One quick thought

Carl Rove is a real cocksucker.

The Thinker

A God Among Men is my first essay in the new Cleveland Scene.

Now go on and read it because it is way cool and unlike anything else you'll read today or tomorrow or the day after that. And here's a photo essay as well, which is also unlike any other I've seen on The Thinker and it still doesn't do it near enough justice.

For those of you who do everything online, a note about the placement of my column in the print edition. It is part of the Freestyle section, which used to be right up front on page nine or ten of the Free Times. It now appears in the rear pages of the Cleveland Scene, along with Dan Savage (ironic, no?), the comics, and ads for Amber's Cabaret, Lido Lounge Gentleman's Club and promises that you can try Live Links Chatline for FREE!

Before you roll your eyes, The Thinker and I know that Savage and his fans, the babes in the ads, and the hand-drawn figures talking into balloons are our people just like the blokes in the front of the paper. And even though I'm a silly little broad and he's a hundred-year-old bronze guy with no feet; we both know how to sail on the Internet, which will take us everywhere we want to go.

Life. Is. Good.

If you have anything to say about any this, please email my editor Frank Lewis and include your full name and city.

Honeymoon Week

I feel obligated to come clean about this photo of my phenomenal duck dinner at Fire from yesterday's post.

DogsDontPurr made a comment about the champagne cork and even threatened to call the Recession Police on me.

Well, it's true. the Goat and I took a week off recession food while our daughter was at summer camp, an event that we call Honeymoon Week. We eat out every night at the best places in town and always get wine or special cocktails. So yeah, we had champagne that night. Man-o-man did it rock!

And uh, yeah, when we're not out and about, we're have a lot of the sort of sex that requires a shower before and after.

: )

Sorry to use one of those punctuation smiley things, but it pretty much sums up how I feel about Honeymoon Week.

Phone cam round up

Uh-oh watch out for the turd.


Jeepers mister pick-up truck guy we haven't even met and you're already being a meanie!


Get ready for the vampire invasion and I'll bring the garlic.


Toilet on the road #1.


Toilet on the road #2.


Cover for a Totes umbrella and it soooo made me think of a condom.


Purple super hero going down the drain.


Roast duck at Fire with the Goat and man was it good.


Hey Alice, don't follow that rabbit down that hallway!


Bird nest and I guess the world's a tough place sorry and everything.


My airplane made a perfect landing on this rock, Mom!

And now for a few words from our sponsor ...

Shiver is a good word.

So is perpendicular. I like perpendicular better than parallel, although that's also a good word. Perpendicular and parallel sound like what they mean, which is always a cool trick. Wharf is a good word.

Now I'm at sliver and dwarf, the logical next steps from shiver and wharf. No, I didn't forget about perpendicular and parallel. They just don't have any next steps; you get there and you're done. But if shiver and wharf led me to sliver and dwarf and the two p-words are a dead end, then the only place left to go is swarf. And here I am, unexpectedly and indubitably.

Swarf.

Other people will live their entire lives without ever understanding the profound implication of swarf.

"Fine metallic particles removed by a cutting or grinding tool," says Webster's Third New International Dictionary of swarf.

I got shiver from the second to last page of "Better," an unpublished novel of my brother's that I have reason to revisit. Something about that particular shiver on that particular page went **ting** in my terrible brain, and delivered unto me the thought that a list of good words would make for a good post on a good Saturday morning.

Then wharf arrived, trailing along lines at once perpendicular and parallel, and led me directly to swarf. From there I go hurling and swirling backwards to that word's singular and monolithic concept.

Dad standing before his lathe or milling machine, tooling a piece of metal, a Stroh's can at his elbow. All those tiny curls of steel or aluminum falling to the ground as he transformed a formless chunk of metal into a cam or lever or joint. The curls accumulating around the machines into Lilliputian-sized mountains. From there, they would get tracked all through the house.

"Goddamnit, Bill," my mother yells over the roaring vacuum, "you and these little metal shavings!"

Picking little metal curls from the bottoms of my feet; the way they became one with a pair of socks.

Swarf was an ever-present detail of my life.

The day after Dad died, I stepped into his shop and sat on his filthy plastic chair. He had been in the middle of a dozen projects and the shop was a mess. There were piles of sawdust and swarf at the base of every machine. I sat there staring. That's when the shock set in: elemental nausea, a slight fever amid the feeling of being ice-cold.

With my shaking frozen fingers, I retrieved one of the round metal nut-and-bolt organizers from the rack on the wall. I stepped around the shop and collected pinches of detritus from around each of the machines.

Eventually, I added a few of Dad's ashes (this was preceded by events with names such as autopsy and cremation--both of which are very bad words). The cylindrical metal dish sits on my desktop. It is the only swarf left.

You have to be very, very careful with words.

Psychological warfare

It's not all garlic frosting and goats over here ...

I also get mad as hell. I was furious all day yesterday after reading "The Pursuit of Teen Girl Purity" from Time/CNN July 17, 2008. Here's an excerpt:

Kylie Miraldi has come from California to celebrate her 18th birthday tonight. She'll be going to San Jose State on a volleyball scholarship next year. Her father, who looks a little like Superman, is on the dance floor with one of her sisters; he turns out to be Dean Miraldi, a former offensive lineman with the Philadelphia Eagles. When Kylie was 13, her parents took her on a hike in Lake Tahoe, Calif. "We discussed what it means to be a teenager in today's world," she says. They gave her a charm for her bracelet--a lock in the shape of a heart. Her father has the key. "On my wedding day, he'll give it to my husband," she explains. "It's a symbol of my father giving up the covering of my heart, protecting me, since it means my husband is now the protector. He becomes like the shield to my heart, to love me as I'm supposed to be loved."

I wonder if she gets a sparkle berry pink chastity belt as well.

I'd heard of those vile "promise rings" before, but these Cinderella-style balls and the archaic vows are a new low. Score one for the bad guys.

My Cleveland, vol 6.

The Cleveland Museum of Art is one of my favorite places in the world. Here's a few Erin-style snaps of their permanent collection; or go and view a whole bunch more over on my Flickr page.

You can read all about this wonderland online, including what happened to our poor Thinker.

I really wish you were here. I really, really wish you were here.

She didn't fake that one.

I'm sorry about what happened.

Artist's rendering of Erin/Goat foreplay.

Tiffany balls

Vain lady.

Goat between your legs and I know how you feel.

Stone and flesh peeps.

Long toes.

Fat happy babies.

Baby goat.

Get a room already.

You dumb guy.

Nice glasses, baby.

I wonder myself

Deodan left this comment on my recent potato chip post:

Which is stranger: That you made a 2-minute video of yourself opening and eating a bag of chips, or that I watched it?

The YouTubes phenomenon is strange, Deodan. Case in point: my Female Ejaculation effort, which has garnered over 2.6 million views (yes, you read that right--2.6 MILLION views). I am stunned at this fact. I only made the silly thing as fodder for this blog. But there you have it: Erin O'Brien's first million.

Nice, huh?

I used to leave every comment up except for the spam. Eventually, I enabled comment moderation and now I delete the moronic insults. There are new comments almost every day. Most are pretty predictable, but what amazes me is how many people complain about the fact that I made the video and that they watched it. Unlike Deodan, they render themselves completely blameless in the transaction. As if I made them watch it ala the Ludovico Technique of A Clockwork Orange fame.

So no, Deodan, I don't know which is stranger. All I can do is offer you one final note: the Female Ejaculation YouTube resulted in this amazing story as well.

Slug sex

Slugs are hermaphrodites, having both female and male reproductive organs. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves by one or both of the slugs chewing off the other's penis. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to mate subsequently, but using only the female parts of its reproductive system.

From Wikipedia, July 16, 2008.

Christ awmighty.

Naked Erin, socks and Beer Chips

This photo of me wearing socks and four bags of Beer Chips was inspired by the following Being Erin O'Brien story.

Question 16 of this interview, which I did for my buddy Geoff Schutt, was about food. Instead of writing an answer, I decided to make a silly YouTube that featured a bag of potato chips:



Because I sometimes fall into a narcissistic pool and need to look at myself, I reviewed that YouTube not long ago. I thought it was sort of fun, so I emailed the people who make Beer Chips and sent them a link to the vid.

To my delight, the Beer Chip people responded, saying they enjoyed the video. Then they sent me a little present. I thought that was a beautiful thing all the way around. The Goat even said that I am the only person he's ever known to get a box of potato chips in the mail as a gift from the potato-chip makers.

Since I have disclosed that I accepted this gift from the good Beer Chip people (which genuinely felt like potato chip goodwill and nothing more), I am comfortable giving their product the following endorsement:

Thus far, I've only tried the Hot Potato flavor, which was excellent and the feature of the above YouTube. I expect the same from the other two flavors. The Goat has been eyeballing the regular Beer Chips and I'm looking forward to tearing into the Margarita flavored Chip Shots. Until then, I can attest that four bags of unopened Beer Chips will cover one naked Erin O'Brien enough to make the resulting photo polite.

Hello and I love you. That is all.

**sigh**

A Monday morning thought: I would do anything to see this* in person.

*Update: After having fielded some comments, here is a sample of "The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Hieronymus Bosch, 1503. Click on the above link to view the entire work in high resolution.

Phone cam round up

Hi Mom 'ya missed a spot behind the barn.


Hey, I found your shoe golf club, man.


oooh! you are a heman Hal Perry and Co. and I love guys in a junkyard!


Them there's some tree pokers.


That was a good party baby, see y'again next weekend?


Okay, I'll be a good girl.


Okay, no Doritos for that guy!


I know it's been there less than five seconds but no thanks buddy I quit a hunnert years ago.


Red-hot tree pecker.


Mobile art in a waiting room and it's cool.


Aw hell sure hope the kid was okay.


Mini chalkboard at the bar and sure, I'll write something.


Crazy roll of duct tape by the road. Naw, I don't need any right now.


Did we get everything? No hold on a sec I want a pack of Twizzlers.

Fifteen seconds of darling little fuzzy wuzzies

A growing goat

Where we live, the deer eat everything. Although I gave up trying to plant anything long ago, the Goat still goes out there and plays around in the dirt. Last year, he planted some nasturtiums by our mailbox, which I promptly mistook for weeds a couple of weeks later and pulled out.

But this year, his nasturtiums bloomed and when I saw the bright orange blossoms, it made me all happy inside. Yay Goat!


A little-known Goat fact is that the Goat had a darling mustache when I married him, which he shaved not long thereafter. It has been my endless task to try to coax him back into facial hair.

I don't know how long it will last, but oh how I love this goat fur!

A Rainy Day

It has been one hell of a ride, but this deconstruction of an American Classic will be my last Rainy Day Woman column for the Cleveland Free Times, which is merging with the Cleveland Scene magazine.

If you have something to say about it, please email Editor Frank Lewis and include your full name and city.

Thanks to all who have asked about my future in the Cleveland Indie press. All I know right now is that the new paper will be called Scene that will debut on July 23, and that Frank will be manning the helm, which is good news all around.

Reconstructing Dan Savage, vol. two

Oh boy.

Sex columnist Dan Savage's Episode 57 podcast, which originally posted November 20, 2007, features a guest expert. Savage and "Science" open the show with a discussion on how to determine whether or not a woman is faking an orgasm. The description tag for the podcast calls it "a useful tutorial on how to scientifically determine whether a woman's orgasm is fake or genuine."


The two Boy Wonders go on to tell their listening audience to check for pupil dilation and sweaty palms and feet at the moment of climax, all of which indicate an innate "fight or flight" response commonly associated with orgasm.

This is your advice, boys? Palms and pupils? You're kidding me, right?

When you're talking the fairer-sex climax, you are obligated to include a mention of orgasmic contractions. Perhaps Savage was being polite and didn't want to trump his guest. Maybe he was having a subtle laugh at Science's expense. But orientation notwithstanding, Savage has mentioned orgasmic contractions before, so it's not as though he doesn't know about them. Whatever the case, neither man brought up the single most definitive characteristic of a real orgasm. And how you can have such a discussion without mentioning the fact that the vagina puts on a regular floor show during the genuine article escapes me.


What really bothers me is that there is a contingent of men that took this sage advice at face value. They're out there prying their lover's eyes open at a crucial moment or blotting their palms with a Kleenex to check for perspiration. Savage and Co., you did a major disservice to all of them as well as their partners. Shame on you! Now let me set things straight.

Gentlemen, the puss is not static during climax. It does fun tricks.

That said, I am not a doctor or statistician, just one woman with copious experience. I realize the orgasmic reaction is as unique as the woman enjoying it. Some vaginae mark climax with a subtle vibration while others exhibit a wildly undulating affair. Mine sings the Star Spangled Banner.

And if you don't believe me and don't have anyone around to demonstrate, there are plenty of NSFW examples available courtesy of the honeys over at Youporn.

This is not a secret. Plenty of people have written about it. But nonetheless, it continues to mystify. So here are a few tips.

I understand that during regular boy/girl coitus, the usual suspect may or may not feel the woman's climax, particularly if it's subtle. The man may wonder how sincere that scream really was. That said, gents, your tongue or fingers will know for sure. Seeing is believing as well.

You know what you have to do.

And for pity's sake, don't be afraid to ask for help or direction. A straight-forward demonstration may be in order as well. Once you are familiar with her unique climactic reactions, you'll never wonder again. And by then, you'll be delivering the goods so regularly, it won't be an issue.

And yeah, if it's a one-night stand and you don't know the woman at all, don't expect to know her orgasm. That advice goes for the ladies out there as well. I hate to be a fuddy-duddy, but long-term relationships produce the best sex for a reason.

To summarize: If she's grunting and moaning and pulling a regular When Harry Met Sally, but her vagina isn't doing anything, you've probably got a goose egg. On the other hand, if all she offers up a tiny "ooh" along with a bead or two of sweat while her puss performs acrobatics, you done good, kid.

And if she's splayed out on the bed with limbs like noodles and a smoky look in her eyes afterwards, that speaks volumes as well. You could call it the wake of pupil dilation, but I like my description better.

Good luck out there.



Confidential to the ladies: Don't fake; teach. Just trust me on this.

Mystifying outer space device

Hi WALL-E

As much as I poke fun at Disney, their newest Pixar film WALL-E absolutely kicked my ass. For starters, The two main characters each have about five words in their respective vocabularies including: WALL-E, earth, plant, and Eve. Neither character uses the word "love," although you won't find two more compelling lovers on a movie screen today. The girl character is an egg and the boy character is a garbage collecting cube with Army tank-like tracks instead of feet.

Yet they are both beautiful and enchanting, brave and lush with emotion.



I could go on and on and on about the brilliance glowing behind this story, but I won't. Just go see it for yourself if you can fit it into your holiday weekend.

Confidential note to WALL-E viewers: In Walt Disney World, guests may rent electric scooter chairs for $45 a day or wheelchairs for $10 a day regardless of their health. They are very popular.

I couldn't stop thinking of all those electric scooters zooming around Disney World every time there was a scene aboard the Axiom. Humankind is moving ever closer to that reality.

Confidential to everyone: Click here for a stunning little animated short to tide you over until you can get to the multiplex.

A fan's notes

Offered up by a faithful reader courtesy of this site.

Jesus Christ

Although I eschew formal religion, there are times when I am obliged to attend church. I listen to the sermon with great interest, although it is invariably an elaborate version or corollary of the Erin Commandment (Don't Be an Asshole), which serves as both a comfort and affirmation for me (I was right and the God Guy says so).

And although it is always a part of the proceedings, when the God Guy announces that he will be doling out portions of JC's body and sips of his blood in order to absolve everyone's sins, two surprising thoughts bloom:

1. Cannibal/vampire.

But that image is quickly erased by the next exciting notion:

2. Man-o-man! It's my lucky day! All I have to do is eat a JC cracker and drink some grape juice blood and all the bad shit I did is cleared out!

Then of course, the God Guy explains that unless I'm a member of the church (I never am) or have been Confirmed (nope) or chinned some other God bar that I do not understand, I can't receive the Holy Communion.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I deflate back into the pew and hope that my Karma that was so close to being swept clean isn't all that dirty to begin with.

That I do not have to enter a church in order to experience church became evident during our trip home from Disney.

We passed the following sign and my hopes rose much like they do at the prospect of the anti-sin Christ cracker. Why ... JC loves me! That means he'll think I'm okay no matter what. He might clean out my sticky Karma as a housewarming gift of sorts. I'll tell him about how I proselytized the Erin Commandment over the Internet and bag a few more points. Christ awmighty, I thought, this is some good news!


A moment later, however, the facade came crumbling down. There is always a catch.


I wonder if Jesus drinks Stroh's beer.