It used to be I’d turn up my nose at those who’d leave their Christmas lights up all year — reserving an extra helping of disdain for whoever lived in the house that actually illuminated them past, say, January 2nd.
Indeed, just passing these neighbors on the street would give me whiplash, so fiercely would I jerk my haughty nose north.
And woe betide anyone who dared accent his front yard with chain link — Yay! Gonna top that with razor wire next, Buster? — or display, via four strategically placed cinderblocks, his non-working ’67 Impala. These people I’d make it a point to meet, if only to say, “Welcome to the neighborhood; how long do you plan on staying?” (And thanks to the ever-expanding capabilities of the Internet, e.g.,What’s-That-Schmuck’s-Name-dot-com, You-Too-Can-Be-A-Sleuth-dot-com, et al, one need only “meet” such people in cyberspace. Avoid all that uncomfortable face-to-face stuff. Sign whatever name one likes to her welcome letter…)
But before dismissing me as just another typically pantywaisted snob, kindly note: I never shied away from a face-to-face confrontation with those neighbors whose idea of “perennial landscaping” is a weekly planting of whatever white elephant — whether Norge deep freeze or asbestos chaise longue or lead-based jungle gym — they’re too cheap to have hauled away. Shoot, I nearly lost an eye after confronting someone about the apparent lack of interest in their rats nest-festooned box springs planting! (A word to the wise: Do not assume that the grey-haired, bespectacled, limping neighbor is any easier to confront than the steroid-addled Li’l Abner-looking one. Because no matter how respectfully delivered your “I say, old timer, you might want to add a couple more exclamation points to that ‘Free!!’ sign if you plan on showcasing 51 other treasures this year” is, chances are you’ll be dodging a cane to the cornea.)
Anyway, the thing is, that’s all in the past.
I mean, sure; a chartreuse house with a visible clothesline — whether chockfull of tasteful housecoats and paisley tighty whiteys or just plain vacant — still offends my sensibilities.
But the people residing there?
Unless we’ve already met or have otherwise established some sort of acquaintance, I’m not passing any judgment. Because until I’ve determined that they’re horrible tippers or heard them use “All’s” as a contraction more than once, I’ve no right to assume that they never wash their hands after toileting. That their sole purpose is to drive down my property’s value.
This isn’t to say I’ve turned over some Gandhi-esque new leaf or had one of those “There but for the grace of…” epiphanies, no sir.
No, the reason I resolve to never again judge a schnook by his hovel is because, well, my own Christmas lights are still burning. And will be until I no longer find ‘em purdy… or until I get the energy to pull ‘em down and pack ‘em away.
(Let’s just pray that’s before I run into that snooty blue-blood next door, what with her freshly sodded lawn and new flagstone walkway: Oh, how I wish I could love her as much as I love her house!)
Monday, August 16, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Snow Globes of Mass Destruction
When you take El Al airlines---destination, Israel---airport security consists primarily of: Do you look Arab? If not, you'll still be asked a series of questions by one of the airline's staff sociologists, psychologists or young Social Science & Humanities majors; your passport will still be scrutinized by one of the airline's many staff "experts"---whether an expert in forgery or just a "CSI" consultant---and you'll still be made to show your passport yet again to the police-escorted bus driver who ferries you---along with everyone else who passed muster---to the airline's "off-site" terminal. (Amazingly, all of this "additional screening" takes less time than it does for Southwest/US Airways/every other American-based airline's employees to pull some middle-aged woman over to a "secure booth" in order to pass a wand over her wire-framed bra.)
If, however, you do look Arab/don't pass muster/hold a passport indicating you've visited some dicey places, well, I don't know. And I certainly don't care, because, in a nutshell: PROFILING WORKS.
Aw, don't make that face... Unless you're similarly disgusted with the United Arab Emirate states, who don't even allow Israeli nationals to travel there (although, like Groucho Marx said, "I wouldn't wanna belong to any club that would have me as a member") and have only WITHIN THE LAST YEAR allowed a handful of people who "...look Jewish"---their words, not mine; see Saudi Arabia's Travel Bureau handbook if you don't believe me---in for a visit.
Of course, you still have to keep your carry-on liquids to a minimum, send your purse, body and whatnot through the X-ray machine, take off your shoes, blahblahblah---but only when leaving from a U.S. airport.
Indeed, Ben-Gurion airport's got body, carry-on, et al scanning down to a science: "Why take off your shoes, Bubelah, when our scanner can beam right through your soles?" (And emits one-tenth the radiation of that "full-mouth" set of X-rays your dentist's always reminding you you need.) To be sure, Ben-Gurion's scanning machines were, if not invented by, then perfected by, physicians---who no doubt get a big chuckle out of our REACTIVE, vs. PROACTIVE, "airport security" measures.
I mean, wouldn't any self-respecting terrorist ("hijacker" in '70s parlance, "malicious mischief-maker" to the Eisenhower set) be looking to improve on ways with which to smuggle explosives onto an aircraft? Especially after some other like-minded miscreant's "clever" method failed?
Some schmuck hides the ingredients for a makeshift Molotov cocktail in his shoes, what do we do? REACT... by making everyone from bunion-rife, gout-addled, old-as-the-hills Catholic missionaries to palsied, orthopedic-shoe-wearing toddlers take their shoes off before passing muster.
Some putz tries to bring down a plane with eight ounces of rudimentary "wet bomb" materiel, what do we do? REACT... by making everyone confine their carry-on liquids to THREE ounces max, in ONE quart-sized baggie. (And you can be sure neither physicist nor physician was involved in that bit of math, i.e., in coming up with the "equation" that proves three ounces of, say, vodka, wouldn't be as destructive as eight. Especially now that LIGHTERS are allowed in carry-on, but MATCHES aren't! Nope, whoever came up with that equation is either an airport-based bottled water concessionaire---who promised TSA's brass some kickback---a Ziploc or Glad honcho---who cut a similar deal---or just another typically moronic government drone.)
And just who do I think I am referring to those who've answered the Department of Homeland Security's (formerly the Department of Transportation) call "typically moronic?"
I'll tell you who: Someone whose wee SNOW GLOBE was just confiscated.
A snow globe so wee that FIVE of them wouldn't have totaled THREE ounces and could have fit into my Ziploc-ked, ONE-quart baggie of essential carried-on liquids, e.g., vodka; mouthwash; witch hazel, with room to spare.
A snow globe that raised nary a red flag with "homeland security" officials in Croatia, Greece, Turkey or Italy (although my SIX-ounce bottle of carried-on grappa did raise the eyebrow of an Italian airport security official, who, in adorably accented English, asked me to either toss the entire thing or "keepa to the limita," which I happily did by chugging half the bottle's contents right there.)
And speaking of English, would it kill TSA to hire citizens who were actually fluent in the national tongue?Who had at least graduated high school/spoke something other than Pidgeon, Ebonics, Spanglish?
I mean, there I was, an American national, laid over at the tres American City of Brotherly Love airport, and damned if it didn't take me a full five minutes to understand what the TSA staffer was asking of me: "You 'gone half' do WHAT? 'Poo' me out of line to go 'inna dat boot ova dare?' To go 'trew' my 'hambag and puss'"?'
When I finally got that she wanted me to surrender my snow globe---"mm, mm, mm, you no can be havin dis"---my immediate thought was: I'M BEING PUNK'D! A thought I cheerfully verbalized... albeit to no avail. For the TSA staffer just looked at me like I was the English-impaired citizen (I was still operating under the assumption that one had to be a citizen of the Land he or she was performing Homeland Security duties for; now I'm no longer sure. TSA's Web site isn't clear on the subject.) My heart sinking, I gave cheerfulness one last shot: "What, isn't 'Punk'd' on the air anymore?"
Of course, this, too, failed to get a response---a verbal one, anyway. Indeed, Ms. Gotta-meet-my-quota-before-clocking-out did "respond" by tightening her grip on my snow globe and holding it ever higher aloft... as if I'd just challenged her to a game of "Keep Away!"
So I just let 'er rip, no more attempts at making nice-nice. If I was going to be treated like a threat to national security, I might as well act like one. Or at least like a threat to national civility: "Do you have to be mentally disabled to work here, or just functionally illiterate? I hope it's the latter, because if you were disabled, you'd likely be getting TWO government checks, and how fair would that be? Especially to the millions of out-of-work able-minded Americans, people who might actually be QUALIFIED to do your job!"
"You wan, I get my sup'visor - - -"
"Yes, I'd love for you to get your supervisor! I'd love to ask him---wait, is that the correct pronoun? Or is your supervisor of the female persuasion? Aw, I'm just messin' wichoo, lady; I know you don't know what a 'pronoun' is!---how my husband and youngest son were able to pass through your station unmolested just hours ago, when they were carrying (on) TWO snow globes apiece. And REGULATION-sized snow globes, at that! I'd love to give your supervisor their flight number, see if he can have their plane brought down. Or at least alert the pilot, who could in turn alert the proper authorities at LAX---unless it's too late. In which case I'd love to give your supervisor our home address... I'd give it to you, but something tells me you have absolutely no interest in going beyond the call of duty or, horrors! exceeding your quota by even one---even if your quota IS one; wait, it IS, isn't it? And I'll bet the paperwork's excruciating, especially for someone of your, um, well, let's just say 'specialness.' Yessir, I'll bet your little X-ray machine picked out those four potentially lethal tchatchkes in my family's hand luggage right away, but that would mean 4x the paperwork! And I can't even imagine the paperwork involved if you were to stumble across a bona fide threat to national security; you know, 'poo' a guy out of line because he looked like your old boyfriend, the bastard, and wouldn't it be fun passing a wand over his sorry ass... only to discover (after your supervisor scurried over to remind you that women may only frisk women, men men) that the guy was featured in that "No Fly, Watch List" thingy you're forever forgetting to consult. Although you probably make a great show of pretending to consult it, i.e., using it to disguise the latest "Us" or cover your "Soap Opera Digest" while in the break room ---"
"Look, you not gettin this back. I jest hung up with my sup'visor and he said those the rules." (I didn't even notice she'd been on the phone, much less that there WAS a phone in our little booth. Hell, she could have been calling in reinforcements; a TSA team could make my life really miserable. Or, worse, discover the OTHER wee snow globe I was packing.)
"Well, if those are the rules," I said, backing towards the door, "there's no point in my waiting for him to tell me otherwise, right?"
"Right. You're free to go."
Now THAT I understood perfectly. THAT is surely a phrase she practices saying a lot, most likely in front of the mirror, Travis Bickle-style. It made me a little sick, but I knew I'd gotten off easy---What if she had called in reinforcements? I'd have been at the mercy of an entire team of Bickle-heads!---so I forced out a "thank you." And ran. Ran like the snow globe-collecting insurgent I am. Ran until, well, I realized my precious contraband wasn't protected, was just jostling around, uncushioned, in my "hand luggage." (The confiscated one had actually been bubble-wrapped and tenderly cocooned in a wee styrofoam bed... it was my favorite one, 'natch, the darlingest, nay, wee-est Acropolis in snow globe-dom.)
Next time I bring a snow globe into this country, I think I'll "hide" it in plain sight. Maybe tuck it into my burqa.
If, however, you do look Arab/don't pass muster/hold a passport indicating you've visited some dicey places, well, I don't know. And I certainly don't care, because, in a nutshell: PROFILING WORKS.
Aw, don't make that face... Unless you're similarly disgusted with the United Arab Emirate states, who don't even allow Israeli nationals to travel there (although, like Groucho Marx said, "I wouldn't wanna belong to any club that would have me as a member") and have only WITHIN THE LAST YEAR allowed a handful of people who "...look Jewish"---their words, not mine; see Saudi Arabia's Travel Bureau handbook if you don't believe me---in for a visit.
Of course, you still have to keep your carry-on liquids to a minimum, send your purse, body and whatnot through the X-ray machine, take off your shoes, blahblahblah---but only when leaving from a U.S. airport.
Indeed, Ben-Gurion airport's got body, carry-on, et al scanning down to a science: "Why take off your shoes, Bubelah, when our scanner can beam right through your soles?" (And emits one-tenth the radiation of that "full-mouth" set of X-rays your dentist's always reminding you you need.) To be sure, Ben-Gurion's scanning machines were, if not invented by, then perfected by, physicians---who no doubt get a big chuckle out of our REACTIVE, vs. PROACTIVE, "airport security" measures.
I mean, wouldn't any self-respecting terrorist ("hijacker" in '70s parlance, "malicious mischief-maker" to the Eisenhower set) be looking to improve on ways with which to smuggle explosives onto an aircraft? Especially after some other like-minded miscreant's "clever" method failed?
Some schmuck hides the ingredients for a makeshift Molotov cocktail in his shoes, what do we do? REACT... by making everyone from bunion-rife, gout-addled, old-as-the-hills Catholic missionaries to palsied, orthopedic-shoe-wearing toddlers take their shoes off before passing muster.
Some putz tries to bring down a plane with eight ounces of rudimentary "wet bomb" materiel, what do we do? REACT... by making everyone confine their carry-on liquids to THREE ounces max, in ONE quart-sized baggie. (And you can be sure neither physicist nor physician was involved in that bit of math, i.e., in coming up with the "equation" that proves three ounces of, say, vodka, wouldn't be as destructive as eight. Especially now that LIGHTERS are allowed in carry-on, but MATCHES aren't! Nope, whoever came up with that equation is either an airport-based bottled water concessionaire---who promised TSA's brass some kickback---a Ziploc or Glad honcho---who cut a similar deal---or just another typically moronic government drone.)
And just who do I think I am referring to those who've answered the Department of Homeland Security's (formerly the Department of Transportation) call "typically moronic?"
I'll tell you who: Someone whose wee SNOW GLOBE was just confiscated.
A snow globe so wee that FIVE of them wouldn't have totaled THREE ounces and could have fit into my Ziploc-ked, ONE-quart baggie of essential carried-on liquids, e.g., vodka; mouthwash; witch hazel, with room to spare.
A snow globe that raised nary a red flag with "homeland security" officials in Croatia, Greece, Turkey or Italy (although my SIX-ounce bottle of carried-on grappa did raise the eyebrow of an Italian airport security official, who, in adorably accented English, asked me to either toss the entire thing or "keepa to the limita," which I happily did by chugging half the bottle's contents right there.)
And speaking of English, would it kill TSA to hire citizens who were actually fluent in the national tongue?Who had at least graduated high school/spoke something other than Pidgeon, Ebonics, Spanglish?
I mean, there I was, an American national, laid over at the tres American City of Brotherly Love airport, and damned if it didn't take me a full five minutes to understand what the TSA staffer was asking of me: "You 'gone half' do WHAT? 'Poo' me out of line to go 'inna dat boot ova dare?' To go 'trew' my 'hambag and puss'"?'
When I finally got that she wanted me to surrender my snow globe---"mm, mm, mm, you no can be havin dis"---my immediate thought was: I'M BEING PUNK'D! A thought I cheerfully verbalized... albeit to no avail. For the TSA staffer just looked at me like I was the English-impaired citizen (I was still operating under the assumption that one had to be a citizen of the Land he or she was performing Homeland Security duties for; now I'm no longer sure. TSA's Web site isn't clear on the subject.) My heart sinking, I gave cheerfulness one last shot: "What, isn't 'Punk'd' on the air anymore?"
Of course, this, too, failed to get a response---a verbal one, anyway. Indeed, Ms. Gotta-meet-my-quota-before-clocking-out did "respond" by tightening her grip on my snow globe and holding it ever higher aloft... as if I'd just challenged her to a game of "Keep Away!"
So I just let 'er rip, no more attempts at making nice-nice. If I was going to be treated like a threat to national security, I might as well act like one. Or at least like a threat to national civility: "Do you have to be mentally disabled to work here, or just functionally illiterate? I hope it's the latter, because if you were disabled, you'd likely be getting TWO government checks, and how fair would that be? Especially to the millions of out-of-work able-minded Americans, people who might actually be QUALIFIED to do your job!"
"You wan, I get my sup'visor - - -"
"Yes, I'd love for you to get your supervisor! I'd love to ask him---wait, is that the correct pronoun? Or is your supervisor of the female persuasion? Aw, I'm just messin' wichoo, lady; I know you don't know what a 'pronoun' is!---how my husband and youngest son were able to pass through your station unmolested just hours ago, when they were carrying (on) TWO snow globes apiece. And REGULATION-sized snow globes, at that! I'd love to give your supervisor their flight number, see if he can have their plane brought down. Or at least alert the pilot, who could in turn alert the proper authorities at LAX---unless it's too late. In which case I'd love to give your supervisor our home address... I'd give it to you, but something tells me you have absolutely no interest in going beyond the call of duty or, horrors! exceeding your quota by even one---even if your quota IS one; wait, it IS, isn't it? And I'll bet the paperwork's excruciating, especially for someone of your, um, well, let's just say 'specialness.' Yessir, I'll bet your little X-ray machine picked out those four potentially lethal tchatchkes in my family's hand luggage right away, but that would mean 4x the paperwork! And I can't even imagine the paperwork involved if you were to stumble across a bona fide threat to national security; you know, 'poo' a guy out of line because he looked like your old boyfriend, the bastard, and wouldn't it be fun passing a wand over his sorry ass... only to discover (after your supervisor scurried over to remind you that women may only frisk women, men men) that the guy was featured in that "No Fly, Watch List" thingy you're forever forgetting to consult. Although you probably make a great show of pretending to consult it, i.e., using it to disguise the latest "Us" or cover your "Soap Opera Digest" while in the break room ---"
"Look, you not gettin this back. I jest hung up with my sup'visor and he said those the rules." (I didn't even notice she'd been on the phone, much less that there WAS a phone in our little booth. Hell, she could have been calling in reinforcements; a TSA team could make my life really miserable. Or, worse, discover the OTHER wee snow globe I was packing.)
"Well, if those are the rules," I said, backing towards the door, "there's no point in my waiting for him to tell me otherwise, right?"
"Right. You're free to go."
Now THAT I understood perfectly. THAT is surely a phrase she practices saying a lot, most likely in front of the mirror, Travis Bickle-style. It made me a little sick, but I knew I'd gotten off easy---What if she had called in reinforcements? I'd have been at the mercy of an entire team of Bickle-heads!---so I forced out a "thank you." And ran. Ran like the snow globe-collecting insurgent I am. Ran until, well, I realized my precious contraband wasn't protected, was just jostling around, uncushioned, in my "hand luggage." (The confiscated one had actually been bubble-wrapped and tenderly cocooned in a wee styrofoam bed... it was my favorite one, 'natch, the darlingest, nay, wee-est Acropolis in snow globe-dom.)
Next time I bring a snow globe into this country, I think I'll "hide" it in plain sight. Maybe tuck it into my burqa.
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