The incredible whiteness of being

The fireball in the sky has not appeared for many moons.


All color has been washed from the earth!


It is time to gather the elders ...


... and see why the Gods are angry with us.


Alas. Methinks I am the only one left

Frank's Kraut Juice

One tow over the line, sweet Jesus

In the summer of 1980, my family attended a weekend party in Columbus, about 120 miles south of Cleveland. I was 15 and went with my parents in their Honda Accord hatchback. My brother and his wife Lisa drove in their lime green Triumph TR7.

On Sunday, Johnny and Lisa left for the return trip about a half hour before the rest of us. Mom, Dad and I were making our way north on I-71 when a green dot appeared in the distance. It was the TR7 on the berm. John was bent over the open hood. Dad pulled over and threw the Honda in reverse.

Dad and John tinkered, ethered and cajoled to no avail (which is saying something). But of course, Dad had a tow rope.

"Hook it onto something that won't pull off," he yelled to John over the noise of the careening traffic.

Dad shifted into first and inched the Honda forward until the rope drew taut between the two cars. John hopped into the Triumph and our precarious caravan of two pulled onto the highway. It was 70 miles to Cleveland.

Behold a rare juncture when I may rightly divide the human population into two groups:

1) Those who understand the implication of a tow rope.

2) Those who do not understand the implication of a tow rope.

The tow rope experience is akin to a dog leash--sort of. Although both parties have brakes, only the leader has accelerating power. If the tow-er (as in one who tows) brakes too hard, he risks getting rear-ended by the towee. If the towee brakes too hard, he's "chewing up" the tower's clutch--or worse (think of pulling back hard on a dog's leash). If the tower accelerates too fast, the towee is subject to a lurch. it goes on and on. The tow rope itself is always in danger of snapping (not good when traveling 60+ MPH on a highway). So for those number 2's out there: using a tow rope is really tricky and should never exceed one or two miles.

But seventy miles with a tow rope? The prospect was insane.

In 1980, there were no cell phones. Communication during that trip was reduced to brake lights and exaggerated gestures poorly communicated by way of our rear-view mirror and windshields.

At one point Lisa started to repeat a spell-casting gesture with splayed fingers and a frantic look on her face.

"Lisa's trying to tell us something!" I said.

"What's it mean? What's it mean?" said Mom as Lisa's motions repeated again and again.

"WAIT! I've got it!" said Mom. "She's counting ... TEN ... TWENTY ... THIRTY ..." I started in with her. We made it to about 60 before Dad rolled his eyes.

"The emergency flasher," he said, "they want us to turn off the emergency flashers." And we all laughed despite the tension.

Dad wasn't one to let circumstances interfere with lifestyle. He sipped beer for the whole trip.

"Hand me another Stroh's, Skeeziks."

The end was the worst--4.5 miles of dense city traffic between the I-71/West 150 exit and 14000 Lake Avenue. It isn't easy to navigate two cars tethered with a rope through an urban route of stoplights and turns, but despite the impossible odds, Dad and John got both cars home unscathed (although Dad would always say that the Historic Tow of 1980 ate a good bit of the Honda's clutch).

"Holy Christ," said Dad with relief as we finally pulled into the drive.

Holy Christ, indeed.

Dear Fellow Earthlings,

I am here, embedded in snow and Cleveland February gray, doing taxes and other mundane tasks. (Relax, underneath the dreary facade, I am still perfect.) When I am done, I shall reward myself by watching the latest episode of Rupaul's Drag Race, which is my newest guilty pleasure.

Iffin' you are not bogged down in ice, snow, gray sunless light, and piles of receipts and end-of-year statements, you can go on ahead of me and watch Episode 4 "The Snatch Game."

Be warned, however. Drag Race is completely addictive.

Watch Gay Video & Lesbian Movies

A quick note: The hot shirtless guys are the "Pit Crew." They do any heavy lifting or manual labor that needs gettin' done on the set. How beautiful is that? I swear, Rupaul is a genius beyond compare.

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Spider Baby

I took the advice of commenters in this post and checked out Spider Baby over the weekend. I knew it was worth it as soon as the opening credits rolled.

You don't want to see the movie? Fine, don't see the movie, but whatever you do, spend the next 1:44 minutes digging the intro:



I wonder if that's Lon Chaney doing the voice. Anybody know?

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Sunday coupon round-up: CPAC edition

A post inspired by today's coupon circular and Ben Smith's article "At CPAC, not just speakers seem old." Graphics are from the former, quotes are from the latter.

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Visitors were offered a chance to meet “the last living crew member of the Enola Gay,” the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima.

The quietest moment of this week’s Conservative Political Action Convention in Washington came Friday afternoon, when Jim Martin voiced his tribute to Pat Boone.


There were calls to abolish the Federal Reserve, a cause that began in the days of Alexander Hamilton.


NRA President Wayne LaPierre replayed videos of his own “Meet the Press” attacks on Bill Clinton more than a decade ago.


"Some folks like to call us the 'Party of No,'” said Rep. Mike Pence of Indiana during his well-received Friday speech. "Well, I say 'No' is way underrated here in Washington, D.C. Sometimes 'No' is just what this town needs to hear."

The great steady Rock of Gilbraltar

We was out in a machine

Consider a postcard:




Dear Father, We arrived here O.K. We was out in a machine all morning say talk about your times. From your Daughter Mabel

* * *

Well, Mabel, I've been out on a machine on Goat Island myself, but it wasn't near the Falls. Talk about your times, indeed.

I am a bit envious that you were able, Mabel, to enjoy the Falls before we ol' humans figgered out how to turn 'em on and off like a spigot. On the two occasions I visited the Falls, I only saw about half or one quarter as much water going over the Falls as you saw on your honeymoon (I'm assuming by the nearly intoxicated tone of your correspondence to dear old Dad that you were on your honeymoon).

Now think of this, had you and the new Mr. Mabel been able to keep your pants on until winter, you might not have been out in a machine, but walking around those frozen falls yourself!

I've read that back then, all manner of vendors would set up shop on the "ice bridge" and sell booze and baubles and general junk. All that stuff is still available nearby. They've got wax museums to boot.

As indicated by the adjacent photo, I am good at being stupid in the wax museums of Niagara Falls. That's me and a wax dummy in 2005. I am the one with the pinker skin and the hair in the bun.

So you and I have a few things in common. In addition to having both been on a machine on Goat Island and having vacationed in Niagara Falls, I also have really bad penmanship.

Nice meeting you, Mabel. If I'm ever near Ewington down there in Gallia County, I'll look you up. In the meantime, you and the mister have a real nice 100th anniversary.

Love, Erin

Comments fielded by a large-breasted woman

"Nice rack."

"Must be nippy outside. Get it? Nippy? Ha!"

"GodDAMN."

"Now here's a girl who can float. Can't you, baby? Float, that is?"

"Nice tits."

"Jesus Christ, this broad is stacked."

"Would you look at the tits on that one?"

"Nice jugs."

(with an Austrian accent) "Dees, day about perfect. How 'bout I get a dittle peek?"

"Can I just see them? I won't touch them. I just want to see them. So, can I see them? Just see them? No touching. At all. Promise. Please?"

"Nice melons."

"Pennies or half dollars?"

"Can the twins come out and play?"

"Nice cans."

"Do you ever, um ... you know ... do it in between those?"

* * *

Homeland terrorism

Great news of Senator Bayh's retirement, good prospects of change in Indiana has* now become much brighter! I am happy for Hoosiers. --Congressman Joe Wilson

Hey Joey, baby? That guy gloating next to you is Bin Laden.

Imagine how Al Qaeda must love watching our bitter demise. They push one or two buttons and presto! the whole goddamn juggernaut starts to sink.

They are winning, people, and the likes of Liebermann, McCain, Boehner, and that Nelson jackass are letting it happen. You might even say they are abetting the terrorists.

Bipartisanship is homeland terrorism.

*it's have, shitbag.

* * *

GAS-S-S-S

Roger Corman's 1970 effort GAS-S-S-S is not a good movie, but it is so full up with kitsch, that it deserves the "cult following" it undoubtedly has out there somewhere. It also has Ben Vereen, Talia Shire and Cindy Williams of Laverne and Shirley fame. (Yes, really).

GAS-S-S-S chronicles a psychedelic roadtrip through the Southwest after a mysterious gas is accidentally released by the government and kills everyone over the age of 25. (Funny to think that age was once the great American divider instead of political inclination)

Oh how you will dig the animated introduction, the trippy football/cheerleader apocalypse montage, the zany golf course turned police state, and the enigmatic Oracle. I'll let you discover arrowfeather all on your own.



Plenty of peeps deride GAS-S-S-S, but I squealed with delight at this divine mess, and waxed dreamy with nostalgia. There was also something about the shear joie-de-vivre that gave me pause. This frenetic 78 minutes exemplifies how our collective innocence has given way to self-righteous vitriol over the past 40 years. Stunning.

So get your hands on a copy of GAS-S-S-S and see what you think. In the meantime, I'm slowly working my way through a big ol'boxed set of Corman.*

*worth the price of admission for the party/dance scene with Ray Milland in X-The Man with the X-Ray Eyes.

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Chewy Fudge Brownies

On July 4th, 1975, I entered my Chewy Fudge Brownies in the Lakewood Jaycees Bake Contest. Although I still have the same haircut, I don't have the Raggedy Anne tee shirt anymore.


My efforts earned me third place in the "Cookies and Snacks" category. (For the record, to hell with Marian Topp and Mrs. Robt. Shea. Silly broads probably cheated.)


I proudly stepped onto the stage at 8 p.m. to collect my prize from emcee Ted Lux. Nice to see I braided my hair. Too bad I didn't change the stained tee.


Lux adjusted the microphone for me so I could comfortably deliver my acceptance speech.


Unfortunately, I miscalculated the microphone's amplification feature:


They gave me my prize anyway (a potted plant). I've never won anything since. Yeah, yeah.

Here is the recipe for CHEWY FUDGE BROWNIEDS, copied straight from my old album:


I haven't made them in 30+ years. Sounded like a good activity for a snowy Valentine's weekend. I'll let you know how they turned out.

* * *

For anyone wondering why the pix have holes in the corners, Dad used to put together collections of pictures on binder rings, then have them sitting out on the coffee table for peeps to flip through. I took the pix of me back in '75 from a ring he entitled "Growing Up."

Miss you, Dad.

Bill and Judy O'Brien were married in Oxford, Ohio on February 14, 1959
This photo was taken in the Ozarks in 1967

* * *

A message from Princess Erin of Shitkanistan

I am moved to found a new country. I shall name it Shitkanistan.

In my new country of Shitkanistan, everyone will drink sauerkraut juice and wear comfortable shoes. Gooseliver and onion sandwiches will be popular. Women will wear men's socks and large competent brassieres.

Shitkanistanians shall be tolerant people. If the hockey people want to come over and throw octopuses around, they shall be welcome to do so. If Sarah Palin travels to our shores, the National Choir of Shitkanistan shall sing a stirring rendition of the Shitkanistan National Anthem upon her arrival. Then we shall offer her heaping platters of jellied pigs' feet and pickled eggs.

I shall name the capitol Rublinka. I shall live in the shining city of Rublinka, in a great palace with one hundred onion-shaped roofs, each swirled in shimmering stripes of gold and scarlet and azure blue.

Shitkanistanians shall enjoy certain entitlements, wondrous parks through which our swaddled tots may run and play, public steam rooms and mud baths, and free hair removal kits and breath lozenges.

Your Loyal Royal Hostess,

Princess Erin of Shitkanistan

* * *

Would you like to buy a mystery envelope?

This short film reminded me of a piece of flash fiction I wrote, Pan and the Housewife. Although I had never heard of Kitchen Sink when I wrote that violent little story, the two are completely different and wonderfully similar.

Here is Kitchen Sink, in two parts. I just loved this; fourteen minues never flew by so quickly. I suggest watching it in full screen mode.

How's that for a Miss Havisham redux?

Mini phone cam round-up

Michael Kors $135 platform sandals on sale for $25. (!!!!) Now I have to wait for spring to wear them. (grrr)


Important message spied on a bulletin board at my buddy Kristin Ohlson's house.


The Goat says it's Travolta. I say it's Lugosi. No, I haven't googled it yet to find out.


Impure thoughts at the carrot bin.

* * *

What I'm a-takin' to the game

This potato pancake recipe is what I call a pedestrian--suitable for the simple everyday people who understand simple everyday things: chocolate frosting, not ganache; beer, not pilsner; and (oh, for chrissake already) pickle, not cornichon.

The pancakes are not only simple to make, they kick total ass, so don't fool around, just do like Mama Erin says and you'll be fine.


Wash three tired old potatoes and cut out any bad parts and eyes. No, you don't have to peel them. Cut the spuds into quarters or eighths (you're talking about 2-inch chunks) and schlep them to your blender or that maddening metrosexual of an appliance: your safety-mechanism-laden-slices-and-dices-flawlessly-every-goddamn-time food processor fitted with the steel S blade. Then pluck a regular cheapo yellow onion from the middle basket, peel it and cut it into quarters, and toss them in with the spuds. Next in are two raw eggs, three tablespoons of flour, and some salt and pepper. Now pulse all that until it gets mixed up proper, but is still lumpier-than-oatmeal lumpy.

Get a big ol' bottle of your regular vegetable oil and get ready to use about half of it. Attention oleic acid freaks: DO NOT reach for the olive oil. It smokes too much for this recipe. If you no likey getting down old-school with the Wesson or Mazola, then get the hell out of the way. Go sit next to the broad with the Domino's pizza, frost your cornichon with some ganache and wash it down with a pilsner.

For everyone who's left, start with three glugs of oil: That is, pour the oil into a 10- or 12-inch skillet until it goes "glug glug glug." Heat it up over a medium flame, then drop about a quarter cup or so of the batter into the oil per pancake. It should sizzle gently. If it lies there like a batter cadaver, your oil's not hot enough. And I never try to do more than four in a pan, due largely to my poor flipping skills.

I wish I could tell you how long to cook these potato pancakes, but the sad fact is, I don't really know. Sometimes I flip them too soon and they're too light. Sometimes I flip them too late and they're a little burnt. Sometimes I get them just right and they're golden brown. Maybe if I didn't constantly fiddle with the temperature control and timed them for about three or four minutes per side, I wouldn't have such troubles, but I am what I am. (Hey! That "sizzle gently" directive is tricky.)

There is nothing neat about potato pancakes. The oil splatters all over the place, and the batter tends to get all wiggy when you plop it in the pan. But by some miracle, you'll still end up with a pretty good-looking potato pancake. Sometimes they're round, sometimes amoeba-shaped. Who cares?

When they're done, I put them on a plate lined with paper towels. To hell with Alton Brown and his cooling racks. I am happy with my delusion that the paper towels wick off all excess oil and practically render the fried cakes into health food.

Put those bad mothers out for everyone to nosh. I'm all about a drizzle of hot sauce on top, but sour cream and applesauce have their place as well. While everyone else eats, you're back at the stove for rounds two, three and, oh hell, however many rounds there are. (You will not believe how many potatoes pancakes you get from three lousy spuds, two eggs and an onion.)

You'll need to keep adding oil for each batch, as the cakes soak it up like a sponge (until you put them on the magical fat-leaching paper towel, of course).

When you're the maker of the potato pancakes, you never sit and eat them; you're relegated to lean against the counter, dithering over whether to flip or not to flip whilst you eat the burnt or botched ones out of hand. Everyone will agree that your potato pancakes are as perfect a thing as they've ever eaten — crispy and hot and rich. So swig your beer and laugh at everyone's jokes. You can vanquish the dust motes, laundry and spattered cooktop tomorrow. For now, throw a shake of salt over your shoulder, and bask in creating something brilliant out of almost nothing.

This recipe previously appeared in a slightly different form in Cleveland Scene.

* * *

Thou shalt not stop liking a band just because they've become popular

Health Care Options for Middle Class Americans

1. Don't get sick.

2. Go bankrupt.

3. Die.*

* Please complete option 2 before completing option 3.

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Clevette

In this week's Scene, I pit our local Cleviosi against the Guidiosi of MTV's Jersey Shore fame in Goodbye Guido, Hello Clevo.

Hey Snookie? Kiss my ass.

Vehicular proposition

In this lifetime, I'm going to buy a big-ass old car that's built like an tank. Once every couple of months, I'm going to strap myself in that mother like a storm trooper and ride around with no place to go.

Eventually, one of those snotty hotballs* in his snotty hotball car is going to decide that waiting two whole seconds in the exit drive of Dick's Sporting Goods while I pass is not worth his time and he's going to pull out right in front of me and make his left (or right) turn.**

In an awful big hurry to go home and load those hotballs into your new Lycra bicycle pants, aren'tcha, baby?

Instead of doing what he expects and slamming on my brakes, I'm going to smile and run right into the son of a bitch. Then I'm going to make his insurance pay to get that big bad-ass old car repaired, and then I'm going out driving around in order to do it again.

Until then, I shall continue dealing with the hotball contingent by employing my standard practice of laying on the horn and offering an enthusiastic gesture that includes my middle finger.

Thank you for your support.

##

*I refer to all men*** ages 18-35 in cars as "hotballs." When I'm talking to myself in the Mini Cooper, I'm usually saying something like, "Take it easy hotballs!" or, "Just hold on one second there, hotballs, and mama will move over."

**This maneuver is particularly maddening when they wave, as if to imply I had given them the right-of-way on purpose and the wave is a playful little thankyou of sorts.

***I realize that women do this as well. Not surprisingly, silly little broad is my standard label for them, unless they do something particularly egregious, then it's goddamn dumb broad.

Announcements

1. Al the Retired Army Guy is going to be on television as part of Bobby Flay's Throwdown. The first airing of "Brownies" will be this Wednesday at 9 p.m. EST. Here's the teaser, with a list of more air dates.

Al is a frequent commenter here at the manual, and yes, that is a photo of Al on the left. If you need a little more Al in order to prepare for Wednesday's big event, you can access his recipe for Hobo Potatoes here.

Go Al!

2. Your humble hostess will be presenting a keynote speech: The Woman Writer: Power and Beauty as well as one workshop From Eyeliner to Eggbeaters: Everyday Memoir at the weekend writing retreat In the Company of Women, which will be held April 16-18 at the Maumee Bay Resort. I'd love to see you there.

3. I do not have a number three.

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