Don't Opt Out

It was a simple request, "I'd rather go through the other screening machine please."
It was as if I had just asked for permission to punch the TSA agent's mother in the gut.
"You want to opt out?", I was asked in a loud accusatory voice. "Sir, do you understand what that means?"
Yes, I did. It meant that I wanted to go through the same metal detector that Mark had just gone through, not the scanner. It looked a lot easier than standing there with my hands over my head and giving some TSA flunky a look at my ass. Mark and I were on our way to Boston for the weekend, and as is tradition, nothing goes smoothly when I travel.

"Sir, wait right here.", was the order from TSA guy number one. Immediately a meeting of the minds began on the other side of the security equipment. With many glances in my direction, and a few fingers pointed, TSA was deciding what to do with me. Meanwhile I stood there with my shoes off, and my belt off, while I watched the said belt and shoes slowly snaking their way through the x-ray machine along with my wallet and everything else that had been in my pockets. I was the center of attention. Other passengers looked at me with scorn, and I was sure I heard a few snickers, and curses.

After a few minutes TSA guy number two came over and explained that I would have to be hand checked, and that this would involve touching of my groinal area. He continued to explain that I would be groped from my head to my toes, and asked if I had any areas that are sensitive to pressure.
"No, but all I wanted was to use the other machine...."
"Sir, you opted out and now have to be hand frisked."
I was being punished.
"Okay, let's get it over with.", I replied.
But no. It's not that easy. They have to make an example of you. I was herded over to an area off to the side of the security lines, but not out of view of the rest of my fellow travelers. It was as if they wanted everyone to see me being humiliated. Rubber gloved hands roamed up and down my body, with the TSA agent explaining out loud exactly what part of me he would be grabbing next. Five feet away, a Spanish speaking woman was being treated to the same attention by another TSA agent. Meanwhile, across the great divide was Mark, arms flailing about, and his squeaky voice drifting across. "Just go wait for me at the gate.", I shouted over to him.

It's obvious that I was being put on display for all the other travelers to see. I was the 'teaching moment' for them.
"Look, this is what happens when you don't go along with the script." was the implied message.
Well I can tell you, I learned from it. This morning when I passed through security returning from Boston, I followed each directive like Mary's little lamb, and as my reward I was allowed to watch some other schmuck get frisked as I breezed through.

Not All Lesbians Look Like Cubans

You would think that with my brain so damn close, that smarter things would come out of my mouth. Unfortunately the opposite seems to be true. Maybe it's that short route to the tongue that makes it difficult for me to regulate what's about to be blurted out before I actually do. When Mark and I are out at bars, or parties, I have actually seen him cringe when I started making my corny jokes, and observations.

I have said the wrong things in the wrong situations more than a few times in my life. In fact it just happened recently, but I'll not recount that incident as it would only make the results worse. Instead I'll just give you two examples of how I've managed to fit my foot, all the way up to the ankle, squarely in my mouth.

Example number one. While discussing with a friend the health of his partner, I managed to bring up the fact that I knew somebody who had died from exactly the same malady. I immediately realized how insensitive that was, and my gaffe was hammered home by the few moments of silence that followed. Luckily my friend still talks to me, though not too much about his partners health.

On another occasion, Mark and I were at a party and for some reason I decided to bring up the subject of Cuban women's hair.
I opened my mouth and this came out.

"Why do all older Cuban women wear lesbian haircuts?"
After a few seconds of silence, one of Mark's closest friends who happened to be Cuban, informed me in a frosty tone that, "My mother wears her hair like that, and she is not a lesbian."
Unfortunately it created a rift between Mark and his friend, and they never talked again. That was sad, and I obviously shouldn't have said what I said at that time. Now I'm not saying that the content of the statement was wrong, and I shouldn't think that way. No, it was that I said it out loud.... in front of a Cuban..... at a party in front of a bunch of other people.

  

Ileana Ros-Lehtinen

Photo Friday

Find the kitty!

Video Thursday

Halloween in Wilton Manors. 

Mark went as Obama again. Not quite as popular as the last time.

Political Porn

I was walking Chandler around the block, taking in the vista of political yard signs, and I thought about how horrible this election season has been. Even locally the candidates were nasty to each other, accusing one another of taking tainted money, and acting as if their shit didn't stink. Yet even as the last of the yard signs are pulled up during the next few weeks, we will have to live with the hangover caused by this election. The ones who were actually elected.

Thankfully the phone calls have stopped. It got to the point in the last week, that when the phone would ring, I'd hit answer, and then off immediately if I didn't recognize the number. There wasn't much relief when watching the television either. At least For a little while now I can watch without the ominous music, dark images, and fearful talk about all the horrible things that were done or will be done by the 'other guy'. We all complain about the negative ad campaigns that are run, constantly bitching that we don't like them. Unfortunately I don't see them ending for many elections to come, mostly because they really do work.

Here in Florida there was only one candidate who ran positive commercials telling us exactly what he was for. They were upbeat, and when the ad was over you didn't feel like you needed to scrub the filth off yourself. So how did that guy do? Well, Kendrick Meeks got twenty percent of the vote. It's kind of like pornography. You hear folks complaining about it, forever religion has been condemning it, and your mother scolded you about it, yet pornography is the biggest cash cow on the internet. They only give the people what they want, just like in politics.

P.S. At least one good thing came out of the election. Ken Keechl (read about him here) lost.

I Don't Know Why This Isn't In 'Hints From Heloise'

I used to have a good friend who couldn't eat a meal without half of it ending up everywhere except in his mouth. If he were eating spaghetti, you could be sure that after the meal, when you were cleaning up, you'd find a couple of strands of the stuff hanging from the ceiling. On the floor around his chair would be bits and pieces of everything that had been on his plate. Going out to dinner with him was always an adventure. One thing I learned early on was that if there was a salad bar, to make sure I got to it before he did. You see, as he would make his way along the salad bar sampling each offering, food would be flying, sticking to the sneeze guard, and slopping over into the vats of chick peas and salad dressings. It was pretty disgusting. You might ask, why would I continue go out to dinner with this guy? It's because he had an excuse. He had Tourette’s Syndrome, that entertaining neurological disorder that is part acrobatics and part performance art. Goddamnsonofabitch!

That was over thirty years ago. Unfortunately my friend has passed on, and I’ll never get to hear him blurt out dirty words in a crowded room ever again. No more flying food, or sudden herky jerky movements while driving a car down the road. I do however, still get to be around somebody who leaves as much food on the floor, walls, and ceiling, as my old friend did. That person would be Mark. I’m not quite sure how he does it because he doesn’t have Tourette’s, and there is no obvious flinging of the food. It just so happens that when he gets up from the dinner table, there are bits and scraps of food everywhere. Over the years I’ve learned that after dinner, If I take my time cleaning up, my little critter friends will have done half the work for me. Chandler will always deal with the floor, licking it clean of all traces of food. As for the dinner table, all I have to do is clear it of the plates and flatware, and then leave the rest up to Fat Kitty. Sooner or later she will always find her way up there, and graze her way across the table, feeding on Mark‘s leftovers. It may not be very sanitary, but I find it gives me a head start on the overall cleanup after dinner. Now if I could only get one of them to wash the dishes.

A Very Scary Night

Whoa what a scary night.

Chandler is barking and trying to go through the window because the possum is outside again. That critter is amazingly huge and healthy looking, largely because I am apparently feeding it a diet of cat food that the cats have generously offered up to the beady eyed creature. When I go out there to chase the thing away, it just looks contemptuously at me with those fangs and that long rat tail, like I'm the interloper. Then there is Mark in his Halloween costume, looking remarkably like Obama trying to force healthcare on me. Damn, access to healthcare can really be frightening. Meanwhile, up and down the street a few little kids can be seen in various costumes, threatening to trick the neighbors who don't give in to their demands for candy. Further on up the road is the annual Wilton Manors Halloween celebration, full of drag queens and guys prancing around in skimpy costumes, trying to show as much skin as possible without being arrested. That wouldn't be scary but for the pot bellied, out of shape men who have a completely skewed self image, also showing way too much skin.

But of course that is not the scary night that I'm talking about. Halloween is child's play. Huge possums cavorting outside the living room window, antagonizing Chandler, is something I can deal with. Even Mark dressed as Barack Obama doesn't scare me. No, none of that is part of the scariest night of the year. Tomorrow night when I am sitting in front of the television watching the government being taken over by witches, head stompers, people who see invisible headless Mexicans, and folks who don't believe in evolution or science, that is when I will be scared to death.

Watching those election returns, whoa, that is a scary night.

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