Cannabalism in America

I posted a silly picture yesterday, but despite the comical nature of it, the comment section soon turned to politics. The Wisconsin union fight was the most noted topic. Then I got an email from an old friend asking about my opinion on the organized labor controversy. You want the short answer to the organized labor controversy?

The Super Rich are eating America.

No matter what you think of Mother Jones, the statistics in "Eleven Charts that Explain Everything that's wrong with America" all come from bullet-proof sources. Dig what's happened to household income over the last thirty years:

The top one-hundredth of one percent (of Americans) ... make an average of $27 million per household. The average income for the bottom 90 percent of us? $31,244--Mother Jones

For all you righties smugly nodding to yourselves as Gov. Scott Walker kneels on the necks of teachers and publicly fellates the Koch brothers, you are simple pawns.

The Super Rich love it when one working class man is pitted against another working class man. They love abortion rights and gun control, to be sure. Those keep us infighting a-plenty. But this new union controversy is the grand daddy of middle class civil war.

This is not a fight about left and right. It is a fight whereby the Super Rich are further enslaving and cannibalizing the rest of America. Whether you're a blood red rightie veteran or a midnight blue leftie tenured teacher, they will eat you.

Anybody remember the phrase United We Stand?

Now then, will you be fighting the terrible beast as he sinks his teeth into your entrails or will you be waving an American flag?

* * *

Poolside

Sexy

Smoking might have been the dumbest thing I ever did. I looked awful whenever I stuck a butt in my mouth and smelled worse for the entire 10 years. But when you would lean over and flick your Bic at the tip of my Marlboro Light, the sideways smile I sent over in return had nothing to do with that filthy habit and everything to do with a different little flame that ignited between us.

The way you handle your money: sliding bills toward the bartender to cover a round when no one's looking. Slipping an extra five under the sugar bowl despite the bad coffee and hamburgers that taste as though they haven't said "moo" in a long, long time. You don't hold on to your money too tightly, yet you always have enough. It's about the same with a woman.

The fact that you don't take that for granted makes it even better.

Although I laughed until tears squeezed from my eyes when I pulled it out of my Christmas stocking, I was thinking that when a man like you buys a toy like that for a woman like me, baby, that's saying something.

Don't say that. I disagree completely. In fact, I love your work clothes. I love the way the rough chinos hug your hips. I love the striped shirt and the way the embroidered name patch rests just over your heart like a promise.

Come over here. I'll unbutton it for you. Let me look at you: the shape of your lips, your eyes when you smile. Dear sweet Jesus, just let me look at you.

My god, how I love this bed. I'll take thick comforters, lush sheets and soft pillows over a chest full of diamonds, rubies and gold any time. Nestle in here with me and I'll show you a real treasure.

When you take both my hands in your hands like that, pull them up above my head and hold them there until all the tears I've ever cried evaporate.

The perfect velvet blue of dusk will be gone in an instant. It's slipping away already. But I know a secret way to hold onto it: Lace your fingers in mine and put your mouth on my mouth until the edges between us blur.

Don't think too hard, just make a wish. Now close your eyes and I'll make it come true.

* * *

All geared up

In the days of my youth, my mom would come home from work with the noble intention of putting dinner in the oven. As often as not, she'd open the front door to an industrial smell permeating the entire house.

Odd chemical odors were not unusual back then. Dad's machine shop was housed in the basement and garage. He was forever coating, sealing, priming and fusing things with an array of ghastly products, the labels for which were festooned with jolly rogers and deadly warnings.

Hence, Mom wouldn't pay much attention to the acrid smell wafting into the foyer. She'd go about her business of stowing her purse, kicking off her heels and changing clothes--until she'd go to put the meatloaf in the oven, only to find the odor wasn't paint drying, but some weird chunk of oily steel tempering in the Magic Chef.

"Goddamnit, Bill!"

This phenomenon was never more beautifully manifested than on one fine spring day when Dad decided to heat a steel gear.

It was a gear much like any other gear, about seven or eight inches in diameter. Dad needed this particular gear to get very, very hot. So he cranked the oven as high as it would go, slid the gear onto the middle rack and let it "roast" for several hours.

When Dad thought the gear had gotten as hot as it was going to get, he donned Mom's oven mitt, reached into the oven and grabbed the gear.

That's when things went south.

He achieved his goal more successfully than he realized. The gear was hot--really hot--so hot that it immediately burned through mom's mitt. As soon as the searing steel touched his flesh, Dad dropped the gear.

"Shit!"

 The gear fell to the floor where it immediately sunk and burned into the carpet.

"SHIT!"

Realizing the gear was leaving an eternal gear-shaped brand in front of the oven, Dad reacted by kicking it. The gear had perhaps cooled a bit, but was still incredibly hot. Hence, it landed a few inches from where Dad had first dropped it and proceeded to burn into the carpet there.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Nonplussed, Dad continued to kick the gear several times until he finally grasped the situation (along with a tong), picked up the gear, and tossed it into the kitchen sink.

"Goddamnit anyway."

The final result was an arcing pattern of gears about two feet long. In a subtle artistic note, each gear impression was lighter than the previous one due to the cooling of the steal and Dad's emphatic kicks.


The gear brands remained on the floor for several weeks (or was it months?) until Mom finally got the new linoleum floor she'd wanted since we'd moved into the house (the gear brands may have, in fact, expedited said installation).

Every word of this story is true, and my mother, who is a daily reader of this blog, can corroborate it. That will have to do since all evidence of the gear branded carpet is gone. Oh how I wish I had a photo.

My advice to you, dear reader, is to take as many pictures as you can stand lest one day you shall be remembering your own version of the gear branded carpet story. You will laugh and laugh, until you realize that the people with whom you should be laughing are long gone along with the evidence, just like an echo.

* * *

Today's photos feature Mom and Dad engaging in less indelible kitchen endeavors. Click on any to enlarge.

* * *

Spacebabe

This was published in 1955, people.

My favorite thing in this picture is the limp stringy rat-tail of an antenna dripping from the back of her helmet. Although Spacebabe's look of disdain is pretty good as well.

Next time you hear some old codger scowling and gassing on about how we never did anything like that when I was a kid! you show him this picture.

They were doing it all right. They were doing all of it.

*  *  *

Mighty Brite

Last night saw Clevo's hippest event of the winter: the Brite Winter Festival, which is staged down in the industrial Flats district. Here's a (hopelessly inadequate) photo recap courtesy of your humble hostess, who's doing the best she can with her limited photographic skills.

Hey man, which way to the party?

No party over here, just a stairway to heaven.

Found it!

Dude, you light up the night.

Gettin' warm and chillin' out at über-cool Sainato's with cold beer and hot pizza.

Clear night, bright lights. Funky hipsters everywhere.

Whoa foxy* mamas, don't be wallflowers. Come on back outside and join the party!

Twinkle, twinkle little stars. Let the party go on all night.

*Erin said "foxy." tee-hee!

# # #

One juicy tomato

Behold a video of Al the Retired Army Guy (a frequent Owner's Manual visitor) grilling green tomatoes for lucky patrons of the Fayetteville, North Carolina Farmer's Market:



It is not possible to describe how much I dig that video.

If one minute and ten seconds of Al isn't enough for you, hop on over to his blog, A Soldier Learns to Cook, and set a spell.

* * *

Sure, I'll take the $120K

Your humble hostess is full up with housewifely duties, hence an appropriate housewifely repost from 2008 with the original comments intact. Enjoy.

* * *

According to this, stay-at-home moms are worth nearly $120,000 a year.

Really?

Dunno, but here's the real skinny on the stay-at-home thing:

This is the best gig around. Believe me--I know what I'm talking about. The other day, for instance, I screwed the Goat silly (what other job lets you do that on the clock?), then changed the sheets and pranced around the house in my undies while doing the laundry. I was laughing my head off the whole time.

The attire seemed so perfect that I got a cup of coffee and sat down at my computer. The morning light was streaming through the window and I turned around for some reason and saw that, at the right angle, my boob was perfectly outlined in shadow on the floor. Since my camera was on my desk, I took a picture of that.

Then I thought maybe I could come up with lyrics to "Boob Shadow" that could be sung along to the tune of Cat Steven's marshmallowy classic Moonshadow:


That was boring, but got me thinking music so I synced my iPod in preparation for a five mile walk, which I took while listening to music and Dan Savage. I didn't feel like cooking I asked the Goat to take me out to dinner. He did.

That's a typical day. Different days mean different stuff, but lunch is always totally effing great. Sometimes I have leftovers, which is fine, but usually I make myself a sandwich. I don't eff around, either. I'm talking mayo/lettuce/fresh lunch meat and chips on the side. I always cut the sandwich and pull the two halves apart so it looks attractive. I set a dill pickle on the side of the plate. I have a Diet Pepsi or better yet, a club soda with a slice of lime.

This shit totally rocks.

Sometimes I don't feel like doing anything and I just lie in the middle of the floor, blinking at the ceiling. Naps are good too. If it's hot, I nap in the front room on the leather couch, which feels cool. If it's cold, I make a nice pillow/blankie nest on the big couch in the family room. Sometimes I snore when I nap. Sometimes I diddle myself and then fall asleep.

So that's what it's really like. But hey, if someone wants to pay me $120K for this, I am totally down with it.

* * *

Phone cam round-up with guest entries and mystery items!

This beauty is courtesy of Owner's Manual regular Hal Perry.  (Thanks, Hal!) All I have by way of minutiae is this: Hal is prone to word play, referring to Rolling Rock beer as "Rolling Cock," and Blockbuster video as "Cockbuster." I don't know anything about this photo though, it just appeared in my inbox some time ago. Perhaps Hal will show up in the comment section and explain.

Yet another guest entry, this one forwarded by a Dark Arts enchantress who kept the photographer's identity a secret. For the record, "Baaaaa says the goat!" is a factual statement.

No way would I disobey that sign.

I wonder if the guy who made this sign is named Barry.

Time for some Boonesbarry!

This way to heaven, folks.

Welcome, mate, to the land of Down Underwear.

A zygote abandoned in the snow.

Woof.

Dubious Erin at 3:42 p.m.

Mystery machine.

RIP Mr. Mouse. Or is it a rat? Dunno. (For reference, that is the edge of my shoe at the bottom of the photo.)

I want some damn $.69 Sissors!

* * *

Repast

 

Sometimes I surprise myself with my flair for presentation.

Why, exactly, do Ballpark franks plump when you cook 'em?

In the interest of full disclosure, I drizzled this dog with French's Spicy Brown mustard. (The readership will refrain from castigating the authoress for breaking the law and not using Stadium Mustard since the authoress duly recognizes her wrongful ways--call it a form of early parole on account of good behavior.)

The Goat dressed his with (ahem) ketchup.

This lunch was simultaneously crappy and fantastic. This lunch was craptastic.

This post is done.

* * *

Candy hearts

Having a teenage daughter surely has it's challenges. Making Valentine chocolates isn't one of them.

Happy Valentines Day from Lil' OB and Yours Truly.

* * *

Dearest Valentine, you do (?) all the others

Vintage postcard images courtesy of this flickr dandy.

* * *

Tura Tura Tura

I have posted on Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! before, but since this week saw the passing of the film's star Tura Satana, a more thorough revisit is in order.

Behold the first six and a half minutes of Faster. Of course I recommend the entire movie, but within just these frames lies a raw brilliance you won't find in any multiplex. It just doesn't get any better than this:



A few observations, in no particular order:

-Would you please watch the guys in the GoGo bar again? Please?

"Wail!"

"Go, baby, go!"

And dig the way they do a close up of the jukebox speakers.

-I love the unstudied wardrobe. The belts and boots--Tura's driving gloves.

-This movie is unmitigated proof that breast implants did nothing to enhance the human form. This, people, is what they're supposed to look like when they're big. I wonder how many retakes they had courtesy of one of Satana's twins making a surprise appearance.

-That's some driving wheel action at 3:01.

-The pose Satana strikes at 4:47, is there anything better?

-5:33--Wet chick sand fight!

Top it off with the vintage trio of the Porsche 356, the Triumph TR3 and that MGA roadster, and baby, I'm in heaven.

Now for a few of my favorite quotes:

... the unmistakable smell of female--the surface: shiny and silken, the body: yielding yet wanton ...

How long you going to let that kooky broad showboat like that?

Go ahead, Miss sponge, soak it up. I'm-a gonna love a-squeezing you out!

She wears the pants all right, but somehow she always strips her gears.

Your heels didn't get round from walkin'!

And one from later in the movie:

Women! They let 'em vote, smoke and drive - even put 'em in pants! And what happens? A Democrat for president!

* * *

Ciao, Tura. You were beautiful, baby.

* * *

Fashionably Cleveland

Believe it or not, Cleveland is home to one of the grooviest fashionistas around. Valerie Mayen, a contestant on season eight of Project Runway, has chosen to base Yellowcake, her couture design business, right here on the rough-and-tumble North Coast.

How cool is that?

I recently sat down with Val in her funky warehouse studio and chatted her up for Fresh Water. Hop on over and get the skinny on why this hipster chose to settle in Cleveland, where to find the best local desserts, and what to wear when hobnobbing with the likes of Tim Gunn and Heidi Klum.

* * *

Getting religion

Behold one 7.25-quart Le Creuset enamel-clad cast iron French oven.

With tax, this baby cost over $300. I was going to buy it over at Amazon and save a few bills, but when I went to Williams Sonoma to check it out in person first, the sales chick told me that the Le Creuset Williams Sonoma "Signature" line has extra enamel on the inside for extended wear. The chick was fly and I believed her.

When I got this beauty home, I turned it upside down on the floor, took my pants off and sat on it.

The Williams Sonoma chick might have been stringing me along, but there is some secret connection between Le Creuset and your Billy Sonoma stores, because you can't by this next fierce sonuvabitch anywhere but over at ol' Billy's place:

Are you diggin' on that? That right there is a 3.75-quart sauce pan with a 10-inch fry pan that doubles as the fucking lid! How beautiful is that? They call it a Multi-Function and it is worth every nickel of $200. Go to hell.

No, I did not buy the Multi-Function. I figured I'd start out classic and simple with the French oven--move to the sexy stuff later. Plus, shelling out three C-notes for one pot in one day is enough, but don't think I didn't hover over the 4.5-quart saute pan as well. I did. Big time.

Do you people realize that I've been cooking all this slop in shit-ass Revere Ware for 18 years? Jesus christ awmighty. Not that I don't have a damn nice 10-quart Calphalon Stock pot. I do. But that's only for your large duty. For the most part, I've been making with the middle class pots and pans ever since I got the Goat.

That miserable shrew Martha Stewart has a line of enamel coated cast iron as well--total made-in-China crap. No surprise there.

Hey Martha, you got your ears on out there? I didn't buy any of your for-shit cookware you miserable shrew. Ha! Kiss my ass.

I haven't broken the cherry on the Le Creuset. I'm thinking potato soup ... or coq au vin ... or beef bourguignon ...

All of this and I'm pretty good in the sack too.

I am completely fabulous.

*  *  *

You've got it, Mister

Happy 100th, Ronald Reagan, you pro-gov socialist

From Taxes: What people forget about Reagan by CNN senior writer Jeanne Sahadi:

--All told, the tax increases Reagan approved ended up canceling out much of the reduction in tax revenue that resulted from his 1981 legislation.

--"By today's standards, the Gipper would easily qualify for status as a back-stabbing, treacherous RINO [Republican in Name Only]," wrote Tax Analysts contributing editor Martin Sullivan.

--Two bills passed in 1982 and 1984 together "constituted the biggest tax increase ever enacted during peacetime," said tax historian Joseph Thorndike.

--Thanks in part to the increases in defense spending during his administration, Reagan also didn't really reduce the size of government. Annual spending averaged 22.4% of GDP on his watch, which is above today's 40-year average of 20.7%, and above the 20.8% average under Carter.

Indeed, in one very symbolic respect he enlarged it. While in the early years of his presidency Reagan tried to shrink the IRS, by the end, the number of IRS employees hit an all-time high, according to Steuerle in his book Contemporary U.S. Tax Policy.

___________

Geepers, creepers, Ronnie, you'd be considered a dyed-in-the-wool leftie by today's standards!

Oh wait, I forgot about the Meese Report.

* * *

Image by Paul Freed

* * *

Device update

Hello.

This device is called a vibraslap.

That is all.

* * *

You don't deserve this but I'm posting it anyway

Doldrum buster

The official term for today's temperature here in Northeast Ohio is "cold as a brass monkey's pecker." Everything is covered in ice and snow and I'm like a weird troll, peering out at the hopeless scape. Not good.

In order to mix it up a bit, I shall be packing up the Goat and Lil' O'B and heading down to the Brite Winter Festival on Feb. 19. If you are in the vicinity, I suggest you do the same.

This is a hipster event. I am not a hipster, but I don't care. I'm going anyway. There will be cool gourmet food trucks and people who actually are hipsters eating stuff they purchase from the cool gourmet food trucks.

Um, yeah.

Yes, it's still a couple of weeks away, but with no hint of the mercury heading above freezing for the next ten days, you need something to look forward to and the Festival will have giant snow skee ball, so there you go.

I hope I see you there.

*  *  *

Happenstance is a clear sigh drawn over time

He stood before  the fountain, lost.

"Do you have the time?" he asked.

I did and I did not.

"Sorry, I do not," I said, giving him the safe half of the story. "I was looking for the Chantilly."

"I know this place," he said. "My parent's made their wedding bed there." I was taken with his strange manner of speech and the way he worried a glass bead in his hand. His eyes were brown.

Fourteen miles away, my husband was boarding the Blue Train towards home.

"I will walk you there," he said, "to the Chantilly." He smiled and softness spilled over his face despite his angular cheek bones.

I looked to the west. Red slippers sparkled upon my feet. I kissed him once on the lips and stepped into the east.

*  *  *