"Public domain" article
Editor's note
Mr. Steele refers to this article and its accompanying graphic, both of which have been circulating on the Web, as "public domain" items, and he urges their widest possible dissemination.
Nicholas Strakon
Air
rage
By EDGAR J. STEELE
Okay, that's it. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
For seven years I have been flying on a near-weekly basis, commuting
between San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, and Spokane. Before that, there
were several years in the late '60s and early '70s when I commuted every
couple of weeks between the Left and the Wrong Coasts.
I can't use my frequent-flyer miles fast enough the current
balance is within striking distance of one million miles. I have a sheaf of
free first-class upgrade coupons that is literally an inch thick; I throw
away more than I use.
I spent so much time in East Coast rental cars, perusing those dreadful
little maps handed out at the airport counters, that I still get confused
about the direction of the ocean (it's to the right, so north must be that
way ... no, that way .... no, it's to the left ... no ... turn the blasted map
upside down ... no ... arrgggh!). It didn't help that I served Uncle for two
years in a ship, plying the East and Gulf coast waters, eyes glued to the
charts or radar every moment I stood underway OOD [officer of the deck
ed.]. I should just give up and move back out there, I suppose,
before I end up Chappaquiddicking myself, because I just can't keep it
straight that the natural direction of the water is to the left.
I would have to drive, though, because I'm thinking seriously of giving up
air travel altogether. Yes, as a result of 911. No, not because I'm afraid of
terrorists. Because the air-travel experience has become so gruesome.
John Madden makes road travel look like fun. Of course, he has a TV crew,
roadies, groupies, and all that. I have a wife, three kids, 11 cats, a dog,
four goats, some cows and wayyyyyyy too many horses. Wonder whether
three-trailer semis are allowed back East ...
Next week I fly again, after a month off. I dread the thought.
Air travel, with delays, cancellations, bad weather, and lost baggage, has
always been a struggle, one made tolerable by the opportunity to read and
deal with e-mail (755 items, 161 unread today). No more, though. I have
studied the evolution of increased FAA security and found it more than
wanting. The recent federalization of security personnel is too Orwellian
for me to bear.
I have never suffered fools or tyrants gracefully. Some of the more petty
are found among those who have been operating airline security in recent years.
While I have yet to miss a plane because of an interchange with one of
them, it is simply inevitable that I will be sidelined for Special Treatment
in the near future.
A month ago, I was going through the full-bore pat down at the Burbank
airport. With the vertically challenged Latin rodent's paws in my crotch, I
smiled at the granny lady next in line and said, "Don't worry, I won't be
much longer. They've already done my body-cavity search." She
grimaced nervously while the wand-bandito stared furiously at me for my
impertinence. My response? "Sure am glad you're wearing those rubber
gloves." If he could, said his glare, he would summon one of the uniformed
National Guardsmen loitering nearby, M16 in hand, and have me summarily
executed.
It's just a matter of time. That's why I have never taken flying lessons. Or
skydiving lessons. And why I sold my motorcycle when I was 24. The way I
do things, it's just a matter of time before I kill myself, so I've managed a triumph of good sense over adrenaline. I can't park my mouth so easily, though.
And it's not just that. Arriving two hours early and just barely making a
flight that takes 30 minutes? Do the math. It's quicker to drive. And
cheaper.
And you can stop to pee anytime you like (don't forget, I'm a man, therefore the world is
my urinal), unlike the guy on a recent flight on the wrong coast who felt a pressing urge 15 minutes before landing, tried to get to the w.c., and wound up being thrown face down by a sky marshal. And manacled. The other passengers? They were forced to put their hands
atop their heads for the remainder of the flight.
Flying has become the modern EST seminar, the original "no-pee" training
for personal growth. It wasn't fun then, and it isn't fun now.
Another thing. If you drive instead of fly, you don't have to submit to having your car searched simply to park it. ***
I fail to see what all this has gained us, anyway.
Some of Osama's ragheads with razor blades are alleged come on, what
proof have you seen? to have hijacked four planes and nailed three buildings. That was a one-time event, never to happen again now that we passengers all realize we die if we don't
do something. Why, even the fourth plane went down short of the mark,
possibly owing to the heroics of passengers ("possibly" because it came
apart in midair and crashed primarily in two locations, miles
apart, suggesting it was shot down).
They all had ID. They all had Social Security cards. (Then why weren't any
of them listed on the passenger manifests, by the way?) The box-cutters
appear to have been pre-positioned. Nothing that has been imposed since
then would have prevented what occurred September 11. Yet the government
forges ahead with more rules, more bureaucracy, more delay, more
inconvenience, more expense.
It's not such a problem for the once-a-year traveler. Kind of a lark,
actually, to see all the commotion we've been hearing so much
about.
But for us true frequent fliers? Whole 'nother story, boys and girls. We're
not happy. And we're not flying anywhere near as much. Many of us are
rearranging our lives to make that permanent, too. Once a week is history.
Once a month is too much for me to bear, too, given the way things are
I'm going to whittle that down by telecommuting, driving, and just plain
doing without. There are lots of people just like me. We have been the
backbone of the air travel industry, and we are through being abused.
November 27, 2001
No copyright claimed, but this is the TLD version,
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Notice to visitors who came straight to this document
from off site: You are deep in The Last Ditch. You should check out our home page and table of
contents.
November 30, 2001
No more
Mr. Nice Guy
edited by Nicholas Strakon, and we'd appreciate it if
you'd recognize that fact when you pass the article along.
Mr. Steele might appreciate it, too.