"Random security screening", my ass.

So. I am home; it's -3 outside without the windchill and the mighty Penobscot, which is, uh, 75%saltwater, has completely frozen on the surface. Fantastic. That'll make my dip into the Atlantic at Seal Harbor all the more...interesting. Stay posted on that one.

It's been a year since I had flown, and now I remember why. Making the entire experience all the better was the fact that my terminal in Cincinnati (Indianapolis to Cincinnati, by the way, is a--brace yourself!--20 minute flight) was entirely filled with people whose nerves were frayed to the point of suicide/homicide by several flight cancellations. As each flight got cancelled, an entirely new sector of the waiting room rose to their feet with their pitchforks, torches and fancy suede purses and began to hunt down the "helpful" airport staff to dismember them. It's small wonder that most of the counter staff sported cans of Mace the size of one of those fancy econo-size cans of Raid in designer holsters and brandished their tasers/stunguns/jungle red Lee Press-On Nails menacingly. As I watched a woman whose flight to Memphis got cancelled smear her face with Vaseline so that she wouldn't get cut in the ensuing rumble, I thought: Merry Effing Christmas.

The best part of all, though, was the "random screening" portion of my trip in Indianapolis. It was "random" insofar as the check-in lady saw my bearded ass coming and--I watched her do it!--she hit the little red button on the console that printed "SSSS" on my boarding pass. I pulled back my lips and hissed at her like a jungle cat; her Lee Press-On talons gleamed in the harsh flourescent light. So I went to the screening place with a heavy heart. The woman took my ID and looked at my boarding pass, which had the Scarlet Letter emblazoned on it, and asked me to "step aside" for "special treatment." She was like Josef Mengele with sensible shoes. I went into the special shatter-proof, bomb-resistant glass box and was instructed to strip nekkid and bend over like a show-pony to wait for my "cavity search" from a 350 lb Scandinavian woman named Ursula. My fellow inmates looked at each other with full knowledge that we'd not be leaving Indianapolis as whole men and then it dawned on me: they were all bearded, olive skinned Middle Eastern/North African/South/Southeast Asian men. No women. No children. No Aryan-types to be seen anywhere. I suppose I would have been angry, but I was to busy trying not to let Ursula see how much she was emasculating me.

Nah, I just had to take off my shoes and coat and then they rifled through my stuff. But the part about the "randomly selected" was true. I'd write a strongly-worded letter to the Department of Homeland Security, but since I technically work for them sorta-kinda, that might not be the best plan of action. So, until the West stops seeing men with beards, chains with Arabic lettering on the pendant, tattoos of a Muslim country's flag and the same flag as a patch on the carry-on as potential suicide bombers, I will have to take one for all the rest of you. It's OK; Ursula's hands are pleasantly warm.

Two things about flying and then I will stop bitching... about flying. OK, so, during the fun "just in case we're gonna die" demonstration, the flight attendant shows us all, grinning like an escaped lunatic in a kindergarten playground, how one puts the mask over one's face and how the "mask's oxygen bag may not fully inflate." Uhhh... like you'd be caring about the bag inflating if that mask popped down out of the secret overhead cupboard? Me, I'd be screaming like a seven year-old girl who'd found a bloody clown under her bed. I'd faint from lack of oxygen in mere moments due to said screaming; survivors would later recall of me: "I tried slapping him and putting his mask on, but he became combative and tried to ravage me with his incisors." Second: why is it that the further away from big cities one goes, the more and more savage the flight attendants are? I walked onto the plane from Cincinnati to Bangor and the flight attendant was just finishing up gnawing on the charred human skull she'd been snacking on in the galley. She eyed the small child who was to be flying alone with a gleam in her eye; if that kid ever made it off that plane, I'll sell you my kidney. Is there a direct correlation? Only brine-hags will service flights to places with less than a million people? Bangor, population 40,000, is apparently serviced by an airborne flotilla of the unholy, and shall be for all eternity: we die here as fast as we are born. Good times.

This morning (hahaha! morning! if you call "1:30 PM" morning!) I awoke and staggered to the bathroom for the morning ablutions. Greeting me in the bathroom was my cat, Po, who was described as "pure evil" by the SPCA staff woman while crossing herself. She was waiting in the bathtub, behind the curtains, hoping she could draw enough blood to sustain herself until she could find a smaller, more unfortunate creature. After fending her off with a stool and a whip, she disappeared to her lair at the bottom of the stairs, where she licked her wounds and vowed vengeance. I got in my shower and was confronted by not one, not ten, not fifteen, but TWENTY different shampoo/conditioner products. My heart froze in my chest: one of these, and only one, could be used by the plebe without fear of my sister's unique brand of justice. I was reminded of the scene in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" when Indy must choose which one is the Holy Grail. That poor Nazi bastard, why, he "chose poorly." So I took the shampoo that smelled the least expensive and lathered up--lathered, rinsed and repeated--and went about my day. It remains to be seen tonight if my sister, while making her rounds around her vile keep, will notice the shampoo missing and will come to me in the dark of night. C'mon, it's Suave! 67 cents a bottle!

Well, all the best from the mother-ship.

Have a good night, Bangor.

Dom