The following was sent to me by a long-time reader with the subject header “I HATE Flying.” But it says more than that. Thus my headline.

What follows is all from reader JP:

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Hey Claire,

Due to financial issues, I surrendered, and took a contract because I need the money. Part of the work requires me to travel to Austin, Texas; and Eugene, Oregon. Yesterday, I came back from Austin, and went through the TSA portal.

I have flown exactly six times since the TSA was created. The last time was 5-1/2 years ago. EVERY SINGLE TIME I have been awarded extra attention. I think I mentioned a previous time where they forced me to turn my trowser waist down to see if there were any balls down there [sic].

On the way to Austin, I was selected for the stupid scanner. I opted out, and got the full pat down – much worse than five years ago (and that was bad). Yesterday, on my way home, in a very busy airport, I was selected yet again.

The first problem, was that they made me stand in a small 3-sided box and wait about five minutes. I was already shoeless, beltless, jacketless, hatless, and humorless, so I finally asked a blue-shirt exactly how long I was going to have to wait before I was molested (yes, I used that word).

That seemed to spur them, and they opened a little gate (with no latch of any kind), and waved me, and a wheelchair-bound man into the pat-down area. I was told to step into a little area and spread my feet. Silly me, I put my feet on these little orange-yellow Ronald-McDonald SHOE marks on the floor. Blue-shirt said to spread my legs wider – much wider.

Next, I was ordered to raise my arms to the five-and-seven position, palms up – a gesture I saw in several religious paintings from the renaissance – identical to sinners raising their hands in supplication to an angry god. Even the gesture of surrender in a scanner could not be more sordid, in my view.

I told my polite, blue-shirt that I considered this a violation of my 4th amendment rights, a violation of my person, and I only complied under duress. He said, “That’s nice.” He proceeded to tell me what he was doing at each stage. And, there were a LOT of stages. Somehow, blue-shirt seemed to think that if they touched my privates with the backs of his hands, then it would be more-better.

As I stood there, I watched the poor bastard in the wheelchair. He was made to elevate himself out of his chair; lift each dead leg; push himself forward, almost falling out of the chair; take his gloves off, and so on. He was clearly paralyzed, with the telltale wasted lower body, and obviously not a threat.

They asked me to take a seat, which I refused, then demanded that I lift each heel so that he could swab my now-filthy socks for yet another scanner. Wheelchair submitted to similar treatment. He was affable and polite, and seemed perfectly at home. I don’t know why I was morbidly fascinated by the spectacle.

We waited together for the green-light allowing us to find our respective tubs-o-stuff and I asked him how often this happened to him. He looked up at me, anger showing in his face, displacing his former smiling, affable, “chattel smile” and told me “Every time. Every damned time.”

The change was a light-switch. Seen only by me. When blue-shirt returned, the switch flipped again, and Wheelchair’s grin returned.

An hour-or-so later, I met up with Wheelchair again. I asked him if he noticed how the 13 year-old girl in my line was given a choice of scanner or metal-detector. He said, yes, he’d noticed that. It angered him that they would give a 13 year-old a “choice.” But, not because she was allowed to opt-out. Rather, because they should have naturally directed her to the metal detector, as it was clearly no radiation threat.

Wheelchair made a deep impression on me. The underlying anger was something to behold, and the blue-shirts were completely clueless that they were held in such deep contempt by him. They think Wheelchair may have actually liked that whole process. With me, they knew what they were dealing with. I hid none of my disdain.

My hope is that there are lots of Wheelchairs out there that are being misinterpreted. That they are legion, and unknown to their counterparts around Amerika.

I have to hope that, otherwise, the alternative is too depressing.

JP

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And to lighten the mood …

Here’s brief commentary from one of my favorite radio guys, Dave Ross: “When Seniors Explode.” (Hint: His topic is the TSA.)

This comes courtesy of one of my even more favorite radio guys, Brian Wilson.

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• Two from The Onion (language in both NSFW): Steve Jobs obituary and “Nervous American Voters Worried About Botching Another Election.”
• One from Ragnar in a recent comment section. Sort of a redneck punk rap song, “My Country, My Ass.” (“Teacher used to say we had a Bill of Rights. I think they took our rights and sent us the bill.”)
• Regulators vs an enterprising ship salvager.
• What to do if you can’t afford a vet.
• DRM encourages piracy. No surprise, really.
• Neither is this. (Not that the fedgov should be subsidizing anything, of course.)
• Funniest pet Halloween costumes.
• Think it’s the 1930s all over again? David Leonhardt says we should be so lucky.
• “The ‘Seagull’ Citizens of Anywhere.” PT, who sent this, notes the irony; this opening of the globe to smart, able people is happening just as the U.S. gov clamps down further on freedom of movement.
• Yesterday, LewRockwell.com published this list of top 10 foods for long-term storage. If you’re into hardcore food storage, you won’t consider these foods “long-term” at all. Wheat berries they ain’t. But it’s a great list for people getting started — who want standard grocery store items. It’s a fine way to begin expanding a three-day or seven-day kit into a one-month kit. And a pretty good reminder of EZ, no-fuss items for any of us to keep on hand. When emergency hits, you don’t want to have to think or work too hard just to feed yourself.

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You remember the globe-traveling Klaf family, mentioned here (and here) a while back? Well, from Gabi Klaf comes “10 Families, 7 Continents: How They Afford It.”

Maybe you don’t have the slightest interest in roaming the world with a passel of kids. I sure don’t. Me, I’m a nester.

But every one of these families is doing something that common wisdom says is “impossible” or “too difficult” or “impractical” or “foolish.” And in doing it, they’re giving themselves and their youngsters vital experiences and vital creativity.

We all have an “impossible” something we’d like to do. These folks are a real inspiration.

The Top-Ten List is pretty thought-provoking, too.

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I have about two more days of deadlining before I can get back to serious posting. In the meantime, here are some pix from the Montana ranch where L. and I stayed over the weekend.

Here’s our cabin:

The cabin featured solar power, a composting toilet, a claw-foot bathtub, on-demand hot water, and despite the satellite dishes, a blessed absence of all electronic media.

It was a short walk from our hosts’ house, but our nearest neighbors weren’t human. This is Ben, a rescued Belgian draft horse, and one of his buddies.

In the same pasture were Highland cattle. They’re a hardy breed that can endure a brutal climate. Because they keep warm with their heavy, almost bison-like coats, they produce lean meat, closer to game than to grocery-store beef.

Here’s the father of the late (but absolutely not lamented) steer who now occupies several freezers, including L’s and mine.

Despite their fierce looks and long horns, Highlands are known for being gentle. One morning the family’s two teenage girls (who are responsible for the livestock) took us into the pasture. We were surrounded by horses, cows, calves, steers, and Papa Bull, many of the animals crowding in for attention, others just watching while hanging back cautiously, but nobody (including Papa there) minding the intruders. I was more concerned about where Ben might accidentally put his dinner-plate hooves than what Papa Bull might do.

The ranch was beautiful and serene. In the mornings we went outside with cups of tea or chocolate and watched deer watch us then calmly return to their browsing.

Our hosts were great people — and what amazingly nice, mature children. It was good to be back in rural Montana, even though it was even better to arrive back home Monday night.

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Thanks, L, for the use of your photographs.

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Returned from a lightning trip to Montana last night bearing warm memories and a freezer full of Highland beef (which my friend L. and I will divvy this morning, with some going to my vet in part payment for excellent dog care).

I also returned with the generously donated raffle rifle. It’s not the Mini-14 we talked about but a rebel rifle that offers even more potential for Customized Claire Camo.

I should be posting photos later today. Also plan to be catching up with both email and deadlines. I had less Internet access on the trip than I anticipated and am behinder than I intended. But so it goes.

Thank you all for your patience. More soon.

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• Pitbull vs kitten. Oooooh, you can only imagine the carnage!
• These people are so cheery and upbeat I want to smack ‘em. But what they’re doing is wonderful. Now there’s the power of creative risk taking! (Sad irony, though, that they felt a need to include a question in their FAQ about whether their children are getting a proper education. How could anybody assume that sitting in a classroom could be a better education than they’re getting in this adventure?)
• “I Was Out to See America.” Riding the rails in the Great Depression. (Via Old Printer who points out that the cops in those days may have been shakedown artists — but they most likely wouldn’t kick your ribs in or beat harmless people to death. In public. With cameras running.)
• Yes, when they do it, it’ll be forrrrr the chilllllldrrrrrrren. So we’re not all mere criminals now in the twisted minds of Our Glorious Leaders. We’re child pornographers. Or will be if this law passes.
• “Gems in the Rough at Quartzsite, Arizona.” Old friend Elias Alias of Oathkeepers gives his unique perspective on cops who rose up against their masters.
• Okay, I know this gag was already hoary when I used a version of it back in 101 Things to Do ‘Til the Revolution (that version said the best survival kit was a rifle and a directory of the nearest Mormon ward). But it’s still a classic, not to mention a good reminder. So (via J. and a “rat”):

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Still deadlining this week — on every day but Wednesday when I snuck away with girlfriends for an orgy of junque shopping. So still only “lite” posting. But I’m working on another Big, Heavy Tome of a Thought, which I’ll probably drop onto the blog with a floor-shattering thud next week.

In the meantime …

• It’s so weird how we just take news like this for granted now.
• “Today you were lucky, but you will have to be lucky always. We only have to be lucky once.” Why the IRA was successful and Al Quaeda not, according to a very humble Gary Brecher. (Not often do you hear a pundit admit to having once been a dumb-ass.) A guide to guerrilla warfare. Tip o’ hat to S.
• “There’s no going back. … There is no fear in my heart. I’ve passed the point of no return. I only hope that if I am stopped, the movement continues on the right path without me.” Speaking of guerrilla warfare of a more modern kind …
• You know how people keep saying the SteriPEN is the most amazing water purification device except that it requires batteries? Well, get a load of this: the SteriPEN Sidewinder Hand-Powered UV Water Purifier. Elegant.
• The Orange Jeep Dad is having a contest. Which is also a clever way to get readers to promote his blog for him. Since it involves Facebook, I’m not entering. But the prizes are nice and there’s a charming chutzpah to the notion. BTW, one of the prizes is Patrice Lewis’s The Simplicity Primer. I’m waiting for my own copy now and hope to review it soon. You may know Patrice from her Rural Revolution blog.

Finally, I told a (male) friend about one of my junque-shop purchases from the other day and he double-spotted-dog-dared me to post a picture of it. Here goes:

Yes. It’s a teapot. With a red cap in its mouth (for heaven knows what reason). The head comes off for filling, which the artist didn’t seem to understand is a really gross idea. Gross in a clever sort of way, you know. But gross.

(Perhaps not as gross as this, though.)

You may remember a while back when I posted photos of another … um, uniquely charming dog-themed kitchen item found at a church garage sale. I’ve been intending to send that thing off to the nice Canadian lady whose children would live to use it as a condiment dish for their hot dogs. But I dunno. I just might end up becoming an unintentional collector of dog kitch instead. (Sorry, nice Canadian lady.)

But I haven’t gone overboard yet. I refrained from purchasing the matching salt and pepper shaker set that was on the shelf next to the TeaFido.

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