Minneapolites will be familiar with the Not-My-Fault Jesus mural on the exit ramp for Washington Ave near the Southern. Today, I found his long-lost gay cousin: Blowjob Jesus on Franklin Avenue. I believe that the intention of the mural was probably to show someone receiving a blessing, but really, think twice before painting a man on his knees, head bowed down at genital-level to the Jesus, while Jesus' right hand seems to be pushing the guy's head into his crotchal region. I have to get a photo of this.
Things not to do ever again: drink more than seven glasses of cheap keg beer and attempt to bike home. But I'd bet that YOU wouldn't have expected what looked like an empty white plastic bag in the gutter to turn out to be a full gallon jug of milk. NB: drivers do not appreciate it when you swerve and half-fall into traffic as the gallon of milk spurts on their car.
cadavers and fetuses (feti?) and corpses, oh my.Back from the Bodyworlds exhibit at the MN Science Museum tonight- and though it was extremely interesting, some it was redundant and kind of cheap-looking. (Those dead bodies didn't look CLASSY enough!) I think it's definitely worth a trip, especially if you happen to be next to the exhibit of reproductive organs and the girl next to you grabs her boyfriend and taps the glass saying "see, honey? A cuda! (taps own crotch) Cuda!"
The little kids annoyed the fuck out of me, of course. And the dude behind me who has no sense of his own limbs and kept accidentally stepping his feet through mine in his hurry to see whatever was in front of us. Slow down, sir, it's not like these bodies are going to get up and leave before you can examine them.
I expected more from the gestation exhibit- if it's all walled off and they practically make you sign a waiver to see, shouldn't it be more interesting than several embryos and a single plastinated 8-months pregnant woman and her fetus? (I remember seeing something way more detailed as a kid... I think perhaps in Chicago, at the science museum there?)
On the way out, I stopped in the Questionable Medical Device exhibit, and ohmygod do I want a phrenology head.
If you love me, you'll buy one for me.
As I boarded the 94C back to Minneapolis this evening, I glanced across the aisle and noticed something on the floor beneath the seat: a dirty pink thong. How exactly does one forget one's underwear on metro transit? Is it like having Stripper Tourette's, where instead of shouting inappropriate things, you remove inappropriate articles of clothing?
(Worst bumper sticker design ever: "I love someone with Down's Syndrome" written in crayon-esque, backward-letter, preschool font. Corky would not approve.)