End of the year diversions

A few faves that never ever fail to entertain me. Do feel free to add your suggestions in the comment section.













Happy happy happy, dearest readership.

Love, Erin

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From old school to cutting edge

There on the left stands CLE metalsmith and artist Stephen Yusko. Contrary to popular belief, that mean-looking chunk of steel in front of him is not primarily used by cartoon coyotes in ill-begotten attempts to halt Roadrunners. Yusko is one of those rare artisans who still forges yellow-hot steel into brilliant sculptures with that anvil and a hammer. Yusko, along with Garrett Weider and Dana Depew were the focus of this feature I wrote for the latest CAN Journal.

All three of these gents are at once old school and cutting edge. What a kick it was to meet them and hang out in their studios.

A workbench in Yusko's studio. Dig some of that metal work.

One of Yusko's ideas coming to fruition.

Yusko told me that pieces of iron such as this are used as currency 
in some parts of the world.

Dana Depew in front of a heap of raw material in his studio.

A humble ego courtesy of Depew.

Two Depew characters holding court above a discarded Bob Evans "B."

Garrett Weider and a whole bunch of Cleveland.

In Weider's world, words are images and images are words.

Dead soldiers overseeing the action in Weider's studio.

Extreme CLE love? HELL YEAH.

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Not candy-ass

Behold a dish of leftover ground beef, one of spaghetti sauce and some leftover mac' and cheese.

If someone were to mix them all together and eat the resulting concoction, that would be the most non-candy ass thing of all time.

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Randall Tiedman: January 31, 1949–November 4, 2012

My interview with local artist Randall Tiedman in mid-October was one of those rare yet subtle events in a writer's career. Tiedman was a Vietnam Vet, a boxer, and an unapologetic liberal with no formal art training. He thrummed with an authenticity that was pure Cleveland. As for his work, it simply took my breath away.

Meeting this vibrant, funny and gentle man was a profound honor. The world lost him less than two weeks later. 

Here are a few snaps I took that day of Tiedman's Collinwood studio, and a memorial I wrote for CAN Journal.

Ciao, Randall. We will miss your beautiful soul.

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An open letter to Meat Loaf

Dear Meat,

You were first delivered unto me as I sat blinking in wonder before a new mind-blowing entity called MTV. Paradise by the Dashboard Lights was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Your eyes drilled straight through me as those long sweaty strands of hair whipped around your head, a living weapon. You were the antithesis of a teen dreamboat—a fat guy in a ruffled shirt, yet I swooned at something I was too young and naïve to recognize: your unabashed eroticism.

And that chick! Karla DeVito stood like a virgin flame in her white cat suit. Who cared if she was lip synching Ellen Foley's singing? With lips rouged and blue eye shadow gleaming, she was a live-action Betty Boop. But instead of coy giggles and batting eyelashes, DeVito had all the power. It was concentrated at the tip of the inverted V formed by her not-so-subtly parted legs.

When you two started making out, it was miles away from the antiseptic kissing manufactured by Hollywood. Why, you were practically dry zocking on the stage! My breath shortened as epiphany bloomed with sweet orgiastic glee: This was the kind of sex they didn't want me to know about. It had a taste and smell. This sex was alive. It was raw and honest and real.

You owned me, Meat.

The next thirty years unwound as fast as the turning cogs in my portable cassette player. I traded in my shoulder pads and fishnets for the punk look. Then life dissolved from college to a corporate career. The mortgage and husband and baby soon followed.

But you never changed, always with the motorcycles and ruffled shirts and the sublime promise that the rock & roll of my youth was really opera. Bat out of Hell II, Bat out of Hell III. I gave you one pass after another. When you espoused, I'd Do Anything for Love (But I won't Do That), I was baffled. Huh? I wondered, not do what? What did it mean? You'd invite me to your bed and then promise to never break wind therein?

Aw baby, I didn't care. I'd do anything for love too, so I just swallowed it whole. After all, you were Meat Loaf and when you set me atop that silver black phantom bike all those years ago, it earned you hella good will.

Then you told me that Objects in the Rearview Mirror May AppearCloser than They Are.

Some things just have to be gotten through, so it was with your unfortunate mumbling of that incredibly awkward title phrase. But like we vowed before those dashboard lights so long ago, I would love you forever, Meat. I was ready to suffer anything. Well, almost anything.

October 25, 2012, Defiance, Ohio.

"Meat Loaf endorses Romney," proclaimed the headlines. You talked about the Cold War and it felt like a cold shower despite my advanced fortysomething age. And when you said, "I want you to know, at 65, that Paul Ryan has not pushed me off the cliff in a wheelchair," you couldn't have been more wrong. You were finally speeding into a real abyss and this bat wouldn't be coming out of Hell ever again. And then there was this:

Frankly Meat (or should I call you Marvin?), Romney looked as though he'd just been presented with a plate of eyeballs floating in a mold of lime jello.

Yeah, yeah.

Now it's November 56th and Romney's still losing the election (just ask his eldest son). I hate to break this to you, Marv, but no one cares about your opinion on the matter. Paradise is lost, baby. Your sweat has dried into a crust of salt. All those ruffled shirts have long since gone yellow. In ten years or so when Mitt Romney is reduced to a Trivial Pursuit answer card, I'm afraid you'll be just another old fat white guy alone between your waxy sheets wondering why you ever vowed, but I won't do that or two out of three ain't bad.

Whatever the case, Marv, you took the words right out of my mouth.

Love,

Erin

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Jesus was way cool

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Phone cam round-up: alt Yuletide edition with inflatable lawn ornaments

Hey CanMan, is that a Santa hat you're wearing or just your regular hat?

Xmas on the Las Vegas strip.

If I were an inflatable lawn ornament mom, I would not let my inflatable lawn ornament kid play with this inflatable lawn ornament kid.

Swirlie ornaments from Tazza Glass.

Frosty the snowman exhibiting alternative behavior.

Yo, Santa! Hold tight onto that one in front. He sure looks wild!

All inflatable lawn ornaments support strict gun control.

My perfect glass stocking courtesy of Yabu & Co. **YAY**

Giant holiday finery inside Steve Wynn's place and I love it.

Disturbing distressed cucumber photo included solely for color diversion.

Now say Merry Christmas, ya' big dumb smiling bastard.

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And now for a little gift

Whether you do it now or after Cindy Loo Who has eaten all her Who Pudding and gone to bed, find some way to carve 25 minutes out of the holiday whirlwind and watch this:



I love how Sunny Williams floats around the International Space Station--one of our most advanced accomplishments as a people--describing things such as the mechanics of going "number one" and "number two" in space. I love the way the Station is as messy as my office. I love the way her hair is standing straight up like crazy halo and the way she giggles. I love the way this tough brilliant astronaut is dressed like a camp counselor who forgot to put on her sneakers. I love the way she makes me feel welcome inside something I never could have imagined: a tiny Soyuz TMA-05M spacecraft.

Most of all, I love the way Sunny delivers that most elusive of gifts at a time we need it the most: a healthy dose of belief in humanity.

Merry, merry.

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~~with special thanks to Clair and her Gram~~

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A Cleveland Carol

Three short acts featuring the Ghost of Cleveland Present

Hey man, you ever see a Toynbee tile? Come on, take a hold of my sleeve and we'll fly. Don't worry, you can do it. It's easy. Just grab a hold.

See? It's not so bad, like gliding in a dream. Okay, here we are--West 3rd and Prospect. Time to land.

There are Toynbee tiles all over creation, but no one knows what they mean. You're talking your real-life mystery here. No one knows who put them there or quite how they did it. You want to believe that vapors might seep out of the Toynbee tile that you could sniff up like the Oracle of Delphi and have visions. And if you don't get any vapors and visions, maybe the thing will emit mysterious rays that'll fly you up to space where you'll learn important space alien secrets.

Well, maybe not.

But hey--it's still a Toynbee tile and it's right next to the Ritz Carlton, where you have your Ritz doorman with his long stiff coat and furry hat. Although he looks sort of like one of the guards patrolling in front of the Wicked Witch's castle (sans evil spear), he's totally cool. Instead of being all I'm-the-Ritz-Doorman-who-the-hell-are-you, he's utterly righteous and even asks people diggin' on the Toynbee tile (like us) what they think the crazy thing is all about.

Who needs vapors and space rays? You're talking to the Ritz Carlton's front man. You're seeing that Toynbee tile.

You are so down.

Hey man, you hungry? Come on. Let me take you over to the Slavic Village Deli.

Brother, you see those empty lots down there like missing teeth lining the streets? Every one of 'em used to have a house that's since been torn down on account of that being a better option than leaving it vacant. But sometimes this town's heart beats strongest where the fabric is worn thinnest, and while this neighborhood may be torn and frayed, the heartbeat at the Slavic Village Deli will not be denied.

Now up front you've got your deli. You're talking your homemade Polish sausages and bakery--old school from the bottom up. And the pretty girl with the Polish accent and the apron hanging around her hips in a way that makes boys swoon will wrap up all your stuff in white paper so perfectly, you'll practically weep. Now follow me. The dining room is in back.

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

Now, I'm not trying to freak you out or anything, but sometimes when you eat a slice of the poppy seed pound cake, your eyes will get all goo-goo and your heart will grow three sizes too big like that green ol' Doc Seuss dude. No, no--don't worry. It doesn't hurt a bit.

Hey man, you ever see a blimp house? Come on. Grab the sleeve--you know the drill by now. Let me take you over to the blimp house.

Wow. would you dig that.

I know. You're wondering about the blimp activities going on inside the blimp house. Of course the blimps may be out blimping, but even so, you want to yell: Hey man! What's going on inside that blimp house?

Don't worry. It's perfectly normal to become excited while visiting the blimp house. It happens to most everyone.

Wouldn't it be great if the blimp house magically opened up and released a whole bunch of blimps like so many giant balloons? They'd all come floating out of that blimp house and go up up up in the air and blimp around the sky.

And if none of that cool stuff happens, you can still be happy that you are visiting the blimp house. You can smile. You can wink. You can inhale. You can exhale.

You can dance madly backwards until the world disappears.

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Slumgullion for Al

This excerpt from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts (which, incidentally, is brilliant and makes [ahem] a perfect gift) is dedicated to Al the Retired Army Guy, who sometimes needs to remember things old school.

#  #  #

The slumgullion experience of my youth always started off with a pound of raw hamburger on the kitchen counter. My father would pluck a chunk from it as my mother admonished him. 

"But that's for the slumgullion!" she'd say.

Undeterred, Dad would sprinkle the meat with salt and pop it into his mouth en route to his downstairs machine shop.

Then Mom would slumgullify the wormy red mass by browning it, draining off the fat and adding terrifying ingredients. In went Monday's spaghetti, the oily onion and green pepper dregs from Tuesday's pepper steak, and the remainder of Wednesday's succotash (which included both lima beans and--god help us--hominy). Throughout the process, my brother and I exchanged looks of unified dread that culminated in silent mastication at the dinner table.

Slumgullion.

The name alone is hard to swallow. It's like a slug in a guillotine in a slum. It's an awful word the way crotch is an awful word. Who says, "Oh baby, I want to dive into your crotch"? No one says that. It's gross. "So baby, howzaboutsome slumgullion?" isn't much better.

Completely unreliable online historians trace slumgullion back to a) the watery refuse resulting from whale blubber processing, b) a dish made from slaughterhouse cast-offs in the slums of England in the late 1800s, or c) a thin stew California miners made from leftovers during the Gold Rush. Who cares which checkered past is accurate? Any one of them beats that candy-ass three-fingered Hamburger Helper glove.

Every slumgullion recipe is different. People add cheese, tomato sauce, bacon, frozen peas, macaroni--name your poison. I've heard of people using (help) canned corned beef. Others use condensed soup to tie it all together. (Admittedly, I practically deify a can of Campbell's cream of mushroom. If you can't turn one of those into dinner in 20 minutes, you're no housewife in my book. But if you transform a can of Campbell's cream of whatever into a platter of Company Chicken Supreme in a wink, you're in).

So what would Eringullion look like? Surely I could do better than that Betty Crocker broad and her boxed Cheeseburger Macaroni. Recreating mom's recipe was no fun. I needed to update and modernize the slumgullion concept while keeping it firmly entrenched in its ground-beef-and-ingredients-on-hand birthright. Even if I didn't have any leftovers, the slumgullion should feel leftovery: refrigerator round-up in a pan.

I chose onion, green pepper, a can of creamed corn, one of RoTel's original tomato concoctions, three old potatoes, (each with a host of gnarly eyes), some Worchester sauce, and a mysterious seasoning called "Rich Brown" that costs 50 cents for a box of eight packets at the discount grocery. This darling concoction of MSG, maltodextrin, onion powder, caramel color, spices, disodium guanylate and disodium inosinate was, according to the package, "a delicious broth and a seasoning that brings out the best in food flavors." I am all over that, I thought.

Unlike the Hamburger Helper experience, as soon as I started making the slumgullion, familiarity washed over me. You're home, assured a soft voice inside my head as I doused the diced onion with Mazola. Why, this was innate. Even the creamed corn that I had included as a mandatory "yuck" ingredient formed a beautiful golden pool when I poured it atop the beef. The slumgullion terrors of my childhood were all but gone, a harmless wisp. By the time I added the canned tomatoes and chiles, I was grinning from ear to ear and singing "Slum-gull-yon. Slum-slum-slum-gull-yon" to the tune of "Girl from Ipanema." I sprinkled a packet of Rich Brown over it all and sighed contentedly.

Ten minutes before dinner, I moved through the house like an old-fashioned hotel page. "Slumgullion minus ten," I lilted. "That's slumgullion minus ten."

If I thought the Hamburger Helper instilled fear in my kid, the slumgullion was sheer terror on a plate. She stared at it wordlessly.

I transformed into my mother. "Eat your slumgullion," I said. She wrinkled her nose and took a bite, swallowing over a gag.

"Oh, come on," I said, "it's delicious!"

"Not bad," said my dearly beloved before taking a sip of Matthew Fox cabernet ($3.29/bottle at the discount grocery). "It's nothing special, but it's not bad."

I let his shocking assessment settle for a moment while blinking at him in disbelief.

"Nothing special?" I said indignantly as I rose to get another helping. "What do you mean 'nothing special'?" I turned from the stove to see my daughter quickly set down her plate, from which she'd dumped three-quarters of her slumgullion onto my husband's dish. "It beats the hell of that miserable Hamburger Helper!" I said.

Silence.

"Well?" I said, "doesn't it?" My eyes shifted between my husband and daughter. "Beat the Hamburger Helper?"

My kid cowered before my arched eyebrows. "Um ... " she peeped. I glared in disapproval then turned to my splendid king with pursed lips.

"The leftover Hamburger Helper was better the next day," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Maybe the slumgullion will be better tomorrow."

I let "better tomorrow" float in the air for a handful of beats as my chest pumped short angry breaths and I glowered at him.

"Well. You. Miserable. Goat." I finally said, pronouncing each word in a low deliberate voice. Then I stood.

"Honey?" said the Goat. "I didn't mean anything." He paused, waiting. "Honey?"

"Nevermind," I said in a high thin voice, then sniffed and retrieved my shoes from the steps.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Nothing."

"Mom?"

"Forget it." I tied my shoes with force and stood, set my jaw and squared my shoulders. As my family asked after me, I stepped out the front door and began walking the earth, never more alone.

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Shopping guides

Still not much of a stomach for a-rollickin' blog, but I do want to share a couple of northeast Ohio shopping guides with the loyal readership before the fat guy in the red suit gives way to the glittering crowds on Times Square.

First off, here is a solid round-up of options I put together for Fresh Water. It's loaded with handy links that are great for the online shopper. I also compiled a list of Ohio City neighborhood shops for Ohio City Argus, which is not available online, but here are a few ticklers along with some commentary.

Good luck to the last-minute shoppers. Guess I'll end this post on the easy side with a few pix and links.

 Keep those babies oh-so close and the vitriol far, far away.

Gift shop at the Cleveland Museum of Art

Offerings courtesy of Glass Bubble Project artisans

Joy Machines Bike Shop

Room Service Boutique

La Borincana Foods

Fridrich Bicycle, Inc.

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Newtown, Connecticut

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Phone cam round-up, Las Vegas edition: strippity-doo-da

Yeah, yeah. I was there for 24 whole hours and didn't sin once. Unless a couple of vodkas count.

Bubbles on the strip

Not sure how I felt about these girls. I mean, how does Gia, who is on special for $45, feel about Bella, who's going for $150? Does Bella ever have a "special" price? How come none of these "classy and discreet" ladies are ever named Joanne or Sally?

... and I wonder how many times Carmen & Marissa ($99 two-girl special) have visited this darling establishment. Hooters indeed.

Many go in. No one comes out.

Lil' black dresses with a bunch of nails on the boob part.

So my ship finally comes in and it's on top of some restaurant inside a Las Vegas shopping mall. Go figure.

Mop head in the mirror.

Bumpy soap and I love it.

Freakazoid chandelier in the lobby of my hotel.

Just the Strip being strippish.

Dining with the fabulous Suzanne Ouellette Mastrion at Mario's place.

Is it a humble bow or a wondrous glance skyward. Guess it's both.

Inside Steve Wynn's dazzling hotel.

Outside Steve Wynn's dazzling hotel.

The Miracle Mile was awful lonesome at 6 a.m. Sunday morning.

A cloud of butterflies bid me au revoir at McCarran Airport.

Bye Las Vegas!

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