THE TERRORISTS WIN

I travel a lot, have done so for years. I have witnessed the degeneration of pre 9-1-1 airport malaise to what is now a fair colonoscopy at the security check point. Based entirely upon the observed grumblings of my fellow travelers, I believe I have endured the increased hysteria and scrutiny with a bit more grace than most. I shant credit my inherent patience, as I haven’t any, rather, (A) when I travel it is commonly for pleasure, so I am graced with an inherent, if fleeting, calmness, (B) I understand that no one currently employed at the security gate has any input as to the severity—ridiculousness—of the security restrictions, and (C) dying in a flaming mass of collapsing, airplane-impacted building is far less attractive to me than the temporary delay involved in removing my shoes and waiting as an underappreciated, underpaid, and thus surly intentional stranger with a badge scrutinizes my underwear and sends my deodorant off to be lab tested.

Today, however, I have been pushed beyond my own lofty ceiling of patience and understanding. The latest department-of-home-security-inflicted loss of personal liberty has come in the form of a 3.5-ounce limit on all fluids and toiletries. This is not a tremendously new institution, probably about two years old, and I have flown several times, and lost several bottles of $5 airport Evian since—the fluid restriction is not well posted in the pre-security-gate gift shop, and is, I suspect, an intentional oversight; money grubbing bastards. But this is the first time since that I have flown to Las Vegas. The significance is multifaceted:

Flying to Las Vegas often involves cutting it close.[1] Any additional delay, even in the interest of preserving human life, is hardly attractive to anyone late for a flight, or more importantly, just this side of too late to get a drink before their flight.

Flying to Vegas invariably involves loads of sun and heat and passing out, so everyone in line is packing water and sunscreen and insulin, and 3.5-ounces, as a measure, is hardly intuitive, ensuring a noteworthy bottleneck at the checkpoint as we of the 3.5-ounces of brain endeavor to bootleg a six pack of 12-ounce medication and liter of contraband vodka through the terminal.

Flying to Vegas religiously involves drinking. Any delay whatsoever means less time doing that, human life be damned.

Enter the moral/ethical dilemma – is human life more precious than being not-sober in Las Vegas? Clear thinking humanitarians will tell you there is nothing more precious than human life. A moot point in as much as I can affect it, I don’t spend a great deal of time traveling to Vegas with clear thinking humanitarians. The tunnel visioned traveler, then, will tell you exactly what you can do with humanitarianism, and will happily throw their carry-on, their shoes, their 3.6-ounces of mouthwash and everyone in front of them in line to the wolves if it means one additional super-sized beer/cocktail in the lounge.

Since its inception, the 3.5 fluid-ounce restriction has shocked a great number of people. Neither the threatening postings, nor the disquieting murmur passing through line seem to prepare the indignant traveler for the tremendous injustice of having their aloe-vera confiscated. Perhaps people think the rule is not going to apply to them or their shampoo or toothpaste or 60-ounce water bottle—the common individual has a tremendous sense of denial.

The fabulous irony; your experienced traveler, who is aware of the rules, who has put their lotions and dentifrice into the approved bottles and government-issue sandwich bag, who is far less inclined to whine, and eventually yell at the hapless, though not tremendously understanding or accommodating, TSA-official, this individual is the one who suffers most.

The tragedy; as one of these individuals, I weep as I am within sight of the bar, resolutely bivouacked behind the security checkpoint, close enough to smell the Bloody Mary mix, when my flight is announced.

[1] An interesting phenomenon as no matter how many times you nearly miss a flight to Vegas, you just can’t seem to cure yourself of it, and we can probably blame Southwest Airlines for shaping a subculture of travelers who simply expect to and accept the likelihood of getting a Class-C boarding pass and feel no sense of urgency to either hurry or start getting to the airport in a timely fashion.

When Opportunity Insists Upon Itself

For sixteen of the last seventeen years, my best friend, his brother (the Brothers Krahl, familiarly) and I have made our way to a Viking game. The Brothers Krahl are from Minnesota. The Brothers Krahl give granite-like strength and weight to the word stubborn, and it was easier for me to become a Viking fan than to suffer the slings and arrows of outraged Midwesterner. In the past, our travels were more or less at random, whereby we pick game and host-city based on nothing more significant than cost and directness of flights. In the more recent past, though, we have begun to favor Minneapolis, world-renowned home of the Vikings and deep-fried beer.

What Minneapolis lacks in tourist attractions, it makes up for in charm (did I mention deep-fried beer) and open-armed hospitality. The Brothers have a great aunt and uncle, Mar and Orv, who are two of the most wonderful people I have ever met. It is greatly because of these two, and the reasonably local presence of extended family that we will be going back to Minneapolis this year; our third year straight.

It is a trip I would not consider missing. The fun to be had and the memories that are spawned assure my annual involvement. Plus, I am responsible for securing free hotel rooms, so it is a trip the Brothers would not permit me to miss. An additional factor this year is a tremendously good friend of ours from London (currently living in London) who has agreed to meet us in the Twin Cities. Brit, a name which is affectionately and cleverly applied to our English friend, is another of the most wonderful people who I will ever meet(who or whom?) and further reason, if any were needed, I will not miss this year's trip. This year's game is November 4th.

I have a friend getting married in Bali on November 3rd. I have myself a problem.

I travel a lot. I love traveling and spend more money than I make in pursuit of it. I have never been to Bali, have never had the opportunity to go to Bali, and short of this upcoming trip, will probably never get this kind of chance again.

So, I can't, am not going to miss, the trip to Minnesota. But how can I miss Bali? I likely can't. Especially when you consider the group, some twenty-strong, that is going to be making that trip, which is headed by the Brothers Nagpal; a duo that rivals the Krahls in stubbornness and implacable will. I have already tried to explain the potential conflict to the Nagpals, though when the word Minneapolis leaked out, they stopped taking me seriously.

I'm Giving up Porn for This

Television is unwatchable. So how does one like me, with an alleged, though as yet undiagnosed touch of ADHD, fill the hours between work and bed?

I try to remain active, though I work mostly nights, limiting my apres-shift options somewhat.

Friends? Got a few of those, though admittedly the available pool is evaporating as the people around me appear to have less trouble getting on with their lives (marriage, etc.).

I read, I like to write, I go to the gym, but I'm talking here about what to do with that rejuvenating, shut-down-the-brain-a-little time where one seems inevitably drawn to the TV.

The computer. Seems the natural and obvious outlet. The computer, and the Internet specifically, provide a world of distraction; limitless and easily accessed. Email is enjoyable, though, see Evaporating Pool of Friends, above. Gambling was nice, while it was arguably legal. Video games are fun, though as I progress deeply into my thirties I am having increasing trouble justifying the necessary time investment. Downloading free porn is A LOT of work, then there are all the hacker/virus concerns, and the inescapable loss of self-respect. Everything else costs money, so...

A Blog.

The pile of French and Spanish language books, the running shoes, the guitar and the keyboard collecting dust in my home are damning testimony to what is likely to come of this endeavor, but someone whom I love and respect has a blog which she has kept up rather nicely for some time now, so it seems worth a shot...and I do love to write.

We'll see...