Slow Talkin' Georgia

Not only do the people do some slow talkin' down here in Georgia, even the cows will only give you a "muh."

Dwell, Dwell, Dwell

Not to dwell on this air travel stuff too long (since my next trip comes tomorrow to Georgia), I'll try to make it short and sweet.

Southwest Airline does not have assigned seating. There is no first class. You get a number, you line up, then grab whatever seat you can amidst the scramble. Because the government does everything at the last moment possible, my number has always been a large one which means I get to choose a seat after they have all been taken.

The only ray of hope is the possibility of getting a seat in the emergency exit rows which give an extra 4-6 inches of leg room. My travel agent said my flight was not full. Upon arrival I was informed they were overbooked. You know what happened.

Middle seat somewhere in the rear of the plane which meant no extra inches for anything for this 6 hour stint. On my left was Mr. Snoring Flatulence who could not keep his belly to himself. On my right was Mr. 5'8" Caesar Complex Spread-Out-As-Much-As-He-Can Hoagie Express who was unable to chew well with his new dentures 3 sizes too large for his yap. When my legs went into spasms my vibrating thigh muscles shook his dropped lettuce and roll bits off of me and onto the floor so I could slip on them later if I ever got up.

One last negative was sitting on the plane for 6 hours and getting 2 cookies, 6 crackers, a quarter ounce of peanuts and 4 ounces of Coke. I was considering eating my seat cushion floatation device, but I couldn't get to it. I was gonna pretend it was marshmallow pie but it was too hot and didn't work out. My arms were numb anyway from being crossed the entire trip. The one thing that was wonderful - no one spoke - so I was grateful for that. I'm done.

Well, Well, Well

What a surprise. Another lovely flying experience.

Apparently, in addition to taking your laptop out of all of its protective sleeves and cases so the gorillas can toss it around unimpeeded in order to inspect it for who knows what, a new rule now exists regarding another sensitive piece of expensive equipment. All video cameras must assume the position in an unprotected compromised state to be handled by reject burger flippers in a TSA uniform. These are the same folks that have difficulties grasping "no cheese on that please" means do not add an extra slice and "stay alert" does not mean in your dreams.

I don't know about anyone else. I can only speak for myself.

In the same manner that I do not go into a hospital's medical operating facility and disassemble all of the instruments and machines there, swabbing them with some unspecified, unidentified chemical solution, turning them upside down, shaking them and examining them with an uneducated eye, not knowing what these machines do or how to properly handle them, I would expect someone else not to touch my specialized, highly sensitive and expensive equipment and instruments that are necessary to perform my job, a job they are not qualified to do and know nothing about.

Considering most other government agencies seem to respond with lieniency and grant priviledge to those presenting bribes and favors for a turned eye, perhaps I should start going through the screening process at airports with a bunch of bananas in arm to distribute to the TSA folks so I might proceed to my plane without absurd inspection.

I guess I should address the liquid situation while I'm thinking about it. If my soda or water was purchased at the airport and is still sealed and unopened, why am I not permitted to carry it with me? Oh, that's right, it's more than 3.5 ounces. What an idiot I am. I believe in order to further comply with this liquid restriction, next time a TSA agent tosses my drink in the trash in front of me without giving me the option to drink before I enter, I will consider it a reminder to release at least 3.75 ounces of spit or urine, whichever I have an abundance of, in their direction.

If you do by chance come across one particular TSA agent wearing a name tag with Richard Dick on it, you have a few options. You can cash your ticket in and take a train, preserving everyone's dignity, or you can continue on and let the jokes fly. I opted for the jokes. My comedy was so entertaining I got to meet the majority of the TSA staff and a few local law enforcement fellows. A lovely time was had by all.

I'm so steamed right now writing about this crap, I may never get to the actual flight. I must rest before I explode. It is good to be home, but I don't know if it is really worth all of the trouble getting here.

Norton Simon Museum Pt. 2

Ahh, Sticky Monkey. The depths of your art appreciation never cease to amaze and impress me. I don't think people give you the proper credit you clearly deserve for being such a connoisseur of the finer things this world has to offer. Go get yourself a nice bowl of chili, no onions, with provolone and fries. You earned it today, buddy!

True, no poker playing mutts at the museum. It was a terrible disappointment. Sad as that may seem, on the flip side of that coin, I did get yelled at by the suits with ear pieces. Apparently a piece of sculpture outside on the lawn can be touched by rain and smog and blaring heat from the sun and frost and falling tree branches and monkey poo and bird crap and squirrel nuts and hobo blankets and raccoon scratches and mad cow disease and such, but if you brush off some spider webs to get a better photo you become "public enemy number one" and "taken down" by "the man."

I begged them to shoot me because I didn't want to continue life with this dark cloud over my head. When they ignored my request, I then asked to be led to the velvet Elvis paintings as punishment. Instead, they left me with Rodin's lawn ornaments and filed their reports whilst keeping a stink eye on me. Of course I played the game, "How Close Can You Get Without Touching?", and enjoyed the sweet victory of spreading a little more of my love throughout the land.

Here are a couple of shots of the stuff from Rodin.

Norton Simon Museum Pt. 1

Nice joint right here in Pasadena, CA. Eight bucks to get in, free parking, and photography is permitted without flash or sale of photos taken. It is wonderful to get as close as a quarter of an inch from the actual pieces if you so desire - just no touching. The textures and colors pop when you breathe the same air as the art.

I got to meet Cézanne's uncle,



van Gogh's mom,



Degas' little dancing girl,






and these two picking out some wallpaper.

It Ain't Jersey

I Want My Spock In Space

It's interesting to see what people do to get to where they are and what they do with it once they get what they want.

I went to Barnes & Noble to peruse through the new periodicals and migrated to the photo and art section of the store. A natural progression dictated by my interests. Glancing through the titles I notice a series of books authored by Leonard Nimoy. Photo books, published and presented before me for purchase. Spock shutters images. He is even referred to as a photographer.



Of course I had to have a look inside. The first book I gander at consisted of all nudes of women pushing 350-500 pounds. Alone, in groups, dancing and mugging it up for Leonard. OK. Whatever moves you.

Book two was about hands. It was entitled "Hands." I guess an attempt at artsy displays of digits. Looked like a chart of sign language poorly lit one sign at a time.

The third piece I eyeballed was called Black and White. Guess what that was. Yep, more nudes painted white with black backgrounds.

I immediately left the store wishing the final frontier was in fact the final frontier. Why do these guys find it necessary to re-invent themselves so people will forget the very thing that brought them to our attention. My Spock is a little more marred and I am a little more blurred.

San Fran for the Weekend