welcome.
If you're curious, crazyknee.com is:
a personal Web page (a blog, even) created by Leanne H. Milway. The page was launched Nov. 1, 2000, the day she had ACL/meniscus repair performed on her right leg.
Hence the "crazy knee."
This page will be updated in some weekly way.

30 november 2001 . 12:21 am PT

The blue moon is shining tonight. Are you without a dream in your heart, without a love of your own?

Kristin Collins hit 50,017 words!! Super congratulations go out to her. Anyone else make the NaNoWriMo goal? I, uh, stopped at 5,000 words. Well, okay, I have 4,397. Dammit.

It's now confirmed (in my mind) that my downstairs neighbor is a stripper. She came up here to use my computer, and I walked her through using email for the first time. She's 28 and needed quite a lot of help setting up an account. In her online profile, she wanted to put "entertainment" as her occupation. I said she should probably select "other." She lives in this basement apartment that stinks like mold. It's ridiculous. Maybe she's a film producer, what the hell do I know. But she did give me a cat, and I really dig having a pet. AND she left a pen behind tonight (I collect pens, you see). The pen says "Aladdin Bail Bonds." Total score.

Here's a sideways stained-glass window:

In preparation for this weekend's multiple Wilco concerts (yeehaw!), you might want to read this Chicago Tribune review. "California Stars" and "Passenger Side" are guaranteed encores. Start studying the lyrics today!

Big news: My spies on Haight Street claim my favorite record store boy was wearing an Old 97s t-shirt the other day. *heart flutters* Speaking of sexy men, Whitney asked a question about them, and, uh, I gave my standard answer. It had to be done.

Thanksgiving, when John cooks:

27 november 2001 . 01:27 pm PT
Ach! It's been more than a week since the last update! What can I do to make it up to you? Think about that while I carry on ...

Laid off and having fun: Odd Todd. It's a little movie and it is way funny.

Dave Eggers and Others: Mr. Heartbreaking turns up in the Chronicle's piece about why talented writers live in the Bay Area (woo!). Egg is not pictured, but he claims to be starting a writing lab for high school students. JT Leroy is quoted, and the great Michael Chabon, and who knew that Richard North Patterson lives here? Some area literary figures were missing (Denis Johnson, William T. Vollman, Lawrence Ferlinghetti), but they were probably all hard at work writing a novel.

New Year's Eve 2001: Guided by Voices. The Strokes. David Cross. Apollo Theater, New York City. Eleven University of Delaware alums. There might even be a limo.

Movies I saw this long Thanksgiving weekend: "Dr. Strangelove." "Waking Ned Devine." "The Man Who Wasn't There." "Pollock." "The Ladies Man." "Wings of Desire." AND a certain film featuring Jon Stewart, Janeane Garofalo, Bob Saget, Willie Nelson and Snoop Dogg. So, shit.

Collective recollection: Search the Random Access Memory database for subjects like poetry, war, Bob Dylan. Or whatever you want. Some of the memories collected here are lame, some are amazingly heartfelt and revealing. Add your own! This article about "incredibly strange databases" led me there, and there's some interesting ways that people want to use this information. There's also a specific RAM site devoted to 9/11.

18 november 2001 . 10:56 pm PT

Remember that scene in "Harold & Maude" where they frolic in the graveyard? This is the place. All my thanks to Julie for taking me there. We also visited the Musee Mecanique. It's a (free) museum of antique arcade games -- stick a quarter in the slot, and you can watch little mechanical men perform an execution, among other things. I am not kidding. Highly recommended.

No, I did not go to see "Harry Potter" and his stone.

Yes, I did attend a fabulous pajama jammy jam.

In a state of denial: That's us, here in California. The columnist says this "great freak show of a state" is in deep denial about her miseries. Including, um, a nice $12.4 billion deficit.

You know how I deal with the hard cold truth? Listen to some Latin jazz, perhaps Ruben Gonzalez on the piano. (I've moved up a step in status at the record store, you see. On Saturday, the one cashier I always seem to end up with passed me this album from his private stash (?) behind the counter, forcing me to buy! Music I know nothing about! But it's okay. Better than okay really.)

And I feel fine.

14 november 2001 . 11:46 pm PT
You've heard it all before, here it is again: I'm so tired. I had a long weekend. Who knew that former co-workers AND boys I hung out with during my days in the high school drama club would all be at this weekend's wedding festivities? Who knew that my dad is the kind of dancer who can't even perform the correct "YMCA" moves?

I also had a fabulous fall night in a former D.C. haunt, home of the outrageous cocktails, the Fox & Hounds. I decided against posting pictures of certain people picking their noses. So here's a stunning self portrait of me, on a hungover morning in a strange place:

The roof over my head and the courtesy bagel are all thanks to Mike Dowd. He got in the spirit of things by sending along a self portrait of himself under his desk. Thanks Mike!

07 november 2001 . 01:35 am PT
This item is mostly for Cat Hopkinson, since I will be missing today's IM recap: As a devout fan of both "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and Broadway musicals, tonight's "Buffy" episode blew me away. I half-already half-composed a letter in ecstatic thanks to Joss W. for this spell-binding treat. I have always dreamed of being a singer, a dancer, a Slayer. Yes, I am a Leo.

Do you have any idea how many people are writing novels this month? K.Collins is kicking everyone's ass, and there's J.Clark and RadioSlack and Golden Boy and Jeff Kennedy and Whitney and Contois and J.King and my god who am I missing?

I'm boarding the airplane early in the morn. Wish me luck. I'll see you later, no doubt about it.

06 november 2001 . 11:16 am PT
Are you having trouble sleeping? The WPost claims we're all suffering since 9/11. I did have a strange dream last night, in which I violently trashed the kitchen because my mom and sister didn't believe I baked the cookies correctly. I guess it's a sign of how I'm thinking about my return to Maryland tomorrow? Uh.

In Ryan Adams news (ahem), I saw a q&a with the guy in none other than Jane Magazine. He kept complaining how hungover he was, and couldn't seem to give one straight answer. I tried to find the interview online but Jane is all flash, no substance. Sorry.

"It's hard to overstate how thrilling this episode is." Critic Tim Goodman is talking about tonight's "Buffy." Robert Bianco gives it four stars. Tonight's show is a full-on MUSICAL, and the show is so jam-packed it's going to run eight minutes over the usual hour (for those of you setting VCRs). Ah, I cannot wait to see Spike sing of his tormented love for the Slayer: "Life's not a song. Life isn't bliss. Life is just this: It's living."

04 november 2001 . 11:42 pm PT
What a great baseball game. All of them. You know you think so too, no matter who you were rooting for (yay Arizona!!).

For the last half-hour I tried to increase the word count on my going-nowhere-fast "novel." Sheesh. This is tough. I'm going to bed now and I don't care how many thousands of words you've got on me. You can keep 'em!

03 november 2001 . 08:29 pm PT
It's been a year of The Knee, a year since my surgery. I think a crazy knee picture is probably appropriate. I'll insert one here when I get a moment.

Close listening: In "Gates of Paradise" David Byrne sings, "And terrorists are acting out of love, sweet love / To bring us home again."

And now we're giving a big shout-out to the lone star state, to that daring expanse of land called Texas where my dear friend Kelly is celebrating a birthday. We're thinking of you! Happy 26 years!

01 november 2001 . 04:19 pm PT
I heard it first from my mother, that the terrorists are planning a rush-hour attack on one of four California bridges. Definitely, no doubt, the Golden Gate is a perfect target. But could they really hijack another airplane, and slam it into something? My mom says I don't have to fly home next week (my flight is scheduled for Nov. 7, to be exact. And we're on high-alert until then). Mom: "It's not something you want to be wrong about."

This is so horribly NOT something I want to worry about. Life is not fair. We, the whole world, had forgotten that for just a bit too long there.

But, really, it's just going to be a car bomb. "Reports" say six incidents were planned? During four rush hours?

Not that a car bomb is a good thing. But ... I mean, could they pack enough explosives in a car to blow a hole through steel, killing a few people? Is that possible? Stuff a nuclear warhead in the back of a Honda civic? I hardly drive over either of the Bay Area bridges (which has a lot to do with the fact that I don't have a car). So. I'm safe. And you are too.

I must work on my novel, excuse me.

01 november 2001 . 11:39 am PT
Salon tries to reassure me, and says that our military takes more care in avoiding civilian deaths than we give them credit for. The story runs under a picture of Afghan men crying over the bodies of four small children. *sigh* I guess it's good that we're so very careful, and only occasionally miscalculate and bomb hospitals and such. But, still . . .

I have begun my novel (in-between frequent bouts of non-focusing). So far, it sucks. Really sucks. And I just don't know where it's going to lead me. To more suckage, probably. How's that for a positive outlook?

Not that it's a surprise to anyone, but this web page is just another factor in my inability to FOCUS. I hate focusing. I don't seem to be very good at it anymore. I blame the Internet. Too many bits of information and sillyness, all just a click or two away. But right now, I will force myself to finish that story about online banking sites. Paychecks can provide a nice kick in the non-focusing ass.

A very very small taste of our Halloween in San Francisco, 2001:

Zach also had a fabulous prophet beard, and carried this huge sign that said funny things I can't write here. So many people out in the chaos of the Castro that night were taking his picture. And, yes, Josh (in the construction hat) is using his small daughter as a prop. A prop in a bear suit, up way past her bedtime.