This princess in the mustache one size fits all everybody hook up babe

Phone cam round-up: looking for a sign

Store manager to stock personnel: Hey kid, put the video warning sign smack dab in the middle of the Noxema display. You can't be too careful with those Noxema broads.

God only knows where the reader might have ended up without the address indicator arrow.

Dunno. That's a lot of clams to save, but a display mattress has a whole lot of history.

Rampant illegal immigration in America.

Your car will be tow too, fella.

Socialism in America: Everyone's going one way and everyone's going to blow some glass.

I love you too.

More socialism in America: Pushing the cross walk button a minimum of three times is a law.

I'll see your GR Montague and raise you a GRRR Capulet.

Okay already. I'll find another point to return from.

Dear Libertarian store proprietor, If I'm not a customer, can I still read it? Can I read it if I don't want to read it?

Type your own sign and I love it.

Methinks it's a subliminal message for Al the Retired Army Guy.

Hey ya ol' crow, what are you doing in this sign post?

Why, just bidding the readership a fair g'bye.

* * *

The Recipe Poem

Or How To Bake A Poem In Eight Easy Steps

1. Select one extra large love with supple skin. Look for a love that is firm, but with flesh that gives slightly beneath your fingertips.

2. Peel love. Pluck out bitter seeds and swallow each whole.

3. Whisk love's soft insides with one epiphany and three shakes of muse. Add modifiers and line breaks sparingly until pulp forms. Season with time and cursor.

4. Make a flower dough by thoroughly needing quince honey into extra fine longing.

5. Roll dough into a circle, approximately sorrow in diameter.

6. Spoon love pulp upon the sorrow. Trifold dough over love, pinching up sides to form a purse the shape of a sow's ear. Leave a hole at the top so the poem can breathe.

7. Bake at 350 teardrops for one falling star.

8. Cool poem.

Serve poem beneath a cloud of Dream Whip.

~~recipe composed expressly for Nin Andrews~~

*  *  *

Orgone box redux?

The orgone box was "a machine to trap the potent, healing force of the orgasms" and "resembled a wooden telephone booth lined with metal sheeting and steel wool." 

vid via da' twinks!

* * *

The Republicans

The Republicans wear clothing that fits properly.

The Republicans are indulgent.

Lawn maintenance is important to the Republicans.

"Tickled pink" is a favorite phrase of the Republicans.

Salted cashews, according to the Republicans, are a superb accompaniment to a gin martini.

The Republicans detest poorly made appliances.

The Republicans enjoy mail order shopping.

The Republicans, when with other Republicans, bashfully admit to owning ebook readers.

Impeccable dental hygiene is important to the Republicans.

Republicans prefer fruity wines (chilled) when dining al fresco.

Dining al fresco inflates the Republicans with great breathy sighs.

The Republicans, being Republican, are Republicans.

The Republicans have a difficult time finding appropriate shoes.

The Republicans lament the lost art of letter writing.

The nuances of boat ownership are not lost on the Republicans.

The Republicans drive sedans.

Quiet fears haunt the Republicans.

The Republicans find the decline in the quality of Coleman outdoor products shameful.

The Republicans are wholesome.

* * *

Your humble hostess believes the solid majority of Republicans can laugh at this post, would not boo an American soldier, applaud execution tallies or rally around a cry to "let him die." Your humble hostess is relying on the benefit of doubt.

Your humble hostess also reminds the readership that she's had some fun at the expense of liberals as well.

* * *

Love's Baby Soft

It is not possible to express how desperately I coveted a bottle of Love's Baby Soft cologne when I was ten years old. My want was fueled by the brilliant ad campaign that managed to successfully (and I daresay inappropriately) target girls ages 8 to 18. We were bombarded by Love's Baby Soft at every turn.

Today's market is inundated with tweenie products and we parents indulge the whiny cries to purchase bottle after bottle of Very Berry Sparkle Fruit Body Spray way too often. Back in the day, it was different. Love's Body Soft was THE product and obtaining a bottle of it was a major coup. I cherished mine.

There were of course the Other Girls who had oodles of Love's Baby Soft products: the body mist, the cologne, the lotion. For them, Christmas morning meant the prized gift set, complete with a darling little plush toy or sparkling pendant. I wasn't one of the Other Girls. I had one bottle of Love's. And although I had the "I'm Baby Soft" shirt, mine was frayed and dingy. I knew I'd never dance with prince charming and a white ribbon tide 'round my neck.

Still, I had my bottle of Love's Baby Soft.

The cologne was the olfactory equivalent of Dreft laundry detergent, albeit a bit more mellow. It smelled like, well, baby. Obviously that was the point, but I didn't like it. Hence while owning Love's Baby Soft was the object of my deepest desire, actually using it was a different story. My ten-year-old self found this profoundly unsettling.

Nonetheless, I would occasionally step into my room, remove the cap from the phallic-shaped bottle and sniff the contents by way of reassurance: Yes, you own a bottle of Love's Baby Soft. Yes, it smells like this. No, you don't have to use it. I would recap the bottle and furiously polish its glass against my crumpled tee shirt until it gleamed like new before setting it back upon my dresser.

The Love's Baby Soft jingle was a simple lilt: Love's BAY-bee Soft!

Love's Baby Soft has been reincarnated by any number of enterprising entities, including the dubiously named Pink line by Victoria's secret.

This is my daughter's Twinkled Pink soft & dreamy Shimmering Rollerball.

Although she hasn't touched it in eons (it smells a bit like cotton candy), it sits upon a small glass shelf in the bathroom we share because (as I have just realized while penning this post) it reminds me of the bottle of Love's Baby Soft I owned as a tween.

Behold, dear readership, the power of Love's Baby Soft, which spans nearly four decades despite its abject failure as a cologne--at least in my world.

I have a sudden urge to procure a tube of neon blue mascara.

Thanks to **twinkly sparkles** for inspiring this post.

*  *  *

Ingenuity Festival 2011

Cleveland's Ingenuity Festival is one of the hippest events in northeast Ohio. It celebrates all things creative and quirky. The lower deck of the Veteren's Memorial Bridge, a Cleveland landmark that spans the Cuyahoga River, serves as the venue. These pix don't begin to do the festival justice (you can view them in full screen over here), but you get the idea.

You have to hear and smell Ingenuity. You have to taste it. You have to feel the electric night air and the energy of the people thrumming all around you. You have thrill over walking 100+ feet above the flowing Cuyahoga.

This town may have it's problems, but you can't fake industrial--and baby; Cleveland. Know. Industrial. I can't wait for next year.

~~erin loves cleveland~~

* * *

One. Two. Three.

Working it

This week's edition of fresh water features my story on some of the hippest places to work in Cleveland.

I am not an envious person. Sure, I love me some cool stuff, but I do not begrudge others their baubles and bangles. Walking through these offices, however, I inflated with one wistful sigh after another. These repurposed spaces combine art with function and modern flair with vintage style. Cleveland history haunts every hallway.

The buildings I stepped into for this article delighted and amazed me. You might even say I was intoxicated by the tours. Here's a few pix of the spaces, their interiors, exteriors and details. There's plenty more tagged pictures within the article.

Confidential to Clevelanders: Larsen Architects occupies the space that housed the Marius, where your humble hostess bussed tables at the tender age of 15 in 1980. The continental restaurant was part of the once-famed Lake Shore Hotel.

The Tower Press Building and the Artcraft Building were originally constructed as part of Cleveland's garment district, where the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union (ILGWU) staged significant strikes in the early 1900's. Your humble hostess's great grandmother, Emily Krial Doubler, was a card carrying member of that Union.

Commentary on the thirty-six hours surrounding this moment

I shampooed yesterday, finishing with cream rinse. That, people, is what they call old school.

Drinking now: shitty day old coffee over ice with sugar-free Hazelnut flavored syrup and fat free half & half. To those I have just disappointed, I apologize.

Had lunch with my old college buddy Dave Moran yesterday. HELL YEAH!

Which route to walk today? The five-miler, four-and-a-halfer, or sixer? My left foot keeps twitching into a cramp in a proactive protest of sorts. Whoa--the right foot just joined in. Now that's solidarity.

Our pet bunny is hopping around the living room, working on eating the drapes, carpet and spider plant. We have hermit crabs too. They do not get time out of their cage. Life. Is. Not. Fair.

Yesterday, a guy on a motorcycle passed me on Interstate 90. I was doing about 70. He was a young thing, muscled and lean. His filmy tee shirt was billowing up in the draft of his speed. Some sort of tent--or maybe raingear--was strapped to his luggage rack. He drove with one hand on the handlebars, the other curled around his left thigh. No helmet, tennis shoes. A holster outfitted with a handgun was slung over his hips.

Think I'll make pizza for dinner tonight.

*  *  *

Running

Running on empty.

Running for office.

A run in your stockings.

A run for your money.

Running water.

Running away.

(Dancing madly backwards?)

Runny nose.

Runny eggs.

A dry run.

A good run.

A bad run.

A 5-mile run.

A run-on sentence.

Run along.

(Carpe diem?) 

Gotta run.

* * *

Ten years gone

The darkest days often harbor the most subtle gifts.

In the terrible wake of 9/11, authentic patriotism swelled. Members of Congress gathered on the steps of the Capital and vowed to protect this country. They sang "God Bless America" and not one part of it felt less than wholly genuine. Ubiquitous flags flew honestly and quietly.

Foreign countries waxed benevolent towards the wounded American giant. The French newspaper Le Monde declared, Nous sommes tous Américains (We are all Americans) on its front page.

President George Bush addressed the nation and the world, saying we would not blame these atrocities on our Muslim brethren. I respected him for that. He was a leader.

I suspect the profound experience associated with 9/11 was not unlike the swirl of patriotism that engulfed the country at the onset of World War II, which is often credited for ending the Great Depression.

In a way it did. A massive government war effort--a cloaked stimulus--coupled with a rush to country rescued the United States from its financial doldrums. Uncle Sam was spending and America was ready to accommodate him. I know; my own family was a part of it. My grandfather worked for a humble small business, Laganke Electric, which wasn't so humble after the government contracts for military instrumentation started rolling in. My grandfather eventually launched his own company, Lakeshore Electric, on the waves of the war effort.

World War II was a stimulus program that worked, but it wasn't driven by dollars. American confidence pulled the country back from the brink.

American confidence is a mighty thing. When it's gathering speed, nothing can stop it. When it's sinking in vitriol, it takes the whole world down with it.

Somehow we squandered the patriotic gifts that sprouted in the shadow of 9/11, but I'm not ready to give up yet. Although I do not blink wide-eyed with blind patriotism, I stand in loyal opposition when I disagree with the White House and Congress. I stand against division and hate. On this terrible anniversary and on every day, I stand for America.

She needs me.

Black Clouds Hovering Over America by John O'Brien

The great eight debate

Three nuggets from Michael Scherer's brilliant debate summary: What You Missed While Not Watching Last Night’s Reagan Library Debate for TIME.

Talk turns to teenage girls and cancer of the cervix, which is a historic first for a presidential debate.

Gingrich says legal immigration documentation should be handled by "American Express, Visa, and MasterCard, so there’s no counterfeiting, which there will be with the federal government."

Paul reveals new levels of paranoia, saying that he worries a southern border fence could be used to keep Americans from fleeing to Mexico in an emergency. "Every time you think of [a] fence keeping all those bad people out, think about those fences maybe being used against us, keeping us in," he says. He also wants to end federal restrictions on drug use. Totally unrelated.

Go America!

* * *

The Offices of Erin O'Brien: vehicle collection

Telephone conversation

The following conversation regarding my brother John O'Brien's posthumous novel, Better (Akashic, 2009), took place during the publication process.

Me: Hi Mom.

Mom: Hi hon.

Me: Mom, I'm about to send the final version of Better off to Akashic and I wanted to check in with you first. Is there anything in the book you want to talk about?

Mom: That one scene. I hate that one scene.

Me: Which one?

Mom: The one where he urinates on the floor. Do you know the one I'm talking about?

Me: I do.

Mom: I hate that scene.

Me: I know, Mom.

Mom: It's disgusting. Johnny would never do anything like that.

Me: Of course he wouldn't.

Mom: Maybe you should take it out.

Me:

Mom:

Me: I'd really hate to do that.

Mom:

Me: I don't think the scene has anything to do with John. It's about the character. The character is trying to verify he's alive. He needs to hear a sound that's ... primal.

You know how careful John was about his writing. Every word had a purpose. I really think it should stay, Mom. I really do. It's about being alive. It's important.

Mom:

Mom:

Mom:

Me: John would be furious to see it deleted.

Mom: I guess you're right, but I still don't like it.

Me: I understand that. Try to separate it from Johnny. If he were here, he'd tell you it's about the character. You know I hate to put words in his mouth, but I think I've got this one right.

Mom:

Me: I'm doing the best I can.

Mom: I know you are.

Me: Should I send it along to Akashic then? Is there anything else we should talk about?

Mom: No. If you're happy with it, that's fine.

Me: I'm not sure "happy" is the right word.

Mom: I know. You know what I mean.

Me: I do. Okay then, I'll get this going.

Mom: Okay. Love you.

Me: Love you.

Excerpt from Better:

Suddenly I am aware that the house is positively silent. There is absolutely no aural evidence that any animate thing occupies this house. For all I hear right now, I could be alone. Even the sounds of my own body eludes me. The perennial hum of the world at large: not there. The cumulative buzz of myriad ticks and tocks that drifts into our ears twenty-four hours a day: missing. The orchestration of every noise ever made anywhere, perpetually and reliably amalgamated then distilled down to a back-of-your-head IV of mild distraction in a sucrose base: history.

I do stand. I am in need of a noise. I hit the table with my glass: bok. Not enough--I need a longer noise. I slap myself. Again. Listen: still nothing. I can't possibly be alone here; I know better. Afraid to listen to my watch, much less look at it, my eye instead falls on a remote for the televisions. I can't touch it; I am afraid that if I reach for it, I might lose my balance, fall and strike my head, die in this pervading silence. My eyes blur. My bladder burns. It seems a very long time since I last urinated--too long for a living man. Still standing by the bar, I unzip my fly: zzzip. I pull out my penis; it seems pitifully small, and I can hold it between my thumb and my forefinger. It takes time, then finally there is liquid. At first a mere dribble trickling along my finger and dripping off the knuckle, it grows in force and becomes a steady stream under pressure which separates from my finger and finds its own path. It hits the floor, fairly quietly at first but soon announcing itself with a rumble as it stakes out its puddle and continues falling upon itself, no longer absorbed by the shocked carpet. It's now loud: patapatapatapata. It feels good to hear it. It smells bad, for I have held it too long; nonetheless, it feels good to smell it.

And much to my relief, when the splashing ends, it is replaced by the regular sounds of the house, the city, the rest. I hear water running--plumbed water--in one of the bathrooms. An airplane passes overhead. Probably an antique from Santa Monica airport, for it has that precarious cough that haunts old black and white movie soundtracks. Once the bane of inevitably smaller-than-life airmen, it has no doubt become something to be achieved, duplicated, recaptured in its authenticity, like the dying, spitting, last-time-out-before-the-snow-flies sound of a well-tuned Harley. I hear other things. I hear a trillion things, all of them rich and cogent messengers; they sing to me of my continuing sanity.

* * *

John O'Brien died in April 1994 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at the Beverly Hills apartment building featured in these photographs.

Further reading.

* * *

Los Angeles vol. four: missive

Dear Unspecified Individual(s) That Occupied Room 214 Of The Hotel Shangri-La On Or After August 6 In The Year Of Our Lord 2011,

Hello. Erin O'Brien (aka "previous guest") here.

You may or may not have noticed the prices associated with the mini bar items seductively proffered to guests of the Hotel Shangri-La. The only price I can recall was for the snack pack of Oreos: four clams.

Room temperature mini bar items, Hotel Shangri-La

Refrigerated mini bar items, Hotel Shangri-La

Now I know you're at the Hotel Shangri-La, which probably indicates that you can lay out four clams for an itty-bitty package of Oreos, or whatever they're charging for the fancy wine, sparkling water and super high class granola bar.

But that bottle of Stella Artois in the mini-fridge? That there is 100 percent free (as indicated by the hand written note attached to the bottle). We had dinner at a friend's place and she purchased a six pack of Stella especially for the Goat and me that we didn't finish at her house. She insisted we take the remaining three bottles with us to enjoy in the room, which we did (at least two of them), but not that last one.

Refrigerated mini bar items, Hotel Shangri-La, with donated item

What are you going to do? Try and take a bottle of beer onto the airplane and risk being detained by Homeland Security and waterboarded by Dick Cheney for the rest of your life?

You get the picture.

Anyway, I know that bottle of Stella is probably long gone by now, but I wanted to say hello just the same.

Love,

Erin

ps: If you're a Hotel Shangri-La staffer and you appropriated that bottle of Stella, that's fine with me, even more than fine.

*  *  *