xaara

I am currently knitting this hat out of a nice red wool that I acquired on super clearance omg please buy me right now sale. My circular 8 is too long, though, and I only have four 8 double-points between which to divide 90 stitches, meaning that either way, it's annoying to knit. I may have to raid my roommate's needle collection in search of one more double-point. I know you totally wanted to know this.

As I was washing dishes today at work, the classic rock radio station decided to play the Zeppelin version of When the Levee Breaks, meaning that I fell back in love with Zeppelin had to listen to them when I came home. It's the first time in a while. The classic rock station in DC was not particularly diverse (so much Pink Floyd! so much Sabbath! so much Eagles! so much vomiting in my mouth!) There was a period of about a year when any of the songs on side one of Zeppelin IV as well as Four Sticks would make me break out in hives because I'd heard them so often. Now that I've moved away from DC's classic rock station, I've discovered that I can once again listen to most of the stuff they played all the time. I've rediscovered an affinity for The Who and Black Sabbath and sent Deep Purple on a temporary vacation. It's a nice shift.

Here in Madison, there's still way too much of the Eagles and Pink Floyd, but instead of Zeppelin, they play way too much Tom Petty. Which is doubly annoying because he only actually sings one song, but that is a rant for another day.

I never really realized how much I was brought up by my choice in music until a few months ago. I assumed everyone was at least conversant in classic rock. But then I realized--as I was watching SPN with my roommate, actually--that all these bands I was squeeing about (Kansas! Journey! Metallica! CCR!) weren't part of her lexicon of musical touchstones. I realized, as I probably should have sooner, that my ability to quote extensively from the Black Album was not an enviable skill.

But that's what I grew up with: days full of the Beatles and the Kinks, falling asleep to baseball on the radio, Cal Ripken and Rafael Palmeiro and Roberto Alomar, weather so hot and humid it hurt to breathe, a crystal radio and the imprint of grass on the backs of my summer-brown thighs.