Rain Day Woman, vol. 17

In my column this week, I outline the Beer Test. It is important to note that the Goat, father of the Goat and father of Erin all passed the beer test with flying colors--many times in fact.

Incidentally, I've passed a few Beer Tests myself.

Now then, seems my kid's arm is a bit more broke then they thought, so while I'm chasing around hospitals and doctors, I ask all of you bloggers to spill your own Beer Test stories in the comment section.

If you have something to say about my column, please email the Free Times. Be sure to include your full name and city. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Promises, promises, promises

If you read my book, you will be younger, smarter, thinner, better-looking and your teeth will be whiter. You will be more a more successful lover, mother, brother, father, etc.

Your car will run more smoothly.

Your body odor will diminish. Your cakes will rise higher. Your soufflé's will be fluffier and your whites will be whiter. You will leave a sparking path of glitter behind you wherever you go.

Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, who leaves a trail of sparkling glitter?

Oh, I know! Shaina does. And if that isn't enough, there's her profile pic tagline, "I'm not a lesbian, but I'm a big fan," and on top of that, here's what she had to say about my book:

I read possibly the coolest book ever Harvey & Eck by ... Erin O'Brien. She's hilarious. Her book is amazing. It's the story of a woman called Harvey, who, in the depths of despair, decides to write an anonymous letter to a man whose name she picks out of a phone book. Her life, and his, changes drastically due to her letters, and it's fascinating and fun and heartbreaking to watch. I was enthralled, to put it simply.

I know a book is awesome when I start thinking like and wanting to speak like the characters, and after reading only fifty pages (I had to stop and do some real work, but I didn't wanna). I could sense myself thinking and writing like Eck, but at the same time I could effortlessly switch my mind and writing and speaking to be like Harvey's. That's how good these characters are.

Read the whole entry here.

Thanks Shaina! I love you and I daresay the lesbians do to.

A girl named Jag

My father was a man who defined himself in part by his vehicles. MG TD's. a 1949 Willy's jeep. And the Jaguars--the impossible beautiful Jags.

His crowning pride was a 1964 Series 1 XKE. He built her out of a hundred organ donors. In the end, she was reborn as the sort of car that most men pamper with careful Sunday drives and Turtle Wax. They handle such creatures delicately, leaving them immaculate and without evidence of wear. I once walked by such a car (a Porsche) and noted a pristine pair of leather driving gloves displayed in the rear widow well. It made me sad, like a beautiful woman dying with her virginity intact.

Dad drove the XKE and he drove it often. And fast. And well--at least when she was in the mood. Jags are temperamental divas and any man who loves them knows they need a special brand of TLC. They overheat. They break down. They say "no" at the most crucial moment.

There's not many old XKE's out there. In 2002, Dad died and the number men who understand the intricacies of a sexy British aristocat with an unhealthy appetite for speed was diminished by one.

I drove the Jag a couple of times. It is stunning, quite unlike the homogenized and effortless vehicular experience most of us gulp down within the confines of our affable minivans. The driver's seat is a tightly enclosed place. The car itself is shapely and haughty in a distinctly female way. This cat is full of itself and for good reason. To drive it is to negotiate with it. She is a big powerful feline that is difficult to control. She responds in ways you don't expect. She is beautiful and infuriating.

Drive a vintage Jag and you will understand how vehicles garnered the pronoun of "she." Sexist? Goddamn right.

We still have the Jag. Her presence is painful. We don't know how to take care of her. We don't know how to love her.



Top photo: Dad and the Jag. Top photo left: Dad and his three vintage MGs in 1960. Mom is in the middle, Dad is on the right. Middle photo right: Jack Northrup and Dad (right) in the 1949 Willy's jeep before Dad restored and customized it. Bottom photo: Dick (left) and Doug Lamb and the Jag. The finished jeep is behind them. Click on any photo to enlarge.

And "What it was Like:"

Will the last Teddy Babe in the dollhouse turn out the lights, please?

One of the many things I didn't have space to cover in the Guys and Dolls piece was the plush doll phenomenon. Teddy Babes are big stuffed dolls with velour-like skin. I think they're adorable. If I was single and some guy shyly admitted that he sleeps with a big stuffed girl doll to keep him company, I'd think it was cute as hell.

Since I wrote the article and associated blog entry, it came to my attention that the Salon article I reference was actually mangled version of Meghan Laslocky's longer and more even-handed piece that ran in Salt Magazine. I was completely stunned at how Laslocky was edited in Salon. If you're out there Meghan, I'd love to hear from you, so would my readers.

Thanks to Josh Williams for his letter to the editor. To the others that wrote, many thanks. Those letters may still run and I shall link them if they do.

The doll owners had many things to say about the article. And I fielded these comments from "Davecat" (who pointed me to the unedited Laslocky article) as well:

"I had your article pointed out to me by a friend who's a member of the Doll Forum. When he mentioned it, frankly, I expected the worst: the members would see you as yet another invasive opportunist troll, which would result in yet another biased and judgmental article. But thankfully, that wasn't the case. Your piece was rather well-balanced, and it pretty much speaks for itself. Plus, the fact that you've left it open-ended is a refreshing change from the undercurrent of 'so that just goes to show you - doll owners are freaks' that a few of these sorts of pieces have.

I'm an iDollator myself; My RealDoll Sidore Kuroneko and I have been partners for about seven years; all my mates know about her and she's an incredibly important part of my life, with a status that goes far beyond 'sex toy.' I recognize the fact that she is a Doll; however, by virtue of the personality and history that I've given her, she goes from being simply a beautiful work of art, to being a lover and companion that's always there for me. And when you have a fascination with (read: lust for) female androids, combined with a history of either being in horrible relationships or none at all, a RealDoll certainly makes life less miserable. You can't put a price on that, really...

As I'm sure you've learned, iDollators run the gamut - there's a few archetypes, but there's no such thing as a bog-standard doll owner. There are owners that have their doll for purely sexual reasons, and there's owners that are 'married' to their artificial companions. There are owners that don't even give their dolls a name, and there are owners who don't even have sex with their dolls. Naturally that means there's many points in between. A rather varied spectrum, just like humanity in general."

And this came from another reader, "That was interesting this week, but I kind of felt like taking a long shower using a whole bar of soap afterward. Why is it grosser than, say an article on sex abusers? I guess because one of these guys could be my dentist, and someone could blow the whistle on him, and he'd still have his practice. (If I had one of those Stepford Wives, I'd show them who her man was). Stick to the funny stuff, please." He titled the email, "gross with a capital g that rhymes with p that stands for puke."

I'll be taking a break from dolls for a while, but I must admit that I'm thinking of buying a pair of Boobie Balls for "stress relief."



Teddy Babe photo courtesy of AVAV, which offers the following reference link.

Walking the walk

Now that I have a camera phone, I can take pictures of things when I walk the earth for mile after mile after mile. This is a picture of some red licorice candies that were strewn about the sidewalk. They were shaped like little schnauzer dogs. I think it must take a very angry person to throw little red licorice schnauzer dogs all over the place.

This is a pair of purple underwear. I do not have any purple underwear, nor can I remember ever having any. Hence, I'm pretty sure these aren't mine, but I'm not positive.



This is a rubber glove. I run across these on a pretty regular basis. Sometimes it's just the one glove. Sometimes it's one glove, then a few yards down the pike, you find another. I had a box of rubber gloves but I used them all up. I never threw them out all over the road, though.

I've been waiting on this baby.

This is Used Condom Number Three of my whole life. That does not include condoms in which I partook of the use*. It just includes condoms I've passed by while loping around trying to think and figure out the world. Ever since I got my camera phone and this blog, I've been waiting and waiting for Used Condom Number Three. Finally happened. So here you go people, the Darwinian Imperative: stymied. You are not going to believe this, but I really and truly came across this baby the very next day after posting this. And I found it in a whole different part of town. I could have posted it then, but no one would have believed it.

I just thought this was sort of sad.

*I cannot figure out how to say that with grammaricular correctitude, so you just have to deal with it