via a A. (via J.G.-C. via MSNBC.com): Woman kicked off plane for breast-feeding baby (in Vermont!?!?):
Gillette said she was discreetly breast-feeding her 22-month-old daughter [...] She said she was seated by the window in the next-to-last row, her husband was seated between her and the aisle and no part of her breast was showing.
A flight attendant tried to hand her a blanket and told her to cover up, Gillette said. She declined, telling the flight attendant she had a legal right to breast-feed her baby.
Moments later, a Delta ticket agent approached and said the flight attendant had asked that the family be removed from the flight, Gillette said…
Does this sicken anyone else? Apparently it does: there’s a petition floating around about this. What does it matter if her breast was showing or not? She was breast-feeding. Regardless of how you feel about breasts, this is what they’re for. Evolution created them for this express purpose and no amount of fashion advice can undo that. Being offended by a breast used for nursing is like being offended by a foot used for walking. I encourage everyone to speak out about this.
Oh, and boycott Delta/Freedom if you can. Vote with your dollars, folks.
Writing location: The Chair… 100%.
Welcome 802 Online readers. (Thanks for the plug, Cathy!)
Family just landed in town for the Thanksgiving holiday. Alas, hanging up the spurs a little early this evening:
Today’s Oblique Strategy: ghost echoes
Today’s Word Count: 42,960 of 50,000 (85.92%)
via B^2: The Ward-O-Matics posts about a vintage 1966 Fallout Shelter Handbook. And it is f*ing SWEET.
Just look at how happy that family is…
I mean seriously! If I’m not mistaken, the Dad is just kickin’ it… Totally smoking a pipe and joking with the Missus about how she’s always saying that they should spend more time together. “Well honey, now that those Pinko Bastards have brought the apocalypse down on us, we have all the time in the world together!” And dare I forget to mention how lovely those place settings are?
currently playing: Earth Deuley “2 Hours”
Twenty-first century reconstituted strip mall; buried in sand but well-contained in some impermeable geodesic dome. We (A. & I) descend through the longest escalator in history into this gray-lit, half-closed-and-boarded-up mall. My tattoo artist is here. When we arrive, I have forgotten what brought me there. A new tattoo? Something else? She seems happy to see me and dusts the chair off with a towel like a barber from some olde fashioned silent movie. What’ll it be? I roll up my sleeve and show her my Scorpio tattoo. Just a touch up, I say … and (I grab a fat black magic marker and draw a circle around it) may as well do this little addition here. She seems a little confused. It does not seem to be a very well thought-out addition to the existing ink werk. A circle? I do not admit to her that it’s just my feeble attempt at covering for the fact that I don’t remember why I came down here. She goes to work on the edges of my existing ink, touching up the spots where it could stand to be a little more crisp. Before she can start on the circle though, we are interrupted. Some fifteen year old looking Girl Scout is down trying to sell my tattoo inker something (decidedly not cookies) and the inker tells this “vegan proselytizer” to get lost. That’s enough for me to sit up, wrap my tattoo in a bandage and explain that I’ll be back later. Some other errand to attend to. I’ll pay you back when I swing back next time…
