No Not Smoking Allowed

Several years ago, I read an article that said some people are genetically pre-programmed to smoke cigarettes.  I don’t remember where I saw it, and I also don’t remember who wrote it, but in spite of my lack of citations, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that I fully believe that it’s true. 

The first time I ever put a lit cigarette in my mouth, though, it wasn’t to smoke it.  I was about 8 or 9, I think, and one of my friends had stolen a cigarette from his mother at my behest.  I remember I came running across our front lawn, and like an idiot, held the cigarette up to show my sister, never thinking that my mother might see what I was doing through the window (which she did).  Mom was pretty angry and we had to wait until my dad got home to see what sort of demise he had planned for us.  To show us the evils of smoking, he made us light it and then swallow, not inhale the smoke.  She puked after the first puff, which left me to finish it.  I swallowed every puff of smoke and didn’t get sick, and didn’t touch another cigarette for another 4 or 5 years. 

When I finally did make a conscious decision to smoke, it was the easiest thing in the world.  It was the early ‘70’s, and at that time, it seemed everybody smoked.  You could smoke on planes and in hospitals; I could smell smoke on my pediatrician’s breath.  It never occurred to me that smoking was bad because almost every adult I knew smoked, and those that didn’t seemed utterly unconcerned about it, except of course, my parents.  In short, it was normal and acceptable behavior.  My parents didn’t smoke, but my grandmother did, and when she visited, the ashtrays came out and for the length of the visit, she smoked in the house.  It was from her that I pilfered my second cigarette.

I knew exactly how to smoke.  I had been watching it my entire life.  I’d watch them puff, then inhale, and then watch the smoke pour from their mouths and noses.  If the light was just right, like when sunlight is streaming through a window, the smoke would waft from them like a dragon, curling and swirling in the light, as milk does when it first billows up from a cup of black coffee.  It was fascinating and I wanted to do that.  So when I took my first puff of my second stolen cigarette, I did not cough or gag.  It was as though I was a “natural” smoker; like I was born to smoke.  That was 36 years ago.

Regular readers of this blog know I have to tell one story in order to tell another (usually whiny) one, and this entry is no different.

In spite of my nostalgia about smoking, we all know that it’s bad for you.  Not every smoker dies from a smoking related malady, but since the chances of ill health skyrocket when you smoke, it’s a safe bet that it’s a habit best left undone.  Personal experience has shown me that quitting can be a nightmarish undertaking.  I’ve done it a few times, but have never lasted more than four months.  Quitting cold turkey is maddening, nicotine gum tastes like spearmint paint thinner, and the only way a patch would work would be for me to paste it over my mouth. 

Fortunately, modern technology has come to my rescue in the form of the electronic cigarette, hereafter referred to as an “e-cig”.  They’re not actually new, but they’re new to me, and as far as I’m concerned, offer the best alternative to smoking I’ve ever heard of.  You can look up the specifics here, but in a nutshell, they are small battery operated devices (about the same size and shape of a real cigarette) that, when puffed on, deliver a small dose of nicotine by way of vaporized propylene glycol, much like a humidifier.  To quote the cited article, propylene glycol has been “utilized in asthma inhalers and nebulizers since the 1950s, and because of its water-retaining properties, is the compound of choice for delivering atomized medication. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) includes propylene glycol on its list of substances Generally Recognized as Safe (GRAS), and it meets the requirements of acceptable compounds within Title 21 of the Code of Federal Regulations”.  Add a dash of nicotine, and you have an e-cig.

The American Association of Public Health Physicians state that smokers can reduce their chances of smoking related illness by up to 99.9% by using an e-cig.  They do not have any of the over 4000 known carcinogens found in regular cigarettes.  They do not ignite and are never on fire.  I just can’t stress this enough:  Using an e-cig is not smoking.  It appears that a person using an e-cig is smoking, because they do exhale water vapor (which looks like smoke), but it is NOT smoke, and produces no odor.  In fact, if you didn’t actually SEE a person using one, even a person sitting right next to you, you would never know they are using it. 

So, what we have with e-cigs is a nicotine delivery system with no odor, no carcinogens and no ashtrays.  “But wait!” you say.  “Nicotine IS a carcinogen!”  Well, no it’s not.  In fact, nicotine by itself, according to the International Agency for Research on Cancer “has not been assigned to an official carcinogen group.”  (See toxicology in the cited article.)  To be fair, nicotine is addictive, but traditional cigarette smokers are ignorantly enslaved by all the other crap found naturally in tobacco, as well as other horrible stuff intentionally added by tobacco manufacturers to ensure a constant supply of addicts, er, customers, and more importantly, money.

Let’s recap:  Cigarettes are bad.  E-cigs offer all of the benefits (as smokers see them; they’re also cheaper than traditional cigarettes) with none of the health risks, smell, or mess.  Even (relatively) new social stigmas concerning smokers should be alleviated.  Because they’re not cigarettes, e-cigs have no second hand smoke, so no one can blather on about disingenuous “facts” concerning second hand smoke.  E-cig users can get their nicotine fix at their desk or in a crowd without the slightest inconvenience to others in the vicinity.  Problem solved for everyone!  Right? 

Unfortunately, no, the problem is not solved, which brings me to the root of this rant.  Most major airlines and a host of businesses have already, or are in the process of banning e-cigs from use.  Why?  Because people who don’t use them don’t want you to use them either.  I swear I can’t make this up. 

Let’s look at the reasons for banning e-cigs on airplanes.  As mentioned earlier in this post, smoking used to be allowed on airplanes, and so you know I’m not a smoking Nazi, I would tend to agree that smoking in a tube full of people could be bothersome to those who don’t smoke.  Now, everyone has rights, and one group’s shouldn’t trump the other’s, but smoking in a crowded place is just inconsiderate on the part of the smoker.  E-cigs completely eliminate any physical discomfort other non-smoking passengers might have to endure.  The smoker gets his/her nicotine fix, and the non-smoker is utterly undisturbed, right?  Well, no, they’re not.  It seems the argument being trotted out in support of the ban is that non-smokers and people who don’t understand how e-cigs operate are frightened and traumatized by witnessing a person using one.  Jason Healy, president of Blu e-cigs (my favorite), says "It's not the actual product, it's the disruption and explaining to everyone else that it's not smoke."  (Citation)  In effect then, those complaining about e-cigs can’t smell it, but they can see it, and they don’t like it, and, by God, they’re not going to sit on a plane and watch someone else not smoking.  Ridiculous, no?  It gets better.

Senator Frank Lautenberg (D-NJ), author of the original 1987 ban on airline smoking thinks that his ban should be extended to cover e-cigs as well.  Now, I’m not a senator, so I’m much more prone to critical thinking, and I’m having a hard time understanding how a bill that bans smoking should also apply to not smoking.  Lautenberg says, “We still don't know the health effects of e-cigarettes, and we don't want to turn airline passengers into laboratory mice.”  (Citation)  Huh?  The only by-product of e-cigs is water vapor.  WATER VAPOR.  Should we also ban asthma inhalers?  As mentioned above, e-cigs operate on exactly the same principle.  Senator Lautenberg isn’t blind, so I can only assume he is ignoring the fact that e-cigs DO NOT LIGHT, and a person using one is NOT SMOKING.  So it seems that the only legitimate reason for the ban is that it bothers a small group of ignoramuses who apparently have nothing better to do than to whine about something they know nothing about, but they don’t like it, so it must be bad, and since they don’t like it, then no one else should be allowed to do it either.

In all honesty, I really don’t believe it’s the whining of dummies that is causing the ban on e-cigs.  Like anything and everything else in our world, there is one, and only one culprit:  Greed.  For every political decision made, one has to wonder what the motivation is, and who stands to profit.  Societal benefits are a by-product of legislation.  My guess is that people like Lautenberg are probably in bed with the pharmaceutical companies, who stand to lose a good deal of money if and when the sleeping public finally awakens to discover that e-cigs cost a good deal less than ridiculously overpriced nicotine patches.  It also wouldn’t surprise me in the least to know that tobacco companies are just as ardent in their zeal to see e-cigs restricted as much as possible.  And as long as I’m speculating, I would have no trouble believing that the pharmaceutical companies and the tobacco companies are in bed with each other, in spite of their apparent conflict.  (I know that sounds a bit “black helipcotery”)  They’re both making obscene amounts of money and e-cigs pose a potential threat to those profits, and besides, people like them, and how can we have things people like if somebody isn’t profiting grossly?  The love of money is indeed the root of all evil.

I would also suggest (but could never empirically prove) that there exists in our world people who just can’t stand to see others engage in harmless behaviors they don’t approve of.  Like one child withholding a toy from another who obviously wants it, for the sole reason of watching them want it and not be able to have it, these people derive some sort of satisfaction from imposing their will upon others.  Much like nicotine, this sort of disregard for others provides them with the dopamine that normal people get from a smile or a kind word.  In our politically correct world, they seem to be oblivious to the fact that in their zeal to keep their own feelings from ever being bruised, they inherently must bruise the feelings of others. 

A ban on e-cigs is patently ridiculous, isn’t it?  I’m just so sorry to have to say that all my ranting isn’t going to change anything.  It will become the norm, and life will carry on as usual, and I truly feel sorry for the people who can’t see a problem with it.  And you can bet that if there’s any money at all to be made from an e-cig ban, the politicians will be on board as well under the guise of the public good.  I’m sure there are many militant non-smokers who fully support the ban on e-cigs, and will go to sleep snug and smug in the knowledge that no one is going to offend them in any way, especially not by enjoying something they don’t approve of.  It’s bad enough that there are those who would tell us what to eat or wear or do or say, and we behave as if that’s normal and acceptable.  Keep this in mind, though:  If they can ban an activity that hurts no one while having the populace agree, they can do anything, and that, my friends, is not freedom.  We would do well to heed the words of Bertrand Russell, who said “There is no nonsense so arrant that it cannot be made the creed of the vast majority by adequate governmental action.”

If you agree with what I’ve written, how about dropping Frank Lautenberg a line and telling him (and by extension, all of your lawmakers) what you think of his logic?  Here’s how to contact him:  http://www.lautenberg.senate.gov/contact/routing.cfm. 

I Can't Type

There are a couple of things that have been bugging me for a while, and I wanted to explore them fully and rationally. I wanted an essay for each, because I believe they are topics that should be discussed fully, with all sides presented so that you, the reader, can make an informed opinion and perhaps dig even deeper than I did. That’s what I wanted, but I can’t do it. I can’t write long essays because both of my forearms are covered with poison ivy blisters. So since I can’t comfortably type, you’re going to have to read my unedited and possibly poorly thought out arguments. If I have to be miserable, so do you.


Immigration Wall

This picture comes from the desert in Arizona and it should disturb you for a lot of reasons.  Having said that, I want to continue by saying I have friends on both sides of the immigration issue, and each offers a strong opinion about their take on it. I’m not going to try to rationalize each argument, although I’d like to say that any talk of racism when discussing illegal immigration is moot. There is no race of illegal aliens, so that’s been taken out of the equation. And because I have poison ivy and vodka, I’m going to tell you what I think about the whole mess as quickly as possible.

I’m having a party. It may not be the best party in the world, and I do have some rules, but all the attendees seem to like it, and that’s what matters. The first rule is that everyone on the planet has a standing invitation. Show it and you’re in. All I want is an RSVP. Tell me you’re coming and I’ll make sure the rope opens for you. However, if you show up uninvited, you are implicitly saying that you’re not going to follow the first rule, so I have no choice but to assume you’re not going to follow any of them, and that means you have to leave now. See how simple that is?

God Hates Fakes

On May 22 of this year, just a couple days ago, an F5 tornado plowed through Joplin, MO. By all accounts as of this writing, at least 125 people are dead or missing. Fred Phelps’ Westboro Baptist Church plans on picketing there Sunday with this message: “Thank God for 125 dead in Joplin.” The group will be holding signs claiming that they’re glad those people died; they died because God is punishing America for allowing homosexuals to live freely. I have a big problem with this.

There are people who defend Phelps’ group saying they have a right to free speech, no matter how offensive their message, and they’re right. For just a tiny bit of background, Phelps’ “church” is a small family based cabal of lawyers and paralegals whose sole mission is to bait grieving families in their most desperate hour into behaving like any rational person would. They travel across the country to brazenly mock the deaths of strangers’ loved ones, hoping for a physical confrontation so they can seek redress by suing the “attackers” as well as the state and federal governments for failing to protect their right to free speech. I believe in my heart that anyone can say anything they want without fear of being taken away by the government. I really do. But, here’s how it works at my party: You can stand up and say anything you want, but if you willfully act like a dick for the sole purpose of being a dick, you shouldn’t be surprised when you get smacked for being a dick. You are not owed anything. It’s real simple.

I could have posted pictures of my disgusting, zombie-like arms, but I didn’t. I did, however, post one depicting the root of my problem.  (Snerk!)  One thing about this is that although I’m right-handed, I seem to be unable to brush my teeth in a fluid motion using that arm. It wasn’t until now that I realized I had always used my left hand for tooth brushing. As I do it, in my present condition, I absurdly think of a monkey randomly poking a stick into a termite mound. It’s weird.

Cinemadness

When it comes to food, it’s not my place to say what’s good or bad; I can only tell you if I like it or not. I’m sure somewhere there is a glowing review for fried rats (IF they are cornfield rats, according to a Cambodian friend), but a professional food critic raving about them holds little sway over me. And just as it is with food, opinions about movies are just too subjective for me to put any stock in them at all. Movies with talking animals have a huge audience, but they just creep me out. Except for TV’s “Mr. Ed.” That was awesome.

I’m not a movie critic. The fact that professional movie (or any) critics exist and get paid for their opinions is a mystery to me. In many instances, they hate the movies I love, and I hate the ones they like. “Real life” movies can be interesting and pertinent; but come on. If I can tell in the first ten minutes of a film what’s going to happen, I had better be so engrossed by the entire experience of writing and acting and sets and costumes and shots that I care about the character who can’t see what’s coming. I should want to scream at the screen. If I’m not anxious to see what comes next, it’s not working.

Escapism is the true power of filmdom. ANYTHING can happen in a movie, and, in my non-paid opinion, should. Indeed, in my little world, there are only three elements that can save almost any film from being an utter waste of time. Those three things are, in no special order, tits, fangs and blood. Now, I hope I didn’t lose you there. As I said, I’m not a critic, but all three of those elements combined in the same film always makes for something I can watch, no matter how stupid the story is, or how badly it’s acted. Am I a cretin? Perhaps, but I just went to a real theater and paid to watch a big budget movie with actors I like for the first time in I don’t know how long, and I was sorely, sorely disappointed.

I went to see “Priest”, a movie about vampires that have fangs and are horrible monsters that’s based on a story from a comic (or “graphic novel”, if you prefer). The trailers I’d seen actually made me want to go to the movies, and that rarely happens. I like the acting of the title character, Paul Bettany, and Christopher Plummer is, well, you know, Christopher Plummer, so I thought why not? As I said, I’m not a movie critic, but this movie was a train wreck (snort). My beef is that it could have been so much better. The storyline was just awful. I did a little peek around about the story it’s based on, and it shouldn’t have surprised me to learn that the plot of the movie had nothing to do with the original premise, save for the title. It was akin to making a movie that has Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein monster playing Sidney Poitier’s role in “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”, and titling it “Frankenstein”, because that’s what it was based on. Oh, and nobody notices that he’s a monster. Ridiculous, right?

Anyway, ten minutes into the movie, I knew what was going to happen, and the only reason I stuck around was to see the fangs and blood (no tits). This movie could have been so much better. So from my soapbox I’d like to say that the people in charge of making mainstream movies must think that the movie going audience is a gaggle of fools. Formulaic drivel is uninteresting and it frightens me to think that Hollywood continues to churn out this celluloid ichor (medical definition) because that’s what the public continues to pay for. Good stories are good stories and mainstream movie makers seem to have forgotten that. My three personal element preferences for a good movie aside, it seems to me that since movie makers like to call themselves artists, I would suggest that they stay true to what I believe an artist’s motivation should be: to create for creation’s sake, not for profit. If you tell a good story the right way, and tell it because it’s a good story, profit will follow, although most of the time, you’re dead before anyone realizes how great you are.

And so you know I’m not a total misogynistic ass, I would really like to see “The King’s Speech”, and not because it won a bunch of Hollywood self-congratulatory awards. There will be no tits fangs or blood, but I want to see it because George VI was the last king of England, and a stutterer in a tumultuous time, and I’d like to see how that went.

Lessons Learned

I hate writing about me. In a way, of course, all writers write about their personal lives in that every single word they write comes from them, ergo, it’s all personal, but good ones disguise that with allegory, allowing the reader to see into them without a blow by blow description of what’s actually happening. It’s much more interesting that way. So, when I say I hate writing about me, I mean I hate writing about my personal life; no one wants to read that. But on this, the last day of 2010, as I sit alone in yet another hotel room, I am reflecting on the events of the past year as they relate specifically to me, and because I’m feeling selfish and bored, I thought I’d share with you some of the things I’ve learned this year.


Casinos

I love casinos. I love the way they look, I love the way they sound, I love the way they smell. They are vibrant and exciting, warm and inviting. The joyous cacophony of electronic music and sound effects are as intoxicating as the (for the most part) positively beautiful women that proffer free drinks upon request. Every single time I walk into one I expect to see a tuxedo clad James Bond playing baccarat, casually betting huge sums of money with gorgeous trollops draped on his arm. Of course, it’s always regular people betting money they probably shouldn’t, but I like to think they share the same feeling as me: A casino is a place to shed one’s normal skin and pretend, if only for a little while, that things are different inside than they are in the regular world. In a casino, one doesn’t worry about the mundane life usually adhered to. Like an adult fairy tale, the possibility of having a “happily ever after” doesn’t seem so farfetched. They are the ultimate escape from the run of the mill.

In this year alone, I’ve been to Atlantic City, Reno, and Vegas. I wish I could say I won a bunch of money, but I can’t. In fact, I spent more than I wanted to, but not more than I should have. The important thing is that I had a good time. The lure of easy money, i.e., a big hit on a slot machine, is very difficult to resist, and although it didn’t happen for me, I did see it happen for others. The odds of winning are remote, and as I plug money into casinos, I am reminded of a bumper sticker I saw that read “the lottery is for people who suck at math”. The casinos take from me, and the entire time they’re doing it, I enjoy it. I know it’s happening, and I still do it. I do it because it’s fun. That’s what I tell myself, and I’m OK with that.

Travel

Everyone who reads these rants knows I travel for my job. I complain endlessly about it, but it’s a necessary evil. I like being able to pay my bills (and hit the casino once in a while), and I particularly like being self sufficient. My father taught me, a long time ago, that it is only through hard work that one can live the life they want to live. I took that to mean that the only way I can have the things that I want is to work for them. Everyone who knows me knows that material things mean little to me. At the risk of tooting my own horn, I make enough money to buy just about anything I want, but it’s been my experience that things owned, in and of themselves, do not happiness make. I thought I found happiness once, not long ago, but I was wrong, and so I have no choice but to continue to work (travel) and hopefully, one of these days, find the life I want, and more importantly, find someone to share it with. So for all my lamenting about travel, I have to keep in mind that it pays my bills, and, as much as I hate to admit it, being alone on the road affords me the often agonizing opportunity to pause and reflect upon what it is that I want. Maybe, someday, I’ll know what that is, and if I’m really lucky, I’ll be able to recognize it when I find it.

Broken Hearts

Everyone has a broken heart story, don’t they? If you don’t then your life isn’t complete yet. I have one, and I’m a bit embarrassed to say that it took almost 50 years for it to happen. The details aren’t really important. Suffice to say that I gave everything I had, both material and ethereal, only to find that it wasn’t reciprocated, in spite of being assured that it was. She left me in August.

I was never one to believe in a soul mate, but when I met this woman, I was converted. Like the dreamer I am, I knew, knew that this one, out of every woman I’d ever met, was the one I wanted most. I had never in my life met a woman who so totally consumed my thoughts. She was by no means perfect, but she was perfect for me. We shared a love of casinos, but I suspect (among other things), that my traveling proved to be the final straw for a camel whose back was never strong enough to support us both.

I think of her often, probably more often than I should. I tell myself that one of these days her memory will fade, and take the constant lump in my throat with it. I don’t know why I torture myself by thinking of her, and I don’t know why she pops into my mind when I don’t want her there. I can’t blame her for her presence in my mind; the problem obviously lies with me. Maybe one of these days I’ll look back and laugh at my foolishness. My biggest fear is that I’ve become jaded, that I will judge every other woman I meet by her, and forever find reasons that the latter doesn’t measure up to the former. I hope that doesn’t happen.

I hope this entry wasn’t too dark. I did have a good time in casinos, and I did have a good time traveling. I hate to love casinos, and I love to hate traveling. I didn’t have a good time when the love of my life left, so I suppose I should take a different tack and apply the same lessons I learned from casinos and traveling: Perspective goes a long way toward rationalizing the things we do. I need to find the proper vantage point from which to view my broken heart. Travel and slot machines may prove to be the key to helping me to help myself. Have a good new year.

TSA OK!

To take pride in the place you were born is a vanity that we all share. “I’m Scotch, I’m Irish, I’m Cherokee, I’m Nepalese. I’m special because of the accident of my birth.” It’s not a bad thing, really, because without that particular universally shared quirk, we would feel unconnected, if not utterly lost. My point is that national pride is a good thing. So with that in mind, I want to express my dismay at the state of the America I was born in. It’s gotten a lot different than it used to be and I’m worried. I really am.

I travel for work. I am on the road ALL the time. I don’t like the TSA. I don’t like their methods, I don’t like their agenda and I most certainly don’t like their screeners. I don’t like them one bit. They and all they stand for are a problem that doesn’t need to exist. Many may say I’m a tin foil hat wearing lunatic, but hear me out. The TSA, under the auspices of public safety, are raping your rights and literally molesting you and your children. They say they’re doing it for your own good and safety, but they’re doing nothing to keep you safe from the terrorists they say are rampant among us.

I’m barely started but I can see that this essay could go on for pages and pages, so let’s try to keep this simple. The TSA has not caught one terrorist. They have not stopped one bombing, not one hijacking; in fact they can point to a huge zero when it comes to averting any sort of air disaster. How do I know this? Because if they had, you can bet it would have been all over the news. In case you didn’t know, while the TSA is screening wheelchair-bound paraplegics for your safety, they also allow known terrorists to board planes. I wish I could make this up. I really do. But, since I did collect some links, here’s one from CBS’ 60 Minutes. There’s so much in this segment I could rant and rave about, but if you take only one thing away from it, be it this: The TSA will grope your grandma and legally molest your children while they simultaneously allow known terrorists to fly. Do you feel safe yet?

You can find any number of horror stories illustrating the sad fact that the majority of TSA agents couldn’t find their asses with both hands and a flashlight. If you think I’m making this up, do a Google search on “colostomy bag TSA”, or “muscular dystrophy boy TSA”, or (pick your ailment) TSA. Oh, and if you have a prosthesis, good luck. You and your stump can sit and wait while the security professionals try to figure out if that mechanism attached to your body is a detonator or an artificial ankle. I have a short anecdote to relate that isn’t nearly as intrusive and offensive as some others, but the important thing is that, like the extreme examples, it shows in a glaring light how ridiculous the screening process is, and how it does absolutely nothing to keep you safe. I know, because I could have pulled it off.

I was in Tampa, about a year ago, before the “Detroit Underwear Bomber” episode (and I’ll get to that). I had a carry-on duffel bag. Inside it, among other things, was a 15oz package of Metamucil. It’s about 2/3 the length of a paper towel tube, and about twice as wide. It’s a cylindrically shaped package. It was full of powdered…Metamucil. I put my bag on the belt and it showed up on the X-ray screen as a suspected “boogey” item; it had to be inspected more closely. I assumed it would, and I was asked if it was my bag and if I’d care to step over while a professionally trained TSA agent rooted through it. I wondered why they asked me, because I had no choice, but if that’s how they wanted to play…well, again, I had no choice. So, as Mr. Safety is tossing my belongings, he’s telling me, in a stern and directive tone, that cylinders with powder in them are considered suspicious and must be eyeballed to ensure they’re not an incendiary device. I told him I understood, and I also said that the result of his search was going to yield a powdered laxative in a big orange canister. He dug through the bag I had packed not two hours previously, and while he was elbow-deep in my stuff, he said, “Got it!”

I expected to see a bright orange cylinder, but to my surprise he was holding up a tube of toothpaste. He was beaming with a sort of righteous validation; he had found what he was looking for. I know you’re not supposed to joke with TSA agents, probably because they don’t understand humor, so I refrained from telling him that the tube of toothpaste he was holding wasn’t a cylinder and that I had known what a cylinder was since I was in the third grade. I smiled my best self-deprecating smile and said, “I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for”, and in an instant, I realized that was a mistake. He said, “Sir, you are not allowed to have any liquids more than 3 ounces on an aircraft. This tube is 7 ounces. I’m going to have to confiscate it.” He gave me his best authoritative stare, fairly daring me to speak up. It occurred to me to say, “So do you pack your lunch or take the bus to work?”

The point is, we were talking, but we weren’t communicating. He thought he was being vigilant for the sake of my safety, and I was trying to make his job easier, but anything I had to say was irrelevant. He handed me my bag after dumping my possibly explosive toothpaste in a huge rubber garbage can behind him, where it sat, presumably, until it was full enough to be emptied. It never seemed to occur to him or any of the other highly trained TSA agents that all those water bottles, face creams and God knows what liquids might be explosive materials waiting patiently for just the right jostle to blow the entire security area to bits. I thought that was kind of funny.

He told me to have a nice day, but I couldn’t, because I was worried that I had forgotten my Metamucil. After all, he was a professional, and he had failed to find it, so the first thing I did when I got my bag back was to check it, and there, under the first pair of neatly folded pants, was my HUGE ORANGE CYLINDER of Metamucil. For one brief (and admittedly wanton) discretionary moment, I wanted to shout to everyone within earshot that the TSA agent had failed to find my HUGE ORANGE CYLINDER of Metamucil, and wasn’t it great that it wasn’t a HUGE ORANGE BOMB! I did no such thing, of course, but I wanted to.

I tell this story because, as I said at the beginning of this rant, I am getting fed up with the government that works for me (yeah, I’m delusional) dictating how I am to behave while their “agents” trample on my basic American right to be innocent until proven guilty. “But we’re doing it for your safety!” Bullshit. Show me the terrorists you’ve stopped. I want somebody to explain to me EXACTLY how I’m safer on an airplane because your agents don’t know the difference between a tube of toothpaste and a plastic can of laxative. I’ve been screened by a person who is unqualified to get a job without saying, “You want fries with that?” Call me crazy, but I’ve been to enough airports to know that the vast majority of TSA screeners don’t carry in their craniums a brain that generates enough power to move their dumb asses around.

Am I an elitist? Am I looking down my nose at the professionals of the TSA? Did you know that the TSA’s recruiting efforts include posting job availability on delivery pizza boxes in Washington DC? DELIVERY PIZZA BOXES. Did you know that? The Washington Post does. Do you feel safer now?



The big problem with the TSA is that they’re retroactive. Some idiot boards a plane (not in the USA) with something flammable in his shoes. His cunning, well thought out plan doesn’t work, but we all have to take our shoes off in the airport forevermore. Some idiot boards a plane (not in the USA) with something flammable in his underwear. His cunning, well thought out plan doesn’t work; in fact, it really didn’t work out for him at all, but because no one got hurt and he was a moron, we all have to have our crotches felt up forevermore.

This is fear-mongering at its worst. In case you didn’t know, both of these incidents involved persons who had no chance of blowing up the airplane. None. I’m not going to bore you with the details of how an explosive device works, but in a nutshell, you need two things to cause an explosion: pressure and a detonator. Neither of these things can be achieved with a powerful enough force to blow a hole in an airplane without being encased in metal in a space small enough to be carried on your person with no one noticing that you’re a man but look like you’re at the end of your third trimester. I don’t care how James Bond does it, but in the real world, not you, and certainly not the shoe or underwear bomber can do it. We already know that.

Here’s all I have to say about backscatter scanners: The TSA says a lot of things about imaging devices. They say it can’t store pictures, but it can, and they do, and the machine’s manufacturers have already been proven to be lying when they say it can’t. Don’t believe me? Proof is a click away. Oh, and by the way, did you know that former Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff, who cried for the use of these machines after the Detroit “bomber” (who wasn’t a bomber), just happens to work for the companies that make the body scanning machines? Do you feel safer now? I swear I can’t make this stuff up.

They say you can forgo the scanning, but if so, you’ll be subjected to an “enhanced” pat down, which involves cupping your balls, patting your cooch, and sliding hands between, around and beneath your breasts. And it also includes a hands-down, in and around your-waistband job; sorry, no tongues or smoking, as well as the slide of a finger between every fat fold as well, and it’s topped off with an atmosphere of presumed guilt. If you want, you can have them switch rubber gloves before they touch you after the sweaty ogre they just groped, but you HAVE TO ASK for that. Oh, and let’s not forget that it doesn’t matter how old you are. Your six year old son or daughter is eligible, I’m sorry, REQUIRED to undergo the same procedure, because you never know…the terrorists could be anyone. ANYONE! Feel safer now?

Follow the money and you’ll see why we have these ridiculous policies. It’s not to keep you safe. It’s about money. It’s all about money. It has nothing to do with our collective safety. To believe otherwise is to bury your head in the sand or stick your fingers in your ears and shout “Lalalala I’m not listening to you!” The truth is you can’t protect yourself from crazy. If someone really wants to get you, they will, but make no mistake: They will have a much harder time doing it on a plane than anywhere else. It’s easy to say “Oh, remember 9-11”, but that’s a line that doesn’t sit well with me. There were no bombs on those flights, and the only reason they succeeded was because they could a) get to the cockpit and b) terrify the passengers. As much as I loathe the phrase, in our post 9-11 world, neither of those things will happen again. First, you ain’t getting in the cockpit on ANY commercial plane these days. Second (and I’ve seen it happen), if you act like a dick on a plane, you’re gonna get the big smack down from every passenger who even thinks that you’re going to try and fix it so it doesn’t land safely. Trust me. A plane bombing isn’t going to happen. You have a better chance of dying from being struck by lightning as you stretch out to catch a meteor while being eaten by a shark.

Here’s my humble solution: What we need is what we used to have. We need metal detectors. I know we still have them, but everyone acts like they’re antiquated. We need bomb sniffing dogs. More people like dogs than don’t. I would much rather walk past Rover the police (or TSA) pooch for a quick sniff than to have Shaniqua the Arrogant bawl at me for putting my shoes and laptop in the same bin while waiting for Donald “Cooter” McFeely to grope my privates as he leers at the 9 year old girl behind me in line. Your daughter, maybe?

Metal detectors, dogs, and people who are trained not only in security but civility would be good enough for me.

I love America’s freedoms, but I’m worried about their longevity. As I write this, I’m living and working in South Central Los Angeles, and I feel safer here than I would at any airport. When the TSA shows some common sense in their endeavors, I’ll be much less inclined to lean back and moan loud enough for the entire security area to hear when I have my crotch fondled in the name of safety.

Coast to Coast

I haven’t written anything in a while. I have a million excuses, but none of them make a strong case; it’s whining no matter how you slice it. I learned some hard lessons in my absence, and maybe one day I’ll pass them along, but for now, I think jotting down a few blurbs will do me some good, and I hope they work for you as well.


My traveling job takes me to a lot of different cities. I literally travel from coast to coast, never in one spot for more than two weeks. It pays well, but I still find myself wishing I had a dime for every time I heard someone say “Ooo, that must be so cool.” I will admit that it is nice to have the chance to see things I probably never would if I didn’t travel, but believe me when I say that living out of a suitcase is pretty much a drag. I’ve learned you cannot have a job like this and have a normal home life. On the other hand, I get to see some weird stuff…

Bums

Every one of my traveling work sites is in a major US city, and with just a couple exceptions, they are in the worst parts of those cities. Now, it’s my personal opinion that everybody should spend some time in the seedy parts of the city, especially those who tend to look down their noses at others. Mind you, I do plenty of that myself, but living among the down and outs can be very sobering. Some people have it very bad. I rarely give money to bums because, as I just mentioned, my first thought when asked for a handout is “ Get a job,” especially when it’s some tool with a $50 t-shirt and $800 worth of “unique” tattoos that look like EVER OTHER person’s tattoos. Oh, and I especially like the young “hipsters” who hang out in front of the 7-11 and ask if I have an extra cigarette. My line is always the same: “Nope. No extras. This pack only had 20. Sorry.” I don’t have a problem being less than polite with them.

Once in a while, though, I feel a little bad. I was in a subway station in DC waiting for a train not long ago. It was pouring down rain; not cold, but not pleasant either. I was on a landing that had escalators going down to the tracks and while it was covered, the wind blew everything wet five feet into the sheltered part. So I’m shaking off the rain and a bum walks past me on his way to root through the public garbage cans. I assumed he was looking for cans. As I watched, he pulled a paper McDonald’s cup from the can, straw still in place, and he put the straw in his mouth like it was his and took a hit to see if there was anything in it. Then he jettisoned the cup and went for the crumpled food bag and unwrapped all the balled up burger wrappers, presumably looking for crusts or pickles or something. In that moment, I was just a little bit moved. I gave the guy a five and told him to walk across the street and get his own McDonalds bag with his own drink. He didn’t smile, but he did mumble “Thanks,” and I went down to the tracks. I don’t know if he bought something to eat or not, but I do know that I hope that I never find myself rooting through dumpsters to eat, or worse, deciding that the money a stranger gave me could be spent on something other than food.

Misanthropic Behavior

One of the problems with traveling all the time is that I have to deal with other people. Strangers. I could say there are a ton of weirdoes in Los Angeles (and there are), but they’re everywhere, in every city. Now, I realize that I’m not the only person in the world, and anyone who knows me knows that I don’t sashay through life expecting others to be mindful of my every whim, but on the other hand, I DO expect common courtesy, and it pisses me off when I don’t get it. By way of example, for as long as I can remember, I’ve known that two people can’t stand in the same place at the same time, and now, almost 50 years later, I see adults trying to do it. Since I live in hotels, I spend (too much) time in an elevator, and I can’t count the times that I’ve ridden to the ground floor to go about my way, and as the door opens, there’s at least one person who wants to get on before I get off. The elevator car isn’t going to go anywhere until I get out, and there will be more room in the car when I get out, so YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THE WAY. I have a special look for those people, and since I’m not very attractive, it usually works very well.

Kind Strangers

In spite of my complaining about others, I do run into some very helpful people. Since I’m often in a place I’ve never been, I make it a point to ask shuttle drivers or hotel desk clerks where the good places to eat are, and I always make sure to tell them that I want a recommendation that isn’t canned. I want to know where THEY would go to eat and drink. Sometimes this doesn’t work very well, because everyone has a different idea of what’s good, but for the most part, I’ve been pretty successful. As much as I hate New Jersey, I have to admit that I got totally spoiled there. I can’t eat Italian anywhere but Jersey or New York anymore, but I’m glad I found out what I was missing. Can’t eat crab cakes anywhere but Maryland and there ain’t nothin’ like Texas barbecue. I couldn’t have found any of those good places though, without a local raving about them. So I guess they’re not all bad, but it would be a much better place if there were more of the nice ones.

Arizona

Desert

Until the end of April this year, I had never been to Arizona. I spent some time in a couple deserts in the service (not combat), but it was cold. It was to be my first time in the hot desert, the type of climate every cracked-lip, sweaty thirsty cowboy I saw on TV or the movies suffered through. Two months ago I was very anxious to see if it was hype. Was it really that unforgiving? I’m going to use a bunch more words, but if I could only pick one, it would be “yes”. It is that hot and unforgiving here. But, it’s cool too.

I like to sit outside in the evening here at my hotel in Phoenix, and I’ve noticed something unique about this place. The birds chirp and sing all night. In fact, I hear them more at midnight than at noon. Yeah, I know, that’s because it’s probably too damn hot to chirp at noon, but it’s still something I’ve never heard before. The crickets sing here too, but they don’t look like Midwest crickets. They’re tan, almost invisible against the dirt, and they move much faster than crickets usually do. I have not gotten one mosquito bite since I got here. I saw some rattlesnakes in a pen at a desert museum near Tucson, and an amazing hummingbird display too, and was very impressed at how different the wildlife is here. But, before you think I’m going to sing the praises of the desert fauna, let me tell you about the flora.

Hell is a different thing for each person, and I don’t pretend to speak for everyone, but in my personal vision, even something as benign as a plant would be a horror. I thought I had a good imagination, but after seeing how many different kinds of cacti are out here, I realized that nature has a much better one, and her creations are far more sinister than anything I could dream up. Cacti of all kinds, with spines longer and thicker than your fingers wait in patiently in the heat, waiting for you to fall down. For whatever reason, falling down is the first thing I thought of, which was bad, but of course it had to progress to falling down on a hill, rolling ass-over-teakettle. It really was the stuff nightmares are made of. One cactus in particular struck me as unusually malevolent. It is the Ferocactus wislizeni, or “fishhook barrel cactus”. Here’s a picture of it. The spines on this plant feel like they’re made of the same stuff as fingernails…or claws. They are sharper than you think (yes, I touched them), and if you were unlucky enough to roll over one, I don’t believe it could be extracted without a bazillion stitches and pints of morphine. Never, never fall down a hill in the desert. But, if you get the chance, ride your hawg in the desert during a full moon. Words cannot describe it.

Scum of the Earth

I got out of my hotel in the (relative) cool of the evening this past weekend. It was about 8pm and the sun was going down; it was only 102 degrees, so riding my motorcycle wasn’t like flying through a blast furnace. I could breathe without my nostrils burning, and that’s a good thing. So I was tooling around a strange city, not knowing where I was going, but glad to be out in the saddle. I rode around until I found what I was looking for: a bar with a bunch of motorcycles parked outside. I pulled in, got off, and walked inside.

It never fails to amaze me that there are people who think that walking into a biker bar is akin to wearing a sign that says “stab me”. I remember working with a guy once in another traveling job, and we were looking for a place to eat. I saw a somewhat dilapidated place under a viaduct that had two neon signs, one of a burger and one of a Budweiser logo. I said, “Let’s try that place,” and he said, “Hell no! You’ll get stabbed in there.” I looked at him and said, “No. You’ll get stabbed in there. I won’t.” Because I wasn’t driving, we didn’t eat there, but the point is, if you walk into a blue-collar or biker bar, you won’t have any trouble if you don’t act like you’re better than everyone there.

So anyway, I walked into the bar. It was called the Maverick, on 19th Street in Phoenix. It was like the countless other biker bars I’ve been in. You had your drunks, your bar sluts, your grandma types who knew everyone there, and of course, bikers. Not yuppie dorks riding brand new bikes and wanting to talk ONLY about their chrome doo-dads, but guys (like me) who ride not because it’s the “in” thing, but because we love it. There were some club guys (“gang” members, for those of you who stuck in the 70’s), but no one was even near menacing. Again, if you’re not an asshole, you’ll be alright. Everyone was having a good time. Drinks were cheap, you could smoke, and there was a live band. I don’t know what else you could ask for.

I bellied up to the bar and eventually struck up a conversation with the guy next to me. I had noticed an older bike in the parking lot (the one I parked next to), and it turned out it was his. We talked bikes for a bit, exchanging stories and having a couple beers and laughs. He called himself “Dirty”. I don’t have a cool biker name, but I know a lot who do. So after bike stories, he said his band was playing at the Maverick the next night, and I should check it out. Having absolutely nothing else to do, I readily agreed.

I’ve heard some unbelievably crappy bar bands in my day, and I fully expected Dirty’s band to be at least capable, but not stellar. Everyone who knows me knows my brother has been playing in bar bands since the 70’s, so it’s not like I haven’t been around that scene. To my surprise, I was wrong about Dirty’s band. They were extraordinarily good. They called themselves “Cactus Chainsaw”, and if I had to describe them, I’d say their sound was a very heavy blues rock. Think Pantera and old Black Sabbath, “Satan fingers” and head banging, but not too fast. I believe Robert Johnson himself would be proud. Dirty was the singer, and I’ll be damned if that guy and his band didn’t impress me. After a little internet poking about, I saw that they’ve played the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Los Angeles, a bastion of 70’s and 80’s hard rock bars. Every hard rock hair band has played there. Very impressive! I told them I would write a plug, so there it is. If you’re ever in Phoenix and see “Cactus Chainsaw” on a flyer or marquis, check them out. They rock. They really do. They got You Tube. Google them and see for yourself.

I wrote that little review because I said I would (and I think they deserve it), but my bigger point is that many people do themselves a huge disservice by dismissing those who exist on the fringes of society (bikers) as the scum of the earth, almost less than human. Yes, they’re crude, and they don’t make tons of money. They (I) ride around on loud motorcycles, they drink and smoke and don’t really care what anyone else thinks about them. I know so many people like Dirty who spend their days struggling through life, yet fully enjoying every single minute of it at the same time. They do what they like. They drink and make music the way they want to make it; they are beholden to no one, and that, my friends, is what makes bikers (and biker bars) so appealing. They smile and cry like every person on the planet, but their smiles don’t belie a hidden agenda. Like everyone, they hope for good fortune, but they don’t crawl over their friends to get it. They know that life is too short to spend it worrying about things they can’t control. If you are looking down your nose at people like that, I feel sorry for you. To paraphrase a Harley bumper sticker, “If I have to explain it, you won’t understand.”