Mouseketeer roll call?

One of my favorite online buds took a business trip to **The Happiest Place On Earth** earlier this month. When he returned, I poked him about updating one of his sites. He obliged.

Now do you think this resulting post* is a normal response when one is released from the land of the Mouse, or is it a proper reaction to an Erin O'Brien request?

*Link contains adult content. Here is a much less arousing accounting of a visit to the Magic Kingdom courtesy of your humble hostess. Also dig my buddy Marco Alpert's blog for fun, miscellany, and the occasional rant.

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Playing with the Queen of Hearts

Watching the maximum glam queens on RuPaul's Drag Race (god help me, I'm addicted to it) got me thinking about this feature* and one night of research I did for it:

That a town such as Warren, Ohio, which lives in the ruts the steel industry left behind as it receded, is home to the Queen of Hearts Bar, is no small irony. Warren is neither rural nor urban nor suburban. It is the land of James Traficant (yes, still) and Fat Cats Tattoos (to name just one). There are boarded-up factories, dilapidated houses and acres of vacant weedy lots. There is Pete's Gun Shack (doing a brisk business) and the Tokyo Health Spa (nary a car in sight, but the neon sign promises that they are indeed open).

And if it is the third Saturday of the month, Warren is a place fit for a Queen.

###

The lot fills with cars. They venture from all points across Ohio, Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Illinois. The chariots hark from Michigan, West Virginia, Missouri, and New York. There is a baby-blue BMW Z3 Roadster next to an experienced Dodge Caravan, which is next to a gleaming Lexus sedan, which is next to a rusty Ford pick-up.

Inside, the bar is cavernous, with cinderblock walls, 20-foot ceilings and glittering disco balls. Forgiving red lights illuminate the bar, which is teeming. Cigarette smoke hangs. A bucket of beer (five longnecks on ice) can be had for $7 until 9 p.m., at which time the price goes to $10.

Sitting in that bar on "Queen" night was a singular experience. It was all about men in drag. The bartenders were gay men. And there I was. The queens stared at me like they wanted to take a bite right out of me. I couldn't tell if they wanted to deck me or bed me, stroke my long hair or grab of fistful and pull it out. There were plenty of uber-regular looking men in jeans and tees drooling over the queens. They would look at me and do a double take that would quickly turn wary, as if to say who is this broad, some sort of spy sent by my wife? I was intimidated and transfixed by all of it.

Many of the young glamazons were sexy and absolutely convincing, but the queens that fascinated me most were the older girls. I loved the sixty and seventysomethings. One was standing there in a pastel green dress with a Peter Pan collar that could have come straight from Aunt Gerdie's closet. She wore sensible heels, a strand of pearls, and had a straw handbag dangling from her wrist. She had a cigar in one hand and a scotch on the rocks in the other, but there was no Milton Berle ha-ha about her.

People were talking in tight groups. The music was cocktail-party soft, and despite the sizable crowd, it was oddly quiet until about 11 p.m.

That's when the opening glissando of ABBA's Dancing Queen blasted from the speakers. It was like a battle cry. All the queens exploded from their seats and poured onto the dance floor in a flurry of motion. Many were awkward in their heels. Their muscular legs were obvious in tight mini skirts. Some wore short baby-doll style party frocks full up with lacy crinolines. They danced with each other. They danced in groups. They danced alone. Their energy and abandon was something to behold. I marveled at their joie de vivre, even if it was contained to an unlikely barroom at the end of a mostly vacant strip mall in torn and frayed Warren, Ohio.

Although I got one good interview under my belt, as a GG (genetic girl) by herself, I simply did not fit in. This was an all-male vibe with no room for a straight chick. I don't often feel uncomfortable in a bar, but I did that night. Things were just warming up, but I left around 11:30. Although one of the queens made a vaguely threatening statement to me that I don't exactly recall (something about how, as a man, she would tower over me), I was probably being overly cautious when I got up to leave. In a rare move, I flipped open my cell as I walked out and called Eric. I spoke to him until I was safely locked in the car with the engine running.

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*read a companion blog entry to the article here.

Is it just me or is RuPauls's "M" in that VIVA GLAM photo collage a pose that requires a whole lot of confidence for any man or woman?

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Dear Conservatives:

If you believe George Bush kept this country safe from terrorists for seven years, you are also obliged to believe Obama's stimulus saved the country from 25 percent unemployment.

That is all.

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Phone cam round-up: a happy hour

Welcome to the Prosperity Social Club ...


... where temptresses await ...


... and neon dreams prevail!


Here, blistering contests play out ...


... and Zombies lurk from secret corners.


There is evidence of man's triumph over wild beasts ...


... and foxes' triumphs over dolphins.


Let divine gratitude splash all over our Schlitz world, if only for one happy hour.

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Skeleton Mom

For something completely different on a January Monday, I offer you my short story "Skeleton Mom." It appeared in Air in the Paragraph Line, Issue 12, which is available in print via that link or online for free.

Download the PDF.

My story starts on page 127. Safe for work? Absolutely, but it is weird. I wrote it when I was going through preschool mom hell.

The anthology includes other delights such as Boogerlove, The Phantom Coalition, and Richard Fucking Nixon.

Dig the trailer:



Thanks to all who spend time with my writing.

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Visionary

Whenever I see a graphic of the female repoductive system ...


... I think of someone performing jazz hands.

I love this

Always Trust Magic.

I think my first installment will read Someone thinks you are beautiful.

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Karma check, vol. 2

I do not live in Massachusetts, but it seems Senator Elect Brown ran a fine campaign and won in a stunning upset. May he serve his state and country well.

I wish him the best. After all, he can't be that closed-minded.

Like so many flowers

My long walks have been stymied by the Cleveland winter, thereby relegating my exercise routine to the stinky gym. The cardio machines are positioned before rows of televisions, two of which are dedicated to the endless display of music videos.

I suppose there is a notable contingent drooling over twentysomething chicks spreading their legs and pumping their hips like jack rabbits, but I just shake my head and think: stupid stupid stupid. This has nothing to do with human sexuality.

Sex can be good, medium or bad, but it's that elusive "great sex" for which we all pine. You'd think that with all the naked, shaved, spread-eagle sex sex sex online and in print, that "elusive" would no longer be an accurate modifier for "great sex," but of course, it is.

A couple of months ago, I posted about a movie called American Swing, which chronicles the sexiest time period this country ever saw. Back in the 1970's, women were basking in the new found freedom of The Pill and legal accessible abortion. Before that, they had to depend on a man fumbling with a condom in the dark, or a tube of spermicide and a diaphragm. If something went wrong and a woman was faced with an unwanted pregnancy, she was shunned along with her bastard child if she was unmarried, or she had to seek out an illegal and terrifying abortion. Sex truly could ruin your life. When women were finally freed, baby, they were freed.

Musing over American Swing makes me mournful for that unapologetic sexual euphoria. The Joy of Sex with the Girl Next Door has given way to cartoonish breast implants and all they imply, and it's only getting worse.

For starters, howzabout some genital dye for women who don't think they're quite pink enough? For more serious endeavors, welcome to the world of cosmetic gynecology.

What?

Cute little boobies were great until someone started saying, don't you want those to be just a little bigger, sweetie? The beautiful and individual breasts are all but gone. Today, a starlet doesn't dare dream of the bright lights before bellying up to the silicone bar so she can look exactly like the one that came before her and the next one in line.

And now we're going to have a gold standard for vulvae. Well that's just great.

This site will give you an idea of how desperately women just want to be accepted. Visit the "Everyday Bodies Project" in the sidebar, although you won't be able to access the page and view the pix until you've create an account and joined the community. It's very intense, but real human experiences are like that. I wonder how many of the "Everyday Vulvas" would elicit an understanding nod from "cosmetic gynecologist" Dr. Hayes along with a subtle suggestion about "self-esteem" and "confidence;" and a discrete mention about a "simple procedure."

Those cooters look just fine the way they are, you goddamn butcher. Leave. Them. Alone.

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If you're out there, babygirl, please listen to me. You don't need any of this. You're beautiful the way you are. The road to the land of great sex is paved with desire, the sort that blooms from the inside out. You can only find it in the eyes of someone who completely enchants you and vice versa. It's magic, which is why it's so elusive and wonderful. You have it inside of you right now, I promise. There's a prince charming out there who will unlock it one day. Be on the lookout. His armor may not be shining. It may come by way of a rusty Chevy. And don't be surprised if his clothing is rough and his hands are dirty, but you'll know him when he makes the scene. In the meantime, don't listen to the bad guys. Don't let them kill the beauty inside of you.

Love, Erin

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Ok Go

Embedding is disabled, so I can't post the vid here. Go dig Ok Go performing "This To Shall Pass" to really enjoy the next four minutes of your life.

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New buddies and a glass men-agerie

These are my new buddies Lobna and Steven. They have been following my YouTubes for some time and wanted to meet me.

They made me feel uber-cool because they are young and cool and that anybody young and cool is following anything I do makes some cool spill onto me by association.

Cool.

After a bite at the West Side Market, we stopped for a cuppa. Then we trotted over to the the Glass Bubble Project and said hi to my way-back buddy Mike Kaplan.

Over the next 10 or 15 minutes, Mike did an impromptu glass blowing demonstration. He made a perfect glass dildo, complete with a nice set of cojones. It was purple, with an attractive flecked pattern.

"If you don't use it," said Mike, "you can set it on the table as a conversation piece." He noted that it wouldn' t roll around on account of the cojones and said it would be available for sale in a day or two.

I do not intend to purchase the glass dildo, but I feel a certain connection to whomever does.

Dear future glass dildo owner, I witnessed the creation of your glass dildo and it was good, Love Erin.

That is all.

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A three-way dilemma

This is what I see when I step into the post office. The three slots are marked, left to right, Mail, Metered Letters, and Stamped Letters.

Mailing a letter should be a breezy thoughtless action upon which no stress is expended. Instead of stepping through a simple and satisfying procedure, however, I am left standing before this daunting triumvirate, tapping my check for $71.89 in its window envelope against my left palm, my face twisted in indecision. Given the choices before me, what is the appropriate way to get this hot baby en route to the Illuminating Company? An internal Erin Q&A ensues.

1. Is it Mail?

Yes.

2. Is it a Metered Letter?

What sort of meter are we talking here? Does this meter expire? Where is it? Is there a meter maid?

Best not tangle with this mother.

3. Is it a Stamped Letter?

It is stamped, to be sure. But the concept of letter evokes a feather-plumed pen, thoughtful chin scratching moments, and a breathless recipient floating somewhere in the ether as he/she anticipates the arrival of the lofty missive.

Even though a smiley face beams from my return address label, I'm not so sure my electric bill is a letter.

Suppose I put it in there anyway.

Perhaps some cigar-chewing Post Office guy would heave himself from his dusty desk, retrieve the latest Stamped Letter slot deposit, hold it up for the rest of the postal employees to see and boom, "Get a load of this! O'Brien's out there fooling around with the Stamped Letter slot again. She actually thinks we're going to handle some cold-blooded electric bill like it was an invitation to an 8-year-old's birthday party. Well, she's got another thing coming!"

And who is using the Metered Letter slot? No doubt some haughty high-heeled broad who walks right in with her bundle of crisp Metered Letters and shoves them in the center slot without one blink of hesitation. Then she sniffs at the rest of the sweatshirt-clad postally-challenged idiots like me before sashaying out the double-glass doors and back to the promised land of Mail Meters and Forever stamps. Must be nice.

Maybe the joke is on her. After all, the three slots are exactly the same size and they all list the same three pick up times.

How much you want to bet that they all feed into to the same bin?

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The Music of America

Sing along with the Goat as he enjoys a cassette tape recording of the 1976 Ronco vinyl album, The Music of America as performed by the Richmond Strings and the Mike Sammes singers.

Magnificent ice formations, the Apocalypse, and the God of Small Things

Prior to marrying the Goat, I lived in a one-bedroom brownstone. The tiny refrigerator had an even tinier freezer, which was not frost free. For everyone out there under the age of 72, that means you had to defrost your freezer once in a while. The ice on the walls of my little freezer would get so thick that the only thing you could put in there was half of a banana twinpop, at which point a dubious process including your humble hostess, a blow dryer, and claw hammer ensued. Not pretty, people.

When we married, our fridge was a used model gifted to us by my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Nick. It was an Amana, a fine FROST FREE side-by-side box. It did not have an ice maker, but considering I never had to defrost it, that detail was hardly worth mentioning.

Unlike the sun and sea, the Amana did not last forever, and one day the Goat and I were obliged to buy another. As I inspected the new freezers, the amount of space taken up by the ice maker seemed ridiculous. An ice water dispenser in the door? Who needed some dumb shit like that?

Hence, we make our ice here the old-fahioned way: we use trays. We have been doing so for 17 years without incident--up until a few days ago when I pulled an ice tray from the box and found this:


I immediately got my camera to record the event, then invited my husband and daughter to view it before dislodging the cubes and destroying the impromptu sculpture.

"It looks like a model of the Space Shuttle," I said.

There were two smaller formations in the other tray that defied my poor photographic skills, one of which was like an upside down crystalline teardrop. We marveled over the oddity for a few minutes, then I unceremoniously twisted the trays into the ice bin and refilled them.

A few days later, there was yet another mysterious formation in our ice cube tray. This one had a satisfying phallic shape:


Again, I photographed the event and rounded up the troops as witnesses. Two more uneventful days go by, but when I opened the freezer last night, there was another little ice erection, proudly striving for the chocolate chip waffles. (Yes, I took a photo of it. No, I am not posting it. Two ice cube photos is more than enough for any one blog entry.)

Perhaps the strange ice formations are harbingers of the Apocalypse, in which case it's too bad I can't sell them on eBay. Instead, I prefer to imagine this is a profound earth event, that the domesticated water in my ice cube trays is saluting the grand columns that grace the edges of our domicile.


My ears are on, oh God of Small Things. I'm receiving your broadcast loud and clear.

Yours truly,

Erin

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Opposites attract

After the spate of opposing political commentary over the past few days here at the Manual, I thought I'd post this photo, which clearly evidences that complete opposites can bloom happily together in one place.

For more evocative photo browsing, see the following list:

Sorry I Missed Your Party

Explain this Image

People of Walmart

Do add your recommendations in the comment section. That is all.

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And another quick bit of political commentary

<--Obama didn't deserve this either.


Image compliments of Paul Freed.

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The righties own it

I've been saying this for two years. As far as writing it down goes, someone beat me to it:

"Don't forget the naughts, because this decade, no matter what anyone on the right might say, was conservatism on trial. You want less taxes? You got less taxes. You want less regulation? You got less regulation. Open markets? Wide open. An illusion of security in place of rights? Hey, presto. Think we should privatize war by handing unlimited power given to military contractors so they can kick butt and take names? Kiddo, we passed out boots and pencils by the thousands. Everything, everything, that ever showed up on a drooled-over right wing wish list got implemented -- with a side order of Freedom Fries.

They will try to disown it, and God knows if I was responsible for this mess I'd be disowning it, too. But the truth is that the conservatives got everything they wanted in the decade just past, everything that they've claimed for forty years would make America "great again". They didn't fart around with any "red dog Republicans." They rolled over their moderates and implemented a conservative dream."--Daily Kos

Where's my HASENPFEFER?

So it's New Year's Day and the Goat is off engaging in goat-like activities with all the other little goats (he went to a football party with his buddies), and the kid and I have no plans other than to hunker down in the snow and cold. Sort of a bummer.

I peruse the weekly grocery circular and see that Giant Eagle has live lobsters on sale for $8.99 a pound and the sale ends today and they're open on the holiday. There are few things the kid and I enjoy more than spreading out newspapers on the kitchen table and sharing a messy lobster feast, so the answer to the dull holiday was obvious.

"How about a lobster dinner, kid?"

We pile into the Mini and schlep through the snow to the Giant Eagle, where we immediately head back to the lobster tank. This is what we find:


"How can they be sold out when there's all those lobsters in there?" I say to the kid. She doesn't say anything, just eyes the tank with disappointment.

I find someone at the seafood counter who finds the seafood manager who explains to me that all the lobsters are reserved.

"When's the guy picking them up?" I ask, hoping they would only be holding the lobsters for an hour or so.

"Not until Sunday."

"Did he already pay for them?" I ask, stunned. After all, it's Friday.

"No, but he's a big customer that buys tons of stuff here all the time. And," she adds with import, "he'll have to pay full price because the sale will be over by Sunday."

"So your flyer says you have lobsters on sale, and you do have lobsters, but you're not selling them until after the sale?"

"I know it seems odd," she says.

"I'll need to talk to another manager," I say.

* * *

Perhaps some "big customer" is at the Giant Eagle today complaining that his/her order is short two lobsters, but I do not feel bad about this. To them I say, they were delicious.


Don't mess with the O'Brien.

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More on title reference here: ShishkaBugs

Karma check

To all the wonderful people who are full of love and light and who lift me up: Happy New Year.

To all the shitty people who are full of hate and meanness and who drag me down: Happy New Year.

That is all.

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