Phone cam round-up special edition: druid pornography

Insert tab A into slot B.

One puckered invitation!

Treeboob.

Double trouble.

Mr. Stubby.

Mr. Bondage.

Miss Dainty.

Mustache rides!

On his way up or down?

At the TREE-Y-N office.

Naughty, naughty!

*  *  *

Comment directive: No. Wood. Jokes.

! ! !

Got birther?

John McCain was born at the Coco Solo Naval Air Station in the Panama Canal Zone on Aug. 29, 1936.

* * *

The good ol' days

So I'm driving down Royalton Road doing about 40 and some idiot in front of me starts chucking garbage out of the passenger window. I've got two teens in the back and it's raining like hell. There's a semi on my ass.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter. "Would you look at this jackass?"

Then he tosses out a big coffee can, which most likely has Mini Cooper tire-chewing capabilities, so I brake and swerve. The truck behind me lurches. I swear with more intent.

"MoOOoom," my kid admonishes.

##

Dear Youth of America: This is a rare site nowadays but people used to chuck garbage out of their cars all the time. The litter you see around roads and highways isn't one tenth what it was back in the 60s and 70s. The turn around was due largely by the Keep America Beautiful campaign. Behold the iconic crying Indian:



And it wasn't just garbage on the street.

There were parts of Cleveland that always smelled bad back then, particularly those surrounding the steel mills. Out-of-towners would wrinkle their nose when you got to the Pershing exit on I-77 SB and say, "What's that smell?"

By the time I was a shiny-faced field engineer with BP in the late 80's, things had gotten better, but the old timers used to like to talk about, well, the old times. They had names like Denny and Lou and Harry.

"Back in the day, we didn't have to worry about all your regulations," Lou would say. "We didn't have any regulations." Then he'd lean back in his chair, put his feet on his desk and take a long drag from his Pall Mall. "Back then the answer was smokestacks. You just pushed the smoke way up high where it didn't bother anyone. Back then, kid," he'd say, then purse his lips into a perfect O and blow a plume of smoke straight up by way of demonstration, "dilution was the solution to pollution."

Guys like Denny and Lou and Harry loved that line.

Lake Erie sometimes smelled bad, particularly during long dry summer spells. The shore was infested with rats, which did not deter my playmates and me from crawling under Lakewood Park's northernmost fence, scattering down the escarpment and poking around.

Then there was the Cuyahoga River.

In the late 60's and early 70's, the Cuyahoga was simply terrifying. This was no silly group of hippies protesting a pipe trickling some dubious liquid into the river. Everybody knew the Cuyahoga was filthy and dangerous. My nightmares were filled with images of falling into the thick black water and being surrounded by the industrial bridge pilings, the massive ore boats and tugs. I still occasionally dream about the murky waters of the Cuyahoga.

Think I'm exaggerating?

~~CLICK HERE~~

That picture of the Cuyahoga was taken in the 60's. You have to see it to believe it. I wanted to embed it here, but the Plain Dealer denied my permission request.

So then, Youth of America, be wary of ham-handed righties telling you how deregulation is a good thing and how the (admittedly sometimes exasperating) EPA needs to be defunded. No, I can't say pollution would return to what it was 50 years ago, but I'd hate to find out what might happen to a river that I've literally watched come back to life over the past 40 years.

When I melt a little bit on the inside it's like this

Call the elders. The fireball has returned to the sky.

Although there is rain in the forecast this afternoon (for the nine-hundredth day IN A ROW), this morning was beautiful, so I spent the better part of it walking.

The Northeast Ohio spring has been so cold and wet and dreary that our deciduous trees are still sans leaves, which has been more off-putting than I would have guessed. The light is weird. The smell of spring is AWOL despite the calendar. The same goes for the rustling sound of leaves; the wind still produces that hollow wintry noise.

When I came upon this tree, I stopped and stared. With dewy eyes, I blinked at the humble buds. I stood there in quiet wonderment for some minutes as though I was gazing at garlands of emeralds dripping from the branches.

"Hi," I said.

Good gawd.

* * *

Eggshelland 2011

In between Earth Day and Easter

Carts of Darkness simply captivated me. It's an hour long and if you can wiggle it in sometime between the egg coloring and ham, you will not be disappointed. Carts could have easily slid into the depths of sanctimonious liberalism, but it never even gets close to that edge. The men of Carts speak for themselves with razor-sharp clarity.

Carts has something loud to say, but it never shouts.  And it is not possible to imagine a film more perfect for this in-between Saturday. You'll not find a more subtle nod to yesterday's Earth Day or a more evocative pose for the WWJD? set just in time for their holiest of days.



Jesus Christ? If you've got your ears on, brother, give this one a look and then tell me: what the hell would you do?

* * *

I hit him upside the face and the potatoes went all over him

Nutmeg cream pops will rock your face off

I am a goddess of unparalleled genius and I command you to cease your meaningless diversions and do this right now.

-Combine a 14-ounce can of condensed sweetened milk, a pint of half-n-half, one tablespoon of vanilla and a quarter teaspoon of finely ground nutmeg.

-Mix the living shit out of it until the living shit is mixed out of it. (I suppose you could whisk it or use a blender, but I use an empty one-liter plastic bottle and shake-shake-shake it [yes, Sherlock you may need to employ a funnel and yes, you will probably need to find a way to prop up the condensed sweetened milk can, the funnel and the bottle like some half-ass housewife Jenga sculpture because it takes for-fucking-ever to ooze out of there and no, I have zero experience with the can and bottle and funnel {that you thought you propped up securely} falling over and getting all the hell over the place while you were changing the laundry.])

-Get out the popsicle molds. (I'm not even saying one word.)

-Fill the molds with the cream mixture and freeze those pops until they're frozen.

-Loosen the pops by quickly running them under warm water.

-Bite into one of those mothers and crumple before my superlative greatness.

These cream pops are good in winter. They are good in summer. They are good after conjugal relations. They are good before conjugal relations. They are good all of the time and making them will be the best thing that happens to you all weekend if not all month.

I swear you people do not deserve me. This post is done.

* * *

Smells rotten to me

The Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) banned this TV ad in Britain based on 13 complaints.



Apparently, the practice of kowtowing to bully extremists is slithering across the globe.

* * *

Deconstructing Ikea

I've always been curious about the Ikea store in Pittsburgh, which is touted as cutting edge and enormously popular. The Goat and I had some free time yesterday, so we took the two-hour drive to finally check it out.

As soon as we walked in, it felt as though Ikea was trying a little too hard, but we persevered. The place is HUGE.

After all, Ikea people are cool people. Look at this kitchen. This is a Cool People kitchen for sure!

This dinette is also for cool people. However, it would take a very confident person to sit in one of these chairs naked.

Confidential to said confident persons: keep a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex handy.

Cute Ikea pups. woof woof.

Hm. Ikea for Easter dinner? Um, no thanks.

The Goat puzzled over a plush broccoli toy. Broccoli? I like those dogs better, Ikea.

Not one of the Ikea beds looked inviting. Nonetheless, I wondered if the staff (ahem) tries them out after hours. I always muse on this in a mattress showroom. Who doesn't want to screw in a mattress showroom?

You know, Ikea, when you post a sign telling me how environmentally friendly you're bath fixtures are above the sink, then another above the toilet and yet another above the hand dryer, somehow I become less and less convinced with each one.

Mechanical ass for chair testing. Is there something oddly sexual about this place or is it just me?

The display books on the Ikea shelves are all real (I took one out and checked). John Grisham, meet Cormac McCarthy.

The massive warehouse section. Look at the tiny person center left in the photo for reference.

Cool lighting, Ikea. I'll give you that.

Guess someone changed their mind about the hook. Or was he (she?) considering an inventive way to modify the chair. And no, I did not put the hook there. It was there as I ambled by.

Ikea of Sweden || Made in China. Hmmmm. I'm starting to get the picture .  .  .

No we didn't eat at the Ikea restaurant, but damn those Swedish meatballs did smell good.

I eventually found something authentic: a package of salty licorice fish that was labelled "Product of Sweden."

##

The Goat and I left Ikea with less than $30 worth of merchandise. To be honest, most of the stuff was complete junk. Every label I saw said made in China or India. The kitchen items, particularly the cookware, were just awful. The place left me completely flat. I guess it's okay for college kids or first-apartment types, but I'm old school that way. Decorate with mom's hand-me-downs and what you dig out of the thrift store. 

It was a rainy gray day in Pittsburgh, but we drove around just the same, marveling at the strange houses built into hills and the winding narrow roads. I mourned the weather and longed to walk among the jumbled neighborhoods.

We ate at a quirky place where a tiny arched stairway led to get to the dining area, which was like a lovely surprise at the top of the stairs. I had delicious smoky wings in hot sauce. The goat had a sausage sandwich.

We stopped and bought a candy bar to munch and picked up a case of Yuengling Lager, which you can't get in Ohio. Don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with the Cleveland Browns (a lot of things in Cleveland have to do with the Cleveland Browns). Then we headed home.

Bye Pittsburgh. We'll be back, but next time we're coming just to see you. To hell with Ikea.

*  *  *

Knitting the American dream

I'm taking up knitting.

I'm not talking sitting in the family room and knitting like you're-getting-ready-to-die knitting. I'm talking a free market venture. I'm talking small business.

Who in America doesn't like a chick opening a small business? Who doesn't want to see a new knitting shop open up in America? America is totally pro-knit.

Nothing too cutesy, just a cool little boutique with an outside-the-box retro vibe. Of course we'll have your knitting supplies: your yarns, your needles, your patterns.

We'll also sell your novelties: psychedelic gift items, water pipes, flavored rolling papers. Maybe even an adult backroom with naughty gag gifts and greeting cards with dirty pictures.

I'm calling it the Knit 'n Shit.

I like the idea of a pinball machine and an ice-cold-beer-to-go! cooler. I like a couple of candy racks too. And hey, a vendor comes in and wants to put up a fingernail polish display? I'm open to your fringe ideas.

There'll be a lounge area in the back where you can hang around knitting and talking to other knitters. There will always always always be incense burning at the Knit 'n Shit. And I will always always be there, wearing a snazzy scarf around my head or a macramé shawl or gogo boots.

All the knitters will think I am so cool.

Shitty coffee on the house? You bet. And not out of some gleaming professional coffee maker, but from a shitty old Mr. Coffee machine or something like that. With a container of off-brand powdered coffee creamer that's about a thousand years old.

I'm hoping to attract the sort of regulars in the lounge who bring in your occasional plate of homemade cookies. Maybe chocolate chip without chocolate chips, but with m&m's instead of chocolate chips: red, green and yellow happy bombs peeking out from the regular cookie part. You starting to get my gist here?

When I'm not helping customers at the cash register, I'll hang out in back diggin' on what my homies are knitting and saying stuff like you rock, you chickster you or dig that pattern or that's some smokin' textile.

We'll also have a place where regulars can showcase the stuff they made. You're a grandma who wants to put one of those multi-colored sweaters you knit on a hanger for the whole world to see? Come on down to the Knit 'n Shit.

Best get started. Now then, does anyone have a knitting pattern for a peekaboo bra and undie set?

* * *

Quick political link round up

The government is already shrinking ... sort of.

Twenty seven cents of every federal tax dollar goes to fund the military.

Sarah Palin's move to follow the money and bright lights isn't paying off politically.

Think we don't have a robust single payer health care system in the United States? More than one quarter of Americans have government sponsored health care.

Guess that's enough for now. Anyway, I have important marital aid research to conduct.

Love,

Erin

* * *

You take 'em anyway you can get 'em, like broken down sailors

Art for everyone's sake

A few days before the LePage Maine public mural uproar ensued, I toured the Intermuseum Conservation Association in order to research this article for Fresh Water.

The Snake Dancer

The ICA conserves and restores art and notable objects. Sounds staid, but that is hopelessly inaccurate. Walking among the conservators and their work was nothing short of magical.

From the edges of the Civil War

Every item in the building entranced me. And when the conservators chimed in with the stories behind the objects, everything in this mystical place came alive.

When my buddy Jane Hammond displayed a Civil War cloak she's restoring, carefully pointing out the frayed knit edges, I felt as if the woman who originally knit it and her war-torn soldier were standing right behind us.

If the cloak haunted me, the salvaged public murals simply took my breath away.

Just watch as the ICA clan unfurls this to-be-restored Louis Grebenak piece. The WPA funded this work and many others for installation at a (now-demolished) public housing project here in Cleveland.

Look at the giant hand, the muscled forearms. I love this thing--love love love it. The full view starts at about 2:04.



Yo Lou? Baby, I'm receiving your broadcast loud and clear.

Every day, the staff of ICA makes a beautiful contribution to the human experience. In the instance of vintage public art, it's about everyone from the WPA clerk who drew up Grebenak's paycheck some 75 years ago to the people who will pass this mural every day when it's fully restored and installed at the new Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority administration building.

This is about all of us, whether you abhor or detest the impetus of the murals or their content. This is who we were and who we are. When a community comes together to celebrate that, it shapes who we will be.

Hey Governor LePage?  Lou Grebenak and I think you're a big turd. 

Yeah, yeah.

I guess I'll stay here in Cleveland and hang out with the good guys.

* * *

Hey man, can I borrow your computer?

Phone cam round-up with arbitrary numbers

The Republic of Chocolate Bunny Army.

Giant shadow, little chair.

It had a bad vibe, so no, I did not pick it up.

One.

Your typical counter top chicken.

Dude, your beer's cold.

Set down and have a cup o' joe.

Two and Goat.

Magical ceiling crystals!

 

Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.

Six.

I pity the fool!

Angry lobster mob.

 

I found your phone on the road. Yes, I checked, and the screen was locked. Sorry I couldn't help you, buddy.

Eight.

Stone birdie.

Hey man, where's the spool piece?

*  *  *