Here’s Erin, coming along at a very slow rate. I’ve been busy, that’s all. Here is Junieann’s Erin, and Nyl’s, and one from Tricotfolk. Elizabeth H. is planning to make this entire sweater in 16 days for the Knitting Olympics. I assume that she does not have a job or a life, but I look forward to watching her progress. Indeed, I plan to root for her.
When the kids were small, we used to attempt to pay attention to the Olympics and choose a country (other than our own) to root for. I am not a true sports afficonado, and tend to root for teams on the flimsiest of grounds. For example, I am pulling for the Seahawks to win the Superbowl because they have a cooler name. I understand that the Knitting Olympics is not competitive, but since my support of athletics obviously is pretty perfunctory, I do not feel that it will alter anything if I root for Elizabeth H. I do not know who she is and cannot find her blog, so it may be a very abstract sort of rooting. (That word is beginning to sound extremely strange. I’ll stop here.)
Yesterday at Book Club, we had a most entertaining discussion about The Great Gatsby. The discussion ranged from the book itself to other books of the time period, to history, to the behavior of men and of women, to the class structure of the U.S. (which we do not like to admit that we have at all), to regional differences. It was fun.
At work, I am unpacking boxes. I take the stuff out of the box, find its label, put the label on, rearrange things to provide a place for it, and put it away. This allows me plenty of time to think, and in my mental spare time while my body is working I have figured out most of the details of the murder for the writing contest which Chanthaboune and I are entering.
At one point during the day she called me. “Ah, yes!” I said, “I’ve figured out what to do about the blood.” I went into a good bit of detail on the subject while my colleagues looked askance at me. Any customers who overheard probably slunk away in fright.
At home, I have given up reading The Food of Love, because it turns out to have very little of the story in it, being at least half composed of lascivious descriptions of food. Yes, you heard me right. And the food itself, while doubtless delicious, is largely repugnant to me. I do not have any desire to become a vegetarian, but I am a slight and squeamish meat eater. Half a pound of meat is sufficient for me to feed six people (unless they are boys from Kansas City, in which case I figure one pound per person and hope it will be enough). And all the meat that I buy is neatly divided into rectangles bearing no resemblance to any animal. Sniffing the mouth and anus of a baby bunny before skinning and gutting it is, to me, a repellant scene. Continuing on with all the things involved in making that hare into a pasta sauce does not improve it. And bringing sex into the equation really doesn’t improve it.
So I have moved on to the Spenser books, kindly suggested to me by feebeeglee, bless her. In general, my idea of a hard-boiled detective is Arly Hanks, but I am really enjoying this book. The narrator is wittier and smarter than most, in addition to being a man of integrity. Well, he has shot someone, but for a hard-boiled detective, he is as he claims pure of heart. I am hoping that some of this will rub off on the story I am writing. Pureness of heart comes naturally, but hard-boiledness does not. Chanthaboune is reading Greek philosophers, which is unlikely to provide any useful influences.