveliness" without checking with the park rangers.  Anyway, I chucked the tent poles off the roof of my truck and that got them riled right up.  Whoops.  So. Covered in bees.  The first sting was kind of funny, and I made with the witty "Ooooh, you want  a piece of me, Mr. Yellowjacket?  Ok, sure, I upset your Queen.  Go ahead and make with the bravery and the stinging." banter.  The second sting was annoying.  I started sauntering down the hill towards the guys saying things like "I’m covered in bees."  They thought I was joking.  They know Eddie Izzard.  A few of the little buggers were stinging my shoes so fervently that it looked like they were trying to breed little Yellow Jacket/Expensive Israeli sandal love-children.  So I sat down and Bannon reminded me to take off my kicky toe ring and lovely, Ottuell-made wedding ring before it was too late.  There were still lots of bees around.  A couple of the fellahs circled me smashing yellow jackets, and I threw those expensive Israeli kicks very far away from me so the stingy, shoe-fetish-having lust-muffins could have the alone time with my shoes they so clearly craved.  And then I took a lot of Benadryl and declared to all who could hear that I refused to go into shock of any kind, because it would be downright tacky to ruin anyone’s vacation that way.  And then I was Benadryl dumb for a long time.  But still no sleep.  Exclamations like "don’t go over there unless you want to be covered in bees like Lanea was!" abounded.  No one with allergies was stung.  In fact, I was the only one they got for days.  It’s good to be the Queen.

And then we lit some nests on fire.  We found six around our camp.  Please know, dear readers, that I am still the tree-hugging dirt-worshipper you know and love.  But those bitches had to die.  It was me and mine against them and tharn.  So first wasp bombs.  And then the burnination.  And then more wasp bombs.  And more burnination.  And a little target practice, to get our point across.  The boys were all very helpful.  They are my heroes.  I finally struggled against the Benadryl haze just enough to get really weepy and embarrass Dog and Bannon into telling me not to cry.  To which I responded "I’m a girl!  I’m supposed to cry now, boys!  Frankly, they may take back my uterus, I was so tough when the actual stinging was happening."  Which soothed them appropriately.  And then I prepared temporary accommodations, because I knew we really needed to set more yellowjackets on fire before I could put my canvas tent up, and that I didn’t really want to set my tent on fire again (one million choruses of "Tent’s on fire" were enough last time around, thankyouverymuch.)  And I had to explain to many people what had happened, and all of them agreed that burnination was the only option.

And after the temporary accommodations were built (read "earth-pimple of dome tent nastiness") I started thinking long and hard about just how dangerous it would be to drive to a hotel with that much Benadryl in my system.   And then, thankfully, I turned around and saw Richard coming down the hill a whole day early.  He killed some more bees for me, and he loved his hat (another story for another day), and assured me that all of the evil evil vespids would be gone and that it would be deadly stupid to drive.  And then those crow-heads made something lovely for me to eat and patted me on the head and tucked me in, and I think I slept for two years or so.

It was the best day ever.