Ask Erin

Dear Erin,

All I want from my girlfriend is to look at her after we DO IT. I mean REALLY look at her. But every time I try to sneak a peek, she rolls over and crosses her legs. Am I being weird?

--Boy who Wonders

* * *

Dear Boy Wonder,

No you are not being weird. Men can't get enough of that thing. I don't know why, but there it is. So you're 100 percent normal, but to get to the (ahem) bottom of your situation, we need to take a a couple of steps back.

So, Boy Wonder, are you or are you not delivering a splendorous orgasm unto Batgirl during the proceedings?

Methinks not.

Because if you were, Batgirl would be so full of glorious human sexual fulfillment, the aftermath would have her breathless on her back, not caring one toot if you were examining the secrets of the ol' batcave with a Klieg light. She'd probably even be giggling with that joyous intoxicated satisfaction only a true-life climax can produce. Hell, given enough big O's, she might even leave her cape and mask on, or show you a few inverted yoga poses (keep plenty of towels on hand in the case of that eventuality).

Instructing you on the ins and outs of how to properly maneuver your Batmobile in order to deliver the big O is a bigger tutorial than I can fit into this here blog post, but you might start by studying up in your spare time. Look at some diagrams and get making with the internet. Maybe upgrade to a nice bottle of vino instead of a six of Natty Light on your next date. If she loosens up enough, you might even talk Batgirl into giving you a live tour of her batcave during the opening acts of the evening, if you know what I mean.

Good luck.

*  *  *

Have a question about sex, housewifery, politics, culture or goat husbandry? Why not ask Erin?

*  *  *

Postcard from Geneva On The Lake

Bad Universe indeed

This strange rock landed in my mailbox in July 2007. The following text accompanied it:

On February 12, 1947, a chunk of nickel-iron the size of a minivan came screaming in from the north traveling at nearly 15 kilometers per second--54,000 kilometers per hour. Trailing smoke and flame, the meteoroid underwent vast pressure as it rammed through our thick atmosphere. At a very high altitude it began to break up from the force.

The pieces hit the ground and spread out over a large area. Named after the area they fell, thousands of Sikhote-Alin (sick-OH-tee uh-LEEN) meteorites have been found.

What you are holding in your hand is a piece of metal that was once deep within the core of a planetary-sized body that was destroyed by the impact of another planet-sized body 4 billion years ago. It orbited the Sun, relatively untouched all that time, until that fateful day in 1947. It's a piece of outer space brought to Earth in a fiery, violent decent.

And now it is yours. Enjoy.

Enchantment rained over me. I inhaled, traced the line of my lips with the meteor fragment. I clutched it in my hand and felt it thrum. I wore the fragment around my neck for awhile, but found it too overwhelming. Now it hangs from a window crank to the right of my desk. Talk about your perspective ...

The man who delivered unto me four billion years of daily encouragement is one Phil Plait, whose new TV show Phil Plait's Bad Universe will premiere this Sunday at 10 p.m. on the Discovery Channel.

I am beside myself with joy over this.



Sunday night shall come, as have the four billion years before it. I'll sit here in the west with my impossible shard from Phil's universe. I'll nod to the priest in the north, the ghost in the south, and to the jester in the east. Then I'll wink to all of them, click a tiny button and watch as my buddy Phil beams in from the west and into my family room.

I believe in magic.

* * *

Summery?

With my daughter back in school today, it feels like the end of summer even though Labor Day is nearly two weeks away.

~sigh~

That pretty much sums it up for me, but I won't say farewell to the mellow season without some sort of flourish. To that end, here's a postcard of sorts courtesy of your humble hostess and the stunning Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina.

Freeing myself from the ineluctable details of my Art

Behold the opening paragraphs of a short story:

I bought myself a birthday cake today. After all, it is my birthday. I stood up after dinner and told everyone I’d be right back. Then I went to the grocery store, headed straight to the bakery section and picked one out, just like that. It was round, with two layers of yellow cake, white frosting and flowers.

'Happy Birthday!' it said.

The lady asked if I wanted a name written on it. I looked at the white, flat area in the center of the cake.

"No," I said. "I’ll take it just as it is."

The woman in my story takes the cake home and does not allow anyone to eat it. She saves it for week after week, month after month, and so on.

I am fastidious with research to a fault. Hence, I wanted to see what would happen to a store-bought cake if I left it in its package on a shelf for a while.

The photo accurately depicts its subject. The cake is quite hard and it has shrunk. At the expense of a dry gag, I sniffed the cake. It smelled softly rancid. It smelled like failure.

I purchased the cake in May 2001.

Since I never properly finished and drafted the short story (which, in the true sentiment of this post feels like something woefully wasted), I have decided to throw the cake away. It's maxed out, beyond its point. Getting any harder, more yellow, and smaller feels false to me somehow.

Perhaps I've turned everything inside out. Maybe this means that the story's time has come. Maybe I'll pull it up and give it another go (a decision I've made in the time it's taken me to author this post).

I don't intend to abandon the plan to throw the cake away. I can redraft the story without it. All of its secrets are ensconced in my mind. It's done its job. My Tops Cherry Bar Cake may have died a virgin, but she did not die in vain.

In death there is life. Is there a famous Latin equivalent to that? Should there be?

* * *

Fels-Naptha

I am pretty busy, but as you people need all the help you can get, here I am, taking time out of my impossible schedule (next up: couch vacuuming) to save your sorry asses.

You see that soap? That's your Fels-Naptha heavy duty laundry bar soap. And no, I don't do my laundry by scrubbing it on a washboard, which is the natural intention of your Fels Naptha, but I always have a bar of this on hand.

You tangle with poison ivy? You're allergic to poison ivy? Let me guess, you go and get some candy-ass tube of Ivy Dry or (christ awmighty) calamine lotion.

You're kidding me, right?

What you need is your Fels-Naptha.

Directions: Scrub the living shit out of the poison-ivied area with a bar of Fels-Naptha as soon as possible or when those little effing blisters show up. Repeat two or three times a day for a few days until the shit clears up.

This is hands-down the best poison ivy advice you ever got in your whole sorry miserable life and you are welcome.

That is all.

* * *

Phone cam round-up

Sexy journal, baby.


Aha! The rare spotted dick!


Tree sock and I love it.


Venus de Boob0.


Squat and push and kick!


Itty-bitty motorcycle.


Yes, the package was unopened. No, I did not pick it up. Well ... maybe I picked it up ... but I did not eat it and that's the twoof!


Erin say: Let your goat roam. Let you goat be free.


Come on, now. Pop for the 99¢. Just dig that chick on the package!


Those jawbreakers shall require a very large jaw.


You go on ahead. I'll stay here in CLE.


But, it's EASY TO CLEAN!


Goodbye cruel mattresses ~sniff~


Weird bunny and Goat foot.


Chocolates made to look liked deviled eggs. Hmmm. No thanks. Jess' gimme a Butterfinger.

* * *

Dear Mosque-opposition people,

Please gather your checkbooks, credit cards, piggy banks et al., and catch the next plane, train, or automobile to New York City. Once there, you can begin negotiations on your forthcoming purchase of 45-51 Park Place, Lower Manhattan, New York City, United States of America.

Then you can decide what the hell to do with it.

Good luck,

Erin

***

Erin O'Brien Presents ....

Downtown Asheville

Tall and skinny.


Tina Fey and a bunch of long necks?


Hi me.


You guys got any coffee on in there? Put up a pot and let's have a cuppa or two.


Blurry daytime stars and I love it.


With that paint job, there's no yawning over that awning.


Open and I'm starved!


Whaddya mean "no parking," buddy? I been a customer plenty of times!

* * *

Setting the record straight

Back in May, the Hollywood Reporter ran a front page story about Lily Zanuck and my brother's posthumous novel "The Assault on Tony's."

The article took Mom and me completely by surprise. All of the rights regarding the film option for "The Assault on Tony's" remain as part of John's estate now as they did when the article ran. Furthermore, my name was erroneously listed as Maureen O'Brien, which just goes to show you how thorough the "writer" on the story was, as well as her editors/fact checkers.

I contacted the editorial staff over at Hollywood Reporter about all of this to no avail. Hence, I thought it was time to set the record straight. No matter where you read it on the Internet, as of today, "The Assault on Tony's" is not under option to be made into a movie by anyone.

The Hollywood Reporter article ran a few days before what would have been John's 50th birthday, which I noted in a bit more dignified manner. Yeah yeah.

I'm trying, John. It's hard sometimes, but I'm trying.

* * *

Righties love the gov

The righties say they don't want any gov or that they want smaller gov. They like the word freedom.

Oh really? That freedom will stop ringing as soon as their neighbor starts doing something they don't like.

Truth: Righties hate governmental laws and regulations when they apply to them, but they love those same laws and regulations when they apply to someone else. Just go to a local zoning board meeting. The righties will be there, pounding their fists. I know, I covered local gov for years.

They don't like their neighbors shed. They don't want any hunting next door. They don't want any drilling next door. Red red righties will turn green green Bambi-loving tree-huggers in an instant--I've seen it. They want laws. They want protection.

Something must be done!

The righties on the other side of the table are just as red-faced and spittle-flecked.

It's my property and I'll do what I want!

The residents of the house in the photo below do not own the property underneath that well. They don't get a dime in royalties from it. They moved in when residential drilling was not allowed in this city. Then the state changed the law and one day a crew came along with trucks and chemicals and a big-ass oil derrick. Finally, when the generators stopped roaring and the Klieg lights stopped glaring, a pumpjack and tank battery established themselves as the new neighbors.

Did somebody say property values?


As Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "The right to swing my fist ends where the other man's nose begins."

So then, dear conservative contingent, where exactly does that homeowners nose begin?

* * *

What's for dinner?

Unzipped

You know those dreams when you're flying? That feeling of joyous exhilaration surges through you as you sail above the tree tops. Then you wake up and the blue sky dissipates ... only to be replaced by your droopy blanket.

I'm here to tell you that it doesn't have to be that way. You can fly--just like in the dreams.

Yes, I did that with the flying Goat and Lil' OB. Yes, I was a-scairt at the beginning of the day. No, I had never ziplined before.

Peeps, this rocked my face off.

The design of the Navitat Asheville course is sheer brilliance, as is its progression. There's ten zips in all, with the longest at 1,100 feet. The first two zips are gentle. The third is a bit more intimidating, but you have some confidence by then. By the time you get to the zips that traverse tunnel of trees and fly over canyons, you're more than ready for it.

What a kick!

Now get a jar, label it "ZIPLINE!" and start dropping your nickels in. This is one thing you must must must must do. I'll be saving for my next trip right along with you.

Asheville was great--more blogs to follow. In the meantime, I'm off to unpack, do the laundry, go to the grocery and the rest of it.

~sigh~

* * *

Holding you tightly sets me on fire