"Freedom to Travel" Event

[Russell Kanning]

from the Sethmeister:

Senator Gatsas, just to provide confirmation of what we've been saying
all along, Jim Harper of the Cato Institute (who came here to NH to
support HB1582, testifying in favor of the bill) has now publically
shown that flying without ID is not only possible, it's actually
faster than _with_ ID.

http://www.wired.com/news/technology/0,71115-0.html

Please feel free to share this with your colleagues.  While it might
be too late for this year, rest assured, the fight against REAL ID is
far from over, so we'll remind you of this next year when the spectre
of 'You'll need Passports to Fly' is raised as opposition...

Perhaps, in the interest of our NH citizens moving thru the TSA lines
more rapidly, we should encourage people to 'live free and fly without
ID'  Note that the TSA agent in charge accepted Jim's excuse of "I
mailed my driver's license home"... Perhaps in the future, the reason
"I live in New Hampshire" will also be sufficent to speed thru lines
with a quicker secondary search instead.

[Russell Kanning]

I like the
"live free and fly without ID"
and
"I live in NH" answer when asked for ID

[Kat Kanning]

Here's someone who really likes the airport.


http://www.ncc-1776.org/tle2002/libe155-20020107-03.html
I Just Don't Want to Die Alone

by Joel Simon
joel@kri-us.com

Exclusive to TLE

"Why do you do that? What would you USE it for?"

My fellow cubicle-dweller is an interesting fellow. Former Special Forces grunt, son of a semi-famous actor. He burned out after being seriously injured in the army, and bummed around Asia doing god-knows-what before coming back to America. Then he bootstrapped his way to a fairly good tech writing job at the Silicon Valley branch of a Japanese robotics company. I feel a certain kinship with him. We've both made some serious mistakes for which we're paying some very serious prices. He's single; I'm divorced. He's cynical as hell and so am I. Neither of us has many friends outside work. I like him.

And that's why I told him how I spend most of my weekends. And that's why, when he asked his question, I gave an honest answer. An answer he found disturbing and offensive. I should have just shut up, or lied.

I shoot. A lot. I have, off and on, for decades. When I'm not shooting, or working, I'm cleaning up from shooting or getting ready to shoot. When I'm not practicing with my M1A, I practice with a .45. Sometimes just for variety I practice with a knife. What little money I have left after taxes, bills and child support, I spend on food and books and reloading stuff and surplus rifle ammo. Rarely in that order.

It's not for enjoyment. I tell people (and myself) that I enjoy it all to pieces, but the truth is I don't actually enjoy it that much. I'm hardly Jeff Cooper, but I'm at least good enough with a handgun to give a street mugger reason to regret his career choice. I don't hunt. I'm not planning a life of crime. So why spend so much time on it?

That's the question my friend asked me. It's the question I used to lay awake asking myself night after night, already knowing the answer. Along with, "am I crazy?"

My daughter flew up from LA to visit for a week during the holiday break, and inadvertently reinforced my reason for shooting so much. It was the first time I'd been to an airport since the Sept. 11 hijackings. I'd heard how much worse they'd gotten, but I still wasn't ready for what I found there:

    * After buying an e-ticket online, I was required to present proof of my identity at least three days before the flight or my daughter would not be allowed to board.

    * I was forbidden to enter the short-term parking lot until I consented to have my car searched. I didn't ask whether a cased rifle in the trunk (legal even in California) would cause the searcher to lose sphincter control. I just drove away unsearched and came back later.

    * While standing in the first of several lines in the airport, I noticed:

    * An Immense Machine scanning luggage for contraband, taking up space once used to welcome passengers. I thought the large American flag that covered it was a nice ironic touch.

    * A colorful illustrated sign listing the sorts of things you could be arrested for "smuggling" onto an airplane, such as plastic cutlery, corkscrews, and nail files.

    * A prominent notice that it was a federal offense not to inform the airline of firearms in checked baggage, which would of course be discovered by the Immense Machine. It's not, oddly enough, an offense to HAVE a firearm in checked baggage. But to be legal, the baggage must receive a sticker that says, in effect, "steal this bag."

    * When I arrived to meet my daughter's plane, I was refused permission to go to the gate. No amount of explaining, arguing, or pleading would produce an exception to this rule. This "protective" rule required my barely-teenage daughter to wander alone through a busy airport concourse until she happened to arrive at the closest location I could approach without being shot by national guardsmen.

    * When my daughter and I went to the security checkpoint for her return flight (you're allowed to escort a child to the gate, but not to pick one up there), an unpleasant woman with a heavy accent demanded that we remove our jackets, belts, and wallets and send them through the X-ray machine. Some passengers were required to remove their shoes.

    * Venerable elderly ladies were pulled aside for (random, I think) wand searches. One particular lady - blond, young, heart-breakingly well-built - received particular attention. She was apparently considered too dangerous for a mere wand search and needed to be patted down.

    * After I beeplessly passed through the metal detector, another woman refused to allow me to pass until I removed my hat. She ran her hand through the inside, very thoroughly. It's a rather old hat; I have a rather greasy head. I do hope she enjoyed it.

    * I looked around and noticed the postures of the national guardsmen who surrounded the checkpoint. You know: The ones posted at the airports to protect us from terrorists? They faced inward. Their M-16's, slung at the ready, were pointed at my daughter and me.

What particularly disturbed me about all this was how cheerfully my fellow herd members received it. We seemed to have fallen into a movie about occupied France, and it didn't bother anyone. I wanted to shake people by the shoulders. Either I was crazy, or everyone else in the airport was.

Later that afternoon I went to the range and burned through over 100 rounds of .308. Just gotta get those groups smaller from the prone position.

All of which leads me back to my friend's question, and to the bleak and offensive way I replied to it:

"I only expect to use it once," I told him.

"I fancy myself an honest man. I've never intentionally harmed an innocent soul, and I've never stolen so much as a slice of bread even when I was broke and hungry. I obey every law I can bring myself to, sometimes at the cost of self-contempt. But there are some things I CAN NOT do, and someday those things will be demanded of me. Then I'll be branded a dangerous criminal. And someone will come for me, and I'll resist. Then the shooting will start, and I'll likely be killed. I just don't want to die alone."

"Are you telling me," my friend asked, "That you'd shoot some poor pimple-faced grunt just because he was ordered to be the first one through your door?" I recalled that my friend had earlier said that he was assigned to "counter-terrorism" work in the Special Forces, and that his training had more to do with breaking down doors than storming bunkers. I looked up and met his eyes.

"I have to take the consequences of my choices," I replied, "And he has to take the consequences of his."

I wish I could believe that the original intent of our republic can be restored. I really do. Not long ago I re-read El Neil's and Aaron Zelman's book Hope. I leaned back in my chair and tried to retreat into a fantasy of what it would be like to have someone like Alexander Hope as president, providing a way for us to restore our liberty while punishing those guilty of stealing it from us. I just couldn't do it.

No president like that will arise. Americans won't rise up, either, even when it's too late. In the unlikely event we do organize for revolt, we'll lose. Since I can't imagine living in the future America I envision, I expect to die. And when I die, I don't expect to be surrounded by friends. So enemies will have to do. I just don't want to die alone.

[Russell Kanning]

That is so sad.

[Dreepa]

That article has got to be old right?

I don't think that they are searching cars anymore and I haven't seen lots of National Guard troops in quite some time.

[KBCraig]

The writer got it wrong about firearms in checked bags: the law and FAA (now TSA) regulations specifically forbid putting any kind of tag or sticker on the outside of a checked bag that will indicate that it contains firearms.

This predates 9/11 and TSA by quite some time. Although at one time years ago, they did slap a big fat sticker on the outside that said "FIREARMS". After they realized that amount to a "steal me!" sign, they reversed course and banned that practice.

Now, you request a form from the counter agent, fill it out, declare that the firearm is unloaded, and put the form on top of the weapon's locked box, inside of your luggage. (If the firearms case is the luggage (like a rifle case), then it goes inside that case.) Then, you get escorted right to the head of the TSA screening line. At that point, they will verify the weapon by x-ray, and may ask you to open the case so that they can visually see that it's packed securely.

Only you may have the key or combination, so TSA locks aren't allowed. Plus, TSA regulations strictly prohibit their employees from handling or even touching a checked firearm.

Maybe Russell should check his pitchfork on his next flight. 

Kevin

[Kat Kanning]

Yeah, the article is old.

[TackleTheWorld]

Here's someone who really likes the airport.


http://www.ncc-1776.org/tle2002/libe155-20020107-03.html
I Just Don't Want to Die Alone

by Joel Simon
I obey every law I can bring myself to, sometimes at the cost of self-contempt. But there are some things I CAN NOT do, and someday those things will be demanded of me. Then I'll be branded a dangerous criminal. And someone will come for me, and I'll resist. Then the shooting will start, and I'll likely be killed.

When I'm in a bad mood I feel the same way.
But shooting a few hundred holes in paper targets brightens me right up.

[Pat K]

Shoot somes holes in them paper targets for me too, please. 

[Russell Kanning]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08yvKUW-9Bc&NR

[Pat K]

 

[Russell Kanning]

Seven Flights Disrupted In One Day ? And a Bonus on Saturday!
http://www.dvorak.org/blog/?p=6788

[KBCraig]

Seven Flights Disrupted In One Day ? And a Bonus on Saturday!
http://www.dvorak.org/blog/?p=6788

The dynamite story has been all over the scale from various news sources. What was actually found in the bag has been reported as "traces of explosive residue" (completely consistent with the guy's claim to work with explosives in mines), all the way up to "a stick of dynamite, and other bomb parts".

The day before these "security crises", there was another report about air travel. I consider it Yet Another Reason to never travel voluntarily by commercial airliner.

"Passengers trapped on the ground in jet for 7 hours; only allowed two glasses of water; riot police called":
http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/tm_objectid=17624069%26method=full%26siteid=94762%26headline=trapped-on-flight-63--name_page.html
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=402243&in_page_id=1770

[KBCraig]

The FSP forums led me to Bureaucrash, where I discovered this beauty about a lost iPod turning into an airline security emergency:

http://bureaucrash.com/blog/matt_stone_and_trey_parker

You have to read the WoW link, but read the canada.com link first.

Kevin

[BennyF]

Shakes on a Plane

I have had it with the airport security checks. They make us remove more and more clothing, while letting us take less and less on board. Soon we'll be shelling out $1000 for the privilege of traveling naked in a three-foot caged pen. We won't be allowed to eat, drink, or pee during the flight. Communication will be prohibited, except for furtive glances with the flight attendants -- who, incidentally, will be robots with tasers.

I don't care about terrorists. You know why? LIFE INVOLVES RISK. The only way of making air travel completely safe is to BAN FLYING. The "zero risk" game is unwinnable, and the only people that lose are us, in the form of our civil liberties. Every time I'm asked to remove another piece of clothing at the airport security check, I go nuts. But quietly, lest they probe my bum-bum.

My question was this: are the security checks really any more effective? To find out, I decided to re-enact the classic scene from the 1984 movie This is Spinal Tap, where bassist Derek Smalls puts a foil-lined cucumber down his pants, which is picked up by the security wand. Only I decided to go one better, by putting a buzzing vibrator down my pants.

I went out and bought a plain Jane vibrator, the kind that everyone in America has next to their bed. In Scandinavia, I'm told, the average household has more exciting vibrators, molded into the shapes of fantastic mythological creatures, in bold hues such as magenta and hot pink. In America, it's always this:

I went into the airport lavatory and quietly stuffed the vibe down my pants, which did not look as obvious as you might think.

I set it humming and calmly approached the security gate.

The first round of security was the woman (always a woman) who checks your boarding pass and ID. She made sure the picture on the ID matched my face, then handed it back. "Enjoy your flight," she said with a smile.

"I am already," I said, smiling back.

Next I went to the belt, where I emptied my pockets, emptied my bag, took off my watch, and took off my shoes. The only thing they didn't ask me to empty was my intestines, but that's next year. Just before I went through the gate, the portly young woman on the other side, who I thought might find the stunt funny, was replaced by a surly old guy who looked like an ex-Marine.

"Oh no," I said to the vibrator.

The guard motioned me through the gate, which beeped alarmingly. He told me to try again. I beeped again. Visually scanning my body, his eyes rested on my crotch. "You are not fully divested, sir!" he barked.

I was thinking of a joke involving stock portfolios, but he quickly shot out, "Male wanding, GATE 1!"

We sat there uncomfortably for a few minutes, waiting for someone to come wand me, perhaps a fairy princess. The ex-Marine stood directly facing me, his eyes nervously darting to my groin. It was nerve-racking, but the vibrator quietly soothed my jangled nerves.

Finally, a tall young man came over and grabbed my things from the belt. "Come with me," he said, leading me to the public area where ethnic people usually get the patdown.

Now, I have to tell you that I am not on any known profiling list. I never get selected for a random search, I never get put through the machine where they blow air on you or insert the tube up your genitals. I am a white, middle-aged family man with a bald spot, and apparently guys that look like me don't blow up planes. We buy them.

Maybe this is why the TSA employee was extremely courteous and polite. "I am going to run this wand over your body, and in some places I will touch you. I will only use the back of my hand. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, you may request a search in a private area." By "private area," I didn't know if he meant a separate room, or my grundle, but I wisely remained quiet.

"Do you have any prosthetic or medical implants or accessories on your body?" he asked.

"I have a medical device."

"Where?"

"In my pants."

"Okay." He looked a bit confused, but ran the wand over my body, front and back, asking me to spread my legs and hold out my arms. Like a gourmet dessert, he saved my chode for last. The wand began to shriek madly.

"Ah..." He seemed unsure what to do about this. "All right, I will search that area manually, again using only the back of my hand."

"Fine." (Free back-of-the-handjob.)

He felt the outline of the marital aid, looking at me strangely. "Is it supposed to be vibrating like that?"

"Yes," I said with authority, as if I was dying and vibrators were my medicine.

"Okay, I'm going to need to give you a private screening."

"Fine," I said, my heart pounding. I hated myself for starting this Web site.

He led me over to a black curtained area where TSA employees apparently took their breaks. Some reading materials and beverages sat next to a small chair.

A large black officer joined us in the room, holding two pairs of tongs. Uh oh, I thought, here's where they ask me to spread my cheeks, and not the good cheeks.

"We need to swab both you and your device," explained the first guy, grabbing one of the tongs, which held a flat cotton disc. "I just need you to show me the edge of the medical device."

"Sure." I rolled over the edge of my pants, so that the end of the vibrator was showing, the part that controls the speed. In the process, the little dial turned up a notch, so that the buzzing was now audible.

He ran one of the cotton swatches over the vibrator, and the other one across my hand. He gave both of them to the big guy, who disappeared. "If these check out, then we'll just mark your ticket and you can be on your way," he said.

You know I was sweating cheeseburgers as I waited for the guy to return. We stood there awkwardly, while my crotch hummed a one-note tune. It was a muffled drone, like someone using a weed wacker in a neighboring township.

"You guys busy today?" I said, trying to be chatty.

"Yes," he said, still remaining absolutely professional.

"So," I responded, but then got distracted. I did, after all, have a vibrator down my pants. "So."

Finally, after several excruciatingly awkward minutes, the black guy showed up again and gave the all-clear sign. "You're free to go," said the TSA employee, leaving me to pack up my things in private. I took the opportunity to snap a few more hurried photos with my cameraphone:

And so I made it onto the plane with a vibrator stuffed down my pants. It's easy to be critical, to argue that terrorists could easily smuggle something inside the vibrator. But what are they going to do, take over the plane through threat of orgasm? "TAKE ME TO SRI LANKA, OR I WILL GIVE THIS FLIGHT ATTENDANT THE ULTIMATE PLEASURE! ALL HAIL ALLAH!"

One thing's for sure: if terrorists are going to start attacking us with vibrators, I won't mind them asking me to remove all my clothes at security. Bring it on, al Queda.

If you enjoyed this stunt, you might also enjoy The Turnpike Prank, where Hargrave tries to get a free ride on the freeway.

John Hargrave, the King of Dot-Comedy, is a performer, speaker, and author of the upcoming bestseller Prank the Monkey. Click here to read past articles >>