The going ons

Still looking for a place to call base camp. I thought I found this studio a block from the beach for an exceedingly decent price. It isn't the nicest of places, but as I left what was left of my pride in AZ, and since it takes the dogs and is one block from the ocean I can see myself being totally cool with staying there. Apparently Denny isn't very good about answering his phone and therefore I am having a hard time paying for this place and moving in. Dick. I'm heading off to some rental agency place I found on CL. They list all these decently priced places without an address or anyway to contact them through email. I prefer email so this put me off a wee bit until I called the office. The chick that answered refused to give me any information, wouldn't put me through to anyone because no one was in the office and when I mentioned email, she sounded all taken aback and told me they only deal with people who physically come into the office. I asked her if she was kidding and she assured me she was not. They're going to regret this policy after I storm the castle. Not because I am feeling spiteful or anything, it's just the way it goes. Worst client to date. I can't tell you how many people have attested to that one. My own brother won't finish my tattoo because I am his "worst client to date". He even reassures other clients with that detail when they feel like they could have done better. Well, I'm ready. Let's just hope they are yeah?

SD stopped by the other day just as I was finishing up a hat. I was making it for the pleasure of having something to do and he got all excited when he saw it and I told him to keep it. Open can of worms. Next thing you know, it's all about Rastafarian colors. If you know me, you'll know I had a small issue with this, but agreed nonetheless because he was so incredibly thrilled and I enjoy watching hot boys get excited about things like knitting. Off we went to pick out the colors. After making the first hat, I thought I would look up the Rasta deal while making the second hat. I hate making anything attached to the masses and having meaning behind it without knowing every single small detail about the history. That is the last Rasta anything I ever make. You couldn't pay me a million dollars per fucking second to make anything Rasta. Smoking weed, growing dreadlocks (which are fucking repulsive to me btw) and eating vegetables my ass. Lucky for the Rasta's, Bob Marley came on the scene and glossed over their mainly kill whitey theme with sad beautiful songs about oppression and ganga and what have you. Lucky little cover up if you ask me. You know it's interesting... I love music. I mean, anything for the most part. Country, world, Indian, anything. Reggae comes on and I feel a deep deep dissatisfaction. Sometimes, I don't even realize it's the music, I just know I am suddenly getting super bitchy. You could lump it in with racism and that would be fine with me, but I am totally cool with Jazz, Hip Hop and some Rap so that wouldn't make sense for once. At least now I have the backing for my malcontent behavior when Reggae comes on. And I'm the racist one? Oh... steel drums. I love them. I love them a lot. I used to end up late for work in the mornings for sitting and listening to the dude playing them at Park Street in the morning... He was a nice one to sip coffee to.

I am in the middle of making a blanket for someone having a baby. I have yet to make a blanket and I have yet to worry about a baby so this is all new and exciting. I am using my scarf loom and I shall somehow creatively put all the blocks together to make an awesome little blanket for a tiny fresh person.

My neighbors were just loud last night. Her cousins sound fun. I hope they come to visit... Also, I'm going to try and strike a bargain to stay here since I love it so very much. Eh, we'll see what they say. I'll hit them up after ruining the day of this other rental place. Coffee is in my system, off I go.