Righteous living

I love Sumo wrestlers cause they are fat guys hugging each other in giant g-strings with fancy hair-do's.

I am a sensitive artist

This is me singing along to King Missile. I don't know why the soundtrack is off. Sorry.

Go here to read about just how sensitive I am or if you've seen my undies (the ones with the zipper).

Wishing upon a star and a flying cave

Here is an essay on writing, Erin-style. And if you are in Cleveland this weekend, don't miss this.

Despite my absence in the comment section, I am here, loving all your notes. They keep me going.

The Big Lebowski Redux

I slide the Big Lebowski VHS cassette into the player, which accepts and draws the tape into itself politely. I take pleasure at this perfect insert-tab-A-into-slot-B policy. I smile.

Earlier in the day, a great commotion took place in the field next to my home. He who owned the field had taken advantage of a lax new Ohio law that allows drilling for oil and gas in residential areas regardless of municipal law. So much for home rule.

Hence, a towering oil derrick stands erect in the otherwise pristine meadow approximately 500 feet from my television and VHS machine, the mechanical heads of which have begun to whir. The drilling operation is replete with wildcatters, klieg lights and stentorian diesel generators.

He who owned the field, ironically, died one week ago and is not present to see his Giant dream come to fruition. No matter. Contracts were in place and the show must indeed go on.

I fast forward through the “Coming Soon” segments and settle into the movie, trying to ignore the atrocious noise associated with the drilling. Surely when the clock strikes 10 p.m., it will stop per a local ordinance. On the little screen, The Dude takes a slug of his white Russian, leaving a creamy white residue around his mouth and mustache. I absentmindedly finger my pearl necklace.

Fortified myself with a bit of cheap Canadian, I call the cops to report the racket at quarter after ten. I am promptly told that nothing can be done by anyone.

Horse shit.

If Bunny Lebowski can charge $1,000 for performing fellatio, something can be effing done! I check my aggression then call Every. Single. Councilperson. As. Well. As. The. Mayor. At. Home. I swear. I implore. I espouse my disbelief, my indignation, my outrage.

Nothing is done.

The generators generate. The drill pounds relentlessly into the earth as I note that, above the Dude’s modest home bar, there hangs a photo of Richard Nixon frozen in the ejaculatory moment just before bowling ball hits bowling lane. I meet and admire Jesus and his tongue and admit to myself that I probably shouldn’t have allowed nine years to transpire before seeing this movie.

What is wrong with me?

The film concludes. I retire. In order to muffle the noise, I sandwich my head between pillows much in the same manner I did when my college roommate entertained gentlemen in the bunk below me some 20 odd years ago. Just as was the case then, the pillows are not much help. Hence, as Mother Earth endures ceaseless penetration throughout the night, I sleep alone and poorly, fractured dreams of Sam Eliot’s extraordinary mustache floating in my head.

Miraculously, at 7:01 a.m., the drilling stops and the beautiful quiet to which I am accustomed blooms. At 7:04 a.m., my husband returns home fresh off the midnight shift. I stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen. He beholds my dark circles and poor coloring while blinking quizzically.

“Life does not stop and start at your convenience,” I say, then turn to the absolution of the coffee pot.

The preceding post is an edrant simulcast*.

*WARNING: Clicking the associated link may result in learning something cool**.

**WARNING: There actually is no warning associated with the preceding warning, I just felt like acting like there was a warning (which there isn't).

Smart Erin/Dumb Erin, vol. 1

Smart Erin sits alone in the movie theater. She is slim and intelligent and wears clothing that Fits Properly. She eats low-sodium, trans-fat free popcorn (called, ironically, Smart Pop) from a conservatively sized red and white striped paper bag.

Dumb Erin flails on the screen. Men with huge erections are chasing Dumb Erin, who stops, teases them, then drinks heartily from a longneck bottle of beer.

Smart Erin sighs and rolls her eyes. She covers her hand with her face, peering at the screen from between her fingers.

Dumb Erin laughs maniacally. She runs, falls. He laughter turns to sobs. The men chasing her grow horns. Their flesh glows and turns red. Their hands and feet transform into claws. Dumb Erin screams and goes to drink from the bottle. But it is no longer a bottle. It's a gun!

Smart Erin groans.

The creatures chasing Dumb Erin no longer bear any resemblance to men. They are full blown devil monsters, fast and furious and mean.

Smart Erin shakes her head, exhales heavily.

Dumb Erin pants furiously. The devils have somehow fused into one enormous beast and he's gaining on her. She looks between them and the gun with confusion. Dumb Erin bites the fingernails of her shaking hand …

Smart Erin can't stand it anymore. She stands. "No! Don't!" she yells at the screen. "Don't throw the gun at the monster!" It's useless of course. Dumb Erin is already winding up her arm.

Dumb Erin throws the gun at the Godzilla-sized devil. It bounces uselessly against his chest. He rages on and descends on the tiny figure of Dumb Erin. Her screams are muted by his mass as he crushes, smashes and devours her.

"Every single time," says the disgusted Smart Erin to no one as "THE END" blazes from the otherwise black screen.



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