I can only say that my decision to drive up to Columbus on Saturday for at least a little taste of Knitter’s Connection was induced by the insanity of the week. I had wanted to go up Friday evening and bask in the company of knitters. Unfortunately, I had laundry to do to have clean undies; a Hubby, who since the Big Snow of ’08, lives in fear of being trapped at home without appropriate man food; and need for some rest that might cause an episode of driving while snoring.
As I was driving around to the parking lot of the Convention Center, I noticed a dude who looked to be covered in fake blood. My immediate reaction was, “Great, PETA is protesting meat here, too.” I found the parking lot, only to discover when I entered the Convention Center proper that I had parked at the wrong side of the Convention Center. As I walked the length of the complex, I began to see some people who had their faces painted to look like animals, fantasy beings, and extra-terrestrials. I thought it was odd, since it was Knitter’s Connection, but then I thought that perhaps they had a face painting booth for the non-knitters.
Then I saw it – or rather him. I am a fan of sci-fi. I am married to a fan of sci-fi. While Hubby and I enjoy the shows and might engage in some minor displays of fandom to keep our geek cred, it would not occur to us to dress up as characters from the show or movie. Others don’t have that inhibition. Others will wear stilts so that they will be the appropriate height to be one of the sand people of Star Wars fame. Just to remove any doubt in anyone’s mind – wearing a sand person’s costume complete with stilts will not get you laid. I feel rather confident that this is the reason for the low geek birth rate in this country. But I digress….
There next to the sign in table for KC, was geek paradise in the form of some kind of Haunters’ convention. They were selling gory body parts, masks and holding seminars on animatronics. Very geeky.
I made it to the KC marketplace and met up with some friends. My main reason for going to the marketplace was to see the Black Water Abbey yarn. I have not seen Black Water Abbey yarn in any of the yarn stores I have frequented, visited or browsed on-line.
I have an affinity for most things Irish. I listen to tons of Irish music. In fact, I labeled myself as one on the downhill run to geezette while procuring two Pogues CDs, but that is a blog for another day. I have read books and books on Irish history, culture and lore. There is something about the lowly spud that causes me to wax poetic. A good pint of Irish stout or ale is refreshing. A shot of Irish whiskey is a sublime indulgence. I like a man in a kilt – hey, Scots are still Celts – and keep threatening to buy one for Hubby. Until, now, however, I have not bought or knit with Irish yarn.
As a substitute to authentic Irish and Shetland wool, I have used Harrisville yarn. Harrisville yarn is produced in the U.S. and has a wonderful hand and the authentic look and feel of the yarn of the Shetland Islands and the fabled Aran sweaters. When you wash and block it, the wool blooms and relaxes into this soft cozy garment. I would recommend it to anyone wanting to knit a shawl or sweater.
At first glance, the texture and the twist of the Black Water Abbey Yarn reminded me of Harrisville yarn, which I adore. Then, I touched the washed and blocked pieces knit from the Black Water Abbey Yarn and realized there was something more going on. The texture in the skein felt rough. So rough, in fact, that I wasn’t sure how the display items became so soft. I decided to get one skein and knit a hat for myself just to see how it knit up. I also want to see for myself what alchemy is required to this seemingly rough wool that I wouldn’t necessarily want on my head into something so soft I would have no qualms wrapping a baby in – provided the baby was wearing an industrial strength diaper with a poop containment force field.
Having bought what I came for, it was time for lunch. One of my knitting friends and I set out into the wilds of downtown Columbus. There we were confronted by commandos. My first thought was, “Great! It’s pride week and some skin heads are harassing one of the pride parades.” I was so horribly and awfully wrong.
The commandos began to shoot off their toy guns and then yelling, “Get inside and lock the doors! The zombies are coming!” When I looked up, there was a procession of 50 or so people dressed in their George Romero zombie best shuffling up the street. Then I saw her: A Goth, zombie female wearing nothing from the waist up but two nipple rings and faux blood. My higher functioning brain refused to believe what reptilian brain saw and believed. Goth zombie female caught my eye just as my higher functioning brain was admitting that yes, there was indeed a Goth, zombie female wearing nothing up top but two nipple rings and faux blood.
This would never happen in Cincinnati. Maybe it should, but it wouldn’t.
Nothing else that happened on Saturday could top Goth zombie girl. Not the sauerkraut balls, which aren’t as gross as they sound. Not the anatomically correct, naked, dismembered male torso I had the pleasure to look at while the driver rustled up enough change to pay the parking at the convention center while his buddies held the torso through the cab window of the pick-up so the torso wouldn’t go flying out of the bed of the pick-up and land on my window so I could determine if the torso was Gentile or Jewish because we were parked on a 45 degree grade. Not having a nice romantic dinner with Hubby at one of our favorite Italian restaurants. Not even petting my Black Water Abbey skein of yarn.
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