Erin O'Brien

One year gone ...

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sat, 18 Feb 2017 14:06:00 +0000

Meeting Mark Mothersbaugh

Today marks one year as editor of Fresh Water for me. Man-o-man, what a ride it has been. Despite the intensity of the job, once in a while, I still get to pen a story. To mark the occasion, here is a roundup of some of my favorites.

—Five old school places that still rock the Rust Belt

—CLE's best oddities

—Are we not men?

—How Cleveland survived the RNC

—100 miles of the Towpath, one step at a time

I've missed this blog and all of you who used to frequent it. As always, you can find me amid the castle of Evil Overlord Facebook or follow me on Twitter.

Still yours in letters,

Erin

On the move

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 18 Feb 2016 11:33:00 +0000

Gal about town, photo by Bob Perkoski

Dear readership,

Your humble hostess has been doing a whole lot of what is depicted in today's photo: walking around with a cup of coffee, trying not to be late and be engaged and animated when I get to where I'm going. All of it has been ahead on an announcement that is long in coming: I am now the managing editor of Fresh Water Cleveland.

If I could summarize the last couple of weeks, it was as if a distant sound grew louder and louder. As the source neared, it revealed itself to be a great clamoring throng with limbs thrashing and voices roaring. Then it scooped me up and put me atop its bucking self, where I have been barely hanging on ever since.

So it remains until I gain better control of it all.

As you may have heard, we here in Cleveland are expecting a large number of elephants later this year and it is a thrilling time indeed to be in the writing scene in this town. Obviously, I will likely be even more scarce amid these pages than I have been in the past year. You'll find I'm most active over here and to a lesser extent over here.

Lastly, to those of you who have followed me over the years, I offer my profound thanks. You were all part of making me what I am today.

Yours in letters and all sweet magical things,

Erin

* * *

#Trump

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Wed, 10 Feb 2016 13:00:00 +0000

* * *

Magical Cleveland ...

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 07 Feb 2016 13:04:00 +0000

... is filling me with sighs.

This Kurent didn't scare the Goat and me away.

Part of this

Bocce in the basement of the Slovenian National Home? OLD SCHOOL

Can't say it but can eat it

I should have been a gogo dancer

Smile, Goat

Slivo!

Creature love

Have a seat

Hola, Lake Erie, the view from here is spectacular

Oh, Cleveland, how you do me ...

* * *

Prepare for the hangover, Mr. Trump

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Mon, 25 Jan 2016 15:32:00 +0000

Sleeping with the enemy

On January 21 in the year of our Lord 2012, after having concluded that our mattress had reached the lowest dip in the biorythm of its life, the Goat and I concluded a harrowing shopping excursion with the purchase of the unit pictured above (more here).

This was the first new mattress purchase I ever made. Hence, when the set I wanted clocked in at nearly $1,800, I did not care.

"I do not care," I told the Goat as we lay upon the Trumpster's mattress in our winter coats staring at the ceiling in the predictable showroom.

That the mattress we liked best was under the Trump brand was more or less a joke. Who cared? We liked the unit, which was, after all, a Serta - one of those brands we more or less trust.

Here in the year of our Lord 2016, however, a few things have changed. We are no longer in the market for a new bed, but if we were, I daresay the Trump name would deter the purchase. Four years ago, the Donald was a loud-mouthed boor. Today, he's an egomaniac dangerously stoking the flames of fear and bigotry in order to prolong his perverse intoxication. I offered this observation to the Goat during our constitutional yesterday morning.

"No way I would shell out $1,800 for anything with a Trump label on it now," I said.

"So what?" countered the Goat. "His supporters will."

I begged to differ, saying that the average Trump supporter does not look one hell of a lot like the people who have historically supported the luxe Trump brand. Try a swank $420 per night hotel room or a $600,000 NYC one-bedroom condo.

Who knows? Maybe the rich people won't care if their $380 Aquanox Signature Spa Experience is associated with the Trumpster. That said, there's always someone happy to take your $380 who does not publicly call women fat and ugly and does not believe you should be barred from entering the country based on your religion.

But if that same rich person opts to purchase a mattress much like my own, she or he will discover that Serta has since stopped selling mattresses under the Trump name on account of his "disparaging comments about Mexican immigrants."

That's just one. Earlier this month, Politico offered up a telling article on how the Trumpster's luxury brand is nosediving amid the Donald's atrocious rhetoric.

"I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn't lose voters."

While I suppose that may indeed depend on the demographics of the victim, Mr. Trump, it may nonetheless be true. The question is, in the event you wake on January 20, 2017 and find you are not preparing for the inaugural pomp and circumstance, who will be bellying up to support the Trump brand? Your post-political life may no longer include the well-heeled. You'll be left with the angry white middle class to whom you've pandered, which may or may not be able to afford your diamond-encrusted lifestyle.

As my dearly beloved pointed out to me, Trump has reinvented himself time and time again. Perhaps he will do so in the aftermath of his political career as the Politico article points out:

"Then again, (Trump) could move into the part of the consumer market where no real damage has been done. Perhaps a Trump brand of smokes, or maybe canned meat?"

So who's up for a Trumped Potted Meat sammie and a nice cold can of The Donald's Pink Catawba?

* * *

An appropriate memory to share today

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sat, 26 Dec 2015 12:58:00 +0000

Lil' OB, Sept. 27, 2014

* * *

My little chickadee

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Wed, 23 Dec 2015 12:23:00 +0000

Frank-n-Goat

Just stick with me on this.

Yes, that is the Goat standing next to a life-size stick figure with a Frank Sinatra head. That wood thingie you see is a would-be palm that folds down. During the month of November, Ol' Blue Eyes gets installed on the exterior walkway of the Cleveland Metroparks' Brecksville Nature Center. The staff then removes the resident bird feeders and fills his wooden palm with sunflower seeds. Eventually, the chickadees, titmice and woodpeckers find Frankie's hand and start feeding from it.

Y'all see where this is going?

Over winter break, Frank gets retired and for scheduled hours, the birdfeeders come down and anyone can mosey into the nature center for a handful of seeds and feed the birds (I wrote about this last week for Freshwater). Despite having lived just a few miles from the Brecksville Reservation for more than 20 years, I did not know about this program until I penned that story. Hence, the Goat, Lil' OB and I went and fed the chickadees earlier this week.

Lil' OB meets a new friend while we warm up by the fire inside
the Brecksville Nature Center

Aw, readership ... it was just about the best thing ever. Those tiny birds check you out a few times, and then land right on your fingers and pluck a seed from your palm.

If you're in the area, get your person over to Brecksville and do this one. It's a short, sweet activity that will be long on memories. Sorry I did not get photos of the feeding, but sometimes your ol' humble hostess likes to simply enjoy the moment instead of recording it.

~tweet tweet~

* * *

The shortest day of the year

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Mon, 21 Dec 2015 13:28:00 +0000

INCOMING

Got pickle?

Yo, Rocky, which one's for me?

Sing it, Bing

Dream in blue

Hola dudes

Gimme hooka pipe ... gimme hooka pipe now

Razzle dazzle

Photo for which there is no caption

Polar vortex?

Don't shoot the one with the red nose, Santa!

Why, yes, I'd love a cuppa

Merry merry to all!

* * *

Happy birthday Gram

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 08 Dec 2015 12:17:00 +0000

This photo was taken on my wedding day, Nov. 28, 1992. Gram Soos was Mom's mom. She was a big part of my life up until her death in 1999. She was born on December 8, 1916 and would have been 99 years old today.

Gram never ate mushrooms. "I've always said that if you ate mouse, it would taste exactly like a mushroom."

On drinking: "After one or two, who's counting?"

Gram called the couch the "davenport."

Instead of humming or singing to herself, Gram used to lilt, "dooo do doodoodoo dooo doo doo doo" in an unrecognizable off-key way.

Gram made the best homemade mac and cheese you ever ate.

On getting her hair done: "I'm going down to Eva's to get my hair cranked up."

More on drinking: "Jude," she'd say to my mom, "are you going to the booze emporium? Pick me up a bottle of gin if you go to the booze emporium."

When making clothes for me: "Kid!" she'd say, shaking a straight pin at me. "I'm not going to make it so tight that you can't eat an olive!"

Gram used to make tapioca pudding from scratch. "I had to use up the milk," she'd say. She always sprinkled cinnamon on top.

Gram maintained that football players had the cutest little buns and that it was "a well-known fact" that body builders were not well-endowed.

Gram had an elaborate charm bracelet that fascinated me as a kid. There was a tiny working one-armed bandit slot machine, a itty-bitty leaning tower of Pisa, a little cuckoo clock ... the list goes on and on. She gave it to me before she died and now, ironically, my favorite charm is a plain tile that says, "Junior Golfers 1961."

I miss Gram Soos. Hug your gram today.

* * *

Phone cam round-up

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 22 Nov 2015 14:39:00 +0000

Lunch with buffalo at Fresh

Soul men and friend at Norton's

Come mister tally man, tally me banana

New friend encountered during this endeavor

Cleveland is Gotham, encountered during this endeavor

YING GF YOU ENTION

Yes, they were full; no I did not pick them up

Cries for help are sometimes very quiet

REMOVE encountered during this endeavor

Stairway to heaven encountered during this endeavor

Okay, I won't

Hola! from humble hostess and Goat

* * *

CANOES MUST PORTAGE

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Fri, 06 Nov 2015 15:38:00 +0000

Dear readership,

The Goat and your humble hostess are endeavoring to walk the entire 85 miles of navigable Ohio and Erie Towpath, which is a subtle wonder of the Buckeye state considering the massive amount of hoop-jumping one must do in order to gain right-of-way for such things. Add the fact that the accessible portion of the Towpath traverses four counties and requires the collaboration of god-only-knows how many public and private entities, and this accomplishment really astonishes me. That the Towpath team is nearing its goal of reaching all the way to Lake Erie fills me with unprecedented joy.

Just wow.

Hi Lillian

Every section of the Towpath has something to offer and while I probably should have been documenting our travels upon it, dear readership, I have not. All I do is document and write and document and write and document and write. Hence when I'm walking the Towpath, I don't want to worry about documentation. I just want to walk the Towpath and think about the guys who dug the entire canal with shovels.

SHOVELS.

DANGER SPILLWAY 500 YARDS CANOES MUST PORTAGE

Yesterday, we did more than three and a half miles of the trail that took us south of Massillon. I'm not sure what I expected of this section, but *man* did it deliver. My favorite parts of the Towpath are not necessarily the lovely pastoral stretches (although I do enjoy those), but instead those that say something about who we were, who we are and who we're going to be. In other words, those spans that have content.

Rancheros or El Caminos?

The miles traversing Massillon had it in nines and then some. Of particular interest was the on-street section, which is one of the few left on the Towpath (where the powers-that-be haven't yet been able to wrangle a dedicated trail). It went through a neighborhood that's clearly changed over the decades, but still has so much heart and hometown pride that it filled me with sighs: signs in windows cheer on the Massillon Tigers, American flags wave in the breeze, plastic jack-o-lanterns linger.

Don't listen to the sonsabitches. You're still standing.

*sighs*

We traversed a bridge lined with plaques dedicated to those we lost in Vietnam. Readership, you don't see stuff like this unless you're walking.

Thank you for your service, Private First Class Hill.

When we do these walks, they are a round trip to the car and back, so yesterday's stroll was more than seven miles. Afterwards, we were famished and went in search of an eatery.

Time for lunch

Downtown

I do.

A Friday night lights kind of town

As evidenced by the photos, we found a burger and then some. I never tire of these beleaguered Ohio towns.

Yeah, yeah.

We've got about 25 miles to the trail's end in New Philadelphia in Tuscarawas County. Can we finish it up in 2016? Dunno.

Stay tuned ...

Bye for now, Massillon. I think you're beautiful.

* * *

Post drenched in tears

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 29 Oct 2015 12:21:00 +0000

Bill and John O'Brien, circa 1985

The film "Leaving Las Vegas" debuted 20 years ago this week. The anniversary was noted by Esquire and The Fix.

I invite you to read those musings if you are thusly inclined, but as for me, I will repost this story, which I love. It's about John and Dad and the sort of memory that I carry in that poor old sad/sweet part of my heart. I first posted this in February 2010.

Yeah, yeah.

* * *

In the summer of 1980, my family attended a weekend party in Columbus, about 120 miles south of Cleveland. I was 15 and went with my parents in their Honda Accord hatchback. My brother and his wife Lisa drove in their lime green Triumph TR7.

On Sunday, Johnny and Lisa left for the return trip about a half hour before the rest of us. Mom, Dad and I were making our way north on I-71 when a green dot appeared in the distance. It was the TR7 on the berm. John was bent over the open hood. Dad pulled over and threw the Honda in reverse.

Dad and John tinkered, ethered and cajoled to no avail (which is saying something). But of course, Dad had a tow rope.

"Hook it onto something that won't pull off," he yelled to John over the noise of the careening traffic.

Dad shifted into first and inched the Honda forward until the rope drew taut between the two cars. John hopped into the Triumph and our precarious caravan of two pulled onto the highway. It was 70 miles to Cleveland.

Behold a rare juncture when I may rightly divide the human population into two groups:

1) Those who understand the implication of a tow rope.

2) Those who do not understand the implication of a tow rope.

The tow rope experience is akin to a dog leash--sort of. Although both parties have brakes, only the leader has accelerating power. If the tow-er (as in one who tows) brakes too hard, he risks getting rear-ended by the towee. If the towee brakes too hard, he's "chewing up" the tower's clutch--or worse (think of pulling back hard on a dog's leash). If the tower accelerates too fast, the towee is subject to a lurch. it goes on and on. The tow rope itself is always in danger of snapping (not good when traveling 60+ MPH on a highway). So for those number 2's out there: using a tow rope is really tricky and should never exceed one or two miles.

But seventy miles with a tow rope? The prospect was insane.

In 1980, there were no cell phones. Communication during that trip was reduced to brake lights and exaggerated gestures poorly communicated by way of our rear-view mirror and windshields. At one point Lisa started to repeat a spell-casting gesture with splayed fingers and a frantic look on her face.

"Lisa's trying to tell us something!" I said.

"What's it mean? What's it mean?" said Mom as Lisa's motions repeated again and again.

"WAIT! I've got it!" said Mom. "She's counting ... TEN ... TWENTY ... THIRTY ..." I started in with her. We made it to about 60 before Dad rolled his eyes.

"The emergency flasher," he said, "they want us to turn off the emergency flashers." And we all laughed despite the tension.

Dad wasn't one to let circumstances interfere with lifestyle. He sipped beer for the whole trip.

"Hand me another Stroh's, Skeeziks."

The end was the worst--4.5 miles of dense city traffic between the I-71/West 150 exit and 14000 Lake Avenue. It isn't easy to navigate two cars tethered with a rope through an urban route of stoplights and turns, but despite the impossible odds, Dad and John got both cars home unscathed (although Dad would always say that the Historic Tow of 1980 ate a good bit of the Honda's clutch).

"Holy Christ," said Dad with relief as we finally pulled into the drive.

Holy Christ, indeed.

* * *

Entertainment for Men UPDATED

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 27 Oct 2015 13:27:00 +0000

"Five models from 50 cc to 250 cc starting around $225."

Tidbits from the 231 pages of the May 1966 Playboy, which I am perusing courtesy of Dogs Don't Purr:

--An ad for Riegel surfer trunks that changed color when you smeared them with a grapefruit. "Draw or write, even play tic-tac-toe, in citrus fruit on your green surfers."

--Photo spread of 1965 Playmate of the Year Jo Collins visiting the troops in Vietnam. "Take it from me," Jo smiles, "these bulletproof vests they make you wear do nothing for a girl's figure."

--An ad for Old Spice Lime. "Fresh ... frosted ... spiced with a twist of lime!"

--Interview with Arthur Schlesinger. "What are we offering to the South Vietnamese people that the Viet Cong aren't?"

--An ad for Champale. CHAMPALE.

--Pictorial satire by Shel Silverstein: "Lord Love a Teevee Jeebie."

-An ad for Budweiser encouraging the reader to, "Try the Wiffability Test."

--Tons of cartoons and jokes I do not get. *UPDATED* per request

Yes, I get it and it's just disgusting.

What? She has to ask for a raise so he can demand sex? Huh? Hilarious.

Someone else can google "coals to Newcastle."

--"Playboy's wide-angle look at current and upcoming camera gear with an audio-visual assist by Woody Allen."

* * *

When all things culminate in one perfect object

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Thu, 15 Oct 2015 10:54:00 +0000

Sometimes the fates smile on my tiny corner of the world.

Enter an angel in the form of one Jane Pierce, who did deliver unto me a treasure chest of puzzles she rescued from a garage sale. (How great is that?)

Among them, dear reader, was this beauty.

Country Fair puzzle by artist Lori Schory for White Mountain Puzzles

Would you just get a load of that? I mean COME ON. Anyone who follows me with any regularity knows that I loves me some county fairs. I even have a moo tee shirt.

This puzzle has bunnies and moos and oinks and everything. Plus, it was really really fun and easy to do. The best part? There were little surprises only a puzzler would understand, like a horse nosing around the sno-cone stand and a rooster peeking out from behind a sign heralding candy apples for sale.

Whimsical goat detail, Fair puzzle

Then came something that's never happened before: I discovered a kindred spirit when the pieces came together.

Kindred spirit of Erin O'Brien embodied in Fair Puzzle (no, not the horse)

Photographic proof of previous assertion

Part of me wants to believe that puzzle artist Lori Schory took some liberty with the good looking fella on the "tractor." Part of me wants to believe it is her hubby or dad or some other great guy in her life that loves roaming around a fair as much as I do with my ol' Goat.

Goat and exceptionally long friend at Portage County Fair

I noticed the following on the White Mountain Puzzle website:

Every White Mountain Puzzle includes our HAPPINESS GUARANTEE: If you are not completely delighted with your puzzle experience, we will replace your puzzle with a new one for free. Promise.

Photo of Goat and Lil' OB taken under duress

Well, White Mountain, I can tell you that this puzzle inflated me with pure puzzle-puzzling joy, but I appreciate your faith in your product just the same.

* * *

Friday news round-up, Erin style

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Fri, 09 Oct 2015 11:28:00 +0000

Dear readership,

Yes, I miss you. No, I have no excuse other than to say I have been a very busy little bee. To prove that assertion, here are a few of the things I've been working on this week (with alternative photographs).

Iffin' you miss me, I am most active on Facebook or you can check the ol' twitter feed.

Love, Erin

Upside down guys spied while shedding some light on our watershed.

Stalking the wild pizza on Waterloo.

Discovering a giant WWII relic.

Ducking in to Duck Island.

Whilst on a private freelance assignment.

Photo for no reason that I took somewhere I once was.

* * *

Got GoatMobile?

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 27 Sep 2015 11:57:00 +0000

Originally titled, An open letter to the person I cut off on Rt. 36 in Mt. Vernon, Ohio on June 4, 2011, here is a repost from four years ago to prove that while the whole country is drunk from saying "popemobile" as many times as it collectively can, I've been saying GoatMobile for many years.

Enjoy, I am back to work. --hh

* * *

Hi.

From your point of view, I so deserved to get flipped off.

I tried to mouth I'M SORRY when we were at the stoplight, but you didn't seem to get my meaning. Was that your kid in the backseat? Cute kid.

That was a small car you were driving. You had all the windows open on a hot day, which is my preferred method of travel. I don't like A. C.

Here's the part you don't know: I wasn't in my regular Mini Cooper, which is small like your car. I was in the GoatMobile, which is a lot different and lot bigger than my Mini.

GoatMobile and your humble hostess (see upper left).

I was traveling with my Mom who really likes her A. C. Now I would have happily rode my Mom around in the Mini with the A. C. blasting, but the Mini is eight years old and the A. C. is about kaput: puffing out a feeble stream of barely cool air.

The Mini's A. C. reminds you of an old dog trying hard to get up out of his bed and say hello, which breaks your heart because you remember when he was a puppy jumping and yipping and wagging his tail so hard it hurt plenty when it snapped across your shin.

With Mom and me having a bit of driving to do, the Goat and I decided to switch cars for a day on account of the GoatMobile (being only one year old) still has puppy A. C. Not that I should be saying anything about it, but judging by the dents and rust and your red face in the hot wind, I'm guessing your car's A. C. woofed it's last woof a long time ago.

Does any of this makes sense?

We were headed to a function in Danville that had a start time and an end time and it was about a two-hour drive from home. I'd never been to Danville and I was worried about getting lost and the time and would my hair look okay when I got there and all the stupid crap that fills your brain when you should be paying attention to the road. Don't know if you saw, but that old gal was going so slow in front of me I could have screamed. I swear I checked when I went to pass her but the giant GoatMobile has blind spots I'm not used to. I just didn't see you.

Sorry.

Thank Christ you slammed on the brakes and horn or the rest of the day could have turned out bad all the way around.

Goat and Mini Cooper.

Although I'm much more comfy in my Mini and the Goat is much more comfy in the GoatMobile, sometimes odd combinations work. I don't know anything about you, but I know Mount Vernon is a place with a lot of your God Squad and your Don’t-Tread-on-Me/snake stickers. That said, the Knox County Democrats have their office down at the Square, so the folks around there have clearly learned to tolerate the odd men out.

Well, kind of tolerate.

Maybe that commentary doesn't have anything to do with you. Maybe you're not down with treading snakes or the God Squad. Maybe in another life, we'd get off on better footing, without me about to ram the big GoatMobile into your compact thinger-car (didn't catch the make/model). Until then, I'll try to be more careful. And if you don't mind, maybe you can give the next guy the benefit of the doubt before you flip him the bird.

Apologetically,

Erin

* * *

In this lifetime, I shall ....

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Tue, 08 Sep 2015 21:12:00 +0000

Photo that does not require a caption

.... be as happy as a dog riding in a car with all the windows down.

... stand in front of a camera grinning widely and holding a giant check.

... dress a plastic goose in a Mrs. Claus outfit.

... wear a billowy pant suit festooned with sequins.

... watch Ann Coulter deliver a teary coming-out speech.

* * *

Dear Tools I See At County Fairs Across Ohio Displaying Confederate Flags:

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 30 Aug 2015 12:43:00 +0000

Ohio tools

This "symbol" has nothing to do with your "heritage." We are Yankees--Ohio Yankees, which are some of your Yankier Yankees. Hence, when you display this item, you're supporting ... what? Secession? Slavery?

More than 35,000 Ohioans died fighting against those ideologies and the Confederate Flag that represented them (incidentally, we won).

You might as well wave a German or Japanese flag before a WWII Vet.

* * *

Piece by piece

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Wed, 26 Aug 2015 12:51:00 +0000

Silver Dollar, die cut DC502FP

There is an actual website that a person (a regular person's person) can visit any time they want that features a vast array of information regarding pre-1973 Springbok Puzzles.

We are talking wall-to-wall vintage Springbok, people.

We're talking which die cut was used to manufacture which puzzles, how many pieces the die cut produced, how many puzzles were made with the die cut, what year each Springbok was manufactured, what sorts of inserts came with the puzzles, notes on the puzzle boxes, information about puzzle backings, the history of the logo and even the inside story on Springbok's little known wood puzzles.

Puzzle repair

And--if you can believe it--there are tons more than that.

(!!!)

Just dig the sort of pure puzzle gold a person (a regular person's person) gets over there:

A given puzzle was often manufactured with a variety of different cuts.

The daring publication of a Jackson Pollack painting, Convergence, as a puzzle caused a sensation in 1964 Christmas gift markets.

A "Fused Cut" occurs when a small piece of a die breaks. This results in a "Fused Piece" (2 puzzle pieces "fused" into 1).

I swear life is beautiful.

Research pending

* * *

Add a pinch of free market to Citizens United and you get: TRUMP

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 23 Aug 2015 13:54:00 +0000

Financial windfall, O'Brien style

Dear readership, these musings have been written quickly whilst a development news assignment waits, the laundry tumbles, the beef roasts and the Goat golfs, so just stick with me on this.

Given: Americans really hate corruption.

Corruption has been going on in politics for a long time. In January of 2010, however, the Supreme Court of the United States removed any fig leaf hiding it by essentially codifying corruption with the Citizens United decision.

Enter: Donald Trump.

Pundits have much to say about the popularity welling around him. They call him an outsider. They claim he's tapped into a certain spittle-flecked-red-faced rightie anger.

yeah, yeah

The primary reason people are rallying around Trump is his money. They believe it makes him immune to the siren songs of the lobbyists and deep-pocketed special interests. They believe it frees him from fundraising.

His supporters don't care what he says. And to be fair, why should they? Nothing politicians say matters. It's all tribal.

So Trump has money and he's a tribe member (well, sort of). Add a healthy dose of bigotry and misogyny and voila! You're in rightie heaven.

Conversely, the lefties love Sanders because he's a socialist. Sanders cares more about people than money-- a LOT more. Therefore his supporters believe he cannot be bought by the big money hurting all the little people. Add income equality, reproductive rights and a living wage and libs inflate with pure joy.

All of this is causing a real problem for establishment candidates because they are (of course) bought and paid for by lobbyists and special interests.

Aside: Could 2016 be Kasich/Biden? hm ... dunno

As for me, I'll take the socialist over the narcissist (I'm pretty sure you could buy Trump for one thin dime if he was broke while Sanders has sung the same tune for 30 years), but make no mistake: When the courts stand above the American people and announce that corruption is the law of the land, John Q. Public will gravitate to those they believe will eschew it. Trump and Sanders are the perfect candidates: one doesn't need money, the other doesn't want it.

There is something delicious in this.

For once, beads of sweat are forming on big money's upper lip, although I'm certain it will find a way to snuff out Those Who Will Not Be Bough. Until then, the lobbyists can pull at their collars and clear their throats while the rest of us enjoy some free market politics.

* * *

Phone cam round-up

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Wed, 19 Aug 2015 12:29:00 +0000

Perhaps in response to Cleveland's ongoing and unprecedented growth, your humble hostess has been hella busy, but presents the readership with an apology for her prolonged absence and this paltry offering. For more frequent updates, she encourages persons to "friend" her on (Evil Overlord) Facebook, although she detests using the noun friend as a verb. She also tweets as evidenced in the sidebar, but with less joie de vivre than she updates her (Evil Overlord) Facebook page.

Photo included based on artistic merit of composition and color

Mystifying advertising assertion

Oddly pornographic wardrobe assertion

Evidence of party to which humble hostess was not invited

Look what they've done to my song, Ma

Actual road pizza

Photo for which there is no caption

Unfortunately named confection

Note: The pink shoes featured in this post are no longer in the possession of humble hostess. After just over 100 miles, the soles of said shoes had worn through to the secondary foam. They have been returned to Skechers and HH awaits a proper alternative replacement.

Lastly, a photo showcasing the Goat's parking skill. When the Goat parks like this, HH says, "So, Starsky, you gonna do a body roll over the hood?"

Goatmobile

The Goat assures the readership that he only employs this alternative parking method when the lot is no where near capacity. Nonetheless, HH remains skeptical.

Love,

HH

* * *

Dancing madly backwards with the roofmen

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sat, 01 Aug 2015 14:48:00 +0000

So I'm walking and I spy two guys working on a roof, surrounded by tools and packages of shingles, but right now, they aren't roofing, they are dancing all crazy like with undulating torsos and swaying arms and bobbing heads so I stop walking and start dancing all craaaAAAaaazy like them and it takes a minute for them to see me and when they do they point and go, AAAAAHHHHHH! and I point back and go AAAAAAAHHHHH! and then I turn back to my walk and they turn back to their roof.

* * *

You don't see this coming

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sat, 25 Jul 2015 12:29:00 +0000

Goat and new friends

So you're ambling around downtown Bedford, Ohio, and you are intrigued by a shop called Kulis Freeze Dry and so you step in.

Who expects to be greeted by a rhinoceros? No one, that's who. Yet there you are beside a full size stuffed rhino that was killed by a bow and arrow in the mid 70's during the last legal hunt of the animal.

huh.

The charming proprietor entertains your curious questions (when was the shop established? 1967. Is it still owned by the Kulis family? No, Mr. Kulis did not have any children. Do you get a lot of pets? I won't do pets anymore. That dog gave you all he's got to give).

The giant alligator frozen in an open-mouthed snarl in the back of the shop, incidentally, came up from Florida.

"That's as close as I need to get to the likes of him," you say.

Later, you will wish you had asked about the process, the training, the regulation and the emotions that go along with this business and how the hell did they get that rhino over here from Africa all those years ago? but alas, there are too many other things on your mind, so you say your thankyous and step back out into the world.

Passing by the rhino on your way out, however, you feel the unmistakeable tug of the animal's lingering energy and the fleeting concept of a graveyard washes over you.

yeah, yeah

You pass a tattoo shop. Your stomach growls with hunger. You squint your eyes against the late afternoon sun.

You walk towards infinity.

* * *

Walking through the American dream

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Sun, 19 Jul 2015 13:57:00 +0000

So the Goat and I are lying in our conjugal bed listening to the rain outside as it washes out our plans to walk.

"Honey," I say.

"Yes?" he says.

"There is another option."

"Oh?"

"We could ... we could ... ," I stammer, afraid of my own forthcoming words. "We could mall walk."

And there it was. And it had to be gotten through like all the rest of it.

The inscrutable half-head mannequin

The first mall walking discovery was agreeable enough: We were not alone, although we walked a good deal faster than the other mall walkers. After one or two laps, however, things began to deteriorate, starting with sensory overload. Everything is designed to entice you visually (of course), but smell plays a large part as well. One aroma billows out at you after another. Perfume, candy, soap, popcorn, Sbarro, that money-smell they pump out at casinos.

One of several candy banks and a guy

Ubiquitous headless mannequins confront you with escalating creepiness. Some have heads, but no faces. Macy's had some with faces that were wearing lipstick, which moved that entire establishment up three notches on the Humanity Scale.

Apple Store and headless chicks in evening gowns

At about the 35-minute mark, we found ourselves completely disoriented. The more we repeated our laps, the more we wondered where we had seen the giant woman clad in a bra with the smoky gaze. Did we park by this entrance or that last one? How could we not have noticed that plus-size mannequin before?

We walked through a cloud of something that smelled (ahem) organic. "We just walked through someone's fart," I said to the Goat, and at once, my fellow mall walkers were not quite so endearing.

Yes, really

Athletic shoes are now candy colored and the stores that house them are hellish collages of ... stuff. The Goodyear tire store with a mall entrance filled me with unprecedented joy. Home Spa was by far the most depressing business. A couple of bored looking people in smocks sat on dubious looking couches near the storefont until someone poured themselves into one of the massage chairs. It felt like witnessing sexless prostitution. Not sure which was worse, when they had customers or when they didn't.

Flesh-eating vampire display

Music in a mall is oddly downgraded into sound. Not noise, sound. I may have been listening to songs I knew my whole life. If so, I did not recognize them. It all sounded muted and drunk.

Even though we were walking in circles, it felt like a soul-crushing downward spiral. There is not one store designed to appeal to you intellectually. NOT ONE. No book stores. No music store. There was a convenience store and we stepped in to see if they had any print at all. None. Not even a newspaper. Yeah, I know: maybe everyone has a newstand on their phone. Maybe not.

The only two stores that might have had intellectual appeal were Spencer Gifts and Brookstone. SPENCER GIFTS, people.

No newspaper for you!

After about an hour and 10 minutes, I said, "Let's go." Famished, exhausted and vanquished, we repaired to the cafe at the Mustard Seed Market for de-progamming and a bite of lunch. Relief washed over us, as if we'd been released from prison.

Now then, whether or not a person purchased a bottle of Virgin Mojito Shower Gel for $9 at the Body Shop is entirely beside the point.

You're welcome

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Goat

noreply@blogger.com (Erin O'Brien) — Fri, 17 Jul 2015 12:13:00 +0000

The Goats as photographed by Bob Perkoski

This may be the best photo anyone has ever taken of the Goat and me, and while I love it, I'm also deeply disturbed by it.

We look entirely too much like a couple in a commercial for a cruise. If we were inanely throwing our hands in the air, we could be in an ad for diabetes medication.

Do the walk of life!

We are an affable middle age couple, attractive enough, but no so much so as to be intimidating. These are people you can trust. These are people who know something. By gosh, they are doing something right!

And while I think you probably can trust us (strangers frequently approach me and ask: Do I know where this-or-that road is? Do I know what's going on with that gathering of people? Where can tickets be purchased?), we don't know anything and the ratio of the things we do wrong vs. things we do right is pretty average.

Yeah, yeah. Someone pass the cheap whiskey.

* * *

Erin O'Brien

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