Sunday, March 4, 2012

(Steam) Punk it up! Until you can feel it...

Yay, my first tutorial!  Inspired by this hilarious article, Kate Beaton's wonderful drawings, and some snarky commentary by my friends, I made some Steampunk Spats in a Loud Hue.
Total time: about 1 1/2 hours.  Total cost: Nada (made from stuff I already had).

First of all, what is Steampunk?  I'll let Captain Jack explain.

Captain Jack Hotness Harkness
 Steampunk, also known as Vintage Future, Neo-Victorian, Gaslamp Fantasy, etc, is basically the Past that Never Was.  Most often based on Late Victorian England,  you add in a good dash of brass, gears, some Mad Scientists, and, of course, goggles.  

Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog---if you haven't seen the awesomeness, you need to.

 There are conventions all over the place, and it's a strange and wonderful style that has appealed to me for many years now.  I've wanted to make a pair of spats for a while, and a few snarky comments was all it took to inspire me.
So, onto the tutorial!

First, I find an old shirt in a particularly awesome tie-dye, and cut off the sleeves at the shoulder seam:



Then cut a heel space just above the cuff:
I decided i wanted the sleeve seam to run on the outside of my leg, to make the buttons look like they were actually doing something.  ;)

cue the realization that you've cut the left spat on the wrong side.
*facepalm*


Try in on your boot for size--The line you can sort of see is where I cut more off the heel to give it that spat-ish angle.


To make the spat stay up on my leg (if you are using something sturdier than t-shirt material, you may not need to do this)  I went for a basic draw-string top, because that was easier than buckles, buttons, etc.
 Try on your spat and mark just below your knee. 



Turn it inside out, fold over the extra at the top until the line you drew is at the fold, ie fold it down until it's the right height. (you can also do this while wearing it, if you want to be more accurate).  Sew all the way around about an inch down from the fold, and cut off the excess past the seam.  This is honestly the most complicated part, I swear.
  
I used pins, but you don't have to.


Turn it rightside out again, and cut two tiny holes to thread the drawstring through.  Use a safety pin or yarn needle to run the string through one hole, around, and out the other.



Buttons!  Grab whatever buttons you have laying around--I keep mine in a bottle, because why not?  I just snagged all of the largest ones I had in dark colors (when not illuminated by the blinding flash, they look a lot closer in color) and lined them up so the spats would match each other (enough).

Buttons--whee!

Arrange the buttons on the outside of the spat until they look cool.  Put a dot where each one goes and sew them on.  (this was the step that took longer than all the rest put together, honestly!


One spat done!  Now try it on, rinse, and repeat!




Booyah!  One fine pair of awesome spats!


Now go out into the world, little grasshopper, and send me pictures of the spats you make!  :D

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Fey King, Part 1-- the Ballroom

   It's Twelve-ten in the Other World now, and the ball has nearly an hour to go.  The young men and women will still be dancing in the hall, music ringing from the orchestra chamber above, pinging from the chandeliers  and wine glasses.  Young ladies should never drink wine--it is most unbecoming; but they will insist anyhow.  Their cheeks flushed with spirits and pleasure, they'll take their gentlemen by the hands, and smile, and perhaps flutter their fan.  An alluring glance does much for a gentleman in the flames of passion, and more for the dandies 'suffering' the same.

     The King will sit and watch, though the Queen has long since gone to bed.  He, too, is drinking something; although none of the dancers can guess what it is.

    Wine, they venture to their partners at a turn.  It looks like wine.
   Mead? the partners return.  It may be mead.
    Rose-petal wine, the ladies counter.  Rose-petal wines in pinks, reds and golds; like drinking a sunset, they say.
    Perhaps, concede the gentlemen.  But among themselves they agree: sweet honey-mead of clover and sunshine--summer distilled for the tongue's pleasure.

  They continue to speculate, these dancers, as if a night of music and movement were not employment enough for them.  Why does the King always stay, they wonder, while the Queen always retires so soon?

  What interest can the sporting of the young hold for one so old? they jest.

   The King, ancient but youthful still, merely sits on his throne; sipping his unknown drink and watching the dancers.  It amuses him that they think he cannot hear them.  He can hear it all perfectly well, down to the whispering of lovers in the far corner of the hall; and this is part of the reason that he stays.  His people are such high entertainment.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

"Once upon a time in a far away kingdom, a man made up a story, said that I should believe him..."

Thought I'd post something a little bit lighter for a change ^_^

So, I love fairy tales. This should come as no surprise to any of you who know me. And recently NBC and ABC have continued their war of the channels to bring us all two very different takes on modern retellings of fairy tales.

Let's start with ABC's 'Once Upon a Time'. I was very excited when I first heard this was coming on--like, ridiculously excited. I am a huge Robert Carlyle fan, and I was giddy when I heard he'd be playing Rumpelstiltskin.



The basic premise of the show is that the Evil Queen took all the fairy tale characters and blasted them into 'another world', where they would be miserable forever because there were no happy endings. This world just happened to be modern day Canada Maine. (not really sure this is helping Maine's standing as a tourist destination--thanks, ABC) Now the original characters, Emma Swan (who is Snow White's long-lost daughter) and her son Henry must team up to remind everyone who they are and give them back their happily ever afters.

So you have all these 'classic' characters thrust into modern day lives--Granny runs an inn, Cinderella is an abandoned teenage mom, Snow White teaches at the local Catholic school. Jiminy Cricket is the local therapist.
Okay, so the inclusion of Jiminy Cricket is where I facepalmed and remembered that ABC is owned by Disney. 'Mr Hopper' also owns a dalmation. Named Pongo, one can only assume. *sigh*
But aside from the blatant disney references, I really like this show. The character's alter-egos are usually well thought out, the acting is good, the sets and locations are lovely and mostly true to life. At first I thought that the Snow/Queen relationship was typically shallow and pretty standard, but from the hints they keep dropping, I'm holding out hope for something twisted and original.

However, it does fall into some pretty serious tropes. The biggest one is that it tends to be a little soap opera-y. Prince Charming is married to another woman, so he and Snow White have to hold back their feelings for each other because it's not right, but they just can't stop themselves! I find this fine in small doses, but when it's a main thread in several episodes, it kinda gets old. Or maybe I'm just a cynic. Another is that the Wicked Queen is always being Wicked and thwarting the main character Emma--just for the sake of being a nasty bitch? I dunno. Luckily for the show, the writers smartened up to this and have cut back on it thus far.

I'll admit, too, that I spent the entire first episode swinging from admiration to hysterical laughter and Monty Python jokes.  I mean, just look at how they portray the Blue Fairy!

Clearly, the Boob Fairy was a big fan of hers.

The Seven Dwarfs, as well--realizing they were all really going to have their disney names was another facepalming moment for me...but the real kicker was the eighth dwarf, whose appeared just long enough to get offed--'Stealthy'.

*crickets chirp*

 
No, seriously... Stealthy the dwarf. He wore black. And a beret. And really just looked like one of Doctor Evil's henchmen.
I do have to give them some credit, though--in the Real!World scenario, Grumpy is the town drunk.  :D
 


On to the next show--NBC's 'Grimm'.
I must say, I love love love this show's concept. In this one, (set consistantly in the Real!World of Portland Oregon) The main character, Nick, finds out he is a Grimm--related to the Brothers Grimm, who apparently went around slaying the 'monsters' that they put in their fairy tales. When his mysterious Aunt dies, he inheirits the full list of Grimm abilities, which include the power to spot the creatures for what they are, instead of the human form they ususally take. Nick also gets his Aunt's sweet slaying-trailer full of monster-offing goodies, including this old book full of information on the different species. In the first episode, we meet Monroe, who is a reformed 'Blutbad', or big bad wolf. Monroe then becomes Nicks 'Grimmopedia' and go-to guy for all the monsters that are suddenly running around in Portland.


Monroe and Nick--
Ladies and Gentlemen, let the slash begin.
 Congrats to the writers for finding a new twist to put on these old stories, most of which were pretty gory and grim in their own right. The monster book (of monsters?) and the trailer-of-slaying are pretty awesome, as are the dark takes on popular creature-characters. The werewolves Blutbaden, for instance, lose control around the color red, especially if there is a little girl wearing it. (brilliant job making that a really, really creepy implication, btw)

However, Grimm falls into the same trap a lot of tv shows do--much like Smallville, Supernatural, and House; the monster-of-the-week syndrome. Since Nick has become a Grimm, it seems like all the havok in good old Portland is wreaked by these creatures. We're eight or nine episodes in now, and only once has a crime been purpotrated by a good old human being. The main theme is at an impasse, while the subplots advance with a vengence--Nick Doesn't Know his boss is a Bad Guy, Grim Reapers are closing in, and for all that his Aunt told him not to leave the Mysterious!Key out of his sight, he seems to have forgotten all about it. Nevermind, I'm sure it'll come in handy in the season finale.


Sadly, thus far none of the Reapers look like Mandy Patinkin.


The acting is, for the most part, 100% okay. Or, most likely, it's the writing that is just-barely-par, and the actors are the ones suffering from it.  Still, I keep coming back to this show for the fascinating ideas it throws out--I think once this show has gotten a foothold and more of a sense of itself, it could be really brilliant.
(and I come back for Monroe.  Because he is just awesome.)


Both shows have their good points, and both have their cheesy moments--I've predicted more than a few lines in each of them, which generally means the writers are being a little too typical in their dialogue choices--but despite that, I keep coming back for more. And what else does television aim for, really?

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Wealth

So I was thinking on the subject of wealth the other day. It’s a complicated subject, really, because the way I see it, wealth doesn’t just mean how much money you have in that lovely bank account of yours. Oh, that helps, to be sure, but there’s more to it than that.

When I grew up, we didn’t have much money. My parents were teenagers when they had me, so for the first part of my life they were struggling college students trying to juggle school, work and kids, and still trying to grow up themselves. Would I say we grew up poor? It depends on who I’m talking to. Since I’m talking to you; I’ll say no. No, not exactly.

We always had enough to eat, even when it was boxed mac’n cheese again. We always had a place to live, even when it was the leaking, shitty trailer for two weeks; the one that was so small my brother and I not only shared a room, we shared a mattress. (I can hear the co-sleeping families now going "Yeah, and?" but being raised sleeping in the same bed as your siblings is one thing; abruptly having to share a bed is another. And besides, he kicked.) We even lived with my grandmother for a while, and she had two teenage boys and a husband living with her at the time. I can’t complain about that, though. Sure, the house was bitty, but us kids loved seeing our uncles every day. Knowing my grandmother as I do now, it’s my parents I feel for. But I digress. We always had a safe place to live.

We always had clothes to wear, too. Warm coats in the winter, shorts and swimsuits in the summer…we didn’t care that they usually came from goodwill, and hand-me-downs were always like Christmas, because you got a whole new bag of stuff at once, without the drudgery of following mom around through whatever store.  My childhood wardrobe consisted of innumerable funky jackets, jeans, and high-topped chuck  taylors--the ultimate practical uniform for exploring, climbing trees, and collecting seashells in pockets.


I knew, as I got a little older, maybe eight or nine, that we didn’t have much money. I knew that when I asked for "Either an American Girl Doll or a rag doll" for Christmas, I was going to get the one that didn’t cost $100 (but I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask). I knew that my parents couldn’t get me new rolls of film for my camera all the time, so when I ran out, I ran out. But it didn’t really bother me, because that’s just the way life was. Maybe it helped that most of the other kids I went to school with were usually just as poor as we were—in such a rural area, there isn’t as much pressure for name-brand clothes, or knowledge about alternative ways of living.

Many people with money say that you’re only poor if you’re lazy, that if you work your ass off, you too can be rolling in dough. Sometimes that is true. But it’s also about priorities. My mom stopped working for a span of about eleven years, because she wanted to raise us. She decided that bringing up her children herself was more important than a career. She decided that the best way she could mother us was to be there all the time, so she put her life on the back burner and with support from my dad and an amazing amount of financial finesse, she did it.

Perhaps I should say that my parents were poor, but we, as a family, were not. We were ‘rich in intangibles’, as my mom once put it. When I remember my childhood, I remember being happy, I remember all the things we did, not the things we didn’t do. We went everywhere. We hiked in parks, we went to playgrounds and beaches. We explored most of the old stone forts on the coast, found the source of the river we lived on and drove the whole length of it until we reached the ocean where it ended. We went to the state museum so often that going back now is a fond nostalgia trip as we walk among the animal displays, the quarry and the trains and the whole ‘working’ mill that runs through three stories in the center, complete with rumbling wheels and saws and the little frog in the stream at the bottom.
Sometimes we made the trip across the border and had pizza for lunch in Canada, just for the heck of it. We went to the library every week and came home loaded with books. We went to the fair every year and rode the rides and saw the horses and ate cotton candy. Most years there was apple picking, pumpkins, rides in the hay wagon. One of our favorite places to go was Norlands, a living history museum, where we explored the old houses and barns, said hello to horses and sheep and King George the pig, went to the sugar shack and saw them boiling maple sap for syrup and candy. I have been to or through most of the state, and have gone up and down it’s coast many times over the course of my life.
You may or may not have realized by now, but most of those things were free—you can do almost all of them for the cost of the car ride. My parents were rather brilliant that way. For Christmas that year, I did get the rag doll. A rag doll my mother stayed up until midnight making on Christmas eve—she bought a little cloth body, gave her dark hair like mine; freckles and button eyes. She made her a little nightgown with ribbon and lace on the hem, set her in the Christmas tree, and waited anxiously for morning. You can see how I felt about her.
Moreover, we were loved. We meant a great deal to our parents, and they never let us doubt it. So when financial difficulties came up, we still always had each other. Looking back on it, my whole childhood seems clad in jean jackets, t-shirts, and a warm, golden glow. In fact, it’s hard to concentrate on the negative parts of it at all. But for posterity, I will try.

When I was growing up, I had to change schools several times; we had to move often to be closer to the college or closer to my dad’s work. Mostly I didn’t mind, but the one time I remember being heartbroken was partway through third grade, when our landlady spontaneously gave the house to her son and said "By the way, you need to move out now." It was a college town in the middle of semester, my mother was eight or nine months pregnant, and with no warning we had no money saved. This lead to aforementioned trailer, then to an old farmhouse a mile up a lonesome dirt road, and a mile past the last bus stop for my school. We had one car, and with the schedule my dad worked, there was no possible way for my mom to get me to that bus stop every morning. I think she took it even harder than I did.

When I was in third grade and we moved, it was also a move away from my best friend of three years. When you’re eight, that’s a very long time. Luckily, our parents were determined to keep us together, and thus began the long stretch of seeing each other about four times a year. Some years more, but that was our frequent number, since we didn’t live in the same town again until she and I were twenty.

One of the worst things I remember about not having much money was this one apartment. I was nine, in the middle of fourth grade, and my parents had now both finished college. That meant we could move farther south, where there were actual jobs, and where my dad was currently working. We’d been living with my grandparents (see above) for a few months to save money, and then moved into a four –room apartment only fifteen minutes from my dad’s work. I’ll grant you, the rooms were quite large, but there were five of us. My parents took the smaller bedroom and had my then one-year-old sister in with them, and my five-year-old brother and I shared a room for the first time in years. I was quite a brat, so it was probably much harder on my brother than it was for me, but it still sucked. We lived there until just after I turned fifteen, and he turned eleven. Then my parents had saved enough money for the down payment on the house. My Dad was moving up in the factory, making the most he had yet, and we found a lovely old farmhouse in the country, surrounded by beautiful woods. My folks even bought a minivan, the first ‘new’ car they’d had in years. Then the factory was bought out and shut down, my father lost his job, and the transmission blew up on the minivan, and we were once more broke, in an old house a mile down a dirt road, and an hour away from everywhere. Yup.

I do remember my dad working this terrible schedule when I was young. He would go to work in the middle of the day and come home at one in the morning, long after we were asleep. I remember being terribly jealous of my brother, who was in kindergarten and had only a half-day of school, because he got to see my dad awake, instead of just waking him up to say goodbye in the morning. But after we’d moved into the apartment, he did start working better hours.

But that’s not really about wealth, is it? That’s about poverty. What makes me feel wealthy is not usually money in the bank. (though that is always a nice bonus). The things that make me feel safe, secure, rich, are perhaps a little more unusual. A cellar or pantry full of bins of flour and sugar, canned goods from the garden, shelves lined up neatly and glowing with the harvest’s colors; that makes me feel wealthy.
 A shed stacked full of cordwood, dry and sheltered and ready for winter means warmth and safety and wealth to me.
The sign of wealth for me that must be most typical is my books—I have three bookshelves, my nightstand is packed with books, I have books in boxes in a closet at my mother’s house… impoverished scholar, starving artist, call me what you will. Why would I need cable when I have whole other worlds to go to for the price of lighting the lamp? The fact that I’ve gotten most of them for less than the paperback price makes me proud, not poor.

Going to my mother’s house for supper; the lights glowing gently to the dark outside, the woodstove warming the kitchen, and sitting down with those I most love to a meal my mother made—that is wealth; that is love and security. We are rich in intangibles, indeed.

A Letter of Introduction

Hallo all 
:)
Just thought I'd say a few words--this particular blog will be ruminations on life, food, craftiness of all kinds, and just stuff.  Please DO comment if you have something to say--I'd love to hear it and a good discussion is one of my favorite pasttimes!
Enjoy,
Coyote

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Dearest Helvetia; a Letter never sent.

Dearest Helvetia,

  I am sitting here today, in the park, eating maple sugar candy and mulling.  The sun is shining brightly down on me today, with a kindness that says summer is over and soon we shall have to say goodbye for the long winter.  But for today the breeze is gentle and welcome, the grassy moss beneath this tree is soft, and the children on the playground are noisy.

  There are fairy mushrooms behind me, of that peculiar orangey-brown tint that only mushrooms get, and a tiny plant to my left that has bitty violet blooms. 
  The alarmingly large caterpillar (alarming because I first spotted it crawling up my leg) has crept off somewhere and I cannot see a bit of it's white and black fuzz.  The wind is having quite a time in the trees, so I am trying to soak in as much leaf-talk as I can before they fall and the sky is just icy blue between dark branches.

  The maple candies are a lovely golden color in the sun, but as for the shapes...I cannot for the life of me decide what they are supposed to be.  The one next to me looks rather like a fancy pudding, back when jello molds were all the rage.  There is another that might be an almond, or some kind of melon.  But I shall pretend it is a dirigible, instead.  And the third will be...the guild symbol of some steampunk union.  'Brass Welders United', perhaps.
  But the pudding still looks like a pudding.

This town is quite pretty, to be sure.  Built on the hills and into the valley, it is full of trees and sudden, surprising views of the sky, and has a teeny tiny main street with old brick buildings and a clock tower.  At night, when the street lights are lit, it looks tiny and perfect; like a miniature or a movie set.  I will take pictures for you.  I feel rather like the only thing this town needs is the ocean, and it would be perfect.

Yours,
    Nicolaus