(If we don’t get too distracted as I am really naked, too.)

7:30 PM: Call Missy to see if she knows of a public place to watch the SOU.

7:35 PM: Stop in Mugs Ale House. Bartender laughs at my inquiry about whether or not it will be shown.

7:50 PM: Stop by Matchless. Woman says “I will if people want me to. But we’re not planning on it.”

7:53 PM: Stop by Enid’s. Enid’s has a large screen projection featuring Seinfeld. The staff and their two customers are awaiting American Idol (which will be followed by the State of the Union) Bartender actually laughs at Toby Joe and says, “I don’t want to watch that.”

8:15 PM: Call Daddy’s. Bartender says, “We weren’t planning on it, but we really should. I think my clientele would leave though.

8:16 PM: Give up on watching outside of house.

8:30 PM: Order food. Turn on TV. Decide to do this.

8:45 PM: Reported that Cindy Sheehan has been arrested. The reason: She was in her seat in the house chamber and started to unroll a banner in her lap. They were watching her. It was against the rules. They arrested her and are questioning her for one hour.

9:02 PM: Pour a glass of wine. Wait.

9:04 PM: Laura is wearing PINK. LIKE PINK PINK! Pink Laura Bush.

9:08 PM: Bush enters. Everyone claps. And stands. Everyone claps and stands.

9:11 PM: Bush is introduced at 9:11. Oh, 9:11.

9:12 PM: Opens with a mention of Coretta Scott King. Kind moment.

9:15 PM: Brought up 9/11.

9:16 PM: Focusing a lot on freedom around the world. Mentions that democracy is spreading across the world but doesn’t mention Palestine and the fact that the results weren’t positive.

9:17 PM: Brings up Osama (But has been quoted as not caring where he is.) Really pushing fear and all those murderous terrorists.

9:20 PM: Mentions Nazi’s for the first time without using the actual word. (Progress!)

9:22 PM: Brings up the fact that in three years a dictatorship was changed to a sovereign nation. Says we are, in fact, winning.

9:23 PM: (Pour another glass of wine.)

9:24 PM: Slights Murtha.

9:25 PM: Speaks directly to Congress. “Hindsight is not the same as wisdom.” States no matter how anyone feels about the past and the decisions made, we have to come together and stand behind our military and see this through, united. Everyone stands up to clap. (Of course everyone does. How about a plan for exiting?)

9:27 PM: Introduces a mother and father and wife of a dead soldier. Brings up how important our soldiers are.

9:32 PM: Brings up America’s compassion for the world: HIV/AIDs, Malaria, education for women in other countries, USA IS A PARTNER FOR A BETTER LIFE. America is compassionate. America must remain defensive against Terrorism. Thanks domestic security.

9:34 PM: Asks that we reinstate the Patriot Act.

9:35 PM: Brings up wiretapping. Is VERY passionate about the choice he made. Did what he did (and necessary members of Congress) in order to not get attacked again.

9:36 PM: Our president really, really likes the word ‘Freedom’.

9:37 PM: 4.6 Million new jobs. Economic performance that is “the envy of the world”.

9:39 PM: Brings up immigrants. Brings up the fact that some think they are bad for the economy. States that “this nation could not function without them.” (I could not agree more.)

9:40 PM: (I am finding this very hard to do. I’m boring myself but will finish, by god. I will.)

9:40 PM: MAKE THE TAX CUTS PERMANENT. (Everyone stands. Of course they do. They’re getting the cuts. How about you, I don’t know, RAISE THE MINIMUM WAGE?)

9:42 PM: Kill 140 programs that are costing “American dollars”. Federal budget has too many “special interest” projects.

9:42 PM: Leave comment that I am touching myself. Drink more wine.

9:43 PM: Bush states that the Baby-Boomer generation is basically gonna bankrupt the country. Social Security, yadda yadda. A lot of Dems stand up and cheer as they shut his bill down. Or something.

9:44 PM: Asks that everyone finally get along while on the playground to get the problem solved. (Let’s play some kickball, yeah?)

9:45 PM: Global trade. Buy American. No one can out-produce the American worker. TRENTON MAKES THE WORLD TAKES! Yay Trenton!

9:46 PM: Reduce crime at the border. If you’re an immigrant and you’re already HERE, you’re fine. But the rest of you? So dead.

9:47 PM: Health care. (My favorite part) Affordable for workers. Asks Congress to pass a medical liability reform this year. (I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll find out.)

9:48 PM: Done with Healthcare. That was EASY! Now, we’re on to how we’re addicted to oil. (Screws up the word Nuclear. But that’s OK. I do that shit all the time. He’s forgiven for that from thy mihow.)

9:49 PM: Said the word “corn.”

9:49 PM: Mentions the desire to get away from our dependence on Middle Eastern Oil. Wants to make it a thing of the past. Aim is for 2025.

9:50 PM: Cheney’s little head just peered in from the side.

9:52 PM: Totally pushing the Math and Science and giving it to the kids to compete with other kids in other countries. (You know, might I suggest adding some more P.E. classes, too. I mean, yeah, they might know 3.14 but there’s another pie that’s like really powerful.)

9:55 PM: Brought up his anti-abortion stance.

9:57 PM: Followed that with the introduction of new Supreme Court judges.

9:57 PM: Brought up human life and how important it is and how no human life - embryonic research, or not - should EVER be bought or sold or created or discarded. (In other words, during this part, he was speaking to his fundamentalists—his base.)

9:59 PM: Pour another glass of wine.

10:00 PM: (I get pregnant.)

10:00.30s PM: (Have an abortion.)

10:01 PM: Brings up AIDS and African Americans being biggest victims. Continues to say he’s working with faith-based groups and churches to stop HIV infections. (Oh, yeah, that will help^)

10:02 PM: I think he’s wrapping up. He’s using words like ‘Morals’, and ‘Confidence’... yeah. It’s over. ‘God Bless America.’

10:03 PM: I am not smarter. Nor are you. I know this. You do, too. But, by God, did I ever need all this practice typing.

10:55 PM: Tobyjoe teaches me about the “straw man.” That is all.

Over the weekend, no matter what form of media we came in contact with, no matter what radio station, TV station, magazine or newspaper we held, everything was about James Frey, Oprah and the fact that he wrote a book and apparently lied through a lot of it.

Air America’s Satellite Sisters interviewed Bill of The Smoking Gun. They also interviewed two publishers and a writer. They took calls from irate Americans. And then CNN interviewed another batch of publishers and asked people what they thought. I even wrote in.. The New York Times published an article about how Oprah Trumped Truthiness. (The best part about the printed version was that at one point, they accidentally spelled Mr. Oprah instead of Ms. Oprah.) You can’t get away from this story if you try.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t read the book. I never will. I couldn’t care less about Mr. Frey but don’t wish to offend anyone in saying so. I am curious to hear how others feel about the whole scandal. Do you care? Why? Why do you think others care so much?

This morning CNN asked “What do you think?” about the whole James Frey scandal. I figured, what the hell? It’s my birthday, I’m going to send them an email.

To Whom it May Concern:

I’m more disturbed with the fact that the American people are worked up over this than with the fact that the Bush Administration may have illegally wiretapped countless Americans.

I wish we had this much passion for the Constitution.

Michele Howley www.mihow.com

Happy Birthday to me!

There’s an article in today’s New York Times called “New Poll Finds Mixed Support For Wiretaps. Majority Accepts Them To Combat Terrorism.” Surrounded by “Si Ves Algo! Di Algo!” signage, I read the entire article on the train this morning. If you’re interested in reading, click here. Basically, depending on the way the questions were asked, people are pretty much OK with the Bush Administration monitoring phone calls and email if it’s done to combat terrorism.

Like many topics announced to the public by the Bush Administration, the whole wire tap story is being spun. While the poll given by The New York Times and CBS News wasn’t necessarily spun, I feel it exlemplifies exactly how good this Administration is at spinning something to their advantage.

Here’s how the questions were asked. (The complete polling sample was split; each half was asked one question.

All began this way:

In order to reduce the threat of terrorism, would you be willing to allow government agencies to monitor the telephone calls and e-mail of…

This is where they split them. Half received this:

Americans on a regular basis?

The other half this:

Americans that the Government is suspicious of?

Here’s how it broke down:

In order to reduce the threat of terrorism, would you be willing to allow government agencies to monitor the telephone calls and e-mail of Americans on a regular basis?

Willing = 28%

In order to reduce the threat of terrorism, would you be willing to allow government agencies to monitor the telephone calls and e-mail of Americans that the Government is suspicious of?

Willing = 68%

Basically, the poll illustrates exactly what you’d expect. If one were to listen The Bush Administration puts it, one would be less likely to see it as illegal or, for lack of a better phrase, absolutely wrong. If one were to listen to its critics, one might perceive this as an infringement on civil liberties.

The poll found that 53 percent of Americans approved of Mr. Bush’s authorizing eavesdropping without prior court approval “in order to reduce the threat of terrorism”; 46 percent disapproved. When the question was asked stripped of any mention of terrorism, 46 percent of those respondents approved, and 50 percent said they disapproved.

It’s been a “heck of a year” for the Republican Party. There’s corruption all over the news. People are resigning left and right (pun intended). Congress is getting blasted for trading votes for bribes. More than 50 percent of our nation believe that Congress regularly “accept bribes or gifts that affect their votes.” Like, I said, it’s been a heck of a term and we’re not even halfway through.

Let’s say the Administration were squeaky clean and they’d gone ahead with wiretaps without a warrant. Had their not been scandal after scandal after scandal, I might be willing to trust that they’re taking care of America. But based on the political climate as of late, I just don’t trust this Administration. I don’t believe it when they say they’re looking out for my best interest. Where this Administration is concerned, I believe that they’re looking out for their own.

I’d love to hear other reactions. How do you feel about the whole wiretap situation? Do you feel they should have obtained a warrant? Please share.

We’ve been slacking pretty hardcore on this site. Actually, for a while it seemed it was considering taking its own life. There’s been a resurgence, recently. I’m proud to say that we’ve had several people join. Tell a friend.

I’m happy to report that Toby Joe and I have another project in the works. The new project is a much bigger one, so it’s taking a bit more time than SPD (which was done in less than two days.) Once it’s up, I think it’s going to be a great addition to the Internet. And everyone here will be the first to know about it. In the meantime, take a peak over here. Look through the archives. Tell someone, “Hello.”

Sometimes, in the morning, I visit the deli across the street from where I work and order two eggs with cheese. The army of men working behind the counter can’t seem to get my orders right but because I’m not sure where else to go, I continue my patronage.

“I’d like two eggs scrambled with cheese. That’s it. I don’t want any meat. No roll. No carne.”

“Two eggs with cheese on a roll?”

“No. I don’t want a roll. Just the eggs. Scrambled.”

“Ok.”

I walk away from the counter and give someone else a turn. From behind the line, I watch the man crack my eggs, beat them in a metal bowl, and dump them out onto the grill.

At this point, I decide that it’s safe to grab water and some soy crisps for later. I do so. I return a few minutes later and wait.

“Egg and cheese on a roll!”

The guy I spoke to earlier is standing before me holding a wrapped sandwich in his hands. He’s holding it above the counter, dangling it in the air. I can see hovering above everyone else’s head.

Now, I know I could take the sandwich and remove the eggs once I get to work. After all, that’s what he does. (He also adds the tainted roll BACK in line with the other waiting buns. I often leave wondering about the cleanliness of the establisment.)

I choose to tell the man about his error.

“I said NO ROLL. I just want the eggs.”

We’re all given choices. And that’s when I decide that what he chooses to do is the wrong choice. Because, on this particular occasion, he chooses to argue with me.

“No. You asked for egg and cheese on a roll.”

He begins to remove the egg and cheese from the bun. He tosses the bun back and sends the container skidding across the counter.

I turn to leave. As I’m waiting in line at another counter to pay, I watch a tall man walk in through the front door, grab a 16-ounce can of beer, and casually move away from the deli. While he’s hurried, he’s not hurried enough. I see him open the can of Miller Hi-Life and take a long pull from it.

At first, I think that I must have imagined this. And then it occurs to me that someone must be filming a movie. I work right next to Grand Central Station, certainly this was a scene in a movie. Surely, this guy didn’t just steal a can of Miller Hi-Life.

The guy just stole a can of beer.

It’s not 9 AM, yet. I find I’m more annoyed with the fact that someone feels the need to drink that early in the morning than I am with the actual crime. For me, the dive is the crime. I’m left wondering what, if anything, I should do.

I begin to reason. The guy behind the counter is constantly screwing up my order and my eggs and he is often rude about it. But the ALL-Asian female workforces up front are usually very sweet. Plus, they’re easy on the eyes. I immediately feel sorry for them because this outsider is getting away with their 16-Ounce beer. What if they are responsible for stolen merchandise? What if it comes out of their pockets? Should I tell the sweet Asian woman about the 9 AM beer thief?

I’m not sure what to do. But I do know this: in the time it has taken me to decide, the guy is long gone. Way to act, Michele.

“Hi. Yeah. I just saw a guy walk in and steal a beer from the ice bin up front. Not that you can chase him down, but you might want to reconsider storing the beer up front like that.”

The woman is confused. She looks hurt and flustered or maybe just confused. She runs out from behind the counter and looks toward the front where the remaining cans of beer have fallen in their comrade’s place.

The woman makes a sound. Alone, she’s powerless. That realization becomes clear by the look on her face. She gets back behind the counter. She gets back in line. She mutters something in another language. I have no idea if it’s directed to me or if she’s merely blowing off steam. We have our money exchange and I’m off.

Today, I went back to the deli to order my eggs. Like choreographed cast members, the same staff is in place. I wait for my turn to order.

More and more people file in. I try to enlarge myself, fluff my feathers so they know that I am first, that I haven’t ordered my eggs yet. Finally, it’s my turn.

“Good morning. I’ll have two eggs scrambled. No roll. Just two eggs in a container. I want cheese and NO meat.”

The guy says something to the other guy in Spanish. I watch them crack my eggs, beat them in a metal bowl, and dump them onto the flattop below. I walk away to retrieve a yogurt for later.

“Here you go ma’am!”

The guy is holding a wrapped sandwich in his hands. It dangles in the air. I take a deep breath.

“I said NO ROLL. I just want the eggs.”

The man in front of me turns around and looks at me. A very masculine woman is standing on his left. They do not know each other. If she had her way, she’d have him vanish. Her only concern is with when she gets to order. She’s visibly agitated.

The guy behind the counter looks annoyed with me, like it’s all my fault they can’t seem to get this right each and every day. Suddenly, I want to scream, “SOMEONE IS STEALING YOUR BEER! SO, HA!” But I don’t.

Instead, I mutter to myself.

“Every day. Every day. I am not sure how else to say it.”

Both the agitated lesbian and the man in front of me turn around and start to laugh. It’s clear that the woman needed to laugh because she is suddenly very pleasant. They both nod in agreement. The Lesbian woman begins to talk to me.

“Next time, order a bun. Really. They’ll get it right if you order the bun.”

I walk to the check-out counter; I do the usual dance with the Asian woman. We exchange monies and deliver pleasantries. I walk toward the ice coolers and nod at the 16-ounce beer cans. I notice the Miller Hi-Life aluminum army has fallen in on themselves once again. Like wounded soldiers, they appear to sigh along with me.

(With headlines like the one above, I could totally work for the New York Post.)

Yesterday, while listening to The Rachel Maddow PodCast, I was made privy to the story that took place in Easton, Pennsylvania on the 23rd. Basically, for you anti-clickers out there, a woman ordered from McDonald’s. She then drove to Wal Mart and decided to eat her meal in her car in the parking lot. When she was finished eating her burger or whatever, she decided she didn’t want the lettuce any longer. She rolled down the window and threw the remains out the car window. She was cited for littering. She owes $173.50.

Lettuce comes from the ground, therefore it can go back into the ground, It‘s biodegradable. I didn‘t think I was doing anything wrong.

She failed to appear in court, deciding the fine was stupid. I suppose.

This small story has spawned one heck of a debate between myself and Toby Joe (we happen to be on the same side but we’re still discussing it.) and several people on the Internet. Some people feel that since it came from the land, it can be thrown back to the land. Others believe that this could potentially harm animals as many try and eat the discarded food.

Inspired by her thoughtless actions, I left a comment on a community site (something I normal shy away from). I was going to copy and paste that comment here but I think everyone out there knows how I feel about it. Plus, for me and my prejudices, it doesn’t help that she ordered from McDonald’s and then ate it at Wal Mart.

I can’t stand it when people throw apple cores out their car window. Cigarette butts can be seen everywhere you go. Some feel that the beach is actually a giant ashtray. Most of New York city is paved with used, old gum. I find it disgusting. And everyone knows how If eel about discarded chicken bones. I say, fine the hell out of her. Maybe next time she’ll think twice.

I started writing a long, long post about yesterday. And then it began to bore me. So I’m certain it’d have bored everyone else as well.

Some of you may or may not remember the story from about three years ago where I cut my pointer finger so badly they had to remove the fingernail and sew the skin from the left-hand-side of the finger into what was left of the nail bed. Yeah, that hurt. Maybe this will jog your memory:

Well, yesterday, I did it again. This time, I got my thumbnail. It wasn’t nearly as bad, but I did manage to cut off half of my thumbnail and a section of my thumb. The good news is I didn’t get many stitches. The bad news is, it was because there wasn’t enough actual affected skin to do so. The even worse news is I severed some of the nerves so I can’t really feel the tip of my thumb. But that’s OK, because 7 years ago, I severed the nerves on my right thumb and I managed to live through that.

I cut myself at 3:30. My nail was glued back into place by 6 PM. Eventually it will fall off. I’m fine with that. After all, I was the one who begged them NOT to remove my fingernail. I am not sure I want to live through that again. While having a nail removed doesn’t actually hurt, dealing with the aftermath, in fact, does.

The worst part, by far, was the anesthesia. They really dig into you with those needles. Anesthesia is very painful and annoying. I have no idea how I will ever survive Novocain should I ever have to get it. Ouch. I found it humorous that when something is numbed from anesthesia, it feels unbelievably HUGE. My thumb felt like a giant fleshy appendage. Weird. I also found the fact that for ONE stitch, she inserted three needles worth of anestetia. Looking back, I almost wish I had dealt with the suture and the cleansing sans the numbing agent.

Today, I am sore. My finger is throbbing. My nail has been glued into some sort of workable position. My eyes burn. I am sleepy. I would love to hear about other horror stories because, well, misery loves company.

I have seen several movies lately. While I don’t have a massive amount of time to go into each and every one, I’ll share with you their names and how I felt about them (briefly).

Toby Joe and I saw Ocean’s 12. It was REALLY long. What’s up with directors who are unable to stop themselves from making their movies 2 + hours long? I don’t get it. I love Soderbergh, but, by God, the guy could have said it all and made it 40 minutes shorter. Catherine Zeta-Jones is still way hot, however.

We had the most unfortunate experience of sitting through Tom Bat Shit Crazy Cruise in The Island yesterday. Halfway through this extremely long, over-the-top action-packed movie, I thought to myself, “Wow, this movie was so created for the Maxim reader.” And then Maxim was later mentioned when Ewan McGregor meets Ewan MeGregor and Ewan McGregor hits on Scarlett Johansson even though she’s already dating Ewan McGregor. I kinda want those two and a half hours back, actually.

Did you guys know that The Fockers happen to share a similar sound to another English word? Yeah. That’s about all I have to say about Meet the Fockers. 400 One-liners said four hundred times. (In all honesty, this movie was perfect for a boring day spent baking.)

And then there was the quiet film called Winter Solstice. I loved this movie. I grew to love the characters. How is it a movie like War of the Worlds makes millions and something like Winter Solstice goes almost unnoticed? I will never understand us.

That is all.

Toby got back yesterday. I picked him up at the Bedford L at around 5 PM. The first thing he asked me right after I got a kiss was, “Where are the cats?” As if I make a habit out of driving those little guys around.

I had napped earlier and so I was pretty hungry when I awoke. By the time he hopped out of the L Train, I was famished, ready to eat him and everyone in sight.

Now, there’s something the Internet should know about Toby Joe and myself. You know how they say that couples fight over money or sex? Neither of those things is true for us. We fight over what we will consume, where we’ll consume it and WHEN that will happen. I wish I were exaggerating. But I have a tendency to become a raging bitch when I’m hungry.

You hungry?

Yeah.

Me too. Where you wanna eat?

Don’t care. You choose.

No. You’ve been away. You choose.

Nope. Let’s go with the first place you say.

I’m not playing that game. You just pick. It’s easy. Pick.

Nope.

Then, we’re gonna head home I guess.

And then we sat in silence the entire drive home.

When we got home, the hunger became more intense. I knew it’d probably be hours before I’d actually eat anything, so I sliced off a small piece of homemade rye bread.

Decide where you wanna eat yet?

I told you, you decide.

It was at that moment, I had an idea. I took a piece of paper from our printer and began to tear it into small pieces.

Pick a number between 1 and 20.

17.

I tore out 17 strips of paper and began to write down the names of restaurants we had been to over the years.

Planet Thailand. The Italian restaurant on Graham. Enid’s. Aurora. Relish. Dumont. Tony’s. Myako. The Fish Shack. Kates. Queen’s Hideaway. Sweetwater. Bean. Spanish place on Bedford. Amarin. Fanny’s. And, lastly, “Bean’s Choice. HAS TO CHOOSE”.

I folded them up, one by one, and placed them in a bowl.

Here, pick one. If you like it, we’ll stick with it. If you wish to try again, you may. You’re allowed to pick three from this bowl. At that point, you have to choose.

He picked Planet Thailand and “Bean’s Choice. HAS TO CHOOSE”. Awesome. Easy. Done.

In our unconscious attempt to prove that the standard does not apply to us as a couple, we stayed in and ordered from Amarin.

I just witnessed the most interesting exchange between two, twenty-something boys. I’ll begin by saying that by watching this interaction something suddenly occurred to me. Here’s my story.

Boy A. picks his nose while getting ready to cross at an intersection. Boy B. watches him pick his nose at the intersection. Boy A. picks and picks and picks. Boy B. watches Boy A. pick and pick and pick. They’re talking about stuff about things. The words maneuver their way through Boy A.’s fingers as his index finger works overtime. Finally, Boy A. retrieves whatever foreign object happen to be nestled so far up his nose. Boy B. asks him about it. Boy A., proud of the fact that he has just caught the largest fish the ocean had to offer that day, proudly displays it to Boy B., bragging about its girth, about its size, about his prize.

His face fills with joy. “SEE!” He holds it there on top of his finger. “See what I got? It’s HUGE.”

Boy B. begins to reenact Boy A.’s fruitful search. Boy A. and B. laugh loudly. Boy A., apparently already over the catch, flicks his newly attained prize to the ground.

I watch this interaction from the open window of my 1975 Volvo Sedan.

I suddenly decide that I must tell Toby. I need to tell him something about us. Sure, he may take it as an insult but I don’t mean it as such. I mean it as a compliment. I will tell him this as well.

“Hey Beaner. It’s me. I have to tell you something. I really mean this, too. If I hadn’t met you - you know, the last decent man on Earth - I am pretty positive I would be with a woman right now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. For sure. I just watched the most disgusting interaction between two boys from the window of my car. Hate to break it to you, but your sex is kinda screwed up. I love you, however. I’m happy I found you.”

I tell Toby about The Young Man and the See! I tell him about his catch. Toby Joe laughs.

“Yeah. We’re pretty gross alright. However, if you DO decide you want to go ‘that way’ again. I’m happy to find a lady and bring her home for a night or two.”

And just like that, I am reminded of the fact that I did marry a man. But at least he doesn’t pick his tiny nose in public.

Spit on the sidewalk.

Even grosser:

Frozen spit on the sidewalk.

Sometime earlier in the week, someone left a comment about Brokeback Mountain. It had something to do with an application of spit to Jake’s rear end. (Yes, I refer to him as “Jake”.) I didn’t catch that scene when we saw the movie. I guess it was subtle enough to have missed. Toby Joe informed me later that night after I left a comment saying I never saw said scene that a similar scene did actually take place.

I was wrong about that. I decided not to correct the err as the movie is still so much more than that.

But, I have to say in response to something Sian wrote, (which I left in the comment section as well). The spit application scene? It’s been done. Brittany Murphy licked her entire hand (and slowly) right before Eminem had sex with against all the machine parts.

(Comments are closed on this post but feel free to click the above link and leave one there. I want to keep the Brokeback comments all in one place.)

(Forgive me, I’m about to sound preachy. But this story has been eating away at me.)

By now, almost the entire nation has heard the story of Nixzmary Brown and the tragic way she died. If you haven’t heard about this case, you can read more about it here. Basically, a 7-year-old girl was discovered beaten to death. Not only was she repeatedly beaten, but also she was tied to a chair and locked in a small room. She was fed cat food and made to use the litter box as well. When officials found her body she weighed about 36 pounds.

Just like most of the horrific abuse stories go, officials were made privy to her abuse. Even her doctor was notified. Her doctor told the police her injuries were sustained in a fall. Family members said nothing. The ACS did nothing. Her death could have been prevented. No one did anything. I didn’t do anything. You didn’t do anything.

I’m so tired of the fact that we put more worth on those who aren’t alive than those who are. I realize I sound like a broken record. I wrote about how I feel about this before. I can’t let this one go, the hypocrisy and laziness of all of us. If anyone out there EVER wants me to take this pro-life movement seriously, start treating LIFE like it actually matters. Until then, shut up. Do something for the living. I’m sick of the dead outliving me. I’m sick of the fact that we apply compassion when it’s too late.

Hundreds of people showed up for Nixmary’s memorial services. Hundreds broke down and cried on the rainy streets of New York City. Where were all of these careful mourners when Nixmary was eating cat food? Where were they when she was sexually abused? Where were we when she used the litter box as a toilet? Where were we when ever other child cried beneath the fists of someone bigger and more evil than any make believe monster.

Hearing a story like Nixmary’s has brought people to their knees with a heartfelt gasp. People covered their faces in horror. They shake their heads and pity her. Where was their outrage when she was alive? How is it possible her relatives had NO IDEA she was being abused? I find it hard to believe. Could it be that we look the other way in hopes of things naturally working themselves out and when things don’t naturally work themselves out, we all stand back in horror pretending to be shocked and appalled in search of someone to blame? Could it be OUR fault we didn’t say something and we’re just not willing to accept that responsibility? Her relatives had NO idea? Come on, now. I find it a little hard to believe.

We look good in black. We make adequate and elegant martyrs. But we’re an ugly bunch of buffoons in need of a little direction given from a child. We’ve become so callous and evil and cynical and cruel.

Oh, I wish we had more grace.

Part One: Into the Subway.

Yesterday, while riding the L Train a very nice older woman stopped me from reading Into the Wild and asked me if that was the book about the people who traveled to Alaska and died.

Well, this does take place in Alaska but it’s the story about one boy who traveled into Alaska and was found dead a few months later.

Oh. That’s not the one. Does he have a son?

The writer? I’m not sure. The boy? Nope.

One of my biggest annoyances is when people assume that their listener doesn’t know something. (Incidentally, I just erased an entire paragraph explaining why and what I do instead. I then realized I was doing exactly what I said I couldn’t stand.) This time, however, I was pretty sure she was confusing two of Krakauer’s books: Into the Wild and Into Thin Air. It’s an easy mistake to make. And so I assumed.

I think you might be talking about Into Thin Air, which is about a group of people who attempt to travel and record a climb to the top of Mount Everest.

No. This is about a climb that takes place in Alaska and a bunch of people die and one of them has a little boy who he calls.

I knew what the truth was but I was done trying to convince this woman. Especially considering she was really sweet and I didn’t want to send rough waves through a crowded subway car.

I’m reading the Kite Runner. It’s amazing. You learn things on every page. I love to read. Don’t you just love to read? I get swept up into the pages of a good book. I love to read. You should pick up this book at the library when you’re done.

Have you ever made something up for no reason whatsoever? I do that sometimes. I wouldn’t go as far as to tag them as lies since, well, a lie seems like something that could potentially hurt someone. The things I blurt out couldn’t possibly hurt anyone at all and I usually only do this with strangers. But sometimes they are entirely untrue. I’ll say them and then I’ll think, “What the hell, Michele? That’s not true? Where did that come from? Who are you?” That’s about to happen in my story.

The library? You know, I work right next to the library. (true) As a matter of fact, I can see it from my window (true) but I never go. I should. (also true) Usually, I’ll just steal books from my husband when he’s finished. (untrue)

I can’t say I have ever stolen a book from Toby Joe. Not once. After I said it, I stopped paying as much attention to the sweet woman on the train and began to analyze myself instead. Why did you say that, Michele? Did you say it because you want to steal Toby’s books once he’s finished reading them? Most of them are political or tech related. You’re more of a culturally non-fiction junkie, or a realist fiction kind of gal. You’re someone who likes a book about loneliness, heartache, love, or hermaphrodites. You don’t make a habit out of stealing tech books from Toby. Did you say this because you wanted everyone on the crowded train to know you were married to a man who also reads books? Was this your excuse behind not visiting your local library? Did you unconsciously want the woman to know you’re married and are no longer available? Why do you care so much about the fact that you made up the fact that you steal books from your husband once he’s finished reading them? Had my lie been true, I guess it would kinda of hurt Toby Joe. No one likes to have things stolen. I concluded that it was a good thing I was actually lying.

At this point, the woman was reading out loud to me. She read a sentence. I don’t remember it word for word but it went something like this:

And, just like that, something can take place during one minute of one day and change your life forever.

Isn’t that wonderful?

It was a little wonderful. It was obvious, but it was a little wonderful. But I concluded that this sentence was surrounded by a bunch of other sentences that lived on the pages of The Kite Runner and that the sentence she just read to me touched her based on what came before it. A foundation, I was not made privy to.

It’s wonderful alright. (slightly untrue) I should pick up that book. (true) I almost did on Sunday. (true) But I got this one instead. (true) I think I’ll hit the library today. (untrue)

I love to read. Yes, you should. Maybe you’ll get this exact book. Maybe you’ll take out this one. It’s very good.

Maybe, if I get that exact book, I can say I started stealing books from you instead of my husband.

What the hell was that?

Well, enjoy your reading. Enjoy your book.

You too. And enjoy your day.

I started reading again. My eyes moved along the words as if on rails. Asleep at the wheel, it took two whole page turns for me to realize that while I was going through the motions, I wasn’t actually reading anything at all.

Part Two: Into the Gym.

Last night, I hopped off the exercise bike at the gym. My heart was pounding. Frank Black was screaming at me from my headphones. He was talking about my ego. A woman wearing a NYSC employee sweatshirt tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped. It occurred to me that I was standing in the middle of the FAST TRACK! isle. I had forgotten where I was all of a sudden. I stopped Mr. Black, mid-scream.

Are you looking for a treadmill? There’s one on the other side.

Me? Oh. No. I just rode the bike. (true) Kind of you, though. (a little too kind, so untrue)

Did I look like I needed to run?

What are you reading?

She bent her head sideways to see my book cover. Her hair brushed over the cover like a fly-swatting horse’s tail.

Into the Wild. (true) It’s good. (true) I’m going to go lift weights. (untrue)

Truthfully, I was annoyed that she was talking to me. I like to be alone while at the gym. It’s hard enough to go every day as it is; being approached by overly helpful strangers is frustrating. I understood that her intentions were driven by kindness, but I didn’t want to chat.

What do your tattoos mean?

Oh great.

They’re stars. (true) This one is a ghost. (true, but vague) I have to go meet my husband. (untrue)

Let me know if you need any help.

Did I look like I needed help? My cheeks were blood red. I looked boiled. I wish I were more like Lance Armstrong. I want a resting heart rate of 30. I want to be fit and trim. I want to envy myself. My birthday is in 11 days. I want to look 5 years younger. I guess I could have used some help.

But I’m pretty sure she couldn’t have helped me with any of that.

I finished my book while riding the subway home.

Part Three: Into the Subway.

Today, on the L Train a woman sat there reading. Her book has had its jacket removed. I had a hard time eavesdropping on its cover. But she had just turned the page, introducing a new chapter.

Restarting Your Mental Computer.

I sat there reading the NYT and tried to figure out exactly what this book might be about. I said it again in my head. I said it over and over again.

Restarting Your Mental Computer.

Computer Your Mental Restarting.

Mental Restarting Your Computer.

Your Restarting Mental Computer.

As my eyes traveled along the words making up a story about how the Supreme Court rejected the U.S. bid to block assisted suicide, I tried desperately to figure out what other chapters surrounded that particular chapter and why she was trying to restart her mental computer. And what the hell is that book about anyway?

Court, 6-3 Says Attorney General Restarted Was Wrong in His Oregon Mental Computer Case.

Toby’s mother called him the other day and said that along with Walk the Line she wanted him to take her to see Brokeback Mountain. We both made faces when we heard this. I to him. He to the phone. I don’t have a picture of the expression but I know it all too well. It’s the kind of expression you might give the waitress at your favorite restaurant right before you tell her the toilet is overflowing. It’s the expression you give a friend when he/she tells you they’re planning on getting Botox. It’s the kind of expression you give someone right before they’re about to discover something they might find unpleasant that you’ve already been made privy to. This expression is often coupled with the sound of exhaling through ones teeth.

Sentences that might go with said expression:

You don’t want to go in there. But it wasn’t me.

I think your girlfriend is in my bedroom with her pants down.

She does know those cowboys are gay, right?

We talked about this for a while. Toby decided that she probably has no idea that Brokeback Mountain is indeed an amazing love story between two cowboys. While I wouldn’t go as far as to call this movie a film about gay men, I think it’s pretty safe to say that most would. (Not that I’m saying I’m more sophisticated than other people. I’m not at all. I still smell my armpits in public. I’m just saying that, for me, the film was much, much more than what I would call a “gay cowboy” flick. It was a breathtaking love story.)

Maybe our parents are opening their minds! Maybe she does know?

No way. I bet they’re not advertising this film down south as a ‘gay cowboy flick.’

My first reaction was a positive one. I liked the idea that they weren’t selling the movie as a gay cowboy flick. As I mentioned above, I thought the movie was much, much more than that. This marketing attempt sort of touches on a bigger more noble idea: That we, as Americans, might be closer to overcoming bigotry and hatred. Their attempt at selling the movie without the obvious hype assumes that we’re all mature enough to see two men (or two women) together and not immediately consider their acts sinful or sick. Could it be possible? Could I one day live in a country where a same-sex love affair could be considered so normal, it’s not even noticed to talk about?

Immediately after having this somewhat orgasmic awakening, I decided that NOT giving people the idea that it’s a gay cowboy flick is horrible idea.

This is very bad. If they’re not letting people know what it’s about, what if a bunch of burly mean men head to the movies in hopes of seeing a cowboy flick, feel duped, and then head out and gay bash the first “gay” person they can find? This is how hate crimes happen.

On Saturday night, Toby Joe and I were watching SNL. During a commercial break, they showed an advertisement for Brokeback Mountain. And much to our surprise, there was NOTHING in that particular preview giving anyone an idea that the film features a love affair between two men. Not a drop. Instead, the advertisement made it seem like some sort of Garth Brooks video especially given the weight they put on the firework scene.

I’m not saying I think they should make it clear in every advertisement on T.V. But I am worried we’re not mature enough yet to let a bunch of potentially homophobic, unsupervised Americans into a theater and say “HEy Fellas, watch this.”

Best. Photograph. Ever.

(Warning: A whole lot of cliché lies below.)

Toby is away. He left yesterday on a midnight train to Georgia. A little over a week ago, Toby and I stopped going out. We did this after we realized we were spending hundreds of dollars on mediocre meals while taking part in conversations with people we should have been giving a better ear and a calmer mind to. This, coupled with the sinking sensation that I’m throwing away the better years of my life, is why I demanded myself change.

Yesterday, I purchased Krackauer’s book Into the Wild. I read Into Thin Air and Under the Banner of Heaven years ago. I’m not sure why I never picked up Into the Wild. But I’m finding the timing is unbearably humorous, almost suffocatingly so.

This post, like the thousands that lie before it, will prove stagnant and floppy. Like a fish out of water it will appear to have life and the desire to survive. In the end I know it will only gasp at the idea, grasp at the idea.

What I’d really like to write about is how unfulfilled I am with my career and how little I do everyday for anyone. I’d like to tell everyone how meaningless I find the work that I do—day in, day out. But the irony is I find that I don’t have the time. How does one write about how uninspired they are? It’s true. I feel a little dead inside. I have these moments where I’ll just be sitting on the couch staring off toward the television set and suddenly I’m a 75-year-old woman sitting on a toilet wondering why I didn’t pay more attention to that little voice, the one I suppressed for so long. And the older I get the more patience I lose and the more resentful I become with myself. I’m teetering on that edge, the one between becoming a reclusive and buying into the game called “work”. The game that includes hundreds of pointless meetings, a thousand of irrelevant e-mail, a billion of needless commas, a million of mundane conversations, and hundreds of insignificant exchanges. All for what? Really? All for what? How does this not occur to everyone all the time? I need to figure out a way to remember not to remember.

Some people flee from society and wander aimlessly in search of actual meaning. They enter places no one has ever seen before. I can’t help but think that with all the vastness, one must become more and more aware of how insignificant and tiny they are. And as most of the world sits back and silently judges them, calling them filthy cowards, punks, freeloaders, and the dregs of society, they wander, unscathed. Is there envy in the terms used to describe them? Is there envy in our judgment of others? I spit on the people who drive up the shoulder getting ahead in the line all the while helping to create a bigger traffic jam for the rest of us. Meanwhile, I envy their ability to justify becoming such assholes. Outdoor cats enter the wild when they aren’t feeling right. They set off in search of peace. Does the reclusive set out in search of an ultimate loneliness? Does the reclusive search for a certain and specific way in which to die?

This thought alone is why I’m terrified of letting go. This idea alone is why I can find envy in the guy on the corner with nothing. This concept alone is why I don’t get raises, discover promotions, or purchase a thousand dollar wardrobe to impress those who disrespect. This thought alone is why I feel smug at times and disgruntled at others.

“Maybe there is a God above. But all I’ve ever learned from love. Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you. And it’s not a cry that you hear at night. It’s not somebody who’s seen the light. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah”

Although it may not seem so, I feel pretty content with my restlessness today. I feel like I’m finally getting to know it. Today, my restlessness has become the reclusive in search of new ground and the direction in which to set myself free.

Click the image to see a few more. It’s so cold in Brooklyn, my car door and its lock is frozen shut. Thank goodness tomorrow is a holiday and same-side parking is suspended.

I think today I will make rye bread. My hopes is to perfect it for my father. (The man lives for a good rye.) My husband loves it, too.

Last Friday, I purchased this watch in order to get a better understanding of my sporadic heart rate. (Yes, I it’s Nike. Yes, I suck for it.) I’d like to share with the Internet a few things I learned while searching for HRM watches.

When I set out in search of a watch to read my heart rate, I had anticipated the ability to slap on a watch and have it pump back my heart rate. That’s not the case, however. From what I have found, one needs an accompanying strap. The strap is placed around one’s chest and that strap reads an accurate heart rate. The strap then sends a radio signal to the watch and the watch spits back the information. I have yet to find a (decent) watch that doesn’t require the strap.

I also learned that the cheaper the watch the worse off you are if you’re a gym runner (or biker!) because the cheaper watches don’t include some sort of data controller that stops the watch you have on your wrist from picking up someone else’s heart rate. So, say you’re in a spinning class and you’re in close proximity to a number of people. Your watch may very well pick up THEIR heart rate. So, it’s best to get a more expensive watch. (I’d use the actual terminology but I have no idea what that was. Rest assured, the terminology I lack remembrance of equals about 40 more dollars.)

In the end, the benefit the strap brought to me came as a pleasant surprise. Now, I no longer need to slow down to 3.9 in order to read my heart rate using those hand held readers on the treadmill. Now, the machine I am on reads my heart rate as soon as I step on as long as I’m wearing the strap. However, once the machine steps in, my own watch becomes moot. It’s only role at that point is to spit back the time.

For a week now, I have worn the strap throughout every facet of my existence (aside from sleeping.) And now, without further ado, I give you my heart rate breakdown.

Couch Heart Rate = 60-64 Walking Heart Rate = 100-125 Uphill Heart Rate = 125 Stair Heart Rate = 140 – 150 Running Heart Rate = 165 – 175 Laughter Heart Rate = 75 I Just Ate Heart Rate = 65 Holding My Cat Heart Rate = 60 The I Just Remembered To Look at My Heart Rate Heart Rate = 74

I also learned that my heart rate has simmered some with the exclusion of all alcoholic beverages and the exclusion of more than one cup of coffee or other caffeinated beverage.

That’s all the data I have yet. I’ll report more as I learn more.

There’s a political ad linking Tom Delay to corruption. The ad was to air in Houston but the congressman has threatened to sew any station that runs it. He says it’s false and defamatory. Campaign for America’s Future and Public Campaign Action Fund are behind the creation of the ad. If you want to hear it, you can do so by clicking here. Basically, they want him to resign.

Delay’s lawyers never rebut the claims. They’re just issuing letters saying they’ll sue.However, the reporters have issued similar reports as to what the ad claims. Tom isn’t threatening to sue the newspapers. Anyway, pass it on. Get it out there. Tell ‘em Large Mihow sent ya.

Toby Joe and I have been probably the only two people in all of America (outside of the obvious nut jobs) listening to the Alito hearings via CSPAN (Toby) and NPR (myself). There have been several times where I considered writing about what I have heard. Generally speaking, I should stick to questions about no-hitters, the shape of the states, and girls who talk using the word “like” as filler.

For example, I went on a HUGE rant last night about the predominately old white men and how many of them want abortion to be illegal. I wanted to know how a woman having an abortion affected them (especially considering the ones already alive are treated so poorly by their parents and the state elected officials put in place to “protect” them. For those too tired to sign into the article, it’s about another little girl who was found beaten to death after being tied to a chair in a room and fed cat food. She was also made to pee in a litter box. That’s all I have to say about that.) How can I take these men seriously when we treat our already living children so poorly? Education is all but ignored. Abused children are constantly returned to their parents, parents who obviously don’t want them. (Now, I’m not saying these children should be aborted, but I wish our congress/senate/state-elected officials would shift gears and take care of those we DO have instead taking so much care of the unborn.)

Last night, I started wondering if there was something we could “threaten” the (mostly) old white-haired men with in hopes of having them understand how some feel about their desire to remove the right to choose. How in God’s name (literally) are they expected to empathize with a group of people they have NOTHING in common with?

“It’s a religious crusade, Michele. Plain and Simple.”

Take away their legal right to divorce. Take away their right to use Viagra. Take away their right to bear arms. I have no idea. There is nothing similar, really. Take away their right to spend more than 100 thousand dollars a year on big cars, boats, trips to play golf, spa treatments, Botox. Hell, take away their right to pay for their child’s education. .

My question is this: Do the people who are opposed to abortion believe that this will alleviate the number of unwanted pregnancies? I’m an idealist, but come on! I have a bridge for sale. These same people probably believe that the death penalty actually acts as a deterrent for crime. Please. As if committing a crime warranting the death penalty isn’t welcoming the possibility enough.

I should probably stop listening to Alito’s hearing. For a much clearer debate, visit Old Man Sounds. Make some noise.

This is TOTALLY baffling. And totally relevant to today’s post. How many eggs does a woman have? From now on, I’m gonna say that I have a busload of people in my car!

I often find myself wondering about the most mundane things. I’m used to it. If you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to live with me, you’ve probably been forced to get used to this as well. Toby Joe humors me constantly. Before I met him, I had an older brother who would answer my questions. Questions like, “If I were a pitcher for the Yankees and I were to throw all balls and everyone walked at a baseball game, would I get a no-hitter?” would not only receive an answer, he’d actually ponder them for a second and then answer me without making me feel stupid.

I decided a long, long time ago that the day I met the boy like my older brother who’d not only humor me and all my questions but who would take it a step further and actually distribute a decent answer that he would be the boy I’d marry. When I met Toby, I knew I had met that boy. Suddenly, things like, “I wonder if blind guitarists have trouble reading brail?” or “I wonder if woman with annoying voices get their own offices by way of all the red tape while working in corporate America.” had met welcoming ears. And, besides, my brother worked hard for his retirement.

Last night as we lay in bed, Toby Joe read his book. Usually, while he reads and I wind down, I’ll spend that time staring the wall in front of us where the multi-colored map of the United States hung. And the question I have had time and time again came back to me.

Why are the states shaped the way that they are? Why does Idaho HAVE to touch Canada? Why does Kentucky look like a blind contour drawing? Why does Florida seem so greedy? Why does Alabama only get a sliver of coastline? Why did Oklahoma feel the need to get its panhandle on New Mexico? Why are these states shaped this way? I really, really want to know this. I realize that in some cases they were drawn due to geography. But I know that’s not the case for all of them.

And what’s the deal with Texas?

(Please note: There are NO spoilers in the post.)

Many, many years ago, I went to see Death of a Salesman on stage while I was living in State College, Pennsylvania. I went with my boyfriend at the time. His sister’s boyfriend held the role as “Waiter”. We received two free, front row tickets.

About halfway through my disbelief no longer needed to be suspended. I was a part of that play. I no longer thought about my surroundings. I no longer had to forget I was sitting in an audience. I no longer had to forget I was in a theater at all. Instead, I found myself remembering. I guess that one might say my suspension of disbelief turned into a suspension of belief. Or something.

By the end of that performance I was sobbing. And I don’t mean tears were falling from my eyes. I mean, they were, but it was a whole lot more than that. I was sobbing. The kind of crying one sheds as a child if one is lucky enough. My face began to spasm. I was gasping for air like an uncontrollably tearful hiccup. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed with sadness. It was the most bizarre and crippling feeling. I can’t imagine experiencing sorrow like that until the day I am forced to say goodbye to a family member.

I cry a lot. I cry during T.V. shows. I cry during the reading of a news story. I cry during movies constantly. And for some reason (and this one I just can’t figure out) I cry sometimes when I’m a part of a large audience. But I haven’t ever cried as hard as that night I saw “Death of a Salesman”. I came close a couple of times. When I read Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close I came close to feeling paralyzed. (I probably would have had the author not found a way to couple all the sadness with the equivalent level of humor.) I came close to losing it when I read A Prayer for Owen Meaney. I came close during About Schmidt.

Last night, Toby Joe and I went and saw Brokeback Mountain. It was a sold out show. It was a Tuesday. It was 8 PM. The theater was packed with people. I came with snacks as I had just left the gym and hadn’t eaten. Little did I know, about 15 minutes into the movie, I’d totally forget about my snack and my hunger. And even in spite of the fact that the two men behind us felt compelled to make snide comments at the screen when there was any sign of affection between the male characters, I was totally engrossed for the entire 2 hours and 14 minutes of the movie. (Seriously, I haven’t ever been so disgusted by the way some men can act. And I don’t mean the the two men on screen. They were both wonderful. The men behind us were of the most disgusting breed. Someone should have asked them to leave or stay home.)

I’ll start by saying that I did have some issues with the film. But I think my criticism is personal and won’t be felt universally. There were a few liberties taken by the director I could have lived without. I won’t drone on and on about that, however. Especially since I hate ruining movies.

What I loved about Brokeback Mountain is the fact that so much of the dialogue takes place in the viewer’s own mind. As an audience member, you’re forced to participate in each and every character’s life. Throughout the movie, you’re putting thought between of every one of their sentences as they are as well. The relationship between Ennis Del Mar and his daughter requires a lot of participation. The interaction between Ennis Del Mar and Jack’s mother requires a certain (albeit presumptuous) amount of participation. I wish I had a better way of explaining this. I’ve never really been that good at explaining myself.

When I get to know a character, even if that person is fictional, I find that I am much more attached to the decisions they make. I’m not sure if I have the story to thank for this, the director, or both. I find I’m crediting the direction this time. The last half hour of Brokeback Mountain had me by the ribs. At the end of Brokeback Mountain, I was left partly paralyzed. I was grateful that they left the lights low in our sold out movie theater. In the theater’s darkness, I was given a moment to compose myself. I had been moved to tears.

What has also brought me to tears was that this film was actually banned from theaters in America yet something like Hostel becomes the highest grossing film (emphasis on the word “gross”). What does this say about our cultural? I find it hard to believe I live in a country that approves of dismemberment, death and torture yet a film featuring a love story between two men is banned from being seen. Shame on us all.

(Please note: This post is all over the place. I wrote it in two sitting and in under 10 minutes. I do apologize for its drivel and seemingly rocky nature.)

Today has been the busiest, most stressful workday I have had yet. I haven’t even eaten yet. BUT! Toby and I are going to see movie this evening. I’m looking forward to letting someone entertain me. I’m looking forward to turning it all off for a few hours. I’m looking forward.

Before the movie, I will hit the gym. After that, I will stuff my fat face full of something fantastic.

Some of you and I won’t say who had a little something to say about my first piece of glass. I have received a few emails (some of them came from people who have an address I know by heart). Some of you are comparing my piece of glass to my concrete shoe. How dare you insult my art.

Actually, I thought this might a perfect opportunity to celebrate the “First Evers”.

My first ever piece done in concrete. Circa 1998. My Doc Martin Shoe. (Incidentally, way back when I tried to sell this thing but none of you asshats would buy it from me. For shame.)

My First Ever piece of potter created while studying at Hinckley Pottery in D.C. (I actually have another piece from when I was in first grade but I don’t have a picture of it yet.)

My first ever piece of glass. Yes, it looks like ass. Yes, some of you have agreed with me over on Flickr.

One more e-mail or comment from the critical folks and I’ll turn ya all into bad art.

Hey, I came a long, long way in pottery. I can prove it, too! Right Toby?! Tell them!

Remember how I said my first piece of glass looks as if someone with a glass infection sneezed? Well, click here to see the proof.

There is an article in today’s New York Times surrounding the controversial Orthodox Jewish practice referred to as “metzitzah b’peh”. I tried to link to the article however it’s a “Time’s Select” option and therefore one must subscribe to the paper in order to read it. That said, I’ll try and give everyone and idea of its point.

The article in today’s paper surrounds the ancient practice in which a mohel, or a Jewish ritual circumciser, sucks blood from the freshly circumcised penis in order to clean it. Recently, there have been several babies who have received herpes from the mohel. One of then suffered brain damage.

The health commissioner issued an “open letter to the Jewish community” detailing the dangers of the procedure. And a fact sheet is being distributed to the parents of newborns all over the city.

Some believe the practice should be outlawed entirely.

Dr. Jonathan M. Zenilman says:

“This is a health issue, not a religions issue. There is no reason why this practice should be allowed.”

When confronted by the religious explanation, Koch had a retort.

“If a group said female genitalia cutting was part of its religions, would the city allow its practice? ‘We would not,” said former Mayer Edward I. Koch, who called metzitzah b’peh ‘an abuse’ and said, ‘It should be stopped.’”

Even some Orthodox question the procedure. But they say that it’s up to the religious community and not up to the government.

I wrote about something similar before. If people are so concerned about the welfare of an unborn child, why not worry about those who are already alive? If the government wants to step in and protect the unborn fetus (a lot the time this desire is related to ones religious beliefs) then why is it such a bad thing to step in and stop this ancient practice to protect our innocent as well? Lastly, if you were to remove the religious aspect from the practice, how do you feel about it then?

Pat Robertson is at it again. Have a listen to what he had to say about Sharon’s condition. (Sound involved. Spliced it together all by myself.)

Pat Robertson is on an express track straight to the front of Hell.

This past Wednesday I attended my third glass-blowing class. It went well. I won’t ramble on and on about it because, well, it’s probably pretty boring unless you’re actually doing it. But I would like to say a few things.

Dealing with glass is downright frightening. There is absolutely (thus far) nothing therapeutic about sculpting molten glass. I was told “OH! You took pottery! You’ll be great at glass blowing. It’s just like pottery only sideways!” It’s not like pottery. Pottery was relaxing. Pottery had a way of calming me. I could enter a pottery class and zone out for the duration of my time there. Pottery made me stop thinking.

Glass blowing and glass molding requires constant thought. If you stop thinking for one minute the glass will either fall off center and/or hit the ground or you’ll burn the living crap out of yourself. I have lost arm hair, face hair, finger hair, nose hair, and skin. It’s freaking scary. Period.

The ovens there are over 2,000 degrees. The pipes become hot almost immediately. Granted, there are ways to cool them down but it takes time, time spent still holding them.

It’s also unbelievably bright. I often joke that all glass blowers must eventually go blind. I can’t imagine staring at those ovens every day. You’re told to wear protective covering, I have seen some wear sunglasses. I wear regular glasses. Basically, they’re there just to keep debris away from your eyes. You’re also told to wear them to shield them from the heat. Your eyes get pretty dry staring at those ovens for so long.

The final part that kind of bugs me is we’re always sharing blowpipes with other people. And I have a thing with spit—hot, wet, unfamiliar spit. My stomach turns just thinking about it. But I had to get over that one pretty quickly.

Lastly, it’s hard. I can’t even begin to tell you how hard it is. At least in pottery I had a shitty bowl after a week or two at the wheel. With glass? No way. Not a chance in hell. I ended up with some sort of freakish blob. It looks as if someone with a glass infection sneezed.

If something doesn’t happen soon, I’m thinking I might sign up for another pottery course in the city after I’m finished with glass blowing. Sure, it’s cool. Sure, it’s great to have learned about it. But I’m just not sure I want something so mentally draining every week after putting in a full day at the office.

We’ll see. I might change my tune in the weeks to come. This post will stand as proof.

I really, really wish I had more time to write about this. But I’m trying to catch up after having been on vacation. Our political atmosphere here in the US of A is getting more and more intriguing and more and more daytime soap by the minute.

Abramoff has pleaded guilty to bribery and faces a decade in prison. I’m certain he’ll be singing like a canary in no time at all. Bush has decided to donate thousands of campaign dollars Abramoff gave him to the American Heart Association. I wonder if he’d have done this had Abramoff NOT plead guilty. And more recently, the rumor is, that Emily Miller, the press aide and angry ex-lover of Michael Scanlon, may have been the catalyst behind the latest scandal in Washington.

Last night, while running at NYSC, I saw the answers to a poll flash across the screen before me. The poll read:

“Do you think Bush should be impeached?”

The answers:

Yes = 65% No = 35%

While I realize that there are probably a number of Democrats behind the lies and bribery fiascos all over Washington, I really, really hope this proves we have a fighting chance during the 2008 Presidential Election.

I’m really awful at writing political commentary. Hell, I can barely discuss politics without getting worked up. That said, please, everyone, convince Toby Joe Boudreaux that he should write more about politics. He’s good at it.

What’s up with all the Baby Jesus nativity theft? I don’t understand this compulsion at all. Someone help me.

First of all, anyone who reads The New York Post simply must take into consideration that what they’re reading is far from what one should consider “news”. I know the Post claims otherwise. The way I see it is they sport nothing more than a bunch of bad puns. There have been numerous occasions that I have been on a train or standing on a street corner and have read a headline or two over someone else’s shoulder and have read some of their headlines which are are just plain insensitive and sensationalistic. I am constantly amazed at the number of people who live and work in and around New York City who choose this rag over the next one. It’s not that it’s a tabloid, it’s the fact that its readers often actually try and defend it as anything more than what it really is, a tabloid.

Today’s blunder was hard for me to ignore. I was up pretty late last night watching the Penn State game go into three overtimes against Florida State University. When I finally went to sleep, the report was that 12 of the 13 miners from West Virginia had been rescued alive. This morning, however, when we awoke listening to the Rachel Maddow show it was actually reported that ALL but 1 of the miners were in fact dead. Now, this must have been a horrible thing for the families to endure. To go from a feeling of jubilation to total shock to absolute anger to raw sorrow all within a couple of minutes has to be one of the most life-shattering moments to endure. But the part that REALLY blows my mind was that nearly EVERY newspaper in the country printed the story. How could that many people be so wrong?

Today, as I stood waiting for the L Train at Graham Avenue I bit my tongue harder than usual trying to stop myself from interrupting every New York Post reader on the platform. It just so happens that next to the New Yorker, The New York Post is often seen in the hands of many while riding the MTA.

A L I V E !

was written in big black lettering, employing the useless, deadbeat Impact Font Family. And for some reason, I suddenly wanted everyone to know that what they were reading wasn’t actually true at all. Then, I realized that it was really none of my business and that they would soon be told the actual truth and preferably by someone other than the New York Post.

The last time I remember this happening was when I fell asleep after hearing that Al Gore won the presidential election. I woke up in an entirely different reality.

I feel so badly for these families. I have gone over and over it again in my head—their thoughts, their emotions, their disbelief. Their suffering is unfathomable. My empathy apparently has boundaries.

I think a certain someone jumped on a certain bandwagon. This is a good thing. I hope he keeps it up this time.

Toby Joe and I were married two years ago today. We eloped to Niagara Falls.

You can read more about that day here.

I remembered it yesterday and forgot about it this morning. Tonight, I think we will have dinner at Pure Food and Wine.

Happy Anniversary, Beaner!

Alright healthy people of the world, I have a question. You see, I run. And I have started to run more as I recently gained some of the weight I lost back. My question is this: Why does my heart rate go from a normal 110 to a whopping 175 while running? It doesn’t take long either. I don’t overdo it with speed. I merely run at a normal pace.

I was told that I should keep my heart rate at around 151 given my age and all. I wish this were possible and I’m starting to believe that there might be something wrong with me. Any or all information about a heart rate and exercise is greatly appreciated. I’m trying to decide if this will change in time or if I should see a doctor.

Oh, and if you have any questions I might be able to answer, feel free to ask them. But if it’s about penguins, I’m not your gal.

Today I’m mourning the death of my vacation for tomorrow it’s back to work.

This image was taken on New Years Eve. I think that I’m actually dancing. Actually, I have no idea what I’m doing. This one is particularly special.

On an unrelated note, I watched March of the Penguins over the holiday. While doing so, I had the most irrational thoughts. Questions were uttered. Questions like, “Why can’t we collect them all in buses and move them to Pittsburgh or Detroit?” and “4 Months without food? After walking 70 miles in -58 degree weather? Why aren’t these documentary filmmakers giving them a snack?” Another: “Aren’t there any McDonald’s out there?” And another: “How do they not eat their own eggs once they screw up the transaction from the mom to the dad and the embryos freeze to death?” And “Why did that many penguins let ONE asshole bird eat that baby?”

I asked question after question and half-expected an answer. If someone can put me in contact with the filmmakers, that’d be great. I am having trouble sleeping.

My conclusion: Penguins are slightly crazy but should all be considered for sainthood. Nature wasn’t fair to them yet they make the best of it. We could stand to learn from them about community and not killing ones own kind even while starving and freezing to death. Plus, they live on a continent sporting at least 70 miles without a McDonald’s.

I’ll drink to these zoot suit wearing birds.