Nothing compares 2 who?

Sinéad O'Connor's emotional performance in this video for her 1990 chart-topping hit "Nothing Compares 2 U" won the hearts of many, but not mine. Something about the long long duster coat, short short hair, and that angry/wounded thing just got under my skin. I never liked You Oughtta Know by Alanis Morissette either, with that big brave "would she go down on you in a theater" line.

Angry heartbroken singing chicks make my bullshit meter quiver. (Quiver? O'Connor's painful five second to yooooooooooooou wail at the 1:18 mark above practically pins the needle.)

O'Connor's histrionic effort may have been 21 years ago, but hey, what compares to the following admission regarding her 16-day marriage?

O'Connor owns up in the interview that she went on a frantic hunt for cannabis on their wedding night.

"We ended up in a cab in some place that was quite dangerous," O'Connor is quoted as telling the Sun. "I wasn't scared – but he's a drugs counselor. What was I thinking?"

She adds: "Then I was handed a load of crack. Barry was very frightened – that kind of messed everything up a bit, really." --source

I am vindicated.

* * *

The cable library

I'm starting a cable library.

You need a cable? No more shelling out 30 bucks at Radio Shit Shack for a cable you're only going to use one effing time. You come on over to the cable library.

Hey man, you got a male to male nine to six pin firewire?

Hell yeah. How long you need it for?

Aw christ, one day? Two on the outside?

Here. Take it for a week.

Thanks man!

Then the guy takes the cable, uses it for his data transfer and brings it back. How beautiful is that?

No more buying a new cable, taking it home, taking it out of the package real careful-like, using it, putting it back in the package real careful-like (so it looks like you never took it out), trying to return it, and getting busted by the snotty Radio Shit Shack clerk (not that I would know anything about that). We're talking a one hundred percent honor system cable library.

You go in your old cable drawer? You bring all those cables to the cable library and donate them? We'll totally give you a beer. Everyone at the cable library will be totally cool.

You know the crap they have on the walls at the regular library? Some happy "Think Spring!" billboard with pink and yellow construction paper flowers?

Not at the cable library.

We'll have stuff like a 2004 fishing calendar and  pictures of people no one knows standing next to their cars. Maybe a special section where we can staple "paid return" slips from cable library users who actually got the Radio Shit Shack clerk to take their cable back. The cable library won't have your regular library smell either. It'll smell like a machine shop and have used mismatched display cases that are never locked and have tons of cables in them.

This is sort of pie-in-the-sky, but maybe there'll even be a picture of the ol' O'Brien with a scroll-type banner at the bottom: Our Founder.

Obviously, there's room for plenty of expansion here. I'm thinking outdated disk drives, power adapters, camera memory cards, chargers--anything you need to get something old to talk again.

You with me? You're either with me or you're not with me.

So, you with me?

*  *  *

Sneak peek

As my regular readers may have gathered, my forthcoming book, The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts, is running a little late. In the meantime, I thought I'd share the cover (click to enlarge) and a bit of promo information.

Now back to the enthralling task of software upgrading ....

* * *

In the meadow we can build a snowman

In lieu of a white Christmas, the following is a snowy day-late message from the Secret Santa Love Bunnies of Joe, James Old Guy, and Bill the Commenter, respectively.



Thanks to a twinkling star for bringing the girls on over.

* * *

One size fits all

While researching this article, I encountered Aldo's, a tiny Italian restaurant in Brooklyn (Ohio, that is). Spurred by a long history of rave reviews, the Goat, Lil' OB and I had dinner there.

Placing a forkful of Aldo's lasagna deluged in their homemade marinara upon my tongue was a life-changing experience.

There were the sauces that came before this moment and there is this sauce. Let there be light.

Thus began my intrepid search for an authentic marinara recipe. I have not replicated Aldo's yet, although I've not yet tried in earnest. But I did find this with the embedded recipe, "Tomato Sauce with Onion and Butter."

Hmmm ... adjectives? Try intense and lush and simple and sublime. The beauty of this recipe is that anyone can make it. To that end, spreading it around the world is like slipping diamond rings on the fingers of every peasant girl and silken robes around her work-weary beau's shoulders. When you twirl your angel hair in a puddle of this sauce and place it ever so reverently in your mouth, you will inflate with breath and turn your eyes skyward.

Why can't everything in life be like this?

Behold:

You will need:

-Two cups whole, peeled, canned plum tomatoes, chopped, with their juices (about one 28-oz. can, preferably Italian and without citric acid)

-Five tablespoons unsalted butter

-One medium yellow onion, peeled and cut in half

-Salt to taste

Combine the first three ingredients in a medium saucepan. Add a shake or two of salt. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. Adjusting heat as necessary, cook uncovered for about 45 minutes at a very slow steady simmer until droplets of fat float free from the tomato. Stir occasionally, mashing any large pieces of tomato with the back of a wooden spoon. Taste and salt as needed.

That's it.

The recipe says to discard the onion. But therein is another bit of magic. Of course you don't discard the onion! You pluck it from the pot, cursing as you burn your fingers and, as it drips with this rich tomatoey buttery sauce, you eat that onion right out of hand over the sink. Who says there's no such thing as heaven on earth?

So there's your xmas gift, admittedly regifted from Molly Wizenberg who regifted it from Marcella Hazan, but I have a feeling the spirit of an old Italian cook, full up with love, is smiling somewhere out there in the ether and thinking, that's exactly right, girls, keep passing it along.

Merry merry and happy happy.

Love,

Erin

* * *

Phone cam round up: dubious holiday roll call

Stumbled upon these militant little bastards in my travels. Those things underneath them are their giant silver turds. Got Rudolph?

Yes, I shopped at the mall. Yes, I ate lunch in the food court. No, I don't like to admit it. But red taco shells? As if taking a "break" from holiday mall shopping by eating at Taco Bell isn't enough punishment. I'm telling you people, everything comes back to you.

These guys are trying. I give them points for trying.

One wonders, one does, if this unfortunate discovery ...

... is related to this one.

Now then, if that guy isn't Christmas-alternative enough for you, stop by SantaCon 2011. You won't regret it.

Off for more ho-ho-ho-ing.

* * *

Seven roses for 60 minutes

Hey 60 Minutes, saw the segment you did last week on Cleveland's foreclosure troubles. You probably took a ride through Slavic Village, one of our oldest and most foreclosed neighborhoods.

Iffin' you and the crew pass through again, you boys take a break from filming torn and frayed houses and go on into Seven Roses Deli. It's smack in the middle of ForeclosureLand--right on the corner of Fleet and E. 63rd.

Up front you got your deli.

You're talking your homemade Polish sausages and bakery--old school from the bottom up.

You might run into someone you know. I did.

The walls are lined with imported European stuff. You won't know what any of it is, but you'll want to buy some anyway (go ahead).

The big secret--one of Cleveland's biggest in fact--is in the dining room in back.

Slow-cooked kielbasi and sauerkraut? Check. Cabbage and noodles? We've got that. Homemade mashed potato and stuffed cabbage? No problem.

Does your Leslie Stahl ever whip up a batch of old world potato pancakes for the crew? I didn't think so. You come to Seven Roses? You get some potato pancakes? You will be so down. And all of it is every bit as good as it's cracked up to be. No surprise there, you can hear the kitchen crew yammering in Polish every time the door swings open.

After all that you can call it a wrap with a few butter cookies and a square of poppy seed pound cake. HELL YEAH.

The bathroom's cool, but watch out for dubious characters.

Look at this banquet room! Plenty of room for Morley Safer to belly up with Steve Kroft. What the hell--bring Anderson Cooper and that Byron Pitts guy as well.

I don't think the fancy plates are for sale ...

... but you could pick up some candy for Lara Logan.

No, Mike Wallace, none of the presents are marked for you.

So that's the skinny on Seven Roses, 60 Minutes. This town might have it's problems, but our heart's still beating, even where the fabric's worn thinnest.

Sometimes I think that's where it beats truest.

* * *

The girl with the sweet plump knees--or--cannibal delicatessen serves human babies to customers

Selections from my favorite newfound site.

* * *

The fruition of fear

The Cleveland Museum of Art holds one of the last monumental casts of Rodin's The Thinker that was produced under the artist's personal supervision. In 1970, the work was substantially damaged by a pipe bomb. The perpetrators were never caught, although the Weathermen were widely suspected. By today's standards, the act would have been called terrorism.

The museum stayed open. No metal detectors were installed. And instead of coddling The Thinker after his attack, instead of sequestering him indoors behind a thick glass panel, instead of succumbing to fear, museum officials decided to put him back in his rightful spot among the people.

That's what America used to look like.



Since 911, we've collectively caved to Osama bin Laden and the terror he and his associates cast upon us. The latest and perhaps most egregious affront is part of the 2012 National Defense Authorization Act, which includes the much derided indefinite detention provisions.

For those who believe that these provisions are limited to swarthy complected men with foreign sounding names, take a trip to the airport. Everyone takes off their shoes. Everyone gets ogled. Everyone will be subject to getting secretly thrown into a hole forever for no official reason. The new twist is that this nightmare won't be unfolding in Istanbul, but Poughkeepsie.

"But it's keeping us safe," says the doe-eyed blinking suburbanite from the warm interior of her Escalade.

Dick Cheney was the evil king of the fear mongers. He got Bush and the rest of Washington on board easily enough with the Patriot Act. Now Obama's subscribed and led us beyond the point of no return. Goodbye privacy, goodbye due process, goodbye innocent until proven guilty. I'm talking to you, John Doe. Don't like my rant? Let Dan Carlin tell you all about it.

To everyone who decries the construction of a mosque or derides fellow Americans based on their religion, behold the fruition of your bigotry: the inevitable and already-in-progress destruction of the United States Constitution.

Oh to be like my brave brave Thinker, so fearless and pure and victorious.

*  *  *

Two new alternatives for the GOP's presidential hopeful

Early Christmas present to myself that should have been made in America

So it's Black Friday and I have absolutely no intention of going anywhere that sells Too Much Crap and I'm curled on the couch with my laptop poking around Al Gore's Interwebs when an email from World Market appears in my inbox. The eclectic retailer is offering me their fabulous Chocolate Faux Fur Throw for the unbelievably low price of $29.99--half off the original price of $59.99--for one day only. I looked down at the ratty throw swaddled around my miserable self.

Click. Click. Click.

I never want to set this blankie down. I alternately want to clutch it next to my cheek whilst dragging it around the house like a four year old, then remove all of my clothing and burrow beneath it with my splendid king (or just by myself) and engage in carnal activity. (Yes, I realize that is a disturbing juxtaposition, but it allowed me to use the word juxtaposition and I don't give up a windfall like that easily.)

Every. Woman. In. America. wants one of these throws.

Hence, you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered the throw was "Made in China." Why oh why is it so? After all, every American woman wants one. Don't believe me? See above--IT SAYS SO RIGHT THERE. Every American woman should have one. And yes, I see you out there trying, but you're going to have to do better than 400 clams (although you get points for the oversizing). We're talking EVERY American woman.

I suspect this post may inspire some purchases and don't get me wrong, I do not begrudge World Market or their Chinese manufacturer their due sales. After all, this is a terrific product at a terrific price (worth every nickel of the full $60 retail price). But before any of you boppers out there go click click click, know that the fur is on just one side of the throw. The other side is a plush brown fabric, which is also cuddly, but not as yummy as the fur side. To my would-be American manufacturer however: please do oversize and make both sides fur. Yes, I'll pay a little more.

Aha! I see you're getting closer and closer ... 

* * *

Face it

"Even if I am being conservative, I don’t see how Obama can lose." --Allan Lichtman

* * *

Graphic "amalgamation" by dunun via a good citizen.

* * *

Ho ho ho

Off to dive into the holiday hustle and bustle ...

... and marvel over the tactics with which the intrepid marketing teams shall tempt me.

I mean COME ON, who doesn't want a Wine Yoke to facilitate hanging one's glass of Vouvray around one's neck for the Ultimate HANDS FREE Wine Experience? (Dig that capitalization!) One never knows when one will want to engage in a spontaneous game of curling or masturbation session when alas, an end table is no where in sight.

This is clearly a sign of some sort.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. When do we break for lunch?

* * *

Guilty pleasures vol. six: Steven Tyler

Come here Stevie baby and let me whisper in your ear.

I love your feathers and your big ol' stretchy mouth. I love that you wear fingernail polish and make up and sparkly clothes and tons of jewelry and still come off as being totally hetero. I love that you're 150 years old.

Kings and queens and guillotines.

Do I remember? Hell yes I remember. After all, I'm 100 years old.

I swear I cannot take my eyes from you whenever you tumble so gloriously through the electronic ether and into my living room via a magical LCD.

I love the way you call all those losers sweetheart on "American Idol." And those ensembles you wear? I should wear ensembles like that.

Sometimes I like to imagine you getting your hair done. Extensions and balayages and weaves. A clip-clip here and a clip-clip there. I like to imagine the way you regard your reflection with a studied critical eye as the obsequious stylist fusses away.

Goddamn how I dig you.

I don't think I ever loved you more, though, than when the fam and I were moving through the cavernous dusky rose portion of the queue for Disney's Rock 'n Roller Coaster and your screechy voice blasted from unseen speakers as the bovine-like crowd inched along.

Pink, it's my latest obsession.

Oh Stevie! Did you really just say that? You naughty naughty boy!

I love that your real last name is Tallarico. I love that you have a plumpo daughter and a non-plumpo daughter and that they're both famous hotties.

Hey! Wiki says that your dad was part German. So was my Mom! And your birthday is March 26. Mine is on March 31. OH MY GOD. Stevie--you Demon of Screamin' you--we are practically related.

If we, like, really knew each other, would you let me borrow some of your stuff, like, a skull necklace or one of your hats?

I so love you, baby.

*  *  *

Phone cam round-up special edition: the Cleveland Brooklyns

Don't believe in magic? You're a fool. Follow me down a secret path and I'll show you the light.

Start with a jig. A charmed piglet will be your partner as she dances ...

... to the music of dead men.

Tiptoe past enchanted cottages ...

... and meet talking heads.

Behold exotic beasts lurking amid our haunted ruins.

Drink from ruby goblets. Eat from indigo platters.

Dragons? Of course we have dragons ...

... and regal protectors to keep them at bay.

Don't worry. Mysterious machinery will guide us if we lose our way ...

... as we march onward, o'er hill and dale, to the far-off land of Cleves.

*  *  *  

All of today's photos were taken a few miles from downtown Cleveland in an area that was designated "Brooklyn Township" in 1818. Over the past two centuries, the mostly rural township splintered into neighborhoods of Cleveland, a village and a city. I wrote all about Cleveland's Brooklyns for this week's edition of fresh water.

In the article, you'll find Drew Carey and a bevy of alpacas. You'll visit an eatery that puts the famed Rao's of NYC in its place, urban gardens blooming with everything from lavender to garlic, and the final resting place of Cleveland's original beer guys.

As for our dancing piglet, she lives in a place noted by our very own Al the Retired Army Guy and Anthony Bourdain.

I love this town.

Cuyahoga County, OH, 1874. Click to enlarge.

*  *  *

Mysterious machinery, glassware and music photos courtesy of the Brooklyn Historical Society Museum.

* * *