Writer Erin O'Brien comments on all things human.
nice! also, the word clevage originated in cleveland. your pic in a low cut blouse would be perfect for this article.
I wish I got all the geographical references... I've never been to Cleveland or Ohio. But I can relate to your statement about feeling like I've lost a few IQ points after I watch that show...BTW, is that your real hair or a wig? Cause at first I thought it was a wig, but when you said you got your daughter some Bump-Its for x-mas, I second guessed myself. If it's real, it's glorious!
Thanks for the nice comments, Bill and Angela, and yes, that is my real hair. eek!
Having grown up in Erie, I feel culturally deprived. I don't think they have anything like a Clevette there. Although I have only been back once since 1965. They may attend more to such things now days... Nonetheless, I'm jealous. And you look terrific!\WV - porsho, the kind of germanlike sports car they drive in Erie.
Of course a Clevo would be more affable and friendly, he is from the Midwest!! Not some greed laden, ponzi hideout of entitlement for being next to New York and where the Mafia buries their mistakes!!
Is that a Bump-it in your hair, or are you just happy to see me?Heh.
Damn straight there's a Bumpit in there!
Damn straight there's a Bumpit in there!Thank God!I was all worried about alien abductions and bizarre cranial deformities.
Amy Winehouse is in a bar somewhere pouting that you stole her beehive.
I love you, your hair, and your writing! Your blog always makes me happy :) - Danielle
Love it! Hilarious!!
Ayy, oh! No lip curl or fist pump with that Bumpit?~ greace is the word ... ~
It ain't just the do, it's the rake of your back. Took me back to 1968, being 14 years old and Angela. She was a very close cousin to Snooki, who's obnoxious omnipresence lately has been stirring fonder memories. I'd leave my house with that incredible wealth of freedom and security and excitement and being 14, while Angela would get her papa's '63 Pontiac Bonneville and pick me up on the corner of my street, from where we would head to the park, naturally. She was a black-haired, somewhat chubby and short Italian princess with a smokin rack and standard issue bump.We never talked about much of import for being in 1968, and I realize now we had little in common beyond slightly different chromosones. The car had those industrial plastic seat covers from that upholstery joint on Brookpark Road that only just closed a few years back. The massive Pontiac's cast iron motor was good and loose in the rings, and it didn't shut off instantly like the weeny cars of today. It rumbles to a halt easily, and belches a last huff of primordial flatulence, generously laced with tetraethyl lead and carbon. After perfunctory small talk, we'd writhe and wriggle and get the best of our Catholiscism, and one or more or several of our sweaty appendages would occasionally peel off the plastic with a sound like alien footsteps on Outer Limits.All fades away and the scents of too much makeup cut with Clearasil and my Brut, stolen from the bottle in the bathroom on my way out the door, blend with our breathing.After regaining conciousness way too late at night, I drive her home. I walk her to the porch and leave just as a light flicks on. Walking fast, I hear her big guido brother's booming syllables, followed by a call in my direction to don' be bringin ha home at no 3 inda mahnin, hippy, to which I doppler back sorry man and pick up my sprint. It's 3am and I'm running easily at 115 lbs and size 29/35 Levi's, not on the ground. No candy ass running shoes either, sneakers before they were hip were cheap, no arch supports and goddam heel lights, just slightly better than barefoot except when encountering gravel, glass and dogshit. About 3 miles in I slow up and walk, it's 3:15 am and I'm walking in a Springsteen song and in the back of my mind I know some of the older guys on my block are getting chopped up in Vietnam, the service stars in the windows are changing color ominously, but I'm 14, free and there's no end in sight.That is the real situation.
Phil, that was wonderful and I loved loved loved it. Thanks.
Erin. The beekeeper called. They want it back. Clevette or not.
Dang girl, that picture is smoking!
Aaaah. Definately dumber after watching Jersey Shore, but still cant turn it off. Because its 1991 again, and I am 15. I still drive my 87 stang with t tops to the beach after school and rock a spiral perm with waaay high bangs. (poof predecessor) Springsteen & Billy Joel were my gods on Long Island. I was a good girl, was in by 11 on the weekends. To be young, in love, and italian on Long Island. (But Guido was derogatory for muscled ignoramuses who drove Iroc Zs and did roids. Hmmmm)
Bad math. I was 16.
Thanks for dropping in, Joannah, and for the story.
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