Back fooling around with jersey fabric…this time in more than one sense. Stef, one of my favorite internet wits and fabulous NJ native has been wont to describe leopard print as “the New Jersey Neutral.” And it’s true…leopard print can go with or on just about anything. In this case, I think the overall effect is reasonably subtle and subdued…for leopard print, of course.
Surplice-bodiced dress from Simplicity 3775…sleeve pattern adapted from Simplicty 4076. Somehow, I felt that this dress would look better with short flutter sleeves than with any of the sleeve options provided with 3775. I have thus far made this dress without the ruched midriff panel, but Slapdash Sewist had good results with it, and as I have a similar figure, I think it would work just fine for me, too.
Here’s a closeup of my kickass Ultrasuede neckline trim.
It would probably be a little better if the Ultrasuede were a little stretchier, but I really, really wanted a contrast neckband, didn’t have any other knit fabric, and liked how the tan Ultrasuede looked against the leopard print Jersey. It stands away from the neck a bit like a kimono neckline is supposed to, so I pretend that it is a nod to Japanese style.
Here is the departing view. This is a seriously good sashaying dress, I might add.
This is the other dress I’ve made with this pattern.
I definitely like the surplice neckline better and will use it with all future iterations of this pattern. It’s thrifty on fabric, works great for my figure, goes together super easy, and is really, really cute. This is definitely a pattern I will be copying on to Tyvek for posterity.
This tickled my funnybone today. I’d been wanting to hear Janis Joplin’s famous “Mercedes Benz” and came across the parody. I must say that whomever it was sang this song did a damn fine job of mimicking Joplin’s iconic gravelly wail. Ace stuff.
And while I’m on the Janis tear, here are two more videos, one of Janis Joplin with Big Brother and the Holding Company with the song that became their breakout hit, “Piece of My Heart”
And here’s the first recording of “Piece of My Heart,” by Erma Franklin, Aretha Franklin’s older sister.
That song sounds glorious under either woman’s handling, tragic though they lyrics actually are.
Once when I was about 14, I guess, my family went to Hay Springs, NE for some errand. Hay Springs is a little, shabby town of no especial distinction. You can find towns of similar stature and countenance pretty much anywhere in the central United States. Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, Missouri, South Dakota, Ohio, Minnesota, Illinois…you name it. Towns between 800 and 2,000, Windblown, maybe a little weather-beaten. The water tower may be the highest point on the horizon for quite some miles around. Populations dwindling since a peak in the 1920s.
Anyway, on this particular day that we were in Hay Springs, I chanced to notice a house that comes back to my “mind’s eye†from time to time for some reason I can’t divine.
Just like Hay Springs is no Great American Ideal of a town, this house wasn’t anything special or noteworthy. It was a mostly-rectangular storey-and-a-half house with a gable end facing the street. An addition had been built on the back of the house at a right angle, probably not too many years after the main body of the house had been built, and the whole structure was painted white, which was chipping away in large patches, exposing graying lapped-siding beneath. It had a porch built across the front of it, with green Astroturf on the porch floor and grey asphalt shingles on the porch roof, matching the grey asphalt shingles on the main roof of the house.
The main distinguishing feature of this plain little house in that plain little town was that the two windows in the street-facing gable were open, and the bottoms of a set of frilled, lemon-yellow curtains had been sucked out the open window and were fluttering gaily above the grey porch roof.
Presumably it was a bedroom. At the time, I guessed it was another girl’s bedroom, and I hoped she was hanging out in there, enjoying a library book, FM102 (the sole popular music radio station in the area), and maybe a popsicle. That’s what I’d have been doing if I’d been at home in my own room, rather than out running errands with my parents. Holding the pages of my book or magazine with both hands against the stiff breeze racing through the rooms, and vicariously going “somewhere else†through those printed words.
So, sometimes, unbidden, I remember those flapping, be-ruffled yellow curtains, and the idea of what I’d do with a free afternoon if I were 14 and living in a tiny Midwestern town. And it’s not necessarily that different from what I might do with a free afternoon, at age 34, in a sizeable Midwestern city.
Sometimes I click on the sidebar ads on Facebook, so as to sort of pay for the service, you know. So today, there were a really cute pair of shorts on the sidebar…neon green and shocking pink diamond patterned hotpants. Completely obnoxious and inappropriate for everything, but also totally eye-catching. Which, I’m sure was the idea of using them for the sidebar ad.
So I clicked through and looked around a bit. From the same manufacturer who brought you the shorts linked above is this jacket, which on first glance I thought was rather ugly, but which quickly grew on me, mostly on account of the clever use of the boldly printed fabric as well as the obviously meticulous tailoring and construction. The high-standing, rolled over collar and winged cuffs and the pretty piping are nice details, and the subtle mother of pearl buttons are the perfect complement to the deluxe Paisley type design of the fabric. I could actually see myself making and wearing a jacket not unlike this. I like drama (but only when it comes to my wardrobe!)
Not everything on the Taigan website is that inspiring, though. Or maybe it is inspiring, but all that it inspires is ire. This fugly little silk blouse pissed me the hell off. That is one completely unacceptable blouse in just about every possible way. Its most egregious sin is the complete and utter disregard to matching the very obvious, bright, distinctive striped fabric. Along the center front seam, not even the tiniest hint of an effort has been made to match the stripes. This is a #1 sin in sewing. This would get you a D- in freshman home-ec and a serious talking-to from your 4H Project Leader. There is absolutely no excuse for such shoddy craftsmanship. They have BOLTS of this fabric…certainly they could spare a few extra inches per blouse to match patterns. And it’s a bold, balanced stripe pattern joining along a simple, straight seam. It should be an absolute breeze to make a blouse like this correctly. I’m almost tempted to assume they made it wrong on purpose, just to be contrary. Surely they should know better!
And speaking of matching patterns, I have a new project on the table. I’d wanted a new winter coat that was not of the butt-ugly athletic persuasion. I wanted wool, I wanted earth-tones, and I wanted femininity. I think I will have all of the above in the following:
I’m planning on using dark brown 8-wale corduroy for the collar, cuffs, and pocket trim on the jacket, and lining it with wool crepe, which I have not yet chosen. Yes, I will be modifying the pattern a bit to integrate hipline pockets with contrasting flap closures and contrasting cuffs, because I think they will look cool. I can’t feature a coat without pockets. It just isn’t possible!
I’m pretty excited about this project. It will be stylish and girly, but not pink/purple/light-blue like all of the athletic apparel for women. Also, it is not polyester/nylon/etc., which gets to smelling like armpits before the average week is out. I sort of like my orange Pearl Izumi jacket, but it gets so freakin’ skanky so freakin’ quickly. GROSS! Wool is a good choice for insulation, as well as for not getting all stinkified all the time, plus this fabric is hand-washable, thus easy-care as far as I’m concerned.
Some years ago, before the Performing Arts Center was being built, the site was an empty lot which sometimes sprouted construction debris, household waste, and random rubble.
This scurffy old bathtub was one of the denizens of the lot before it was ousted in favor of what is becoming quite an arresting structure – a pass between the Sydney Opera House and a rolled-up armadillo, clad in shiny silver metal sheathing (I want to say sheet aluminum) the new Performing Arts Center is a striking and attractive addition to the downtown skyline.
I like looking down from Penn Valley Park at it…it looks like some kind of fanciful alien crustacean squatting amidst the towers of the business district.
Direct quote from a kid who’d stopped by Friz tonight to spectate. We were taking a break and chatting with the newcomer who’d voiced interest in the game. He was riding an IRO fixie, which would have been supremely difficult (if not somewhat dangerous) to try to play Friz on. So various among us were suggesting he surf the garage sales and/or Craigslist to find himself an old mountain bike of decent quality for Friz.
But he didn’t seem interested in getting a mountain bike, and I think part of it was a generation and fashion thing. He sported the floppy Bieberesque hair and tight jean shorts which signify a particular current subculture, along with that IRO fixed gear bicycle.
It was another encounter with the generation gap.
Much (but not all) of the Friz crew these days is over 30. We’re constantly inviting passers by, and occasionally lure a few fixie kids into the mix. They generally seem to be having a lot of fun, but they seldom come back. Friz can be tricky and it’s definitely fast paced, but skilled riders usually catch on quickly.
I think the image factor of playing a stoneresque pick-up game with a bunch of “old people” is part of what kills it.
Which is entirely too bad. Friz is a damn good time, and getting better all the time. The institution of our potluck picnics has been a great boon. The snackage is hard to beat. Likewise the not-spending-money-on-mediocre-Westport-bar-food is a benefit not to be taken lightly.
I think, also, some of the younger set who poo-pooh mountain bikes have never ridden them properly. You know. Offroad.
I commuted for many, many, many years on that old Trek 800. It’s not really a fun bike on the street. It’s not that great of a mountain bike, but I can tell you, it’s a hell of a lot more fun to ride that thing on dirt (or at least grass) than it is to schlep around town on it.
Friz Machine
If you’ve only ever ridden a mountain bike around the subdivision, then you just don’t have much of a concept of what mountain biking can be. Real, honest-to-goodness trail riding (and not just piddle-putzing around on a gravel “multi-use-path,” can really be a sublime experience.
It’s about the closest I’ll probably ever get to meditation. Working with your bike to work with the terrain, soaking up the fresh air, taking in the lush, green scenery (or the romantically gnarly bare trees, if it’s fall or winter). How can you possibly say “piffle?”
The constant building and testing of skills is gratifying; you can actually mark your accomplishments by which logs you can clear, which rock gardens no longer unseat you, and how quickly you make it through a particular loop. Or you can take it all leisurely and take pictures, cool your toes in a creek, or stop and watch a cicada unfurl itself out of its old carapace.
Maybe I’m “stuck in the past” because I like to mountain bike, but I’ll happily roll with it, especially if I’m rolling the sweet “whoopdy-doos” of the Lawrence River Trails.
Minnie is really into taking naps. It’s pretty much her favorite thing.
At 11, she is finally mellowing out. After several years of being intentionally kind to her, whether or not she wanted him to, Joel has broken through her nasty attitude, and discovered the sweet, cuddly cat within. In the past couple of years, her behavior has really turned around and she’s a pretty sweet creature nowadays. She is a snuggler! And since she is a cat possessed of the most delightful, silky fur, it is a treat now that she wants to sit on your lap, or lean up against you while you’re laying in bed reading.
I took these pictures just before I went to take a nap, myself. Minnie “shared” my naptime with me.
So…another Dirty Kanza 200 has come and gone, and I was on hand as a helper-varmint again, though this time as support crew for Joel and Wade. Which meant driving Joel’s pickup from one tiny Kansas town to another, with a 5-gallon water cooler in the back (as well as a cooler of food and a box containing tools, parts, extra shorts, and god knows what else)
First stop was in a miniscule township known to those who know it as Cassoday. As far as anyone knows, 129 souls reside within the Prairie Chicken Capital of Kansas.
The principal attraction of Cassoday, if you’re asking me, is the old train station, which has been brought inland from the tracks and is stationed pretty much squarely smack in the middle of town.
I peeked in the windows and was gratified to learn that it has been set up to look much like it must have looked circa 1900. I took a few pictures through the closed windows, and would very much like to have had a chance to actually go inside. Perhaps someday I will.
I got to Cassoday a good two hours before any riders were due, as I wanted to get a good location so that Joel and Wade wouldn’t have to search for me to get their supplies, and also so that I would have time to take a little bike ride for myself before I needed to be back and on duty. So I got parked and organized and took off for a little spin, then came back through town and took the pictures linked above. At that point in the day, the weather was completely beautiful…maybe 75-80 degrees, light breeze…lovely!
At 60 miles, Joel and Wade came in grinning and laughing. In fact a lot of riders came in at that point still looking pretty fresh and chipper. The weather was still pretty co-operative, and the general atmosphere of enthusiasm was infectious. They re-watered quickly and headed back out for the next 40 miles. I hung out with my friend Susan, whose husband John was not only making his first attempt at DK200, but was doing so on a singlespeed Pake with ‘cross tires on it. Big brass ones on that man. He came in with a smile on his face, sailing on endorphins, I’d reckon. Pretty shortly after saying “hi” and “best wishes” to John, I headed for stop 2, in Florence, KS.
Now I’d laid eyes on Florence, KS about a month earlier, on an astoundingly ill-fated pre-ride, whereupon all four of us who’d planned to ride together were in some stage of malaise. I was having wicked period cramps. Joel had a stern case of hay-fever. Christie was flat-out overworked, and Tim was recovering from a cold. On that particular day, the day dawned at about 50F and the temperature fell steadily. By the time we all packed it in around noon, we’d ridden about 30 miserable miles and wrote it off as “just one of those days.” But it is an ill wind that blows no good. That ride had started off from Florence, which has a delightfully scenic downtown.
This old stone house, though abandoned, is still a rather handsome ediface.
The carved pediments over the windows provide a touch of the outstanding to this otherwise straightforward stone wing-and-ell dwelling.
A very typical two-shop building on the main street. There are similar commercial buildings in small towns across the midwest. This one particularly reminds me of a row in Chadron, NE.
Chadron, NE downtown, for comparison.
Any town with any hopes of being anything had an opera house. Florence was no exception.
If there aren’t the spirits of a few Valkyries perching on this cornice, waiting to swoop some deserving soul off to Valhalla, I would be just a bit disappointed.
Here are the Outpost and Some Place Else, which confusingly enough, may well be above the Outpost…?
Here are a couple of junked out Ford Pintos on a car-hauler. I was tempted to try to find out who owned them as I’d sure love to acquire one of these:
for an art-project-bike I have in mind to do up.
Anyway, I didn’t have time to track down the “proud” Pinto owner. I’d spent enough time messing around taking pictures that I figured I’d best get over to the park and be ready for Joel and Wade. Wade pulled in ahead of Joel, obviously feeling the heat, which had been rising steadily since last I’d seen our intrepid cyclists. He re-watered, cooled himself off at the hydrant there in the park, and sped off for another 60 miles. Joel hit the checkpoint about 20 minutes later, reporting a wicked bad headache, and was of two minds as to whether to press on, or to call it a day at the halfway point. Even after a cool-down and a snack-break, his head was still hurting, and he decided not to continue on and make himself feel like complete hell for the rest of the day.
Turns out that Joel DNFing would turn into a good turn for another exhausted cyclist. Ebby, owner of Sedalia’s Pro-Velo cycling shop, had hit the wall and was unable to contact his support crew. So, we gave him a lift back to Emporia, then continued on to Checkpoint 3, to be there for Wade when he got in.
We met up at Checkpoint 3 with Barb, who had started the day in the race, and who decided to call it good enough at Checkpoint 1, after hammering out a seriously hard-and-fast 60 miles. She had switched into support mode and had supplies (and a ride, if necessary) for the inimitable Dennis Grelk. Dennis was this year’s winner of Trans Iowa, so I figured he had a pretty good chance at DK200, but the heat took its toll on him, too. The heat, plus the unexpected and fairly violent storm which hit right about when the bulk of the riders were about halfway between Checkpoints 2 and 3.
Thanks to modern technology, the following gentleman actually has video of the storm experience from the road!
As we were heading to Checkpoint 3, we noticed some weird, mottled clouds on the horizon, right over where the cyclists were likely to be. Lightning arced between the massed thunderheads, and things looked to be getting ugly.
At the checkpoint, the skies cut open. As riders trickled in, caked in Kansas, they reported hail, being blown off their bikes, and holing up from the storm in sheds, barns, under trailers, and in ditches. The storms demoralized and exhausted a great many of the riders who hadn’t already been knocked out by the peak heat of about 95F from earlier in the day. As we waited around, a truck came in with a familiar green Kona on its roof. Wade had called it quits after taking a severe buffeting from the storm. Exhausted, filthy, and hungry, he was happy for a lift back to town.
Despite the dirty tricks that the weather and landscape of the Flint Hills threw at the field, 65 riders managed to finish. The winner was a team this year. For the first year ever there was a tandem class, and last year’s second-place finisher, Lance Andre, and mountain-biking wonderwoman Barbi Miller joined forces to knock out a win. Even more astounding, they’d never ridden together before! Lance needed a strong, yet small “stoker” as his tandem frame was sized for a very petite second rider. Barbi fit the bill, sneaking in perhaps just over the 5′ line. They took a practice run on the tandem the day before the race, to get fitted up and situated, and went forth to kick some ass.
Our friend who’d started off his first DK200 on a singlespeed finished the same, gritting it out through heat, storm, and…well…singlespeededness. I haven’t seen him since Checkpoint 2, but reports are that he was ecstatic as he crossed the finishing line.
So, another DK200 down.
Joel and I will be back next year as volunteers. So many great people to see, and such an epic event to support. You can hardly go wrong to get involved.
