I've written an in-depth feature for this week's Scene:Drill Baby Drill.
I've previously noted on these pages that I worked for BP for years and that my husband is a pipeline operator. I put gas in my car and heat my home with natural gas. Most of us do; and many of us take gas and oil for granted. That changes when an oil derrick is erected next to your house.
Ohio is home to a great deal of oil and gas drilling. There were some 64,000 wells operating in Ohio in 2008. Courtesy of a practice known as "urban drilling" the wells are getting closer and closer and closer to the people--particularly where I live. The Cuyahoga Valley area has long been known for its rich pockets of oil and gas.
My family has lived in and around the Cuyahoga Valley for six generations. My great grandfather's farmland is now part of the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, so I feel a certain way about this place, from the natural habitats to the industrial underbelly of the city. After all, Dad was a machinist. I grew up surrounded by milling machines and lathes. But the wells? The wells are new.
When you purchase an older home next to an asphalt plant, you know what you're getting into; but when you purchase a brand new home in a suburban neighborhood and someone plops a tank battery and a wellhead next to it, that's a different story. You may hate it; or you may love it--particularly if you're reaping monthly royalties from that hole in the earth.
I urge every Ohioan to read my feature and the companion blog. The same goes for those in other states that condone urban drilling. I'm interested in everyone's thoughts on this topic. You can comment here or on the Scene pages (registration is a breeze), or you may email my editor Frank Lewis.
If you concentrated the Roman Polanski debacle, condensed its duration and added a vial or two of innocent blood, you'd end up on the Jack Abbott square.
Abbott was a lifetime criminal who started a correspondence with Norman Mailer from prison in the late 1970s. Mailer became enchanted by Abbott's writing and successfully supported his parole efforts. There was a Random House book, In the Belly of the Beast, and a flurry of literati adoration for Abbott. He was granted parole in 1981.
Six weeks later, he stabbed Richard Adan to death when the 22-year-old waiter told Abbott the cafe's bathroom was not for public use.
Abbott was convicted for murder and returned to prison. He committed suicide in 2002. Here is the Wiki write-up on Abbott. Here's an unabridged version (recommended) by Mark Gado.
So here comes Roman Polanski who allegedly drugged and raped a 13-year-old girl, also in the late 1970s. Back then Polanski admitted to having sex with the girl, then fled the country. Now after his Sept. 27, 2009 arrest in Switzerland, he's ready to fight extradition and sentencing.
As I read over comments from Polanski supporters about how he was a "brilliant guy" who made a "little mistake" 32 years ago, all I could think of was Norman Mailer and all the others that swarmed around Abbott, citing his gift for writing as if it erased his crimes. That's one set of elite liberals you won't count me among.
You want to see a prejudicial Erin? Show me a 50-year-old man with a 25-year-old wife/girlfriend who looks like she's 14. That's when I pull my daughter aside and whisper in her ear: no hugs for him. Now think how patently girlish Mia Farrow was in Polanski's 1968 effort Rosemary's Baby. Polanski's victim does not wish to see his extradition pursued; and I doubt Polanski will so much as blink at a minor girl ever again. Nonetheless, when a well-heeled sliver of the artistic community imparts largesse on someone like Polanski because he has money and talent, it sours me to the core.
Were you named after anyone? My middle name is Elizabeth. Wasn't she a queen or something?
If you were another person would you be friends with you? Two Erins? The world only needs one Erin. If there were two Erins, the last thing you people'd need to worry about is whether or not they'd be friends.
Do you still have your tonsils? Yes.
Would you bungee jump? I like bungee cords, keep one in my trunk at all times.
Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? You know, I don't think I've ever gone to bed with a man who left his socks on. Good christ-awmighty, that's a relief.
Do you think you are strong? I am stronger than shallots, almost as strong as garlic. I might be as strong as onions, although I don't make people cry. Except my kid. I hate it when I do that. What is your favorite ice cream? When you're naked in front of the open freezer at three in the morning with a carton in one hand and a spoon in the other, particulars are really not important. What is the first thing you notice about people? What is beautiful about them. Red or pink? Hm. It's more of a dusky rose.
Do you like your handwriting? After my brother died I couldn't write. My hand would just cramp up into an impossible knot. It eventually came back to about 90 percent. Then Dad died and I really couldn't write. Had one hell of a time writing thank-you notes to all the neighbors for the casseroles. Wrote them in pencil and badly at that. My writing came back to about 60 percent. Signing books is always embarrassing for me because of it.
What is the least favorite thing about yourself? Wow. The cornucopia of choices before me is dizzying. My obsession to write is the best and worst thing about me. I am an awful housekeeper. I hate my belly, but not as much as I used to.
Who do you miss the most? When the gentle tether between us billows in the breeze like the strand of a spider web and threatens to break, I weep at the fear of losing you. I love you. Do not go away. Please never, ever go away. I must stay connected to you. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? I am in a pair of undies. That's it. They are gray.
What was the last thing you ate? A piece of cold pizza or my husband. Can't remember the order.
What are you listening to right now? Bubbles in my club soda, the sound of typing.
If you where a crayon, what color would you be? The blue velvet of the sky when the clock reads one handful of diamonds before dark.
Favorite smells? Fresh air. My daughter and all of her tweeny-sweet perfumes. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? A man who spent his life toiling to build the pyramids of Giza.
Favorite sports to watch? Sex.
Hair color? Eye color? Do you wear contacts? Brown, brown, no.
Favorite food? I am thankful for every morsel I put in my mouth. Well ... that one breakfast at the Huddle Hut off the highway in one of the Carolinas produced effects other than feelings of being thankful.
Summer or winter? Whiskey on the rocks with a splash of soda.
Hugs or kisses? I could probably sleep with another woman, but my profound desire for the heterosexual experience would turn the affair into a train wreck.
What book are you reading now? Chris Adrian's "The Children's Hospital."
What did you watch on t.v. last night? I sleep on my tummy.
Favorite sound? Laughter. I love the coo of mourning doves. I was sad when I learned they are mourning doves and not morning doves.
Rolling stones or Beatles? Dig "Torn and Frayed." Or "Before They Make Me Run." A'course "Hide Your Love Away" makes me swoon as well.
What is the farthest you have been from home? California.
Do you have a special talent? I can hula-hoop for an hour. Where were you born? My father pulled me from the banks of the Cuyahoga River.
* * *
This in an updated repost of a previous entry. Photos are of Erin O'Brien, her husband Eric, Erin's toe (and resident toad), daughter Jessica's original artwork, and a funny set of Adam and Eve figures that stare at Erin from their windowsill perch while she does the dishes, peels the potatoes or leans over the sink eating a tomato.
3. "Douchebag." (Not when used to refer to a personal hygiene device for women, but when used as a derogatory term, most often by males under the age of 40. Your humble hostess suggests "peckerhead" as an alternative.)
4. "Dis." (As an abbreviated form of "disrespect.")
5. "Sick." (Not when used to pertain to mental or physical illness, but when [perhaps in an attempt at irony] used as an adjective meaning "excellent" or "outrageous." Granted, this might be the current generation's replacement for "cool," but at worst, "cool" implies a pleasant albeit lower temperature, whereas "sick" evokes vomiting, diarrhea, pustules, and mucous.)
From when my daughter was about 3 to when she was 5 or 6, I could go to the junk store with five bucks in hand and purchase glittery plastic tiaras and press on nails for her and they delivered untold hours of delight. Sparkle stickers, sequined purses, shimmering princess costumes.
Sparkle! Sparkle! Sparkle!
Little girls love sparkle. And every mom and dad out there knows that when the little neighborhood darlings converge on your living room floor, you'll be vacuuming up glitter for days. It comes with the territory, just like being a display mannequin for Barbie stickers and nail polish.
Although I am fascinated by the psyche all beauty pageants, nothing disgusts or infuriates me more than pageants for children. To deny any little girl the rhinestone tiara is cruel, but to tell her she only gets the tiara if she's cute or pretty or talented is monstrous.
Because if she loses, then you no longer have the option of giving her the junk store tiara. The junk store tiara is just junk. It's not like the tiara the girl with the curlier hair and frillier dress got at the pageant. The pageant tiara, which is borne of things false and sad, essentially usurps the real magic of the junk store tiara.
If the God People don't have a sin label for that one, they ought to.
Now then, is it any surprise that I am glued to the television whenever TLC's "Toddler's and Tiaras" airs?
That is the only embeddable clip I could find, although it's surely not the most representative. Here are a few more links that demonstrate why I watch "Toddlers and Tiaras" with such fascination:
"Marleigh's Mom" is still fascinated by tiaras. Bet she doesn't believe there's magic in the junk store ones.
Conversely, I found this clip sort of sweet and sad. As with all these parents, it's obvious to me that the "Super Dad of Pageants" is doing this for himself and not for his daughter. That said, his love for his kids really shows through.
But I'm still rooting for these little girls; and hoping they'll find the right teacher or book or coach to show them the other side of the leaf. And if thy don't, maybe they'll end up on Bridezilla.
Thanks to everyone who attended the 26th Annual Western Reserve Writers' Conference & Workshop this Saturday. You were a wonderful and energetic group. Your enthusiasm made my job easy!
As promised, here's links to the items I referenced during my keynote address:
The indignation of some righties over Carter's charge of racism is just laughable to me. Dig the comment section of this post.
And what about all that tea party tripe? Bogus photos and misquoted news agencies. To quote the esteemed Senator from South Carolina: "You lie!"
I keep thinking of the Glinda the Good Witch of the North telling Dorothy that her ruby slippers must be very powerful indeed or the Wicked Witch of the West wouldn't want them so badly. The righties sure want those slippers.
Yeah? Well then call me the Good Witch of Cleveland.
On to Obama. No, I don't agree with everything he's done, but he still has my support. This country is so diseased and so far off course to the right that I can't expect miracles, but I still have hope.
And I am in 100 percent agreement with James Carville about Latimer's new book Speech-Less. I may have no love for George W. Bush, but the President has a right to a casual life. If he is not actively "on the record" his aides ought to respect that. Latimer's a turd for publishing Bush's off-the-cuff comments. (Although I've got to admit it, if Dubya called Obama "this cat," it alters my opinion of the man. I love it when a guy calls another guy "cat." Always have.)
And if Bush didn't make those comments, Latimer's an even bigger turd. Either way he gives us writers a bad name.
"Why doesn't our wonderful liberal media report the truth about how lousy our health care is compared to the rest of the developed world? Why do they give more media attention to people spreading known lies about health care reform proposals than they do to informing us of the massive media effort of health insurance companies to make sure those lies get spread?
I am against the guy who invented automated paper towel dispensers for public bathrooms.
I am for piano movers.
I am against reruns of The Price is Right.
I am for bubbles.
I am against poison ivy.
I am for go-carts.
I am against traffic jams.
I am for the blue-haired lady in the purple subcompact car who stopped and gave me, Erin the Pedestrian, the right of way.
I am for percolator-style coffee pots.
I am against John Boehner.
I am against slot machines.
I am for John Boehner playing slot machines.
I am for hot pillow motels.
I am against Chicken McNuggets.
I am for barbershop quartets.
I am against alarm clocks.
I am for quickies.
I am against the tall and handsome scrub-clad surgeon who nodded and smiled as he stepped backwards and away from the bewildered-looking Salis family in the surgery waiting room while reaching for his singing cell phone, then gave them a final wave goodbye as he said "Hello" into his Moto and made a 2 p.m. cocktail date.
I am for self-checkout.
I am against ironing boards.
I am for butter sugar sandwiches.
I am against Fox News.
I am for Ron Popeil.
I am against WalMart.
I am for 80-year-old volunteers named Gloria.
I am against anyone who takes up the whole grocery aisle, no matter how they do it.
I am for guys who carefully stay still when the lady sitting next to them (whom they do not know) falls asleep on their shoulder on the airplane.
I am for sparklers.
I am against Rush Limbaugh.
I am against Glenn Beck.
I am against Ann Coulter.
I am for tacos.
I am against guys who threaten with Cold Dead Hands.
I am for Dr. Seuss
I am against Dr. Phil
I am for tuxedoes, saris and ponytails.
I am against the guy in the Escalade who turned onto Broadview Road right in front of me and made me swerve even though there was no one behind me.
I am for orgasms.
I am against ingrown toenails.
I am for glass elevators.
I am against glass ceilings.
I am for crazy straws, hula hoops and unicycles.
I am against green Jello mold salad.
I am for lipstick stains.
I am against Robert Tilton.
I am for penguins.
I am against spanking.
I am for spanking.
I am against not being able to come up with another good against.
It was NO-Obama in my kid's school district yesterday, but the red carpet for Bush in 2004. I am so furious, I could spit. Instead I blogged about this for the Cleveland Scene. Read the entry here.
I'll be delivering the keynote address for the 26th Western Reserve Writer's Conference and Workshop on Saturday, Sept. 19. This time-honored event is a cool, affordable one-day write-fest.
There's three workshop time slots, each with three session options from which attendees may choose. Poetry, memoir, research, fiction and nonfiction--this conference has it all--and with presenters who've been jamming the keys professionally for years.
So if you're a writer in Northeast Ohio, consider giving the workshop a go or pass this on to your writing buddies. This event accommodates all skill levels.
Having completed the first full week of school, my 12-year-old shared her "people" categories with me. According to her, persons in seventh grade can be grouped as follows:
1. The mean popular people.
2. The nerdy* nice people.
3. The smart cool people.
4. The people who think they're popular but are really losers.
5. The funny people.
*smart, but uncool
Perhaps not surprisingly, I new exactly what each description meant. It was a refreshing change from "liberal" and "conservative."
I asked her which category fit her best. "Sometimes I'm a two or a three," she said, "but mostly I'm considered a five."
I asked which category she would assign to me. "You're a three and a five," she said without hesitation.
Then I asked her which category best fit her dad. "I hate to break this to you, Mom," she said, "but I think dad would mostly be a two."
Kid's got a point.
# # #
Photo inserts: Erin O'Brien circa 1972 and husband Eric circa 1971.
No one loves the chant Drill, Baby, Drill! more than the Saudis. After all, it's the sound of a pathetic addict crawling around his own back yard looking for a crumb of crack. The Sheiks and Kings of the Middle East know that they control the only real booty on the planet.
There's the derrick right behind a house I pass on my usual walking route. And this is a quiet middle-class street with no other industrial installations of any kind in the vicinity. And yes, there is a well adjacent to my own home. I'm waiting for one of these wells, the drilling operation, or the tanks of natural gas to blow up. Oh wait. That already happened.
I chipped a filling the other day and headed to the dentist to have it repaired. They seated me in a room I hadn't been in before. A strange figure seated on a high ledge immediately caught my attention.
I asked the dentist what it was, where it came from, and if it had a name.
"It's the Toothfairy," he told me, adding that it was a gift from a friend and that no, he had no name for it other than Toothfairy.
I told him that I was pretty sure he'd been buffaloed and that, although the Toothfairy surely climbs down from there at night, he does not fish baby teeth from beneath pillows and leave coins in exchange.
"I think he actually eats the children and leaves just the teeth behind," I said.
The life-size Toothfairy fascinated me for the duration of my visit. I could not take my eyes from him. When the dentist was finished with my repair, I snapped a few pix with my phonecam. He looked terrifying from every angle, although I could only get so close.
"It came from a place called Katherine's," said my dentist as I got ready to leave. "They're out of Akron. They make ornaments and stuff."
When I got home, I wanted to learn more about the Toothfairy and its creator. Perhaps there would be fodder for a story, particularly since they were local. I really had to dig to find Katherine's Collections. When I got there, I was unable to access most of the pages as I didn't have a "customer number." I used the contact form, explaining I was a writer and that I was fascinated with the Toothfairy. Would they be amenable to talking with me?
I am certain they got my message because my hit counter logged a handful of visits from an ISP tagged "Katherine's Collections," but they have not yet answered my query. Their merchandise is on the Internet, but they're very cagey about how they sell it, which seems to be only at big craft shows. I found Lucifer over there on the left on Pamela's Corner along with a several other dolls from Katherine's Collections.
I am unsure why a vendor would be so secretive about their merchandise. Perhaps it creates mystique. In any event, My poking around has probably earned a visit from the Toothfairy. So if I go missing one day save for a collection of teeth upon my pillow, check the dentist office.
