Tying the Knot

Like most sprawling voyages, this one begins with Ken.

It's a long story, but in June I bought a tiny book about knots for eight bucks in Lunenberg, Nova Scotia.
While I was on the ship I vowed that I would learn how to tie some cool knots from all of these clever sailors.
But you know me with vows...
I left the ship learning nothing (what a relief!) and I decided I'd try to uphold my empty promise to myself regardless.
Then, while having a two-day hour long conversation with an old buddy's dad, I found this wee book about knots.
Serendipitous as it was, I decided to get fleeced on the price and take it home with me.
I really will have to try and pack the story of the knot book into a seperate post because it really was quite retarded.
Anyway, yesterday I thought I'd cut off a length of rope, wrap each end in electrical tape, and get to work.
Here's what I picked up:
I have no spatial reasoning, no patience, and no new knowledge of knots.
I learned the half-hitch and thought that everything was going quite smoothly.
Half-hitch slipknot. Hey! I just pull this guy and it comes undone! Tying knots is a great bit of fun.
Figure eight stopper knot.
...
Half an hour later
Figure eight stopper knot.
The book, proving to be of less and less value with each passing day, shows the knots, but doesn't provide figures instructing you how to actually tie them.
And goddamn this knot.
Ten minutes later
I'm watching a YouTube video on how to tie a figure eight stopper knot, realizing that this is why people are reading less books.
The video didn't help either and by then I was too pissy to continue.
Anyway, feel free to try it yourself.
The book says it's a better stopper knot than the regular overhand we all use to tie everything.
If you're willing to trust the book, that is.

 

I'm warm and I'm probably sooky.
It's incredible how desperately a man may need a coffee shop.
I'm not one to write at home.
Perhaps I've always had problems with writing at home because I fish for excuses to not write anywhere.
Or, ultimately, maybe I just enjoy a three dollar oatcake from time to time.
No oatpucks to be had in this town, however.
Oh sure, I can buy cotton gloves and rat poison under one roof here in Pasadena ("Where? Where is he?"), but coffee shops are a tad rare.
There isn't even a Tim's, for crying out Horton's.
There is a Trudy's, however.
Picture a cafeteria in a trucker's driving school, then attach a walk-in beer fridge to it.
That's Trudy's.
It's my first day writing here in Trudy's, and I suppose, ideally, it won't be my last.
I mention all of this because there are two dudes wearing steel-toed boots sitting across from me, and I think they're finding my prescence strange and it's making them uncomfortable.
I hope this is true because they're definitely throwing me off of my game.
So, Colin got married.
This is my oldest brother for any newcomers.
Colin is a curmudgeonly, sour man.
He likes cats and those soft cheezies, and that's about it.  
No one who knows Colin personally would have expected him to agree to something so joyful as a wedding. 
Don't worry, he planned none of it.
As a consequence, it was a pretty good time.

Andie and I just returned home after an almost-week at Mom's, full of sweaty family members, screeching toddlers, homebrew and sex down at Mad Rock.
So, settle in with your mamosa - wait, let's find you a recipe for that.
Okay, so coochy in with your mamosa and your favourite lap dog, and let's see if I can relive the magic over a number of seperate, marketable posts.