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The Newsletter >
Snap Shot
May 29, 2008
GENERAL NEWS BULLETIN:
Having lost all and every of my email addresses in a freak,
unexplained, impossible computer malfunction that could not
possibly happen anywhere on this or any Earth—except to
me—this website and my newsletter are my only connection to
the outside cyber world. The IT staff is working on it.
Sigh.
Shalom From New York,
I saw the security guard spot the evil museum rule
breaker before I saw the actual evil rule breaker. The
security guard went into that alert, ears pricked up—we
got a live one—pointer stance like a dog flushing a covey
of Bobwhite. The molecules in his skin were standing at
attention.
“Boy, some yokel has really biffed it,” I said to my
daughter. We were visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art
in New York City. We were surrounded by centuries of
priceless antiquities in the Greek and Roman statue garden.
It was possible to become faint from the smell of fragile
history.
My daughter gasped, “That’s no yokel. That’s dad.”
This next part happened in that weird slow motion that
kicks in when airplanes crash or the grandkids tumble of
the furniture.
At the sound of her shock and awe I turned (slowly) to
see my wonderful husband of thirty years leaning against
the bust of some Goat God of Ithaca. He (my husband not the
goat god) practically had his elbow in the empty eye socket
of an irreplaceable piece of irreplaceable goat god
history. He was taking a cell phone call (my husband not
the goat god.)
“Noooooooooooo! Sherwooooooooooood, . . . don’t . . .
do . . . it!!!!!!!!” I yelled. My voice echoed through the
statue garden like the voice of a long dead Greek person.
The security guard honed in for the kill.
I thought about throwing myself in front of the bullet
when I saw my wonderful husband put his finger in his free
ear to block out the sound of Captain Security Guard
saying, “Sir, don’t lean on the art,” and “No cell phone
calls in the museum.”
Those were his exact words. I believe the actual
subtext of this warning could more accurately be
translated, “Listen up, you hillbilly—from whatever swamp
you crawled out of—you wouldn’t know a piece of priceless
art if it bit you on your hillbilly butt but try not to
leave your hillbilly grease on the marble, or I’ll shoot
you myself.”
Horrified, Heather, Phillip, and I melted away into the
gift shop (i.e. we ditched the hillbilly), but not before
we took a snap shot of Sherwood and the security guard with
a forbidden flash. “Lady, there’s no flash photography in
the museum.”
The picture turned out great,
. . . and then the camera got stolen.
To be continued . . .
Linda (Hillbilly Lover) Zern
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