Aw Hef ...

Behold Hugh Hefner's ex-fiance Crystal Harris on their brief sexual couplings, which she publicly described as lasting only seconds:

“Then I was just over it,” she said. “I was like, ‘Ahhhh.’ I was over it. I just, like, walked away. I’m not turned on by Hef, sorry.”

My usual eye-rolling ensued, along with a mild feeling of victory. (I've been musing on the private conversations of the Girls Next Door for years.) But that's not the whole story.

Truth be told, I have towering respect for Hefner's publication achievements. Playboy was cutting edge when it debuted. Hefner was a self-made man. He was impervious to criticism and Bible-thumpers. He was also a notorious hands-on control freak of an editor, and Playboy (at least before it turned into a Photoshop freakshow) was his and his alone. I even have a modest collection of vintage Playboys from the 60s and 70s.

It goes deeper. These here pages are very loosely based on the original essence of Playboy, at least on a conceptual level. I may be a one-woman show, but I try to offer an eclectic mix of content with a specific point of view. And I field plenty of criticism for my political and sexual content. When that happens, I'll review The Owner's Manual by browsing through the first several pages. I always come away thinking: no, this is a righteous publication and it is as I wish it to be. Then I carry on.

So my disdain for today's Hef does not stem from some feminist snarling. He was a publication icon, a giant. Now he's reduced to embarrassing humiliation at the hands of some silly little broad he never should have tangled with in the first place.

And he keeps doing it again and again with one faceless blond twit after another. Hef gets older and my disappointment in the man gets more profound.

Why couldn't you have done this right, Hef? Why couldn't you have stepped out of the spotlight with dignity?

Dammit anyway.

There's no place like home

Clevelander Katie O'Keefe takes to the streets. Photo by Bob Perkoski

Meet Cleveland's Super Hero.

That's what Katie O'Keefe's friends call her. Any why not? I mean come on: Look at this chick! She doesn't even need a cape. Hey Gotham City? Our O'Keefe will kick your Batgirl's ass any day of the week.

"In Cleveland," says O'Keefe, "you can have everything." And when you meet her, you'll believe it.

O'Keefe is one of seven incredibly fascinating people I interviewed for this story in this week's Fresh Water about boomerangs--Clevelanders who've left the city and then returned. Every one of them loves this town as much as I do. Like me, they know that Cleveland is the best kept secret in the country.

I've been here a long long time and I've seen it all, from the heartbreaking sports debacles to the collapse of the steel industry, but our unfailing Rust Belt grittiness has never faded. Clevelanders are authentic and tough. The heart of this city is what the boomerangs missed most and what they fell in love with all over again when they returned.

Cleveland's energy is returning right along with the boomerangs. For those of us on the inside, the evidence is everywhere. For anyone on the outside who doesn't believe me, just try to rent a downtown apartment. Waiting list lengths range from a few dozen to hundreds.

Yep, you read that right. The Residences at 668 has a waiting list of 600. I know. I checked.

"Apartments are usually only vacant for a few hours," said the rental agent to me.

So the secret may be out of the bag. That shouldn't come as a surprise. Cleveland's got cool new stuff and cool old stuff. We've got great sex milkshakes, a Blimp House, and the toughest Thinker on the planet.

And oh yeah, and I live here--so there's that.

* * *

A bed time story: the big bad scary mix tape

Gather 'round children.

Once upon a time, when a person wanted to have a collection of music, they made something called a mix tape. In order to make a mix tape, a person needed a number of things, including (but not limited to) a cassette, a bunch of vinyl records (REH-cords), and a mysterious collection of electronic funkery known as a stereo, which had spinning things and dials and wires.

A person would put one of the vinyl records on a turntable, put a blank cassette in the cassette player, turn on the turntable, press a record (REE-cord) button, and then--using a number of levers and arms or (heaven help us) one's own trembling hand--place a tiny needle on the revolving vinyl record. The music that had been magically imprinted on the revolving record would transfer onto the blank cassette tape.

Any number of terrible things could go wrong during this delicate process.

There were tiny holes on the top of the cassette tape that are hard to explain, but had to do with whether or not you could record onto the tape. When a person wanted to record over a cassette that they were absolutely sure beyond a shadow of a doubt was filled with obsolete content, they'd cover the holes with Scotch tape (not to be confused with the cassette tape) and that old cassette was ready to roll.

But sometimes, that person who was oh-so-sure of herself wasn't careful about using labels and always putting cassette tapes into their proper cases and she would make a mistake about the content that was on that cassette (usually when it was too late). Sometimes a person would say a lot of very bad words when they realized they'd just recorded over a cassette that was full up with the Pogues and the Band and Roxy Music instead of the Ray Coniff Singers.



Other things concerning the needle, something known as "pitch adjustment," and dial settings could go wrong no matter how hard a person tried to make sure all those things were properly adjusted. As with the over-recording, a person often didn't realize these mistakes until it was too late: they'd go to play their new mix tape only to be met with garbled muck, music coming from just one speaker, or a flat buzz. This was a very bad thing because recording a cassette tape took about a whole day!

Now you children run along and fetch your iPods and earbuds. Go curl up in bed.

What's that you ask? Why did we transfer the music from the revolving disc onto the cassette?

That's a good question. If you're real good, maybe tomorrow night, Auntie Erin will tell you about something called a Walkman.

* * *

A post that avoids the topic of the debt ceiling

The readership will note that its humble hostess is succeeding in avoiding the topic of the debt ceiling (well ... as long as the readership does not consider the tweets of its humble hostess).

In lieu of commentary on the debt ceiling, the readership's humble hostess offers this important footage featuring Raquel Welch in a staggering theatrical performance.



As always, the readership's humble hostess thanks the readership for its continued support.

* * *

My little corner of the world

The Goat circa 1971

Sometimes when I'm ranting and bellyaching about something over which I have absolutely no control (I've had a lot of opportunity lately), the Goat will say (usually from behind the newspaper):

"All I can do is take care of my little corner of the world."

Genius, that.

If we all just took care of our little corner of the world, methinks the whole juggernaut would chug along a lot more smoothly. Hence in the interest of the Goat's subtle directive and because today seems like a good day to think about such things: I offer these suggestions:

-If you only take what you need, you'll always have enough.

-Failing to respect the convictions of others only diminishes the strength of your own.

-People have the right to free speech even when you don't like what they're saying.

-If you don't need it, don't buy it on credit.

-An American should support all his fellow Americans, including the ones with whom they disagree with most vehemently.

-If you really believe in your cross, flag or gun, you don't need to wave it around.

-The good guys win even when they lose.

Now I'm off to make pan zucchini (I should give you the recipe sometime), creamed potatoes and bread (the Goat's grilling the chicken).

To the esteemed readership, I bid a lovely Sunday afternoon.

* * *

Phone cam round-up

Support the troops and baby head trailer hitch.

This is a joke, right? You're kidding me, right?

Calla lily lamp and plush cow item.

Eff you too!

Rock that looks like an elephant foot.

Monkey face with green hat.

And baby, believe me when I say I'm familiar with every one of them.

Important papers and Vicki's night stand.

Not if he saw some of the shit I'm doing over here.

Giant swan and I love it.

Avant-garde lawn art of the Great Suburban Wasteland.

What about wanted vehicles? You pay cash for wanted vehicles too?

* * *

Rupert Murdoch: "It's for them to pay"

Dear Murdy,

You candy ass.

That you can sit up there like that eschewing culpability after so brazenly basking in all the fruits of your underling's nasty little secrets turns my stomach.

Of course, I'm giving the word "secrets" a pretty broad definition. You don't really believe a word that redheaded is spewing, do you? Anyone who's spent time around the journalism biz knows that writers and editors talk constantly about stories, sources and tips.

I wouldn't be surprised if that chick wasn't forwarding the juiciest messages right along with the lot of them, farting and giggling and snickering as they all listened in on what undoubtedly became jokes in the lunch room.

This doe-eyed blinking "I didn't know anything about it" act might work in the short term, but there are plenty more shoes to fall, Murdy. Why ... I do believe I hear one now! Check the 33 minute mark of this podcast, wherein one of your former writers, Bobby Block, tells specific stories about the "flexible ethics" that permeate your empire.

Oh yes, the tongues shall wag, Murdy baby, and when they do, I suspect they will reveal an organization dependent upon filth and lies from top to bottom.

"It's for them to pay" may end up being some of the most famous last words ever. 

Love,

Erin

*  *  *

Confidential note to the readership: I'll bet Andrew Brietbart is shitting bricks right now.

* * *

Beer summit?

Our darling Ohio Republican Representative Robert Mecklenborg has finally resigned after getting arrested for DUI under dubious circumstances last April.

I'd love to play matchmaker between Anthony Weiner and Robert Mecklenborg. They could meet up for a Beer Summit.

Weiner: "I didn't even touch that girl."

Mecklenborg: "Neither did I, but man-o-man I sure came close. And I HATE wasting a dose of Viagra like that--If ya know what I mean."

Weiner: "You? You've got no complaints. No one called for your resignation. You weren't on CNN's front page for days on end."

Mecklenborg (with a rheumy smile): "I know. Ya shoulda picked Ohio. Ya shoulda picked the other party. Hell, a tweet? No one would ever have said a thing." (knocks back a shot of Jameson) "Christ awmighty, I got flat-out busted for driving drunk and hardly anyone noticed. As long as you wave the flag, talk pro-life and pro-gun, they don't care what you do."

For a poetic touch, maybe they could have this blessed exchange in the brand-spanking-new fully stocked bar* in the Ohio State House.

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

*Yo Gov? Are we allowed to take our guns in your new bar too?

* * *

Christmas in July

Between the heat wave and the infuriating debt ceiling fiasco, I couldn't take it anymore, so the Goat and I (Lil' OB is at camp) piled in the car and headed over to Geneva on the Lake to schlep around, have a couple of beers and one of those kick-ass burgers from Eddie's (worthy of an entry on its own: a two-fisted salty, greasy, cheesy bestowal straight from heaven).

On Route 534, I spied a sign for Catherine's Christmas, which piqued my interest for reasons I'll keep to myself, but make no mistake: it is NOT because I'm one of those loves-christmas-all-the-time-and-starts-decorating-in-september chicks. The readership can stand down. Your regular anti-craft, anti-cute, anti-etc. Erin has not left the building. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Who cares? Catherine's rocked my face off!

Hey man, you look familiar ...

Dumb reindeer.

Shiny sparkly things.

The Goat was sort of like an olive in a punch bowl.

Look at these happy little bastards.

Why is it that candy canes always look better than they taste? Dunno.

More stuff upstairs ...

My kind of fat cats.

All that glitters is at Catherine's.

Jeez. Now we know how he keeps Rudolph & Co. in line.

Bye Christmas people and thanks for the break. See you next time!

* * *

Making beautiful music together

Think symphonic musicians have their noses in the air? Think again. Your humble hostess authored this news bit on the Cleveland Orchestra that proves the most refined among us are, well, just like us. The article is centered around a media event last Sunday that featured a concert, a meet-the-musicians Q&A, and information on their upcoming schedule.

The Orchestra folks gave us fancy snacks and vino! That's my buddy Mike Gill lurking behind the goods.



Dig the eerie underground backstage area of Blossom Music Center ...



... and some blossoms at Blossom before the show:

Violinist Leila Josefowicz joined the group during intermission. She was radiant even though she had just played an incredible John Adams concerto for 30 minutes straight. The evening air was warm humid (for reference, your humble hostess wasn't doing anything and was sweating like an oink).

Not only was she dealing with the heat, Josefowicz was the featured performer so she was right up front with the conductor. She played the intense and complex piece from memory in a beautiful long dress and HIGH HEELS.

Are you kidding me?

Insider note: There were tiny bruises on Josefowicz's neck from where she so brilliantly punished her violin.

People, that is what you call hard-core. HELL YEAH!

*  *  *

On Murdoch

Journalist Carl Bernstein at about the 31 minute mark of the 7/13/11 edition of Warren Olney's To the Point:

The enormity of what has happened here is what we really want to look at--and that is that a culture established--encouraged--by the most powerful media baron of the last 75 years in the English speaking world has now been shown to have gangrenous apparat that's basic to the body and that has infected the whole institution--to some extent--because it heads toward the top.

Yep.

* * *

It is produced by the modial interaction of magnetoreluctance and capacitive directance

Yes, it's been around along time, but the Turboencabulator still cracks me up. I remember these guys. I remember the ties and pocket protectors and all of it.

People, I'm talking bellowing laughter and tears squeezing from my eyes every time I watch this.

* * *

"It was not meant to be racist or anything."

The holier-than-thou righties are big on pledges. They've got purity pledges and "cut, cap and balance" pledges and tax pledges and and who can keep up with it?

But this one takes the cake. The "Family Leader" offered up an anti-gay, anti-porn, you'd better be faithful pledge that Rick Santorum has agreed to sign and Michele Bachmann bellied up to sign without so much as a blink.

Whether or not they read the opening preamble is anyone's guess, but here, you read it for them:

Slavery had a disastrous impact on African-American families, yet sadly a child born into slavery in 1860 was more likely to be raised by his mother and father in a two-parent household than was an African-American baby born after the election of the USA's first African-American President.

What's even more stunning than that darling excerpt is that Family Leader brass couldn't understand why in the heck anyone would take issue with it. Politico offers up this quote from Julie Summa, director of marketing and public outreach for the Family Leader:

"We came up with the pledge and so we had no idea that people would misconstrue that," she said. "It was not meant to be racist or anything. it was just a fact that back in the days of slavery there was usually a husband and a wife...we were not saying at all that things are better for African-American children in slavery days than today."

The group has since removed the language from the "Marriage Vow" pledge.

Well gee, that sure fixes everything!

* * *

I want my MTV?

Bad song, ugly guys, cute chick in overalls:



This was a #1 hit in the UK in 1982. Pass the dutchie, indeed.



What the hell are words for? Surely not this, but Dale Bozzio's legs are unworldly by any standard.



Whatever you do, behold Winter Steele of Liquid Television fame:



Martha Quinn is 52. Nina Blackwood is 68.

Yeah, yeah.

* * *

The Galloping Gourmet

Erin O'Brien has botched a deadline and is currently scrambling like mad to catch up. She invites you to watch a bit of Graham Kerr, whom she always found to be hilarious and entertaining.



Here's another with Kerr and Johnny Carson you really don't want to miss (Erin O'Brien says so). Embedding is disabled, hence the link.

Erin O'Brien is turning into an oldster who says things like TV ain't what it used to be and That silly Rachel Ray chick is a candy ass.

Erin O'Brien is back to work now.

* * *

We're not in Ohio anymore

Behold a dyed-in-the-wool god-fearing Republican during his DUI arrest.



Robert Mecklenborg is an Ohio State Representative.

He managed to keep this little gem under wraps for NINE weeks. His companion was a "young woman." Funny thing is I haven't seen this covered except in local news. Jeez, wasn't Weiner's scandal headline news across the "liberal" media for days?

Mecklenborg was jacked on booze, Viagra and some other drug. Read more about the arrest from his home territory here.

In the vid, you'll see how Mecklenborg seems more worried about what's going to happen to his car than the woman inside of it. Odd, seeing as Mecklenborg just gave an impassioned anti-abortion speech before the state legislature. Looks like that might bite him in the ass. Anyone who thinks this clown cares one toot about unborn children or their mothers is utterly delusional.

Although Mecklenborg can't wait to get his hands on my womb, he doesn't want anyone asking him questions about the woman and what he was doing in Indiana driving a car with Kentucky plates.

"I understand the interest in the DUI part, I guess, but the rest is a personal matter," Mecklenborg said.

He's also very interested in who does and does not get to vote.

Sex scandals usually leave me cold. I agree that a politician is entitled to privacy, but I'm having a hard time keeping my nonjudgemental fence up with this charmer. He is one scumbag full of hypocrisy.

The righties wanted to skewer Weiner for a twitter post and they succeeded. They tried to make it a referendum on the entire left contingent. Even though Weiner's sex scandal was virtually sexless, they were outraged over Nancy Pelosi's slow move to judgement.

Well then, let's dig what Mecklenborg's rightie friends are saying:

Alex Triantafilou, chairman of the Hamilton County Republican Party, said Thursday that party leaders are "assessing" the matter.

"It's a tough situation," Triantafilou said. "Our thoughts and prayers are with Bob and his family."

Uh-huh.

* * *

Notes from Unique Thrift

Unique Thrift is the most kick ass second hand store in the world. I go to the downtown location on Lorain Avenue near Fulton on Cleveland's near west side.

They do one hell of a business--particularly on half-price day, with people loading up carts with second-hand clothes and toys and books. Unique Thrift has unusual gift items as well.

I picked up these utterly cool boots for EIGHT BUCKS.

This old Tuco puzzle set me back TWENTY FIVE CENTS. Never mind that it's missing about 20 pieces, the resident bepuzzler is doing it anyway. Who can resist those chunky "triple-thick" pieces?

The Goat explored Unique Thrift's Sporting Goods department.

He also enjoys perusing the store's snazzy discount fashion items.

For those interested in slightly experienced underwear, Unique is the place to find it. If that ain't looming fruit, baby, I don't know what is.

Unique Thrift has a particular odor. It is not necessarily a bad odor. It is the odor one would expect in a cavernous room filled with used stuff. It smells like a giant closet.

That revelation should not be surprising, but here's the rub: your humble hostess is sensitive to airborne particulates. If I encounter a lot of dust or spend several hours in a closed space with a few smokers, I'll have something akin to a hay-fever attack, complete with sneezing, wheezing and nose-running. A barn full of animals can cause the same trouble.

If I spend more than five or ten minutes in Unique Thrift on a busy day when Unique Thrifters are rifling through the all the merchandise, there are enough airborne particulates to instigate such a fit, which will subside almost immediately upon my exit. As evidenced by this post, this minor health inconvenience does not deter my patronage in any way.

Now all you candy asses know who you're dealing with.

* * *