To Drink and Drink Not

Over the interim of this changing Sydney weather, I have had the good fortune to be able to drink a wide array of alcohol. This post is not just a ‘duuuuuuuude, I got so plastered!’ kind of a post, so trust me, there is more coming. Since the weather has been shifting from cold to hot and back again, there has been the perfect mix of temperatures and humidity to properly savour different tipples in their best environments. This post is thus a guide, researched by yours truly, as to the best alcohol to drink while knitting.

I’m sure there are Craft Nazis out there who would say that you shouldn’t be on the grog whilst on the needles. To them I say; Okay! You’re probably right! But where’s the fun in that! Just take a look at the fabulous TenTenKnits. A significant portion of her posts revolve around knitting and red wine. This is why I love her. And just look at the kind of designs she has made!

So here is my guide to Drink and Knit Responsibly. These aren’t universally applicable either, but it is what worked for me. For the benefit of the particularly scientifically-minded among you, I was (and still am) knitting a behemoth of a blanket in garter stitch for the duration of this experiment. I figure that’s as close as it will get to a control type in knitting. Variables such as cables and lace will have to be tested independently. I refuse the task, but if you’re mad enough to try it, I love you. Give me your number?

Red Wine- Being the staple of TenTenKnits I thought I would give it a try. If I may wax lyrical for one minute; red wine is the femme fatale of alcohol. The colour is so achingly close to blood or Chanel’s signature lipstick. The glamour of it makes me want to wear Cuban heeled stockings and patent leather court shoes and look witheringly at Humphrey Bogart. That being said, it is shit to knit with. Red wine makes me feel hot (in a non-sexy, menopausal kind of way) almost instantaneously. Anything warm and snuggly I am carrying (knitting and overweight cats included) is quickly shucked off for relief. I wouldn’t discount drinking red wine and knitting in Siberian winters, however, or anywhere that it went below 0°C for a long period of time.

White Wine- This is the general drink of choice around this neck of the woods. It makes me feel louche and nouveau riche. I can feel myself thinking that pastels and Doric columns are stylish architectural choices for modern homes, and that the Gold Coast is an unexplored centre for Art and Culture. The coolness and sweetness means it is better for me for knitting than red wine but ultimately I get talkative, laugh like a galah and get distracted from knitting pretty quickly after the first glass. Quite possibly I would knit longer on white wine if I owned a Mercedes SUV.

Beer- I love beer. Possibly one of the most frequently said statements in this country, but it’s true. I love it in truly appallingly hot weather, with a bag of salted chips and pizza. Beer and knitting, however, do not mix. It makes me feel infinitely more masculine than I actually am, and I almost become like a coarse, rough-around-the-edges farm labourer. My head nods further and further into my chest and makes me feel as parched as a farm labourer would probably feel while labouring. It also challenges my new-discovered masculinity and makes me feel less than a man, which then makes me sad. A dry sullen farm labourer does not a good knitter make.

Vodka- I usually drink vodka with tomato juice and Tabasco sauce. It is nearly a Bloody Mary, but without all the hoo-hah of having to shake it up and add celery like a douchebag. I love the name of the drink; Bloody Mary. With echoes of violent English history in its name, and echoes of violent Polish and Russian history in the alcohol content, vodka is thus not really a drink to have when manoeuvring through a stressful piece of knitting. My knitting was straightforward, never ending garter stitch so it wasn’t too much of a problem. I see vodka as a drink for those on the end of their tethers. It may be a quiet sort of madness, or a mournful nostalgia for a happier past, or even a raging refusal to see sense, but they are all tether-ends that wouldn’t match with Herbert Niebling lace, for example. If you’re happy and you know it, knit and drink vodka.

Gin- Without doubt, gin and tonic is the best drink to knit with. I thus bow down to the soused housewives of yesteryear. They knew what they were doing. Perhaps they felt dead inside and raised a generation of anxious children and angry, unhappy husbands but they knew how to mix craft and booze. I now properly understand the phrase ‘Mother’s Little Helper’. I’m not a mother, but gin-help is always appreciated. I happily swilled this cheering brew continually while knitting and nary a mistake was made. It has now got to the stage where I wake up the next morning and don’t even remember knitting as much as I have. This is truly a blessing with a garter stitch behemoth.

Remember to drink and knit responsibly by following this phrase;

*Always gin, sometimes vodka, occasionally wine and never beer*

Happy Debauching everyone!

Tuneful Tuesday: Brooding Males

There is certainly something about brooding males. Especially if they’re tall, handsome and a little bit sinister. Of course it helps if they can write incredibly heart-rending songs and have voices like molasses.

Nick Cave apparently wrote Into My Arms after the break-up of his marriage. He had a young son at the time too, and the film clip is suitably dark and beautiful.

Oh, Tex. With a name like Tex, what more do you need? Oh yes, he also has tattoos and has a slight paunch. It is all endearing.

The animation in Gotye’s clip is incredible. His music is beautiful as well, of course. He’s our favourite Belgian-Australian. And his real name is Wally! Not even Tex can beat that.

Okay, so these guys are obviously brooding in a band. I don’t mind the odd mass-brood myself. The song is so heart-breaking, it’s more than worth it. The lead singer also has a trendy grey suit. It makes me want to splash paint on him Jackson Pollock-style.

MGF stands for Machine Gun Fellatio. Needless to say, they are deliciously naughty. They were banned from playing on campus at the University of Sydney because of the frequent nudity in their live shows. This is one of their most tame songs and video clips, but it was a staple for me when I rifled through my sister’s CD collection.

The Gosla-thon Part Two: Drive

This film makes me feel very happy. That may be worrying, considering the amount of violence in it. It’s not out of sadism though. It makes me happy because I feel safe in the knowledge that someone out there can still make mind-blowingly good noir films.

I was a bit suspicious when the pink curly Footloose-esque font came up on the screen. I rolled with it though, and I think in hindsight it works. The synth-pop soundtrack of the film (despite being a little clunky in parts) and the knowledge that Bernie used to produce cheap 80s thrillers added to the mad lettering and gave the film a unique undertone without it becoming overpoweringly stilted.

That’s the thing about noir; you risk becoming bogged down in the genre and ending up with a copy of what has come before. Drive takes a classic noir location, Los Angeles, and extends the genre by locating it in a different era and by taking on different characters.

I’d finished reading James Ellroy’s Brown’s Requiem a couple of days before watching this film, so I think my head is still in the seedy underbelly of L.A. I recognise the brutality of it from Ellroy, and the problematic morality of it as well. I have heard criticisms that Drive is too superficial, possibly because The Driver doesn’t say much. I think his actions are perfectly suited to his environment though.

I think one of the best things about noir is the fore-fronting of questions of morality. Raymond Chandler’s classic character Phillip Marlowe upheld his morals throughout the corruption he saw around him, usually getting beaten up and fucked over in the process. Ellroy’s novels also are full of corruption and people questioning their personal morality in such a destructive world. The Driver doesn’t necessarily question in that way, but he is single-minded in his protection of something he loves, something which represents goodness and happiness.

Of course, how could I forget to mention the Gosling of the Gosla-thon, the man that inspired the quest. Pure delight. Sizzling. Brutal. It is incredible how well he can move between selfless, caring and strong to utterly cold-blooded and brutal. A true noir hero. He can even make a quilted silver jacket look good.

Drive is definitely a film to watch over and over and over again; and not just for Ryan Gosling. It is a fantastic example of noir in a new era.

Oh, Bowie

My dear Bowie sewing machine, how I love you. It’s just such a pity that you only have two settings; off, or ON LIKE A MOTHER FUCKER. This is what comes from naming a piece of mechanical equipment after a drugged musician from the 70s.

If I had to pinpoint an era, I would say my sewing machine would be equivalent to Bowie’s Thin White Duke, albeit in a squat, cream form. On the surface it appears fairly held-together, but underneath the suave regal frame (it is a Bernina after all) there lurks a beast of Jabberwocky proportions.

I should really have named it after a benign and reliable type of person, like Taylor Swift perhaps. Someone clean, who plays an acoustic guitar and is photographed a lot in nature (or studio versions of nature).

I guess the only thing I could ever sew with a clear conscience on a sewing machine called ‘Taylor’ is a sturdy set of chastity underwear. Good thing I stuck with Bowie then. I can safely sew sleeveless 1950s housewife dresses whilst thinking dirty thoughts freely.

Time to grit my teeth and take on the virility of Bowie again. If only I was referring to the man and not my machine. Sigh.

The Ryan Gosla-thon

Today marks the first part of my intrepid adventure into the world of Ryan Gosling films. Well, I tell a lie. I am only pretending about the serious film analysis part of it. It is just a chance to gaze upon his pecs with drool gathering at the corner of my mouth. Hardly going where no one has ever gone before.

Nevertheless, the Gosla-thon will go on. I managed to catch one of the last shows of Crazy, Stupid Love today, at least three weeks behind the rest of the world. As far as films go, it was okay. It was enjoyable enough, it was slightly funny, and it had Ryan Gosling in it. You can’t really ask for more from a Hollywood RomCom. Analeigh Tipton, who plays the babysitter, is a particularly striking young woman and played a good role.

And then there was Ryan Gosling, playing a suave well-dressed womaniser. My favourite scene is the one wherein the camera pans from his arse to his shoulders in the warm yellow light from a bedside lamp as he bends over Emma Stone. I sound like a creep because I am, by the way. I paid $18 to watch a film for a 15 second shot of Ryan Gosling’s fine physique. The sad part is that it was entirely worth it.

Seriously, this Gosla-thon thing is entirely an accident. He just happens to be in two movies that have slightly overlapped release dates, both of which I wouldn’t mind seeing. A quick IMDB search revealed that I’ve seen more of his films than I first realised. I’ve also seen The Notebook (something which probably shouldn’t really be mentioned in public) and Lars and the Real Girl. Lars was a great movie. The family really warms the cockles of your heart.

A good chiselled jaw and a cool demeanour make everything all right with the world, really. The Gosla-thon is therefore not only a foray into new cinematic masterworks, nor merely an excuse to wilt over the physical and (I believe) psychological perfection that is Ryan Gosling. It is also a way of reminding us as a society of our common humanity. Can you tell I have an Arts degree?

The next part of humanitarian re-affirmation is Drive. Stay tuned. Heaven knows I will be.