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Sunday, December 30, 2007 SNAKES
OFF A PLANE MY
WINE AGAINST THE GOVERNMENT’S MOST HATED The
New York (NY) Post Safe from the tyranny of tennis shoes. I
have seen some stomach-churning stuff this year: “Hostel: Part II,"
“Saw IV" and the Transportation Security Administration in action. Congratulations,
TSA. You have pulled off something none of us would ever have predicted a few
years ago. An AP poll this month shows that you are now tied with the IRS among
least-liked federal agencies. It took the IRS decades to become a punchline. It
took the TSA (motto: “Making life a little more unpleasant since
2001") less than six years. In a different survey, the American Customer
Satisfaction Index, the TSA's parent, the Department of Homeland Security,
ranks as the single least-liked federal agency. While
airport chaos sometimes benefits me personally - possibly you are reading this
paper at LaGuardia because you have just learned that your flight has been
delayed until 2009 - there are now four things in life that are certain: death,
taxes, that Jamie Lynn Spears will be a grandmother at age 32, and that the
black steam of aggravation will flow out your ears at the airport. In
2001, many were the warnings that there was no need to put airport security in
the hands of a government agency. To argue that airport security is important,
thus it must be run by federal officials, is like saying that your overnight
letter is important, thus you can only trust the Post Office with it. I
was a guest for a performance of the Soviet-style surrealist follies of the TSA
in the Richmond, Va. airport on Dec. 16. We learned from checking the Web that
our 7:15 p.m. Jet Blue flight back to JFK had been delayed two hours based on
the butterfly effect of bad weather somewhere in the world, so we arrived at
8:10 for the now-9:15 flight. Richmond's
is a sleepy little airport that typically doesn't send flights out after 9,
though. So the TSA closes every night at 8:15. If there are six flights delayed
until midnight, the TSA still closes at 8:15. Why? Because they have better
things to do than their job. So
at 8:10 a woman at the JetBlue counter told us we didn't have time to check our
bags and we'd be lucky if we were able to rush down the corridor to the metal
detectors, catch the TSA people before their 8:15 bedtime, and take our bags on
the plane with us. Problem:
we were carrying all sorts of contraband items such as toothpaste and even an
expensive bottle of wine. The Colgate was a no-go. The Barolo '03 would have to
be “thrown away," i.e. donated to the TSA holiday party stock. That
must be one of the most fun events of the year, what with all those corkscrews
and pocket knives and more booze than an Irish wake. If
we didn't donate the bottle, we also had the option of “mailing it to
ourselves," i.e. shoved in an unpadded paper sack so that everybody in the
postal service could stomp on it as it made its way back to New York. I
do not give up my Barolo without a fight. My Army training came back to me in a
flash. I began to deploy techniques I first learned at Fort Bragg: advanced
tactical complaining (“But I don't wanna get up at four"), hopeless
deployment of logic in the face of utter intransigence (“Why should I
polish my boots? Don't rifles have a dull black finish so the enemy can't see
anything shiny gleaming in the woods when we're trying to sneak up on
him?"), and finally exhausted acquiescence (“I can't do this drill
anymore. I guess I'll just have to learn to accept getting bayonetted in the
spleen"). “You
should have checked all these items," said a stone-faced securidude at the
scanner. “We
couldn't check them because you guys were about to close," we said. “Ah,"
said the David Puddy-like transpotyrant. “Sometimes the airlines close
down early for the night. Too bad. We can't do anything about that." “THEY
are not closing. YOU are closing," we riposted. “It's
too bad that they close so early," continued the looming authority figure,
who seemed to have modeled himself after every prison guard in “Cool Hand
Luke." “I guess they stop loading the planes at a certain
time." I
had a sudden vision of what would happen if the argument continued for more
than two more minutes: the last words of it would be mine, but they would be,
“Don't tase me, bro!" We
decided not to get on the plane at all, because the day I throw away my Barolo,
the terrorists truly will have won. We prepared a strategic retreat back to the
home of our hosts in Virginia and resolved to fly out in the morning. “So,
can I have my toothpaste back?" I asked as we were leaving. Said
the Lookout Lad: “No." |
