Granted

Filling out a grant application is like extended bad coitus with an inept partner who suffers from halitosis without benefit of lubrication--either natural or supplemental.

I was however, heartened to see this in the latest application I am filling out:

"NOTE: Writers concerned only with doing research on art history are not eligible to apply."

Good to see those effers getting the slip right off the bat. That's right, art history researchers, get back on the bus you mothers! No grant money for you.

Ha!

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Banner Yet Waves






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Fried Spam sandwich for lunch

Nasty sexy?

"It’s funny and sexy and nasty-sexy and sweet."

That's what Doug Hoffman had to say about my novel. Who doesn't need a bit of that in their life? Yay! Here is the rest of the review.

Thanks Doug.

erf and me with no make up

Dedicated to Hal Perry.

Photographic study of Goat, vol. 2

Wikipedia redux

I have a long and colorful history with Wikipedia. I wrote about it here. That article garnered a scathing letter to the editor that was authored by the World's Most Exalted New Coke Expert.

Much to my surprise, an Erin O'Brien Wiki page has been written by the good Mr. Geoffrey A. Landis.

tee-hee!

Let's see how long this one lasts. I am grinning from ear to ear.

Whole earth on adoration

The Last Whole Earth Catalog
updated August, 1972

As stated on page 1, here is the purpose of this publication: "We are as gods and might as well get good at it. So far remotely done power and glory--as via government, big business, formal education, church--has succeeded to the point where gross defects obscure actual gains. In response to this dilemma and to these gains a realm of intimate, personal power is developing--power of the individual to conduct his own education, find his own inspiration, shape his own environment, and share his adventure with whoever is interested. Tools that aid this process are sought and promoted by the WHOLE EARTH CATALOG

This excerpt is from "ADORATION OF THE LIGHT," page 291:

Beyond those looming shapes is brilliant light but here are only shadows reaching out across a vast and and empty plain. I'm crossing an enormous floor, an ancient oceanbed so smooth I didn't even stumble when the light was far away. I'm near it now. It pours down in a shower from up above. It streams, it falls, it's a column made of light, a light that's shaped like stone and stone with light inside.

"Holy time machines, Batman! Erin O'Brien's been Photoshopped!"

What Erin O'Brien wishes she looked like:



What Erin O'Brien actually looks like:



"Goddamn," said the anonymous Photoshop artist after completing this job, which took him over 125 hours. Despite his exhaustion, the artist was able to sit up and take a bit of weak tea before succumbing to a troubled sleep.

O'Brien's reaction to the before and after shots was mixed.

"What the hell do you expect?" said O'Brien of the untouched photo. "I had just screwed a goat!" After studying the Photoshop version of herself more closely, however, O'Brien reconsidered. "Shit!" she said. "Think this guy is available for full-body nudes?"

Details regarding additional work between O'Brien and the artist were not available.

Today while the blossom still clings to the vines

My right eyelid was horribly swollen when I woke up this morning. No idea why.

Go to my MySpace page and read the latest comment by tate III allan john waroc seizer.

I'm mad at Steve McQueen again. He posted/linked Fourty* Ways Women Fail in Bed. Here is a sample from that mighty list:

12. LACK OF MAINTENANCE: Never ask a man if he likes your body as you will force him to lie. Men don't like fat chicks. Get in the gym and lose some weight and tighten those buns and thighs. here* is no such thing as the perfect body. 99.6 per cent* of men say that even Christy, Elle, Naomi et al could still lose a few pounds -so what chance have you got?

What an effing cheezdick.

*Cheezdick's spelling and grammar, not mine.

Happy Monday and I love you,

Erin.

Artwork, vol. 2

Research indicates that one of the subtle attributes of what people find beautiful is symmetry. The more symmetrical a person's face is, the more attractive it is to most people.

Which is why I love this guy.

At first glance, he appears symmetrical, but when you study him (forgive my bad photography), you discover that he is completely asymmetrical. Hence, he is not what he appears to be, but in a unique way. He is a brilliant sleight of eye. If he really was a circus toss game, I imagine that was part of his trick.

I love that.

This framed art poster measures 24 by 38 inches. I know nothing about it. If anyone does know anything about it, do share.

Rain Day Woman, vol. 17

In my column this week, I outline the Beer Test. It is important to note that the Goat, father of the Goat and father of Erin all passed the beer test with flying colors--many times in fact.

Incidentally, I've passed a few Beer Tests myself.

Now then, seems my kid's arm is a bit more broke then they thought, so while I'm chasing around hospitals and doctors, I ask all of you bloggers to spill your own Beer Test stories in the comment section.

If you have something to say about my column, please email the Free Times. Be sure to include your full name and city. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Promises, promises, promises

If you read my book, you will be younger, smarter, thinner, better-looking and your teeth will be whiter. You will be more a more successful lover, mother, brother, father, etc.

Your car will run more smoothly.

Your body odor will diminish. Your cakes will rise higher. Your soufflé's will be fluffier and your whites will be whiter. You will leave a sparking path of glitter behind you wherever you go.

Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, who leaves a trail of sparkling glitter?

Oh, I know! Shaina does. And if that isn't enough, there's her profile pic tagline, "I'm not a lesbian, but I'm a big fan," and on top of that, here's what she had to say about my book:

I read possibly the coolest book ever Harvey & Eck by ... Erin O'Brien. She's hilarious. Her book is amazing. It's the story of a woman called Harvey, who, in the depths of despair, decides to write an anonymous letter to a man whose name she picks out of a phone book. Her life, and his, changes drastically due to her letters, and it's fascinating and fun and heartbreaking to watch. I was enthralled, to put it simply.

I know a book is awesome when I start thinking like and wanting to speak like the characters, and after reading only fifty pages (I had to stop and do some real work, but I didn't wanna). I could sense myself thinking and writing like Eck, but at the same time I could effortlessly switch my mind and writing and speaking to be like Harvey's. That's how good these characters are.

Read the whole entry here.

Thanks Shaina! I love you and I daresay the lesbians do to.

A girl named Jag

My father was a man who defined himself in part by his vehicles. MG TD's. a 1949 Willy's jeep. And the Jaguars--the impossible beautiful Jags.

His crowning pride was a 1964 Series 1 XKE. He built her out of a hundred organ donors. In the end, she was reborn as the sort of car that most men pamper with careful Sunday drives and Turtle Wax. They handle such creatures delicately, leaving them immaculate and without evidence of wear. I once walked by such a car (a Porsche) and noted a pristine pair of leather driving gloves displayed in the rear widow well. It made me sad, like a beautiful woman dying with her virginity intact.

Dad drove the XKE and he drove it often. And fast. And well--at least when she was in the mood. Jags are temperamental divas and any man who loves them knows they need a special brand of TLC. They overheat. They break down. They say "no" at the most crucial moment.

There's not many old XKE's out there. In 2002, Dad died and the number men who understand the intricacies of a sexy British aristocat with an unhealthy appetite for speed was diminished by one.

I drove the Jag a couple of times. It is stunning, quite unlike the homogenized and effortless vehicular experience most of us gulp down within the confines of our affable minivans. The driver's seat is a tightly enclosed place. The car itself is shapely and haughty in a distinctly female way. This cat is full of itself and for good reason. To drive it is to negotiate with it. She is a big powerful feline that is difficult to control. She responds in ways you don't expect. She is beautiful and infuriating.

Drive a vintage Jag and you will understand how vehicles garnered the pronoun of "she." Sexist? Goddamn right.

We still have the Jag. Her presence is painful. We don't know how to take care of her. We don't know how to love her.



Top photo: Dad and the Jag. Top photo left: Dad and his three vintage MGs in 1960. Mom is in the middle, Dad is on the right. Middle photo right: Jack Northrup and Dad (right) in the 1949 Willy's jeep before Dad restored and customized it. Bottom photo: Dick (left) and Doug Lamb and the Jag. The finished jeep is behind them. Click on any photo to enlarge.

And "What it was Like:"

Will the last Teddy Babe in the dollhouse turn out the lights, please?

One of the many things I didn't have space to cover in the Guys and Dolls piece was the plush doll phenomenon. Teddy Babes are big stuffed dolls with velour-like skin. I think they're adorable. If I was single and some guy shyly admitted that he sleeps with a big stuffed girl doll to keep him company, I'd think it was cute as hell.

Since I wrote the article and associated blog entry, it came to my attention that the Salon article I reference was actually mangled version of Meghan Laslocky's longer and more even-handed piece that ran in Salt Magazine. I was completely stunned at how Laslocky was edited in Salon. If you're out there Meghan, I'd love to hear from you, so would my readers.

Thanks to Josh Williams for his letter to the editor. To the others that wrote, many thanks. Those letters may still run and I shall link them if they do.

The doll owners had many things to say about the article. And I fielded these comments from "Davecat" (who pointed me to the unedited Laslocky article) as well:

"I had your article pointed out to me by a friend who's a member of the Doll Forum. When he mentioned it, frankly, I expected the worst: the members would see you as yet another invasive opportunist troll, which would result in yet another biased and judgmental article. But thankfully, that wasn't the case. Your piece was rather well-balanced, and it pretty much speaks for itself. Plus, the fact that you've left it open-ended is a refreshing change from the undercurrent of 'so that just goes to show you - doll owners are freaks' that a few of these sorts of pieces have.

I'm an iDollator myself; My RealDoll Sidore Kuroneko and I have been partners for about seven years; all my mates know about her and she's an incredibly important part of my life, with a status that goes far beyond 'sex toy.' I recognize the fact that she is a Doll; however, by virtue of the personality and history that I've given her, she goes from being simply a beautiful work of art, to being a lover and companion that's always there for me. And when you have a fascination with (read: lust for) female androids, combined with a history of either being in horrible relationships or none at all, a RealDoll certainly makes life less miserable. You can't put a price on that, really...

As I'm sure you've learned, iDollators run the gamut - there's a few archetypes, but there's no such thing as a bog-standard doll owner. There are owners that have their doll for purely sexual reasons, and there's owners that are 'married' to their artificial companions. There are owners that don't even give their dolls a name, and there are owners who don't even have sex with their dolls. Naturally that means there's many points in between. A rather varied spectrum, just like humanity in general."

And this came from another reader, "That was interesting this week, but I kind of felt like taking a long shower using a whole bar of soap afterward. Why is it grosser than, say an article on sex abusers? I guess because one of these guys could be my dentist, and someone could blow the whistle on him, and he'd still have his practice. (If I had one of those Stepford Wives, I'd show them who her man was). Stick to the funny stuff, please." He titled the email, "gross with a capital g that rhymes with p that stands for puke."

I'll be taking a break from dolls for a while, but I must admit that I'm thinking of buying a pair of Boobie Balls for "stress relief."



Teddy Babe photo courtesy of AVAV, which offers the following reference link.

Walking the walk

Now that I have a camera phone, I can take pictures of things when I walk the earth for mile after mile after mile. This is a picture of some red licorice candies that were strewn about the sidewalk. They were shaped like little schnauzer dogs. I think it must take a very angry person to throw little red licorice schnauzer dogs all over the place.

This is a pair of purple underwear. I do not have any purple underwear, nor can I remember ever having any. Hence, I'm pretty sure these aren't mine, but I'm not positive.



This is a rubber glove. I run across these on a pretty regular basis. Sometimes it's just the one glove. Sometimes it's one glove, then a few yards down the pike, you find another. I had a box of rubber gloves but I used them all up. I never threw them out all over the road, though.

I've been waiting on this baby.

This is Used Condom Number Three of my whole life. That does not include condoms in which I partook of the use*. It just includes condoms I've passed by while loping around trying to think and figure out the world. Ever since I got my camera phone and this blog, I've been waiting and waiting for Used Condom Number Three. Finally happened. So here you go people, the Darwinian Imperative: stymied. You are not going to believe this, but I really and truly came across this baby the very next day after posting this. And I found it in a whole different part of town. I could have posted it then, but no one would have believed it.

I just thought this was sort of sad.

*I cannot figure out how to say that with grammaricular correctitude, so you just have to deal with it

PSA

We interrupt this blog to bring you the following Public Service Announcement.

At One Hundred o'clock yestertoday, the Coppler Erin O'Brien Radar showed a massive cloud of literary indifference approaching the area. All parties within the area, which extends from hell to breakfast, are urged to head to a big soft cushy thing with a copy of "Jesus' Son" by Denis Johnson and read it cover to cover immediately if not sooner.

This message was brought to you by a Small Town Punk. We now return to your regularly scheduled blogdom, already in progress.