I'll Worry for Real When I Have the Urge to Play Lots of Video Games

I got my hair cut again in early May. (Sorry Dad, but I like it short.) Since then, I have noticed that I sweat far more profusely at the gym than I ever have before. I think my body is actually starting to respond as I am the 14 year old boy I resemble. No wet dreams, though, so I haven't yet crossed over entirely.

The Thong Does Not Fool People into Not Seeing Your Pregnant Belly, Ma'am

Oh, American women! For all the times you delight me (see: anything written by Suebob, Feministing, Broadsheet, etc.), you also make me despair (see: anything written by Caitlin Flanagan, Ann Coulter, that evil bitch who wrote a book about the righteousness of Japanese internment camps in the US in WWII, etc.). Behold the latest horror I have discovered: maternity thongs.

I’d think that all of the women in the world who would not want their underwear jammed in their asses, it would be pregnant women. Who would want to add an extra layer of discomfort to an already uncomfortable situation, I innocently think to myself. As usual, I’m wrong.

As I exited the subway yesterday evening, my eye was level to the ass of the woman ahead of me on the staircase. She was VERY pregnant. And despite the claim of thong-advocates that a primary benefit of thongs is lack of panty line when worn, her thong was clearly visible against her dress. Look, I agree that being pregnant should not condemn one to where I live (that would be dowdyland). But for god’s sake, a thong-line looks no more attractive than any other line caused by underwear. Of all the times to seize comfort over fashion, being pregnant should be prime. (Don’t get me started on pregnant women and heels…) As long as there is an increased chance of losing bladder control, I say, abandon the fashionista bullshit! You won’t look stylish after the fetus shifts positions and you piss yourself as a result, anyway.

I suppose that a pregnant woman could be wearing a thong to prepare herself for the constant discomfort of labor, but that seems awfully harsh. The whole thing is wrong, wrong, and more wrong.

Nearing the End of the Trip to Italy

The third to last morning that Dr. P, Dr. H, and I were in Italy got off to a smoky start. We planned to visit the Catacombs of San Calisto, which Dr. P’s guidebook said was the best of the Christian catacombs. (Her book also listed a Jewish catacomb, which I thought would have been fascinating to see, but it turns out that you need to write the cultural department of Rome in advance to set up a visit. Next time, I will definitely do that.) Because the Romans did not allow burial grounds within the City walls, the catacombs are located in the countryside. To get there, we needed to take the subway to a bus. As New Yorkers used to public transportation, we were fine with that. We were even a little bit excited to try out the public transit system. However, when we arrived at the Termini subway station near our hotel, we were a bit concerned to find several people carrying buckets of water and dumping them on the subway tracks. While the fire seemed to be out, there was still smoke coming up from the tracks. Dr. P noted that it was interesting that they did not make people leave the subway station. In NYC, people would have been made to wait upstairs and the train would have been rerouted until all the smoke settled down. I’m not saying that one way is better than the other, but I do find the different levels of what constitutes an unsafe situation in various cultures to be quite thought-provoking. (I think the US is probably overprotective while Italy is a tad too laid back for my tastes when it comes to subway fires.) I took a quick picture, and wanted to take another one, but a subway employee came over and chastised me. “No pictures!!!” she said emphatically. I’m not sure if she meant of the subway in general or of the fire, but I put my camera away without further ado.

The rest of the subway and bus trip went smoothly, and we arrived at the Catacombs of San Calisto fairly quickly. As we arrived, an English tour was just starting, so we did not even have to wait for that. No pictures we allowed in the catacombs, unfortunately, although there was nothing of much excitement to photograph anyway. All of the bones have been removed from the tombs since asshole tourists kept swiping them as souvenirs, which I find gross as well as obnoxious. After the tour, I took a picture of the entryway into the catacombs. San Calisto is the largest of the catacombs in Rome, going as deep into the earth as a 10 story building. It was a scary maze down there, and it was also rather chilly. I found it to be a worthwhile experience, even if the gruesome aspects are gone.

After the catacombs, we walked a little down the country road, which is a very wide and scenic road from Roman times. We passed by the ruin of an ancient church and a lot of fields. I was a bit surprised that my allergies did not go completely ballistic. When we got near the end of the road, we took a different bus to a different subway station. I must say that service was very good, especially given that it was a Saturday morning. We did not have to wait too long for any of the buses or trains.

From Termini bus station, we took another bus into Centro Historico, the section of the city that has a lot of interesting sites. We decided to check out the market at Campo Ddei Fiori, which was bustling with veggie and fruit vendors, restaurants, and tourist-y knickknack sellers. As we walked from Campo dei Fiori to Santa Maria sopra Minerva, we passed by a deli with what I think must be the world’s largest mortadella. My next picture provides an unintentionally excellent compare-and-contrast opportunity. Right after I took a picture of the mortadella, we went to the church Santa Maria sopra Minerva, and I took a picture of St. Catherine de Sienna. I admit that I was crushed when I saw her. Until 2000, St. Catherine’s actual body was on display in the glass casket under the altar. St. Catherine de Sienna was a great diplomat; she convinced the Pope to return to Rome from Avignon, France. She also had invisible stigmata. There is nothing cooler than invisible signs that you are super special to God and Jesus. I also like that they happened to crop up whenever her family tried to marry her off. Anyway, as a result of her skills, St. Catherine is the patron saint of all of Italy. Someone finally gave her her dignity back and put her in a tomb. While it would have been way more interesting if her dried up corpse was out there, I still like comparing her plastic box to the mortadella in a plastic box.

While I was disappointed to not see St. Catherine herself, Santa Maria sopra Minerva is itself a very interesting church, though. The church was built on the site of a temple dedicated to Minerva, and it is the only gothic church in Rome, although the façade hides the outer gothic features. It is also chock full of art by famous painters. As I was heading out, a side chapel caught my eye. Under the altar in the chapel was another glass coffin on display. A sign in front of it said “St. Wittoria – Martyr.” I have never heard of this saint or why she was martyred, but St. Wittoria is exactly what I hoped to see when I sought out Catherine. I put 50 Euro cents into a little box and a light came on, allowing me to take some excellent pictures: What I would love to know is who the fuck posed this poor martyr like she was in a Playboy centerfold of the dead? Honestly, I am not sure that I could even come up with something this disturbing. She’s like the Mae West of rotting corpses. I can almost hear her say, “Come up and see me some time!” Talk about blasphemy! Definitely gag-licious.

On a lighter note, there is a very odd obelisk in front of Santa Maria sopra Minerva by Bernini. I love the elephant. I can only imagine what he was thinking when he came up with us, and what Renaissance Romans interpreted it as. Also, in this picture you can see a little bit of the unusual façade of the church. It's just a flat wall with big circular windows.

We went on to the Pantheon, which of course I have no pictures of because that would be normal, and I took pictures of it 10 years ago. Somehow I forgot that this ancient temple was converted into a Catholic church, which annoyed me to no end. Can these people leave nothing untouched? Everything has to be remade for their purposes. It really gets my goat. (I think that is why I liked The Da Vinci Code so much – it really goes after the corrupt powers that be. I’m glad the movie did well this weekend, although I heard it sucked and have no intention of seeing it myself.) After the Pantheon, we hit several other churches, which I will write about separately. There are only so many grotesque relics that should be in one post.

Sometimes When You Picnic, Natural Bushes (Not Elected Ones, Thank God) are Involved in Some Way

Yesterday, Husband and I organized our 9th annual Memorial Day weekend in Central Park. Unlike the first picnic, which was done to celebrate Dr. P, Dr. H, and other assorted friends’ graduations from college and it rained and we had to have it in the 200 square foot apartment with no stove or oven that Husband and I shared and Husband missed it because he was called to do his investment banking duties that day, this year was perfect. The weather was fantastic, the people were fun, and the food was yummy. The park had a lot of trees and bushes, so it was very nice to be surrounded by greenery.

After the picnic, a group of folks came to my apartment for a post-picnic grilled cheese dinner. Brother-in-Law (BiL) and Future Sister-in-Law (FSiL) brought over their panini machine, which BiL bought as a part-engagement present for FSiL. (In addition to the ring, of course.) Anywho, as we were munching grilled cheese, we started talking about all the fun things we will do over the summer. (Summer in New York, while often oppressively hot and humid, is incredibly fun with lots of cool events and free entertainment in the evenings.) The Explorer mentioned she’d look into movies at Bryant Park (always classics), and I suggested also checking the schedule for the films shown on the piers on the Hudson River. I noted that movies we’ve seen in the past were a different kind of classic, like Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (With Gene Wilder), Caddy Shack, and Revenge of the Nerds.

Actually, I noted that I hated Revenge of the Nerds. My friend asked why, and I said that I found it to be very misogynistic. For example, the nerds punish the sorority bitches for their uppity refusal to date them (because women don’t have the right to say no to any man, no matter what) by breaking into their house and installing spy cameras. The nerds spend all day watching them get dressed, shower, and other extreme invasions of personal privacy that skeeve me out completely. Plus, in the end, nerd leader Lewis purposefully dressed in a Darth Vader costume that he knows the beautiful-snobby-bitch-of-his-dream’s asshole boyfriend will be wearing. He allows her to assume that he is her boyfriend and then has sex with her. Afterward, when he reveals that he fooled her, instead of vomiting and becoming hysterical that she was raped since she never consenting to have sex with Lewis (which would be my reaction if someone fooled me into thinking that he was Husband so he could fuck me), she was pleased that he was so good. That is FUCKED UP.

Someone mentioned that Revenge of the Nerds is being remade. I said that they will have to change at least one scene or audiences today will have no idea what they are talking about. In the original, as the nerds watch the sorority bitches get ready to take a shower, Booger yells, “I want to see some bush.” The nerd in charge of the spy cam then pans down to the sister’s crotch, revealing a bushy snatch patch. These days, the new booger will have to yell, “I want to see some baldy” or “I want to see a landing patch.” Of course, they will probably cut that scene entirely, not because they want to avoid charges of child porn or because it is gross and wrong to spy on women, but because the ratings board is much more uptight today than it was in the ‘80s. Kind of ironic.

The Soldiers are Here!

It is Fleet Week in New York City, when the large carriers dock in the City and unload zillions of their personnel for a week of excitement. (Are Navy personnel and Marines soldiers?) I don't know what about Fleet Week intrigues me so. For the most part, I am not a fan of the military or the people who willingly enlist, as they tend to vote for Republicans despite the fact that Republicans tend to fuck them and their families up the ass repeatedly without lube. (OK, that was probably too graphic.) For example, as we send thousands of people over to Iraq to die so that George W. Bush can avenge attempts that Saddam Hussein made on his daddy's life, Republicans have slashed veteran health benefits. They have also significantly cut funds for schools that serve the children of enlisted people. Sure, those kids are under tremendous stress and anxiety with their parent(s) overseas in Iraq, but Republicans seem to believe that they don't need extra support services. The fact that military families - and so many other Americans - bend over so willingly is just horribly distressing to me.

Anyway, tonight I went out with Dr. P and Dr. H. Let's just say that I have had such an unpleasant past week that I was driven to drink. Granted, it was only a very weak Amaretto Sour, but I never consume alcohol. Ever. There were a few sailors at the bar we were at, and I really enjoyed watching them interact with my fellow liberal Upper West Siders. (Although that little stereotype is really falling away as more yuppies move here, I amused myself by assuming it was true.)

After we left, we passed another bar. A very inebriated Marine was smoking outside. "Hello!" he cheerfully and loudly slurred at us as we walked by. "You should come in here." The previous evening I had pondered why some of the enlisted men I saw were wearing white, and some were wearing khaki shirts with navy pants. I suspected that the guys in white were in the Navy and the other guys were Marines. I decided to ask my new friend if that was the case. He was overjoyed by my question, although I think I could have asked him about anything and he would have been happy. "You gotta understand. There's four branches to the military: the army, the air force, the navy" - here he made some noises of disapproval - "and the Marines. The Marines are the best." (Needless to say, he was wearing a khaki shirt and navy pants.) Then he put his arm around me, thanked me for my question, and wished us a good night. Man, he was so wasted. I was a bit surprised (and glad)that he didn't try to kiss me (or Dr. P or Dr. H at that point), but I think he might have thought I was a dyke due to my short hair. Or I could just be making that part up. I have been quite sensitive about my short hair lately for no good reason. Chalk it up to overall bad self-esteem when it comes to my appearance.

In the end, I am happy that I could amuse someone who could die in a completely useless war against people who had nothing to due with the Sept. 11 attacks. Even if he does vote Republican, he probably does not deserve it. Best of luck to him and his comrades.

I Don't Buy It

I don’t know if you have seen that new Pantene commercial about shampoo that gives your hair extra body, but it is really disturbing. Two women bounce around a room getting ready for a big date. One is blond, one is brunette. Are they sisters? Friends? What’s the deal? Who the hell gets ready for an evening out by flinging her hair around with a friend to test whether it is big enough or not? A few minutes later, the doorbell rings. They run down in their pretty frocks and fancy hair and party shoes and open it. One guy is there. The blond is taller than he is, so she takes her disturbing yellow shoes off. Then they are on their way. WTF? Where’s the brunette’s date? Does she not get someone? And is blondie going out without shoes on? If the guy can’t handle that she is taller than he is, why bother coddling his fragile ego and go out with him at all? He’ll probably suck in bed if he is that self-conscious. Cut your losses, blondie, and go stag like your dark haired loser friend who never gets the guy since she is not blonde. What a fucking dumb commercial.

I See Dead People (Rome Edition), Plus Fountains, Sea Monsters, and Wacky Gelato

Our first full day in Rome was chock full. We started out by walking to the Trevi Fountain. On the way, we passed by the Pasta Museum. I was inclined to stop in, but Dr. P and Dr. H were not so interested. I’ll have to go next time I am in Rome.

The Trevi Fountain was impressive, and crowded with tourists and street vendors selling these weird stretchy things that are basically uninflated balloons filled with sand with faces painted on them and yarn hair attached. I’m not sure what scared me more: that there were hucksters selling these exact same things when I was there 10 years ago or that I actually bought one ten years ago. (I vaguely remember it eventually exploded and was quite messy.) I think they were much cheaper when Italy was on the lira.

Anyway, after the Trevi, we went over to the Spanish steps. On the way to the Steps, we passed a gelateria with the wackiest decorated gelato in all of Italy. After all the walking we had done, we were quite thirsty. The nice thing is that Dr. H’s guidebook said that all of the fountains in Rome were full of drinkable water, and that it is perfectly acceptable to just stick your water bottle in to fill up at any of them, unless there was a sign noting that it was not potable. Here Dr. P takes advantage of the refreshing beverage. In the picture below, I am not sure why Dr. P used my camera to take a picture of a 14 year old boy getting water at the same fountain…oh, wait – that’s me. Never mind. (I actually almost slipped and fell in while posing for this.) Obviously, we really appreciated all that free water, as here is Dr. H filling up at another fountain. This fountain was in Piazza Barberini, so named for the powerful Barberini family of Renaissance times. It was made by one of the famous Renaissance sculptors whose name starts with B (there are about four of them – Bronzino, Bernini, Bromino, and Brunelleschi – but I think this fountain is a Bernini). I like it because it has all these bees on it. (You can sort of see them on the left.) Like Mohammed Ali, the Barberinis adopted bees as their symbol of power.

We were in Piazza Barberini to see the crypt of the Capuchins, which is this super creepy set of chapels decorated with the bones of 4,000 monks who were dug up for some reason. Some of the “decorations” are skeletons, and some are mummies, dressed in monk robes. (I swiped this picture from The Scream Online because I respected the church's request not to take pictures and so I do not have my own. Not that I am judging anyone here. I’m very glad that someone took pics or scanned a postcard they bought, otherwise I would not have anything to share.) I went there 10 years ago, and I swear that it actually used to be even freakier. I remember a lot of signs in a variety of languages telling the visitors not to be all high and mighty that they are alive while the monks have been dead for hundreds of years, as some day we too will be dead like them. Hopefully we will not have our various bones nailed onto walls for decorations, but whatever. Those signs were missing this time, as was all the anti-choice propaganda. I bought a postcard for Borther-in-Law at the gift shop. (How fucking great is it that this place had a gift shop? I love it.) We also used an internet café in Piazza Barberini and grabbed an unmemorable lunch before heading via subway to Vatican City.

The Vatican Museum drove me up the wall. First, it is outrageously expensive – 12 euros!!! This was by far the most expensive museum we went to in Italy. Second, there were about 954 tour groups there. It was very hard to get around, as large groups would plant themselves in the middle of a room or hall while listening to their guides, and refuse to allow anyone to pass. I was very on edge as it was since I felt like I had entered into the Heart of Darkness. This is not to say that good times were not had. I seriously respect this statue's pubes and sac: Not even the two-headed Mary Magdalene on the unfinished Michelangelo statue that I saw at the Museo dell’Opera del Santa Maria Fiore in Florence can beat a dickless, handless statue for laughs. (Did they fall off from overuse? This statue could so be used as a warning by some of those groups that think masturbating is a sin.) And the Venus de Milo thought that she had problems…Speaking of problems, here is a sample of the crowds that continued to annoy me even after I felt mirthful from the dickless statue. By the time I took this picture in the map room, I had given up on actually seeing the fresco maps of regions of Italy that lined the hall-like room. Yet my time out was good for me. I collected my thoughts, calmed down, and concentrated on taking pictures of one of my favorite topics: sea monsters. (I wrote about this way back on October 26, 2005.)
These first two sea monsters look incredibly sad. It just breaks my little heart. This sea monster is one big, bad motherfucker. I would not mess with him, unless I was the Son of God. “What?” you are probably asking yourself. “Who ever heard of Jesus battling sea monsters! Horsefeathers!” Well, my Doubting Thomas friend, feast your eyes on this: OK, I admit that I would not have thought such a hilarious map battle scene existed either until I saw it with my own eyes. Now that I look at it again, I wonder if it is supposed to be a saint famous for battling sea monsters and not Jesus at all. Whatever the case, it was just what I needed to see to cheer me up. By the time we finally reached the Sistine Chapel, all was well.

From the Vatican Museum, we went to St. Peter’s Basilica. The Basilica is built right over the supposed burial spot of St. Peter. Which would make one think that the Vatican might be sensitive to the needs of the persecuted, but this discriminatory sign shows otherwise: No people missing one leg or part of an arm are allowed in! So much for the meek shall inherit the earth and all that.

Inside the Basilica, there are many relics. Above the altar, St. Peter’s chair is inside a large bronze sculpture of a chair, but I did not get any good pictures of that at all. No one is allowed remotely close to it, and my flash was not strong enough to overcome the distance. Or is it something more? (Cue the creepy music.) I also tried to get a picture of what I think are St. Peter’s relics, but the reliquary (if that is even what I saw) is place very far behind a glass window, and the pictures also stank.

Not all was lost, though, as I was able to take some pictures of dead saints and popes on display in their glass coffins. Here we have John XXII, St. Pius, and St. Josaphat: St. John XXII is probably one of the worst wax-job corpses ever. He just looked like shit. Granted, having a bad wax head is probable better than a rotted head or no head at all, but still. I did not capture his face, but he also had a ginormous nose. Seeing as us Jews are always being tormented for our schnozes, you’d think that people who venerate a saint with a nose big enough to fit a truck in a nostril might be a bit more sensitive; that’s all I am saying. St. Pius X’s bod also did not fare well in death. He now has a metal head and hands. St. Josaphat also is a metal head (ha ha ha, oh I crack myself up when I write at 2:21 AM because I am tormented by insomnia). I so dig the crown. Once my sister had a birthday party at Showbiz Pizza (now turned into Chuck E. Cheese) - which beefed me off to no end because I had previously asked my parents if I could have a party there and they said it was too expensive, but whatever – and they gave her a crown that looked very similar to this. It only made me more jealous.

It is actually good fortune that brought me to these three relics. We initially left St. Peter’s without seeing them, and I was a bit disappointed that there were no relics I could get moderately close to. However, Dr. P’s dad, who was raised Catholic, requested that she bring him back a bottle of holy water, and when we went to the gift shop, we discovered that they only sell the bottles there. We had to go back into the church to fill it ourselves. That’s when I noticed the three relics. It was almost like fate, no?

When in Rome, Insult the Dominant Religion (As a Jew, I'm Already Condemned to Hell Anyway, So Why Not?)

Bon giorno Roma! We arrived in Rome in the late afternoon on May 11. After settling into our much less luxurious hotel (no internet! scandal!), we set off to see the relics at Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, a church founded by St. Helen (mother of Constantine, the first Christian emperor, who made Christianity the official religion of the Roman empire and thus enabled Christians to go from being a tiny persecuted religious sect to a major religion that spent hundreds of years persecuting other religious groups) in 320 AD. Helen used the church to store the relics that she brought back from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, where she was completely scammed. Supposedly, she bought thorns from Jesus’s crown; a few of the nails that held him to the cross; the wooden tablet stating the charges against Jesus (in Greek, Hebrew, and Latin); splinters from the cross itself; and my favorite, the finger of St. Thomas. The church became a major site for pilgrims, especially during the plague, when thousands of people would come to venerate the relics in hopes of a cure. (Of course, that just brought more disease-infested people into contact with one another, further spreading illness and death, but it was easy enough to blame it on the Jews, allowing the powers that be to further torture and kill them.)

I bought a booklet about the church and the relics in the gift shop. I know it is mean to make fun of other religions, but I figure that I also mock my own, so no need to take offense. (The booklet, The Basilica of Holy Cross in Jerusalem, cost me 3 euros, so I also contributed to a cause that I completely do not support, and I might as well make use of it.) It says:

In 1570 due to excessive humidity, the Relics were moved to the Chapel of Saint Helen to a niche that could only be reached by passing through the monastery cloister, which required special permission. This location didn’t allow easy access for pilgrims, who became more numerous in modern times. This is the reason that in Holy Year 1925, a plan was made to build a larger chapel which provided easier access… The renovations that took place between 2003 and 2005 included placing the Reliquaries… into a climate controlled environment to provide optimal conditions for conserving the Relics.

I just love that it took 80 years to figure out that they should put these precious objects into a climate controlled case that art museums has been using for years and years.

Much more importantly, the booklet also notes that:

The authenticity of the… Relics, those present in the Basilica since its construction, has been solidly based… The ancient story that a part of the Holy Cross was brought to Rome and placed in the Sessorian Basilica, is confirmed by medieval Papal rituals… The story of the nails is also ancient and unfaltering. Many historians of the IV century wrote that Saint Helena also found the nails that Jesus was crucified with…Regarding the relic of the… wooden tablet stating the charges that Pontius Pilate brought against Christ… Stefano Infessura wrote in his diary on February 1, 1492, that this relic was discovered, by chance, in the Basilica during a restoration project… it seems that [its hiding place in the church] was forgotten because the mosaic letters indicating its location, [sic] had fallen off… After paleographic and exegetic study and analysis of the text in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, the inscription is perfectly compatible with the Biblical description, in particular with the Book of John…To complete the Cycle of the Passion, during the course of the centuries, Santa Croce has been enriched with other Relics including a fragment of the grotto of the Holy Sepulcher in Bethlehem, the Scouring Column, the patibulum of the Good Thief, and the finger of Saint Thomas.

So I am sure that you cannot wait to see pictures of these relics now that I have presented you with the strongest scientific evidence possible- er, um, - some stories that are completely uncorroborated and unreliable to verify their authenticity. And that is what is so lovely about faith – you don’t need real evidence because you know in your heart what is true. Please, if this post offends you, consider how others feel when we read writings on “infidels,” and what the heinous anti-Semitic impact of the Passion plays has been on Jews for thousands of years. (Blasphemy, I believe, is killing other people in the name of your God.)

Anyway, I am sad to say that I don’t have any of my own pictures because the church did not allow people to take their own so that they would be forced to spend 3 euros on a book (or at least buy a postcard or two) so that they may have pictures. Eventually, I will get around to scanning the pictures from the booklet. (Hopefully, “eventually” will be this weekend, but Brother-in-Law is getting very annoyed by my constant scanning requests…)

The pictures I do have are of the church itself, which is an architectural monstrosity. It has been rebuilt at least four times in the 20th century alone. I also have a picture of Saint Helen’s statue on the top of the church. There’s another statue of her in the church crypt which was created by ripping the head and arms off of a statue of Venus and replacing them with a new head and arms holding a cross, but I regret not having seen that one, as it sounds way more interesting than this one.

After moping about Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, we began walking back to our hotel on taking a route different than the one that got us there. (We foolishly let Dr. P guide us to Santa Croce, and she readily admits to being a great driver, but terrible navigator. This was evident when we wound up in a scary traffic circle with nary a sidewalk in sight on the way to the church.) I was excited because our new route led us directly past another priceless yet dubious relic picked up by St. Helen: the staircase that Jesus descended after Pontius Pilot delivered his verdict. The stairs themselves are covered by wood boards, as mortal feet are forbidden to trod them. Pilgrims seeking forgiveness can walk up the stairs on their knees (exiting normally via a regular staircase to the left). We arrived 10 or 15 minutes before the posted closing time, but the very mean groundskeeper refused to let me go up the stairs, pointing to his watch that it was closing time (or maybe he detected that I am a bad person). I was crushed because if that would not make an awesome picture, I do not know what would.

I closed out my first day in Rome by taking a picture of a condom machine that was outside a drugstore in the neighborhood we were staying in. It dispenses boxes of six or 12 dick socks. Actually, over the course of my trip I saw these all over both Florence and Rome. I am particularly intrigued by the fact that Rome, with more churches than you can shake a stick at, and the neighbor of the Vatican, has condom machines all over the place. Why is it easier to get birth control in the most fucking Catholic country in the world than it is in the US? Excellent for the public health of Italians, but a very, very sad reflection on the state of affairs in America, indeed.

When It Rains, It Pours

Yesterday morning I had both a nose bleed and my period. I mention that I had my period because I found it much easier to deal with the blood gushing out of my poon than the blood gushing out of my nose. Someone needs to take an important lesson from down under and manufacture some nose bleed tampons (nosepons?). Everything would have been much easier if I just had some small cotton things with a string for easy removal that I could have jammed up my nostrils. (Yes, both were leaking blood – it was not fun. Fortunately, I only have one vagina to plug up in these situations.) Instead I had to bunch up tissues and cram them in, but the fit was not so great and the extra tissue hanging out tickled my face. Very annoying. Yes, nosepons will be a huge success!

Judgement Day - Our Last Day in Florence

Dr. P, Dr. H, and I spent the morning of May 11 – our last day in Florence – at Il Duomo, Santa Maria Fiore (the church attached under Il Duomo), and Santa Reparata (the church under Santa Maria Fiore). We were a bit worried when we set out because it was quite overcast and we worried that the view from the top of Il Duomo would not be very good. No worries needed – the view was great and we had quite an interesting time in the dome as well as on it.

This dark picture is taking from Santa Maria Fiore looking up Il Duomo. We climbed 643 stairs to get to the top and outside, with intermittent stops inside Il Duomo right under the stained glass windows and right below the arch.

As we climbed the stairs, we saw this sign: Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people? Who the fuck would write on the wall of an amazing church? Why can they not exercise any self-control or restraint? As I was to learn in Rome at the Catacombs, idiot assholes who do this types of things ruin the experience for everyone else when things get taken away. How much would it suck if the stairs to Il Duomo were closed due to excessive graffiti? If caught writing on walls, the defacers deserve to have there hands broken on the spot. Sigh.

Anyway, my seething anger at other people was forgotten when we finally got to the top and enjoyed the views. The second picture is of the synagogue in Florence. I think it is one of the most stunning synagogues I have ever seen. (Dr. H’s guidebook (or maybe my little map-guide, I can’t remember) said that the ark still has swastikas carved in it from when it was ransacked in the 1940s.) We stayed up on the cupola and just gaped for some time before heading back down.

As you can see, going down the stairs from Il Duomo’s cupola was a terrifying experience. I swear that I did not hold the camera in any weird way to make Dr. P (visible near the bottom of the stairs) look like she was walking down stairs in some MC Escher drawing. I must’ve clung to the railing on my way down as if my life depended on it. (I have a wee fear of heights, and going down stairs like this amplifies the feeling that I will plunge down any second.)

The stairs led us from the cupola to an even scarier scene – hell. We walked along the level right underneath the stained glass windows and got a close look at Il Duomo’s frescoes depicting hell.
Seriously, people were crazy 400 years ago. The second picture does indeed show a demon with a stick on fire anally raping a man while another demon with a fire stick is vaginally raping a woman. The woman is grabbing another fallen man’s penis as she screams. Dr. P, Dr. H, and I all agreed that repression can make people severely demented. What scares me is that there are still people today who believe that this is exactly the punishment that the sexually “deviant” deserve. It’s grotesque, but a very important reminder of how dark times still were even during the Renaissance period of “enlightenment” that created so much other beautiful art, and both how far and how not far we have progressed in Western culture.

From the heights of Il Duomo (which ironically was so close to hell), we then went into Santa Reparata, which is actually several meters below the ground level of Santa Maria Fiore. I forgot when architects discovered Santa Reparata, but it is incredibly cool. My favorite part is that people can walk on actual parts of the floor that have been uncovered. I so love the mosaic tiled floors, and they had a soothing texture when you walked on them. In addition, there are many interesting tombs, and much to my delight, relics!!! These babies definitely made up for my disappointing visit to San Marco the prior day. Before we went back to the hotel to collect our belongings and take the train to Rome, Dr. P and Dr. H each took a picture of the Baptistery, another Renaissance marvel.

Here’s my final picture of Florence: Almost every corner building in Florence has a painting of the Madonna and Child. Some are very old and faded, others old and better protected, and some are quite new. I found it very interesting that most, if not all, corner buildings had one, but none of our guidebooks mentioned anything about them.

Arreviderci (I’m sure I spelled that wrong) Firenze!

Do Your Hairs Hang Low? (I know it's ears, but it's funnier this way)

My friend emailed me the following story that made me laugh so hard at work I might’ve gotten fired (yeah, in my dreams)if I had not already quit:

My sister was discussing your blog this weekend. I had showed it to her once when we were painting her nursey and I did not realize she was actually reading it regularly. Go L. for having taste. She is behind the campaign, but wanted to know if you maintenance trim at all because as she put it, she has to take care of this one unruly curly chunk that if left unmaintained makes it hard to wipe. Meanwhile, this conversation was taking place at the grocery store while we were in line. I assured her that I have this beastly area as well and said we have a common hairy gene compliments of our Eastern European Jewish roots(as you once put it as well) Our walk home from the store was spent discussing our hairy-ness!

I think this hairy gene is what allows Hasidic men to grow such seriously nasty beards. (They are the type of people who probably do have stinky chins because they do not properly wash and yet have these insane clots of hair attached to their faces. I try not to think about other areas of their bodies covered with hair… Shudder, shudder…)

Ah, my friend, I do indeed know what you are talking about. It took me forever to figure out when I wrote about this, but finally I came across this nugget of wisdom from Jan. 31:

Like the State of the Union Address, Uncontrolled Bush Can Hurt

It occurred to me a few minutes ago that there might, in fact, be a very good reason for trimmed and maintained snatch. Let’s suppose there was a woman who scorned the removal of crotch hair on woman. Let’s also suppose for a moment that the same woman got her period and used a tampon. Hypothetically, this woman could go to yank the tampon string to get it out, and since there are pubes hanging all over the place and she is not careful, she could also accidentally grab a tuft o’ hairs and pull them all out with said tampon. Ouch.

I’m not saying this happened to anyone I know. I’m just saying it could, and I could see how such fear could lead women to keep the bush pruned.

This post generated two insightful comments from Gynagirl (“Also, when you have to wear a panty liner or pad, if the edge bends over, you get your pubes snagged on the sticky side & goddamn, that shite kills. I have never pulled my pubes yanking on the string, though.”) and Mara (“And there is also, if the pubes are really long and bush like, the chance that they will get pulled into play during sex. Also not pleasant . . . .”)

I think there are a lot of people, some even not Hasidic or even Eastern European Jews, who can relate. The debates going on at other blogs that I have linked to on Monday and Tuesday and am too tired/lazy-to-create-links-for-again-at-this-very-moment-because-I-need-to-go-to-bed-and-still-have-a-million-things-left-to-do certainly illustrate that. Keep the awesome stories and comments coming!

May 10th (My Dad's Bday!) in Florentine Pictures

Is this not a view that one should wake up to every day? Yes, yes it is. I took this shot from the balcony of our hotel. (You can kind of see Il Duomo.) That is pretty much the only time I used the balcony - in the morning to see what the weather was like. If only I had more time in Florence. Whine, whine - I know. I was lucky to get there at all...

After taking pictures from the balcony, Dr. P, Future Dr. H (who, as of May 22, is now Dr. H! Congrats!!!), and I headed over to San Marco. San Marco is a former monstery that has many interesting frescos by Fra Angelico. While The Annunciation is the most famous, I found this one far more interesting:
The disembodied hands are supposed to be the Romans tortunring Jesus on the cross. It's like a painting done by Dali, but 500 years earlier. Surreal!

Down the hall from this strange crucifixion scene are several rooms that belonged to Savonarola, the prior of the monastery and a religious zealot who was burned at the stake. I had been excited to see his relics, but they were mostly second degree relics. That is, relics that are not actually parts of his body. Most of the relics on display were his clothes and books, but a reliquary contained what we think is supposed to be part of the stake upon which he was burned.

After San Marco, we headed over to the Uffizi and saw more great works of art, as well as a weirdly curated exhibit on Leonardo da Vinci. Dr. P and I were art-ed out, but Dr. H went on to Gallerie dell'Accademie to see the original David, as opposed to the copy on display outside the Palazzo Vecchio that the lazy Dr. P and I were satisfied with. While she was at the museum, Dr. P and I wondered around. I was fascinated by the ginormous mountains of gelato we saw at a random gelateriaDamn, I so love the gelato. Yum...

Our last stop of the day was the Boboli Gardens, a stunning garden behind the Palazzo Pitti. The garden had a very strange grotto, which you can see Dr. P and Dr. H viewing in the lower left corner of this picture:Here's the grotto close up:Kind of funky. Speaking of funky, near the grotto is a very disturbing statue of Bacchus. The model for this statue was the midget court jester of the Medici court. Yes, they not only had a court jester, but a midget court jester. They also could force him to pose naked for a statue. That's what money would get you in the old days.Fucked up, huh? Dr. P and Dr. H contemplate the situation. (I think they had nightmares that night.)

Not long after we viewed a short, fat, naked Bacchus riding a turtle, Dr. H and I got into a bit of a loud debate about children and travel. Dr. P yelled at us to shut the fuck up and just enjoy the beautiful setting, which you can see was a very wise, albeit forceful, suggestion.
Wandering around a garden made me need to pee quite urgently. Fortunately, the Boboli Garden is also home to the Porcelain Museum. Wouldn't it be wrong for a museum of porcelain to not have a porcelain throne? Of course it would. I raced into the museum as they were closing (20 minutes before the posted time, which seemed to happen every where in Italy and drove me up the wall), and was directed to the narrowest bathroom I have ever used.OK, this picture does not really capture how damn narrow this bathroom was. I could not get in while my jacket was tied around my waist and with my tiny backpack. Even after I took my accessories off, I could barely get in far enough to shut the door. Maybe I should not have eaten so much gelato that day...