MOMA

I spent most of yesterday at the Museum of Modern Art. Durf and I had planned to go last week, but the day before, he came home from work and related an anecdote. He said he told a colleague that he was going to MOMA with me. The colleague responded that his wife talked him into going to MOMA recently too. Durf said, "Oh really? What did you like best?" His colleague said, "The coffee." So we went to the Natural History Museum instead.

I like MOMA. You can always find something to write home about. For example, one exhibit consisted entirely of the tattered remains of some vertical blinds lying forlornly in the middle of the exhibit room floor. No, really, there were no maintenance people around. It *was* the exhibit.

Later I was in the Female Photographers gallery and I saw a crowd of mostly young people hovering around a glass case. I approached and was about to nudge my way to the front on the heels of the middle-aged woman in front of me when all of a sudden she spun around toward me, pushed me out of the way and scurried to the next room. Hmmmm, I thought, what *did* she see? I peered over the shoulder of the teen in front of me and saw a photo of an attractive woman holding a dildo the size of the Eiffel Tower to her crotch. I don't know if it was the formidable size of the thing that scared my trailblazer friend or the fact that the dildo seemed to be pulsing with life.

Durf and his rocket scientist friends don't know what they're missing.