Funny thing about my being away from the computer, I have lost that habitual desire to update my Web site.

Toby Joe and I have had the entire week off between Christmas and New Years. It’s been lovely to say the least. We watched a lot of movies. We consumed a massive amount of food. We baked. We watched the T.V. We had drinks with friends. We took pictures. We sipped coffee. I blew my first piece of glass. It was hot. We went to the vet. We went to the gym. And today we’re both getting haircuts at the same place back to back. Awwwww. It’s been a fabulous week. It’s slowly coming to and end. Soon, it will be back to work, back to that thing that keeps me feeling just so.

It’s New Years Eve. We have no plans. We rarely do. Last year, we made a mad last minute dash to the nearest italian restaurant. We arrived just before they closed and got home just before the ball dropped. On our way home a very, very wobbly man screamed “NAPPY SHOE HAIR!” into our stuffed faces. It took me a while to get the joke. Missy, myself and Toby Joe were asleep before 12:30.

This year? Who knows. It was snowing earlier. That was pretty. I sorta hope it’s not gone for good. I wouldn’t mind having the New Year arrive wearing white.

For what it’s worth: Nappy Shoe Hair.

I went to the gym today. Toby had some business to take care of at the Social Security office in downtown Brooklyn. I figured I’d drive him there and since there is a New York Sports Club in Park Slope I figured I’d take the opportunity and work out for an hour or so. And I beat myself up pretty badly. I tend to do that after realizing that the 18 pounds I kicked out not six months ago has slowly been moving back in.

After a nice long shit-kick, I wanted nothing more than a hot shower. But today I couldn’t get the temperature of the water right. When I got out of the shower, I was cold and wet. I felt like a pale damp slug.

I hate drying myself off at the gym. There are only so many places I feel comfortable putting those bleach infested, overused towels. So I tend to skimp during the dry off phase. I don’t rub all the moisture off of my body and I certainly don’t dab my ass crack with them or floss like some weirdoes.

I put on my pants and my bra and then my shirt. I sat down on the bench to call Toby. A woman walked in and plopped her belongings down on the bench to my left.

Hey hon. You ready yet? Have you gotten through security?

Not yet. Just go on home. I’ll take a car service or a cab.

You sure? OK. Well, I’ll call you once I’m in the car just to make sure.

I got up and walked toward the mirror. I inspected my ass in the mirror. I turned sideways to gawk at the bulges forming around my waste. They’re coming back. I felt depressed. The pants I had purchased while I was on my diet no longer fit right. They pushed my belly fat up like rising loaves of bread.

That’s when I noticed the damp spot. A bit of water had formed on the top of my ass crack. It was about the size of a fifty-cent piece. Clearly, I spotted the spot. You would have had to have to been blind to miss it.

Scooz me. Scooz me.

The woman who had sauntered in while I was on the phone was talking out loud. Was she talking to me?

Scooz me?

She was talking to me. Why was this weird woman talking to me? What could she possibly want?

Yes?

Yoo have sumtheeng on yah pants.

She had a very thick Puerto Rican accent. She held up her finger and pointed to my ass.

I Doonoh eef eets wet or eef eets sumtheeng dirtee.

Was this woman accusing me of shitting myself? I almost did at the mere thought of it.

No, it’s just water. I must not have dried off enough.

She pointed again and nodded.

Ya bettah hope so.

Now, I don’t know much about pant pooping, but I do know that normally poop is colored. However, I did once live with a guy in England who ate the meat from the local chip shop, the kind that spins dizzily on one of those big metal poles like some century year wrinkly old hooker. After a night with that, he moved into the bathroom for about a week. He shat clear liquid for the duration of his stay. It was truly horrific, poor fella. If what this woman was accusing me of were indeed true I would have to have one mad case of salmonella.

I put on my long coat and left hoping my face and my ass would eventually disappear from her memory.

(There are a few more images. See them by clicking the one above.)

Everyone must listen to this if they have some time. It’s a story by David Sedaris It’s darn funny.

I think I might be the only person in the United States working today. (I mean, besides the MTA employees.) The subways are empty. The streets are as well. And I just saw a tumbleweed move by my desk. But it was wearing tinsel.

I have to say, now that the strike is over, I think I kind of miss it. I liked the have to of riding my bike and getting some exercise. I liked seeing people aware of their surroundings if only because their monotony had been mixed up a bit. I really liked seeing people smile at the end of their haul. Each time we came down off the bridge the Red Cross was there with their hot tea or coffee, Oreo cookies and water. There was something heartwarming about seeing so many people smile all at once just so.

My favorite part of the whole ordeal was a moment that took place on the bridge. It’s the smallest thing, too. There was a system that naturally fell into place during the strike. Sometimes, that system broke down. But for the most part, it worked. I didn’t see any injuries. (Although, my brother said that he did see one biker being hauled away on a stretcher.) There were no visible injuries that took place along my commute. Thank goodness.

The system worked like this: Slower pedestrians to the far right, faster pedestrians were to pass on their left (but not too far!) and bikers were further to the middle/left. Faster bikers were to pass on the left of the slower bikers. Now, this didn’t always work. You’re always going to have that one person (or a dozen in this case) who just have to zoom down on one’s right or left. Hell, some of those people would have passed right through the slower walkers and bikers had they been given the chance. These are probably the same people who drive down the shoulder during traffic jams. These people have a small room reserved in hell, a room without windows.

I like warning people as I pass them.

“On your left.”

You kind of have to hear me say it. I say it nicely – as nicely as possible. I just like to let them know I’m there. (This comes from years of working as a waitress and watching one too many trays of hot coffees and milkshakes hit the floor.)

If it was needed, I warned each and every walker, each and every time. But there was one interaction I really enjoyed. One faster walker was walking toward the middle passing her fellow pedestrians on their left. I was coming up on her kind of fast. And had she moved one or two inches to her left, I would have hit her especially considering there was a line of bikers behind me. I noticed a not so careful biker was coming up on my left. While he didn’t warn me with voice, his unknowing morning shadow clued me in. And so I spoke.

“On your left, baby!”

“Thank you!”

It must have been the tone of her voice, but I really wanted to hug her. And then I wanted to share some Oreo cookies and tea with her when we reached the bottom.

And just like that a close call ended up becoming one of my most cherished moments all because of a Thank You.

(As an aside, I shot video of my bike ride in yesterday. I strapped my camera to my neck and pushed the lens through the spaces between the buttons on my coat and shot video of the ride. Does anyone [if anyone is even out there today] know how I might optimize this? Does anyone have any splicing suggestions? I haven’t ever done anything like this before. Still images can be seen by clicking below.)

Anyway, Merry Holidays to everyone. Happy New Year, too. I’m feeling warm and fuzzy right now and if I could I’d hug each and every one of you.

I’m on your left. :]

Well, the strike is over. Apparently they’re trying to have the subway up and running as early as tonight, buses too. 100 bucks says some of them are drunk. I’m going to wait until morning.

I’m probably the only person who finds this sort of thing interesting, but I’m going to share them anyway. Below is a readout of my top (50?) search strings from the month of December.

mihow, funny shit, syriana explanation, mihow.com, nyc mta salaries, nyc mta salary, average salary mta employee, mta average salary, falatio, average salary mta, mta salaries, nyc mta average salary, ny mta salaries, backup in your ass with the resurrection, average salary mta worker, ruth ann morehouse, ace bar ebay, pinter speech, understanding syriana, mta strike salary, mta worker average salary, alchohol and antibiotics, mta nyc average salary, self falatio, bqe wine, average salary of mta worker, leggs luthor, transit workers average salary, zoloft commercials, harold pinter noble speech, turks and caicos yoga, tickly ears, if socrates is a fine wine then plato is a dry martini, bqe liquors, teenybopers club, mta inflates, person jumps from a tall building hits ground what will happen to them, boogers, bodies the exhibition review, polish swear words, boobies going down stairs, robin lovitt, jeff skoll democratic, jeff skoll and wedding, churducken, bodyworlds south seaport, rachel maddow, mta strike funny, salary mta workers, danceadelphia

A few thoughts: I love the fact that “Back up your ass with the Resurrection” is tucked between a bunch about the MTA and the average salaries.

I also love the fact that so many people had the unfortunate experience of landing on mihow.com while searching for an explanation of Syriana,

I finally got a few in search of the holy churducken.

I am so sorry someone wants to know about how a person lands after jumping from a tall building. I’m sorrier they landed here alive.

I would like to know more about those in search of “tickly ears.”

Here’s a little holiday cheer for everyone overcome with the overwhelming desire to steal the baby Jesus from a neighborhood nativity set. Help is now here.

My life has been thrown off because of the MTA strike. I haven’t had very much time to write. I get into work and have to hit the ground running. I left at five yesterday to try and see a little daylight on the way home. The ride home was much more frustrating than the ride in. I’m not sure why this is, but the traffic – human and car – was terrible. It took me a half an hour to get to Toby in SoHo.

On Monday night, I walked to where my car had been parked Sunday night and it was gone. I called the police (who are also responsible for towing) and asked them if they had my car. After a series of forwarding and then a bunch of “Please Hold’s” I was told that my car had been moved for a movie shoot. No warning. No signs. No signs letting me know they had moved my car. They just moved it. They moved it three blocks away. I wrote a long post about this but never had the chance to post it because of the strike. Anyway, that happened. And I still want an apology.

Last night, after hauling ass 60 blocks south to find Toby Joe and then riding over the bridge into Brooklyn, I had my first glass blowing class. It’s a lot like throwing on a potter’s wheel. The difference is it’s a sideways throw and touching the material or leaning into the material could prove to be unbelievably painful but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to! Also, the oven used to reheat the glass after you begin to shape it is called a “GLORY HOLE.” I know I’ve never come off as someone who practices much decorum. I don’t think I’ll ever grow up, but glory hole? “Stick it and get it hot in the glory hole?” “Put the rod in the glory hole?” Come on, now. And then when the student next to you, who happens to be a beautiful older woman, starts to giggle, it’s really hard to hold one’s already dwindling composure.

So, there was that. I made a glass ball, which, at one point, spent time in the glory hole.

All jokes aside, glass blowing is hard. It’s really hard and we haven’t even gotten to the blowing part. But it’s exciting. I’m taking part in something unique.

The ride in this morning was tougher. I’m not sure if it’s the case but there seems to be more people out. Perhaps they’re starting to realize that we might have to live this way for a while? I have no idea. It’s my understanding that they’re “negotiating” once again. Well, let’s hope they come to some sort of agreement. I’m not sure how much longer people in New York will remain cheery. Ah well.

Oh, and speaking of glory holes, my derriere is kicking my ass. I need padded underpants.

Well, they did it.

At one subway booth, a handwritten sign read, ‘Strike in Effect. Station Closed. Happy Holidays!!!’

This is going to be one messed up Christmas here in New York City. And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do about getting to work.

I could walk over the 59th Street Bridge (Queensboro) and walk south to 42nd. Or I could walk over the Wiliamsburg Bridge and walk north. Either way will take me hours.

Edited to add: I am staying home today. I’m going to use a sick day. Tomorrow, assuming they are still on strike, I plan on walking or biking over the Williamsburg Bridge. And I will photograph my entire commute.

We just took a walk up Graham avenue to see if there were any mindful hints or suggestions from those who are stranded on this side of the river. I heard a woman call her boss at the yoga studio in hopes of finding a sub. A student missed his morning classes. People looked confused and helpless. I fit in well among them.

Tomorrow, should prove interesting to say the least. And I can’t wait to hear more stories from other locals.

Edited to add: I just got a call from a friend who biked across the Williamsburg Bridge. Apparently, things up here are actually quite clear. He said that a lot of folks are just going about their business as usual. New Yorkers might whine a lot but overall we’re a tough breed.

Suddenly, tomorrow doesn’t look as bad. I was initially worried that the Bburg bridge would be as busy as the Brooklyn Bridge where so many people were walking it was impossible to bike.

I learned something today. I learned that the word “Jamba” might mean “Fart” in Swahili. I just had an Original Fart Juice. (Thanks Nico!)

And then I learned that Chevy Nova means “Doesn’t Run” in Italian. (Thanks Brad!)

I love these things. I do. Learn me something, Almighty Internet.

Well, the MTA didn’t go on strike. Yet. That’s a very good thing for the city. Last night, as we watched the news people salivate over any possible new breaks, I couldn’t help but wonder. What if the MTA was owned by the public? What if the money I spent to use it meant I owned a miniscule part of it? Do you think people would care more for the system? Do you think we’d have an input on the hiring? Would we have an input in management? I really wonder what would happen.

Now, this doesn’t only apply to the MTA. It seems that public transportation (at least in the U.S.) could use some help. And some places more than others. For example, I think we could all learn something from the Metro in Washington, D.C. Once you’ve used that system it’s hard not comparing every other system to it. It’s close to perfect. (I realize, however, it doesn’t run past midnight and it’s pretty much brand new in comparison to the Subway system.) The Metro does well even with all the jumpers. The MUNI in San Francisco was a joke. I’m sorry. I have trouble seeing it any other way. The BART is great and all, but it barely covers any ground. I haven’t used the EL in Chicago (Is that what’s it’s called?) So I have no idea if it’s any good or if people use it at all. Detroit’s People Mover makes me giggle endlessly. And unless you’re going to the downtown Casino called “Greektown” I don’t see how this system is much use to anyone. From what I hear, LA doesn’t even really have public transportation. No, really. Does anyone even use it? Judging by the smog I’d guess not. I don’t know anything about Boston’s Public Transportation sytsem. Seattle was great for walkers. I know nothing about the public transportation system. I hear it’s free.

I am told London’s Underground could use a facelift and that the cushions are basically biohazards. (Plastic wipes well, England.) I only experienced the Underground while visiting. So my judgment on it probably won’t prove very reliable. I’d love to hear about it, however.

What would happen if the users owned the system?

You might remember this post from last week. Apparently, Ford has reinstated advertisements in gay magazines.

Comments will be back shortly. Problem with PHP.

About two weeks ago while making x-rated cookies for Toby Joe I had a brilliant brainstorm. I decided it’d be a wonderful idea to make leg lamp cookies for all my faraway friends. I started out using gingerbread. The first batch turned out OK. I hand cut them all. The ones you see below were drawn using a knife. It took a while for each cookie. Plus, the dough got stuck to the countertop no matter how much flour I used. And finally, I kind of ruined them using blue ink for the fishnet pantyhose, but otherwise, they worked. And they’re sturdy bitches, too.

I wanted to get more creative. Nico, the baked good goddess, the woman who not only constructed the most amazing bride and groom’s cake for Toby Joe and my wedding party but drove it from Philadelphia, P.A. all the way to Washington, D.C. suggested I get black icing or a black writing tool for the next batch. On Friday of last week, I trekked out to New York Cake Supplies and purchased some tools. I was all set. Now, all we had to do was find a way to construct a customized cookie cuter. Toby and I hit Lowes and purchased metal ribbon and a few tools to bend it into shape. Toby made me two cookie-cutters. (I gotta tell ya, I’m hard to live with and probably don’t tell Toby Joe this enough, but he’s an amazing and patient man. I need to thank him for his help. Somehow.)

I used a gingerbread recipe again. And this time, the cookies spread. The women were plump. And while we all like a full-figured woman, they just didn’t look like leg lamps any longer. This would not do. Even Toby’s constant reminders couldn’t set my mind at ease.

“They’re cookies! COOKIES! You can’t expect perfection from a cookie!”

“But these look horrible! You can’t even tell what they are! I must find the answer.”

On Saturday morning, I woke up fresh. I called my mother in search of a more precise cookie recipe. I needed something easy to cut, and one that wouldn’t spread so much while cooking. Also, I needed something that wouldn’t necessarily fall apart. She had an excellent suggestion. I mixed the dough and went at it again.

The cookies looked great. I was happy. Even after decorating them, they still looked good. And they taste wonderful! They have a hint of citrus. I love them. On Monday, I began to box them up. All I had to do now was make one more type of cookie, chocolate chip, and my cookie boxes would be ready to ship.

Last night, after the party, I got home and made the chocolate chip cookies. The previous batches of cookies had been separated into baggies to ensure freshness and to avoid influencing one another. You can’t have a bunch of Leg Lamp Ladies fraternizing with a bunch of gingerbread men beneath the soft glow of electric sex. So, I segregated the cookies. I put them in boxes padded with a massive amount of tissue paper. The boxes have been stacked lightly on our kitchen table since. The only interaction they had was that one time that our Orangemani Terrorist from Orangemanistan decided to tip the boxes over. Which wasn’t that big of a deal especially considering the abuse I have seen parcels go through in the care of a local mailperson. I decided to check the boxes. I figured that if they were still in once piece, I’d be safe. I figured that at least ONE of the cookies would make it through the mail, right? RIGHT?!

(You all know where this is going.)

Every last one of the leg lamp cookies, the cookies that took me weeks to perfect, was broken. It was as if a serial killer checked into my boxes over night. Hannibal Lector himself couldn’t have done a better job. The feet were removed from the ankles. The thighs broke off below the lampshade. My ladies had been dismembered.

Fragile. indeed. I’m heartbroken. Really. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

Someone I work with just came into the art department complaining about the impending MTA strike New Yorkers might be facing starting at midnight on Thursday.

I don’t understand how any corporation can get away with or actually take part in something that would put out millions of people. I think what they’re up to is absolutely wrong.

Me? I absolutely understand why the MTA employees are doing what they’re doing. When their employer admits to having a MASSIVE surplus this year and instead of giving it back to its employees, gives free fares to tourists, I imagine that’s pretty infuriating. (While I know this free fare idea is set in place for everyone, many of us get monthly passes via our jobs. I’ve already paid for mine. I will receive nothing free from this. So. when it comes down to it, it’s for outsiders.)

The TWU is asking a three-year contract with raises of eight percent each year. The MTA has offered a five percent raise over two years tied to concessions on sick leave, and health and pension benefits.

So, what do you think about Unions and the threat of a strike in the MTA? Do you feel they’re justified in doing so? Do you think what they’re asking is too much?

UPDATED POST can be found by clicking here. Opinions have changed.

On Monday, my commute was particularly awful. For those of you who are living outside of New York City, we’re days away from facing a transit-wide strike. Which would pretty much cripple the city. It’d be like taking away a New Yorker’s sight for a few hours each day. I would have no real way of getting to work. I could walk, which would suck because it’s currently about 0 degrees. Or I could ride my bike, which would also suck because it’s currently about 0 degrees. Come Thursday, all hell may break lose in New York City. This is a much worse way to enter a weekend. It’s much worse than welcoming a 50-foot ape.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure the employees are getting their legs warmed up anticipating a walkout. Because yesterdays commute was up there with that time where I smeared Crisco all over my pale 13-year-old body in hopes of speeding up that summer tan.

First of all, the 4/5/6 was barely running. Which is always bad. It’s bad because it’s a major artery. When the 4/5/6 finally did come, it actually received a standing ovation. Now, that’s mainly do to the fact the MTA patrons wouldn’t ever dream of sitting down on a subway platform. We barely sit on the benches. You’d have to be drunk and/or off your rocker to do such a thing. However, I’m pretty sure that had the basement of Manhattan been lined with clean, (synthetic, but soft!) rabbit fur, people would have stood up to clap upon its arrival.

By the time I got to the L Train, I was already grumpy. But I was willing to embrace it and let it go. The platform was packed. I anticipated a problem because that evening my brother called to say that the L Train just decided to skip about 5 stops making a beeline for a stop mid-way through Brooklyn. Everyone was raging mad, obviously. The MTA made no announcement of such. Problem. Totally. So I prepared for the worst.

The platform was a mess. So, I stood in the back remembering all those times some asshat arrived late and made a mad dash for the front of the cue. There is nothing more infuriating. Nothing at all. I always wait my turn. I mean that wholeheartedly.

The train came and I decided I’d wait for the next one. It was entirely too crowded. People pushed their puffy, jacketed bodies into the car, caring little for others. Spending the winter with the MTA is fascinating. It’s sort of like walking down a busy street while it’s raining and most of the people out that day happen to NEED the golf-sized umbrella instead of the standard size. The same number of people use the street while it’s raining as when it’s perfectly sunny, however, they don’t seem to remember that their head and therefore body circumference inflates to about 4 times its original size. Riding the MTA in the winter is sort of like that, only you’re padded and can’t really get hurt. The extra padding even helps soften potential slaps or random kicks in the gut. But I digress.

Mid-way through the stuffing, an MTA employee got on the intercom and made an announcement.

“THE NEXT STOP ON THIS TRAIN WILL BE BEDFORD AVENUE. I REPEAT, THE NEXT STOP ON THIS TRAIN WILL BE BEDFORD AVENUE. WE WILL BE BYPASSING FIRST AND THIRD AVENUE.”

There was a mad dash for the door from the inside of the train and then a madder dash from the platform. A mass-human transfer was about to occur simultaneously. Watching a transfer like this is the antithesis of choreography. And it’s downright alarming how it plays out. It’s even more alarming that it actually works. And if you sit back and watch, you’re baffled finally that no one was hurt. I guess that’s what they refer to as “Organized Chaos”.

I waited back still but figured that if I could, I’d get on the train considering I would be taking it further than Bedford Avenue. And low and behold, there was room for me. I got on the train.

As I was moving my body into the car I received a swift shove to the middle of my back.

“I’m getting on this train!”

The tall man behind was slapping his lips together. His friend laughed. His friend was already on the train, learning against the door.

“I’m getting ON THIS TRAIN.”

He repeated himself to be funny. But the thing I didn’t find too funny was that he used my body as his comedic prop.

“Excuse me, but you don’t have to shove me.”

I didn’t want to start anything. I was merely asking him to be nice. I said it calmly and without judgment. I said it directly to him.

“OH YEAH!? Well, this is a crowded train! AND YOU CUT IN FRONT OF ME!”

I cut in front of him?

“I cut in front of you?”

And that’s when the sarcasm cut into our conversation.

“I’M SOOOO SORRY IF I PUSHED YOU. BUT YOU CUT IN FRONT OF ME!”

His friend immediately looked away. I think he was embarrassed. I know I would have been.

“You have to start being a nicer person.”

That’s all I knew to say. I reached into to my bag to find my salvation. I dug around looking for the wires, the little ear buds, the line I use as fuel that will hopefully drive me to disappear. My iPod has become that instrument. It’s a tool I use to distribute relaxation or, simply to avoid reality.

“I NEED TO BE NICER? YOU’RE THE ONE WHO CUT IN FRONT OF ME! SO I PUSHED YOU! I’D DO IT AGAIN!”

I put in my headphones and my head filled with music. I needed something loud to drown him out. He was not letting this go. Girls Vs. Boys was what I settled on. And only now, while writing this, do I realize the irony of my choice. Girl was definitely losing. And Boy persisted. I searched the inside of my head to try and figure out what phrase, sentence, or word I might say that would put an end to the confrontation. I came up empty.

“Could you please just let this one go?”

I turned the music up louder. This time, I really couldn’t hear him. And at Bedford Avenue I got out of the car and moved to another one.

When I got home, I couldn’t help but play it over and over again in my head. I tossed it around and let the sharp edges of the memory poke me with each turn. How is it this goofy interaction got to me so much? Why was I letting it invade my evening? I thought about things I could have said or done to make the interaction move more graciously. I came up with nothing. And with that the evening’s commute was punctuated with a sigh.

A little over a week ago, I wrote a really long post about Bodies: The Exhibition. Since then, I have received many, many comments about the post usually in the form of an email. Most of them were positive, a few not so much.

Here’s the deal. About three years ago, there was something in the news about an exhibit called “Body Worlds”. I barely paid attention to it at the time because I thought religious zealots began the whole stink. Recently, I have found out what it was really about. Apparently the fella who began BodyWorlds was under attack for possibly attaining the bodies illegally. There was a massive ethical debate over whether this was right. After all, he was using these bodies for profit and they weren’t always displayed kindly. This wasn’t done in the name of science; it’s not backed by any major medical organization. Now, I might be wrong about some of these details, so please, by all means, correct me should I report something incorrectly.

The German fella, Gunther Von Hagens, started BodyWorlds. Bodies: The Exhibition was started by an Asian man who was once Günter’s and has since moved on with a competing exhibit. That exhibit is the one I wrote about.

Last Thursday, a man who works for Bodies contacted me.

Hey, Michele. You left your email address and phone number with us after you went through the exhibition. I really liked your email address, mihow.com. Can I volunteer for you? Perhaps we can work out some type of bartering? Great work.

I listened to it again trying to figure out what he was saying. And quite honestly, I’m still unsure. Instead of calling him back right away, I waited. I wanted to talk to Toby about it. If this guy had read my site, I might have some explaining to do because the further removed I was from the exhibit, the more and more the potentially unethical way in which these bodies were attained bugged me. I needed to find out more about this whole ethical debate because the more and more I thought about it, the more and more it became glaringly clear that there was no way ALL those specimens were donated entirely in the name of science. No way at all. Seriously.

Back in the day, scientists, medical doctors, people who wanted to save lives, pursued drastic measures in order to study the human body. Before science enabled people like myself to donate their body, people actually dug up the dead in order to study them. Sometimes, they would do so right at the gravesites.

When I heard about this, I remember thinking, “Well, it’s gross and might seem wrong, but if you’re none the wiser and they save future lives with their knowledge, is that wrong?” No harm done, right? I deemed this act as a good one.

Donating your body to science in order to better the lives of the living I have deemed as a right and kind act.

The Mutter museum in Philadelphia, set up for medical students at University of Penn, is an educational experience. Many of the specimens you’ll see there are made from wax. I have been a fond patron of the Mutter museum and have learned from the experience time and time again. Again, I have deemed the Mutter Museum as good.

In Garden State, Mark (Peter Sarsgaard) steals jewelry from the dead and sells it for profit. I deemed this act as a bad one. But then, at the end, when he returns a sentimental piece of jewelry to Largeman because it makes more sense that it’s with him than in the ground with his dead mother. Well, that changed things a bit. I deemed this act as a forgivable one. (I know that last part was seized from fiction. But it still triggered the taboo button.)

Unethically attaining bodies for profit, even if we the public learns from said display, I feel is very, very wrong. I have tried to convince myself otherwise, because the exhibit, and my own mortality, without a doubt, inspired me. But no matter how I felt after the exhibit, I always come back to that same thought: had I discovered that one of those bodies was actually a member of my family, it would have brought me to tears. I’d want nothing more than to take them down from the display, cover them with a blanket and finally lay them to rest.

I’m an organ donor and plan on donating my body to science when I die. I figure that in order understand the living we have to also understand the dead. I realize that donating a body to science can better the greater common good. But unethically taking bodies and using them to profit seems like the work of a madman, or (for the religious) the Devil himself.

It’s been a week since I got the phone call and I’m still torn. After receiving an email from him over the weekend, I wrote him back to find out a little more about his needs and what he might expect from me. He was vague with his answer but wishes to meet with me to discuss it further. A part of me wants to go “undercover” and find out whatever I can about the people behind the exhibit because knowing the truth might help me to come to terms with my struggle. Knowing the truth might also make me feel worse.

A little over week OK, I received a phone call from the producer of the Rachel Maddow show asking for my address and email address. I obliged. On Thursday evening, when Toby Joe and I got back to the apartment, I had a letter waiting for me. It was from Air America Radio. Enclosed was a (handwritten) letter from Rachel Maddow saying she received the Bush T-shirts and enjoyed them quite a bit.

See? That’s all it takes to make a gal’s day. It’s that simple.

Yesterday, was Toby Joe’s birthday. He’s now 28. For a little more than a month, I will be only 3 years his senior.

Every time Toby Joe has a birthday, I want it to be spectacular. And every time I feel like a failure because, well, that’s impossible. But I could make it semi-spectacular, you’d think. This year, I felt really bad. We didn’t even go to Chuck E. Cheese. Plus, the ONE SHOW he wanted to watch on OnDemand wouldn’t play. I even called the number and they were like, “Dude, what do you want us to do kick other people off the system? It’s busy. Deal with it.” And I was all, “YES, you chump, it’s his birthday. For the love of God, please let us watch Episode three of Sleeper Cell. Please?”

Nothing.

Instead, I put him to work decorating cookies and designing a new Web site we’re working on. Someday, I’ll figure out how to give him 100% blissful happiness without the need for narcotics or hookers or shows about terrorism.

(Happy belated birthday, Beaner. I’m sorry about Sleeper Cell. I’m also sorry about the cookies and the Web site work.)

Rachel Maddow brought this one to my attention this morning. It’s Harold Pinter’s Noble Peace prize acceptance speech. He spoke about America quite a bit. Some of it is bound to hit a nerve or two. If you have the ability to listen to it, click here. There is something powerful in hearing his voice.

Here is one segment Maddow played for her listner’s today:

I put to you that the United States is without doubt the greatest show on the road. Brutal, indifferent, scornful and ruthless it may be but it is also very clever. As a salesman it is out on its own and its most saleable commodity is self love. It’s a winner. Listen to all American presidents on television say the words, ‘the American people’, as in the sentence, ‘I say to the American people it is time to pray and to defend the rights of the American people and I ask the American people to trust their president in the action he is about to take on behalf of the American people.

Ouch.

The invasion of Iraq was a bandit act, an act of blatant state terrorism, demonstrating absolute contempt for the concept of international law. The invasion was an arbitrary military action inspired by a series of lies upon lies and gross manipulation of the media and therefore of the public; an act intended to consolidate American military and economic control of the Middle East masquerading – as a last resort – all other justifications having failed to justify themselves – as liberation. A formidable assertion of military force responsible for the death and mutilation of thousands and thousands of innocent people.

Ouch. Ouch.

If you can’t listen to it but are interested in reading the rest do so by clicking here.

Pretty powerful stuff.

The situation that took place in Florida yesterday sent shivers down my spine. Actually, it kind of terrified me. While I realize that not everything is about me nor should everything be about me, I find it almost impossible to not think selfishly sometimes especially when it concerns my biggest, most irrational fear. People say there is no such thing as a selfless act. I believe that. It’s probably safe to say that one thinks selfishly as well.

While the details are still fuzzy, I heard today that Rigoberto Alpizar suffered from Bi-Polar Disorder. As reports are released, we’re finding he was “a nice guy” who apparently completely freaked out while onboard the American Airline flight headed to Orlando. There is a member in my family who suffers from an extreme case of Bi-Polar Disorder. I keep thinking about him especially considering he resembles Rigoberto at least in the picture featured on CNN today.

In mid-November a French woman, who was drunk on alcohol and who had taken sleeping pills to thwart her fear of flying, tried to open the airplane door in order to smoke a cigarette. She remembers nothing of the act. Who can say whether she was indeed freaking out at the time or if this is a story concocted up by her lawyer to receive a lesser sentence, either way, she decided in some altered state of mind that it’d be perfectly OK to open the door of the plane and step outside for a smoke. She was lucky. She wasn’t shot to death.

When I fly, I enter a deranged state of mind. All rational thought leaves me. I need constant reassurance from Toby Joe. Constant. Every sound, smell, cough, sputter, twist, turn, ebb, announcement, hell, even complete silence sends me into a state of panic. Nothing seems right. Nothing.

Do guns really you feel safer while flying? Right after September 11th, 2001, I was absolutely got behind arming air marshals onboard all flights. I felt safer somehow knowing they could take down anyone who might cause harm. After all, had there been armed men onboard any or all of the flights the morning of September 11th, 2001 things may have been different today.

But during a time where tensions are high, anger is right below the surface fueled by raw fear; I can’t say it makes me feel that safe anymore. As far as I’m concerned, as long as the people working in the actual airport are doing their job, screening each and every customer boarding each and every flight, I don’t see the need anymore for having armed air marshals inside a giant can 30,000 feet above sea level. Do you feel safer onboard a flight surrounded by armed air marshals? I’m just not sure anymore.

When Toby Joe and I lived in San Francisco, I worked for Gay.com. I wasn’t there long, but I was there long enough to discover how important it is to have such a site for men and women who are gay, bisexual or transgender. I also realized how tightly knit that community is. It’s reassuring knowing there are groups out there willing to take a stand to see change.

I was a multi-media designer for Gay.com. I worked on banners ads, campaigns, and print advertisements as well. The bulk of my work, was creating Flash banner ads for the many sites that PlanetOut Inc. owned. One of my largest campaigns, was a system of flash banners for Jaguar. I worked hard on that campaign. It was one of my better pieces that came out of my time working for Gay.com.

Around the same time I worked on Jaguar, Coors Brewing Company was facing a massive backlash from the Gay community when it was discovered that a large portion of profits were being donated to anti-gay organizations such as American Family Association. I remember reading about it back then. Bars in San Francisco stopped carrying the beer. Gay and lesbian people (as well as straight supporters) took a stand and got the word out informing people to stop the consumption of all products distributed by Coors. It was a huge success. Their actions spoke in novels. Coors changed their ways and issued apologies. (I read an article back then and am currently trying to find it. As it stands, all I can find right now is this blurb. I will post more when I find more.)

Today, while listening to the Rachel Maddow Show. I learned that the American Family Association is at it again. After threatening to boycott the Ford Motor Company for advertising in gay magazines, Ford has pulled all advertising from gay magazines, online and off. My Jaguar campaign is one of the past. And I hate to break it to Ford, but if they thought a boycott from The American Family Association was bad, wait until they face one from the gay community. Alienating the gay community in order to appeal to this small, right wing group out of Mississippi will not be good for business. I think we’re going to see a pretty massive backlash over the next couple of months. And I’m curious to see how their profits shift. I’m also curious to hear what others think about this.

(Please note: I recreated all the graphics used in this post except for “Bodies: the Exhibition�?. They may not read exactly word for word with what was actually there.)

On Friday night, Toby Joe and I went to see Bodies: The Exhibition. I was told we’d find the exhibit on the second floor of a building along the touristy strip that makes up lower Manhattan’s South Street Seaport. As we walked toward the river, a chorus sang Christmas carols while tourists took temporary photographs with every kind of digital camera made. They seemed desperate to capture the moment. Flashes were flickering like fireflies breaking up the wind and the cold and the dark sky. The chorus sang “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.” After they finished, a plump man suggested the listeners purchase a CD. Eye contact fell to the street. The flashes disappeared like shooting stars hitting Earth’s atmosphere. He knew they were just there to listen.

The Gap’s doors stood open. Two women shopped together, asking questions they’d asked other people before, people who probably gave the same responses. In a restaurant on the opposite corner people dined behind large glass windows. The restaurant pretended to be one-of-a-kind. And even if it was, I couldn’t help but compare it to every major American food chain. People were sipping frozen margaritas. Nachos were being consumed at a fantastic rate.

“I think the place is on the left,�? I said. “I seem to remember it being number 11. I know it’s on the second floor.”

“Well, that’s number 17. So it must be on this side.”

We continued on. There was a dark building on the left-hand side. Cops were guarding the doorways. Out of the corner of my eye, I discovered a story-high picture of what appeared to be a corpse. This must be the place.

We exchanged words with the security guards and I walked up to the “Will Call” window to claim our tickets. After that, we continued on up the escalators to the second floor.

I saw the words COAT CHECK painted on the wall. Other words surrounded it but they were smaller.

The designer in me, and more specifically my love for language and typography, found that part to be beautiful.

We left our coats with the man behind the counter. There were little signs printed out and taped to the countertop.

The neurotic “Do I tip this person?” side of me found that part to be beautiful. If only they could be this clear at full-service gas stations, valet parking lots, during Fresh Direct deliveries or when picking up food to go.

The place was dark. Words making up sentences danced along the wall in 500+ point typography. Questions such as “Why do women have wider hips than men?” and “How many breaths do you take a minute?” lined the walls. Spotlights kept them illuminated. Like random thoughts that come to mind every day, the questions came and went as we walked by them.

We entered the exhibit. Standing directly before me was a body. The body had no skin. One could see his muscles, his eyes, and his bones. He stood there, staring directly at me, his eyes wide and full and fake. Eyelashes surrounded each glass eye. The eyelashes were real. Toby and I stood there looking directly at him. My imagination saw his eyes move and then I forgot about my imagination and I really saw his eyes move. I looked away, feeling shameful.

“Look at him, Toby. His eyes moved.”

His eyes never moved. But I guess part of me wanted them to. Suddenly, I wanted to cry. The compassionate part of me found that part to be beautiful.

We peered into some of the glass boxes. The cross-sections of bones and cartilage were displayed before us. The exhibit began with structure. And my life began to seem a little less meaningful.

Somewhere below us, a party was taking place. We could hear singing, word-for-word, as they belted out wedding party songs.

“Is there a karaoke machine somewhere?” I asked Toby. “It sounds like someone might be singing karaoke.”

A woman standing to our right nodded as she looked at someone’s sacrum. “It’s a little inappropriate.” We all agreed in silence.

One display featured a man’s bones being held up by his very own muscles. The two specimens held one another up using pieces of the same fingertips. Only there were no fingertips. Up until that moment I hadn’t once thought that I might one day hold up my muscles with my very own bones or my bones with my very own muscles while they looked at one another.

“Do you think anyone would ever guess that they’d be in this position one day?” I asked Toby. “How totally bizarre. That’s the same person.”

“It’s raining men, Michele”

It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about. Then, I heard it bubbling up from below. Someone was singing “It’s Raining Men, Hallelujah” from the restaurant beneath us.

I walked around to the back of the man throwing the football. The skin had been removed from his rear end exposing his muscles, ligaments, and bones. I read the text that accompanied the display. I looked back at the exhibit.

“It’s raining men. Hallelujah. It’s raining men.” I wished that it would go away.

I felt bad for staring at this man’s body especially given the soundtrack, a soundtrack I had no control over. So, I wrote him a letter in my head.

“I kind of want to know their names.” I told Toby. “Don’t you wish you knew where they were from? How long they lived? What they died from? What they did when they had skin?”

“The ethical thing is to keep the personality separate from the body. In America, when you donate your body to science, you’re reassured your body will remain separate from your personality.”

“Yeah. But still, don’t you wonder?”

“Of course.”

We continued on. We read about the foot’s bones, the hand’s bones, and the muscles that hold them all together. We read about the hipbone and how much weight it endures daily. I read about the Superficial Palmer Surface. I dug into my hand with my thumb and forefinger. I read about the Deep Palmer Sinus. I dug deeper into my hand with my thumb and forefinger, apologizing to the veins and muscles as I pressed.

“Do you smell food? I smell food. It’s a little disconcerting. I smell fried food.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Toby joked. “I don’t smell food. It must be this fella.” Toby pointed at the body that was posed as a maestro. I punched his arm.

“You’re crazy if you don’t smell food. Now, I smell coffee. It’s not these guys. That’s gross.”

We left the room.

The third room featured human hearts, arteries, and capillaries. They were dyed to show the different systems. They were held in a fluid and illuminated with UV light from above. The dyes were ultraviolet, making them scream against an otherwise dark room. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

I pointed at an open valve at the top of one of the hearts. “So, is this what didn’t close for Katrina? And then her heart flooded… is that how she died?”

Toby nodded.

As I walked though the exhibit, I felt more and more miniscule. I kept imagining that one day, after donating my own body to science, my heart or liver, kidney or leg might be tucked in one of those clear glass boxes and another couple might be resting their arms along its top, peering in at what’s left of me. For the bodies before me, life was a mere blink. They proved this so. They had no idea that life would be so short. They had no idea I was staring at them. I became saddened by the fact that one day a doctor or a medical student might be looking into my open skull, preparing to remove a part of my brain in order to understand and therefore enable someone else - who still breaths - to live a longer life. Are we more powerful in death than we are in life? This thought terrified me a little bit.

“I feel a little sick.” I whispered to Toby. “It’s not that I feel nauseous. I feel like I’m not breathing properly. I feel like an airbag. I feel empty.”

“Do you want to go?”

“No way. I just want you to know how I’m feeling.”

One room featured healthy organs compared with unhealthy ones. An abused liver - its mentor. A black lung - what it envies. A cancer-ridden colon—its healthy neighbor. The reproductive organs were truly fascinating especially the specimen featuring teeth and hair with grew in a woman’s ovary called ovarian teratomas. I couldn’t take my eyes off of this. But it’s easier to stare at the abnormal when it’s not a part of an otherwise complete human body. I stared and stared.

Toby lifted his eyebrow and pointed toward the sign. I knew what he was asking.

“I’m totally fine with this.”

We walked in and looked at the different stages of a fetus. Each one was put in a jar and submerged in liquid. The fetuses were illuminated from the top, in the same manner the veins were shown. They were lit with ultraviolet light.

At 8 weeks, I could see a human. Prior that time, it was hard to see much of anything at all. And the one-week-old fetus looked like a piece of human snot. There were a few moments during the time we spent in that room where I uttered sounds like “Awwww”. I just couldn’t help myself. The motherly side of me found that part to be beautiful.

The final room, which was the best lit and among the largest, featured an exhibit on obesity. The specimen was female. She had been cut in four sections. Its point was to show the viewer where and how an overweight woman stores fat. Another exhibit showed an entire human body cut in half-inch cross-sections. Its point was to show what an MRI machine sees. Another displayed the entire digestive system. This was perhaps the most ugly part of the body but whose job makes sense of that.

The final room also displayed the exhibit I felt was the most sensationalistic of the show. For me, it was perhaps the most shocking part. It displayed a full human figure. His arms were held above his head in what some might call a “Jesus Christ Pose.” It’s as if he were hanging from the ceiling by imaginary rope. Skin was left on in rings. The point was to show how it fell along certain muscles and what it looked like and why.

“That looks a little Silence of the Lambs.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t really bother me.”

The self-conscious side of me found that part upsetting.

At the very end of the exhibition, we were allowed to hold different parts of the human body. The specimens were preserved. All the water molecules were replaced with silicon based molecules so we could hand them as freely as we wanted. Among them was a tibia, a healthy lung slice, a lung slice with emphysema, and artery with fat deposits, and a healthy liver. I watched a young couple shyly try and touch them. The man touched the artery.

“Did you just wipe your finger on me?” His girlfriend laughed.

The men behind the counter reassured them that the specimens were completely preserved. It was my turn to try it.

The liver seemed to weigh a ton. And I found myself thinking, “If I didn’t have a liver, I’d be at least three pounds lighter than I am right now.”

The vain side of me found that part to be comical.

I signed up as a volunteer. The human body fascinates me. I am fascinated by death. In another life, or perhaps a version of the one I have now that comes a little later, I’d like to be a coroner. Exhibits such as these push that dream closer and closer to becoming my reality.

At 3 AM on Saturday morning, I was awoken for no apparent reason other than a feeling of emptiness. I felt I needed to admit something to someone. Perhaps the Catholic in me felt guilty for what I had done. This was the closest I have ever come to a relapse. Seeing those who are dead and made immortal through art can leave a stain on one’s conscience in much the same way a poor diet might on an internal organ.

Was it OK that I spent an evening with the dead? Was it OK that I learned from them? Should I visit them again? Yes. I really want to. I will remain fascinatingly haunted by the fact that teeth and hair can sometimes grow inside ovaries. I keep picturing fetuses submerged in liquid kept in jars, testicular cancer, bumpy rectums, the colorful, beautiful, breathtaking veins which make up each of our personal cities, as well as the skinny bones that hold it all together.

The mortal side of me found the exhibition to be beautiful. But it hasn’t been as easy to sleep.

Tonight, Toby Joe and I are heading down the South Street Seaport to see Bodies: The Exhibition.

I’ve been interested in seeing this for quite some time. The idea fascinates me. I’ll be sure to report back later.

I just hit an all time low. It seems that I made the mistake of admitting to the designers I work with that I have an unexplainable crush on Patrick Dempsey. Oh, to have him offer to pay my dry-cleaning bill after spilling wine on mother’s white leather fringe jacket circa 1981. Teenage date- rape fantasy, indeed. (The hell?)

Today, I sat down at my computer and discovered that the guy who sits next to me had pinned a magazine picture to my wall. Patrick is staring at me as I type this. Here is some of what’s written on the page to the left of us fabulous hair.

1). That fabulous hair. “It’s my biggest asset and my biggest flaw. It takes hours to look like it hasn’t been studied.”

2). That body. “Here I am, I’m almost 40, I’m going to stay in shape. I go to the gym as much as possible.”

3). The attention of costar Kate Walsh. who plays his recently revealed wife (and I fine entirely unattractive in that Tori Spelling kind of way.). “He’s got those beautiful eyes and he’s super funny. And very charming.”

4). More fun in his scrubs. “Yeah, every now and then I’ll wear them home. It’s always fun to play doctor.”

Truthfully, I think the only reason I like him is because I think he sort of looks like Sean Penn. And I’m having trouble continuing my obsession for Sean Penn after the whole boat fiasco. There was a time where Sean Penn could have totally been a back door friend.

It appears a teenage girl moved into my cubicle today.

Hello, people of the Internet. Remember the Gotham Girls? Remember Anna aka Leggs Luthor? I adore Anna. She’s hot. Anyway, she just informed me about their new adventure in merchandising. Get it while supplies last!

These vixens have produced a most amazing calendar. Not only are the calendars super hot and filled with wonderfully sexy images, but they make great gifts, too. Buy one for your boyfriend! Buy one for your ladyfriend! Buy one for your mom.

Who wouldn’t want to own something sporting an image like this:

Interested? Click here or on the images above to find out more. (Maybe, Anna will stop by and tell us more about it. hint hint, my lady. For example, I wonder if Leggs Luther is in it.)

On Tuesday, I sent a batch of Bush T-Shirts over to the Air America staff, namely Rachel Maddow. I considered walking them over, as I am literally a few blocks from their offices, but I didn’t want to come off as creepy. So I mailed a box to them and a little letter, too.

The letter lies below in its entirety.

_Hi Rachel (or a dedicated intern or assistant).

My husband and I are big fans of The Rachel Maddow Show. The podcast gets us through our commute each day and gives us more than a few laughs. Thanks for that!

I’ve enclosed a bunch of t-shirts I made as an unsolicited gift to anyone at the station. These aren’t for any promotion or anything—I’m just a gal who enjoys making things.

My name is Michele. I designed the shirts about two years ago and printed them in May.

The initial idea was to try and sell them to folks who visit my site (mihow.com) but I’m not a very good salesperson.

The run was pretty small (200 shirts) so I decided to just give them away.

When Katrina hit the gulf, I sent about 50 to a Salvation Army in Baton Rouge, along with three other boxes filled with bedding, clothing, shoes, and other items I felt the victims could use. I decided to give the rest away at local benefits. After all was said and done, I found that I had quite a few left over.

I saw the documentary “Left of the Dial” over the Thanksgiving weekend, and thought I should send a bunch of the remaining shirts to the folks at Air America.

The shirts are kind of silly, but I think the point has only gotten stronger since I drew the first cartoon two years back. Besides, if any group of people can appreciate an off-color critique of our dearest leader, it’s the Air America crew.

I hope they will make at least one person there smile—and perhaps I’ll see someone wearing one on the train one day!

Sincerely yours, Michele_

This will make my sixth whatever you’d like to call it at getting these into the hands of random people everywhere. First, there was the time I messengered over a bunch to Jon Stewart. I followed that chorus of crickets by sending a bunch down to a Baton Rouge Salvation Army around the same time I donated money to the Red Cross for each story I received on mihow.com. (Some the people in Baton Rouge have visited my site because of it.) And then there was the time Toby Joe and I put on up downtown on September 11th, 2005. We had a really great time that day. On October 7th, I brought a bunch of t-shirts to a NOLA benefit at Enid’s in Greenpoint where I gave a bunch away. They were very well received. I ran out of shirts before I ran out of empty hands. And then most recently, after receiving a head’s up email from my gal, Gina, I sent another batch over to Kurt Vonnegut’s publisher.

I never expect to hear anything from anyone. But I’m having a blast casting out a line or two every once and a while. It breaks up the monotony of my day. Plus, I’m getting so used to rejection that being ignored ain’t nothing.