franchise reboot v4.0.

This is a photo of the wonderful new International Terminal at Atlanta's Hartsfield Airport. A mysterious and beautiful place that you for some reason cannot reach by MARTA (Atlanta's rail system). According to signage at the MARTA exit, you need to be driven there in a suspiciously thrown-together-looking International Terminal Shuttle van by a man resembling Notorious B.I.G. in both stature and voice. A ride that somehow takes almost 20 minutes, even though you know this new International Terminal is physically connected to the rest of the airport.

Well it is connected, it's just that to drive there from the main terminal where MARTA lets off, you have to leave the airport, like you're going home, yes get back on the highway, and then re-enter the airport at the new offramp for the International Terminal.

But eventually you hopefully arrive at the elegant modern design wonderland of the International Terminal, wonderful not only because of its state-of-the-art amenities (charging stations! nap areas! a Varsity!) but also in its lack of passengers and therefore lines. Unfortunately after going through security you may see signage that says that your particular flight is not quite international enough to depart from the International Terminal; rather, you will depart from concourse E. The signage informs you that you now need to take a train to Concourse E, a train which, and this will surprise no one, a train which you could've just as easily taken from...........yes, the MARTA station where you first arrived.

Hey man...at least they're trying. And if the Delta website had tole me what gate I was leaving from before I left the house, well...I probably still would've done the same thing. But in theory...

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Welcome back to real life. A real life which we will, one last time, possibly even right here in these very blog pages, hereby try to unfuck.

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While I'm far away from you my baby 
I know it's hard for you my baby 
Because it's hard for me my baby 
And the darkest hour is just before dawn 
Each night before you go to bed my baby 
Whisper a little prayer for me my baby 
And tell all the stars above 
This is dedicated to the one I love 
(love can never be exactly like we want it to be) 
I could be satisfied knowing you love me 
(and there's one thing I want you to do especially for me) 
And it's something that everybody needs 
While I'm far away from you my baby 
Whisper a little prayer for me my baby 
Because it's hard for me my baby 
And the darkest hour is just before dawn 

-The Mamas and The Papas, 1967.

This version below is way more tongue-in-cheek than is my placing of the lyrics here, but the below version is the one that recently reminded me what a fantastic song it is and that it could be sung by four real modern humans and have more life than some old (classic) studio confection.


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son of the beach.

Or, What I Did Today. I was at the beach for 8 hours because of a change in bus schedules. That no one told me about. True, there are worse places to be stuck for 8 hours, aren't there. Only potential drawback would be my newly bright pink exterior.

But in the More Germane department: look at the size of this salad.

















The fork and book provide useful points of reference (the book is Michael Cunningham's Specimen Days, which is worth reading...although, if you zoom in on this photo, you can see that this book includes the phrase "a spasm of white-hot rage", which is not indicative of the quality of the writing in general). The salad is smoked salmon, crayfish, sea beans, chives, and a lemon-dill dressing. Degree of difficulty? Low. Serving size? Bordering on overload (what kind of wuss am I, can't finish a salad for chrissakes). Would've been pretty perfect though if someone had just spent a tiny bit more time washing the lettuce. This all went down at Zilt aan Zee at IJmuiden.

And then later? I saw a boat decorated in the style of the Jordaan.

















And finally I saw a Summertime Cat.











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