I'm a frequent flyer, but today was the first time I've been singled out for "secondary screening."
First, damn United Airlines, her executives, wage-slaves and stockholders to corporate hell for those those scarlet (actually just ink-jet black) "s"-es printed in the corner of my ticket. I drove to an airport 50 miles distant last night only to have my flight to Washington D.C. delayed for two hours, making it impossible to make my connection. (Why is United surprised by snow in December?)
I rebooked for this morning, but caught a break. They were able to schedule me out of my home airport, shaving about 25 miles from my trip. But apparently their delays and rebooking were enough to flag me for a pat-down and a carry-on dump at security.
(My packing is beautifully intricate, developed over four years of travel writing. I can fit together computer and camera gear and six days of clothes in standard carry-on, the 21st Century equivalent of the 1,500 piece expert jigsaw puzzle.)
The pat-down, thankfully--?, was a cursory thing, easily defeatable by anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of security tactics, or who has watched an episode of 24 or Get Smart.
(Does every frequent flyer know a dozen workable ways to contravene the nation's airport "security" or is it just me? I've got a doozy of a doomsday plan; simple, cheap, and with absolutely no reason to fail. I can't be smarter than all the bad guys, can I?)
Perhaps because of my innate amiability, I've softened to the Transportation Security Administration (TSAr) drones over the years, occasionally deigning to banter with them a bit, or even wish them a good day. But I realized that, in playing the good sport with these useless pawns in the less-than-useless airport security show, I am, perhaps, as culpable as the bloated ewe in the pat-down next to mine this morning, who bleated, happily, "I'd rather be safe than sorry!"
Damn her to hell, too.
I don't wish to be an ass. But from now on, the TSAr's men and women get no more from me than a civil nod. That'll show 'em.
First, damn United Airlines, her executives, wage-slaves and stockholders to corporate hell for those those scarlet (actually just ink-jet black) "s"-es printed in the corner of my ticket. I drove to an airport 50 miles distant last night only to have my flight to Washington D.C. delayed for two hours, making it impossible to make my connection. (Why is United surprised by snow in December?)
I rebooked for this morning, but caught a break. They were able to schedule me out of my home airport, shaving about 25 miles from my trip. But apparently their delays and rebooking were enough to flag me for a pat-down and a carry-on dump at security.
(My packing is beautifully intricate, developed over four years of travel writing. I can fit together computer and camera gear and six days of clothes in standard carry-on, the 21st Century equivalent of the 1,500 piece expert jigsaw puzzle.)
The pat-down, thankfully--?, was a cursory thing, easily defeatable by anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of security tactics, or who has watched an episode of 24 or Get Smart.
(Does every frequent flyer know a dozen workable ways to contravene the nation's airport "security" or is it just me? I've got a doozy of a doomsday plan; simple, cheap, and with absolutely no reason to fail. I can't be smarter than all the bad guys, can I?)
Perhaps because of my innate amiability, I've softened to the Transportation Security Administration (TSAr) drones over the years, occasionally deigning to banter with them a bit, or even wish them a good day. But I realized that, in playing the good sport with these useless pawns in the less-than-useless airport security show, I am, perhaps, as culpable as the bloated ewe in the pat-down next to mine this morning, who bleated, happily, "I'd rather be safe than sorry!"
Damn her to hell, too.
I don't wish to be an ass. But from now on, the TSAr's men and women get no more from me than a civil nod. That'll show 'em.
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