Digital Demolition

I’m quite sure there are countless posts about how much flying sucks.
Not the flight itself, unless you’re trapped next to the 300-lb bearded lady and the squalling infants are seated right behind you.
The airline stewards are usually pretty nice. They do know, after all, the indignity and lines you’ve been through so far to get to their plane.

In this particular instance, our place leaves at 7am, so we arrive at 5:45. Our flight is booked on American, but run by Alaska, so once you get dropped off at the American desk, you get redirected out the terminal, down a quarter mile, to the other terminal, where you can finally get your boarding passes. Though it’s technically an American flight, you can’t check in through American (because that would make sense), so you have to do it through the Alaska kiosk. Thank the deities that we’re not checking luggage because there’s another line. We finally get our boarding passes (the barcode on the itinerary doesn’t actually work, but luckily Dave’s credit card does) and we head for the security line. We show up at the apparent end of the 100-person-long line to be directed by Helpful Security Lady to the start of this other line, which begins at a different roped off queue, which is another 100 people long. *sigh*

Fine – we take our places in the apparently correct queue, as happy as all the other people sharing our fate. Trying to be cheerful, but mocking the whole process. Shared suffering is shared experience, after all. We get to the front of the the first-10o-person queue and happily pass into the second queue by Helpful Security Lady (why, hello, again). We notice now that the initial 100-person queue has more than doubled – it now extends way past the roped-off part and down the terminal. OK – it could suck worse. Good to know.

Another people-herder, this one with a bullhorn, starts calling out that the people for the 6:50 (six-five-oh)  flight can ditch the line because they’re going to miss their flight if they stay trapped here. Bullhorn guy actually has a sense of humor. Makes his statement a couple times, then adds, “this is for the 6:50 flight *only* – if you show up here with a ticket that says 6:51, I’m sending you to the back of that (gestures to the 200+ people-long) line. Quit complaining about saving your place in line because I WILL send you to the back of that one (gesturing again at the now 200-person queue).”

The line is moving remarkably fast, considering they have only two guys checking IDs. The airport probably didn’t realize that they were going to have that many people there at that time of the morning. They probably don’t have access to the flight information and the number of passengers coming to their security check at any given time. Poor guys were downright overwhelmed. I feel bad – they look really overworked and pretty unhappy. But they were nice anyway. At this point in any airport experience, even the least bit of civility or a shy smile is gratefully accepted.

I’ve packed well for this trip. Everything that needs to be in its own tub in two individual bags as the laptop, but all stuffed into my backpack so I can dump it all out in one fluid motion. Not wearing a tiny bit of metal. Shoes easy to slip off, but wearing socks so I don’t have to partake in the nasty walk of millions of other bare feet. Ew ew ew. Not wearing a coat. Phone in the bin with computer. Only clothes in my messenger bag. Not a thing that would require me to set off the metal detector – not even once. I’m the lowest trouble girl in the queue. But somehow I get rerouted to the plastic cage of extra search anyway. Clearly I’m up to something because my bags and my metal detector didn’t set off any alarms. My hippie husband (the one sporting the natural dreads that scream “I smoke weed”) – he gets through without a problem. I think (this time) it’s because Im wearing a Redwings jersey in Sharks territory. BUt how does that explain every other time I’ve ben pulled aside for the extra search? Since 2001, I wonder how many times my luggage been dusted for bomb dust? I fly twice, possibly three times annually. But EVERY FUCKING TIME I get the extra search. And I’ve learned that if you hop up and down angrily or look even a little rushed once you’re in the secondary cage, it’s going to take them even longer to get to you to frisk you. By then, if you’re not traveling with a friend, all your baggage, computer and all, has been left unguarded at the end of the roller mill. But don’t look concerned because that means you’re guilty. Of being concerned. Or probably of simply being human.

A year ago, when we flew to Hawaii for our honeymoon, I had just happened to have hurt my ankle really badly. I was wearing a knee-high brace that enabled me to walk and I had crutches. Poor Dave was hauling all our luggage. The SFO folks were pretty nice – got me a wheel chair and rushed us to the front of the security line. But then they made me remove my brace and hop through the metal detector gate. And there was the cavity search (I didn’t know you could get cavities there). I didn’t mind all that much, because even with the extra searching, we still got through way faster. Then, later that trip,we took an island hopper on Hawaiian airlines and they didn’t make me remove my brace. I guess they really are more laid-back in Hawaii.

So, how can they possibly say that their extra searches are random? How could I possibly score the extra search every damn time? Am I really that lucky? I sure doubt it when you consider how exactly lucky I am at gambling joints; if random chance was on my side, I’d be a fucking millionaire. Puh-leese. Fuckers. I am so tired of being profiled. I can’t even imagine how it feels to be middle-eastern or even have brown skin – they get profiled more often by other people inside AND outside the airport. Mad? You bet your ass I’d be mad. One of my hirsute friends recently severely trimmed his beard because he was considering visiting his family in Texas. So he shaved. For the TSA. Not for pleasing a potential mate – but for the fucking air police.

Oh, and by the way you SFO security fuckers, you made me miss my traditional “I made it through security” bloody mary. So I had to have two on the way back.

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Before posting this to the interwebs, I decided to give the airport folks at Seattle a chance to redeem their SFO brethren’s actions. Wore the same clothes and this time I even put my phone in my bag to go through the x-ray machine, so the only metal on me is my wedding band. I pass the metal detector without a beep. AND YET the woman on the other side of the archway says, “I’m going to need to pat you down. Please raise your arms.” **SIGH** And I assume the position reserved for gangsters. I break the airport code and actually ask, “what did I do wrong?” Her answer: “Your shirt is too baggy.” I took it a step further and said “but there’s not a dead fish under here.” Puzzled look. “Oh, um, you see, Redwings fans have a tradition of smuggling octopus under their jerseys into the arena during the playoffs. So they get searched there a lot.” She’s done feeling me up, so just dismissed me with a vaguely disgusted look. As Dave and I hobble away from the security area, shoes still untied, he points out that I broke the cardinal rule: say nothing to those searching you. They’re like cops: the only correct answers are “yes sir/ma’am” and “no sir/ma’am”. My protestation: I just want to get through this process without getting the extra search. I suddenly remember the actions of one of our favorite agencies: NUDE SUITS. Next time I fly I’m wearing a leotard and a tutu. Possibly with a tiara. Though Dave points out that this might draw even more extra attention to me. Really? Heh. At least then I’ll have yet another fantastic story about our domestic flying adventures. And I’ll provide some extra chuckles to the people traveling around me. And who couldn’t use a laugh while dealing with all the intrinsic BS of flying these days?

PS: There should be a law against putting infants on regular planes without notifying the other passengers. Especially when the infant and the parent all have colds. That’s just common courtesy. Also, there should be “baby-friendly” planes with a happy little place for them to squeal and coo at one another. And the parents could make those high-pitched baby noises at them and make encouraging noises when the baby takes an extra good shit. Airplanes could even put in those retractable walls like they do for first class. Baby class. I’m a fucking genius! I should design airplanes.

Remember when there was work without email?
Then there was email, but only at work.
Then there was your personal email and your work email. (Back when editors and writers had spirited discussions about using “E-mail” or “Electronic Mail [E-mail] or “email” in print.)
Then you bought a domain, and had just one email address because it was all getting too confusing.
Then you had a bunch of addresses so you could decide on who had what access depending on which address you gave them. And you forgot about half of them.
Then you got software and you could get all those different email addresses to funnel to one place, where you could then filter them, and … well, it was a lot again.
Then you started testing websites and the number exploded exponentially. Only me? OK, too far….

A lot of people I know use Facebook. Most of them use it obsessively. I thought it was OK, briefly, but all the poking and super poking and ninjas and pirates got boring fast. Plus, my high-school best friend/worst enemy finding me and wanting to chat? Ack! (Slight pause -> Delete message.) I stay on FB because my family likes it. I tried dragging them over to LiveJournal, and they just couldn’t get the hang of it. But FB? Even the eldest and most frail relative can understand it, plus, look, a farm! Shiny and simple wins their vote. And, just as they don’t know about this blog, they don’t hang out in my favorite bar, Twitter. (The bar metaphor came from the awesome Havi (she’s @Havi) who also once said, “lowering the bar makes it easier to reach your drink”.  She has a degree in clever metaphors.)

Then when I talk to real-life friends -  those with whom I’ve actually shared a physical drink, or slept on their physical couch, or held their physical hair back while they puked? Most of those don’t do Twitter. Some do, but most do not. They don’t see the need, when they can barely keep up with Facebook (exactly!). Some say that they can’t say what they want in only 140 characters (minus username, of course, so SamanthaKettlebottom, if she existed, would be kind of screwed, but @jwz is just loquacious).

In the morning, when I have only enough brain to scan the headlines, but no longer receive the newspaper, I go to Twitter. As my tea is steeping, I hit the twits. (OK, yes, I do scan my email inbox in case I may have just won a million dollars, but I don’t really read emails first.)(And yes, I like to call them twits because it amuses me.)
Twitter is small – it offers digestible bits of information that I can tune into without commitment.
It’s not a whole news story or blog post. It’s not making a huge statement that will make my hair clench before I even shower.
It’s wee bites of things that are happening to and for people I know all over the world.
It’s not shouting.
In this era of information overload, it’s a great way to ease into the day. Don’t use it? Don’t try talking to me before my second cuppa tea.

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PS: I use NetNewsWire for RSS-enabled blogs – and that comes third in my daily reading. I link to them here because you might not have tried it and I think it’s fantastic. Also because some domain-squatter is sitting on the dot com version of their name, which is lame.)

PPS: Yes, I know I could protect or lock down some of these accounts and I tried it for a while, but that requires yet another level of complexity in which I am no longer interested in participating. But I do have several Twitter accounts, only one of which cross-posts directly into my FB account, so the information released to the relatives is easily contained and most likely posted when I’m sober. Also, if they did happen to find any of the other places I post, well, there’s a page for that.

Edited to add: yes, the title is cheesy and overused and on posters and motivational calendars everywhere. But cut me some slack, OK? It was four in the morning and I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

Dave and I were on our way out of Crescent City, CA. I was driving because he hadn’t slept well the previous night. (Something about a beeping lighthouse…) Near the edge of town, I saw a Walgreens and quickly pulled into their parking lot. Most of these chain stores carry similar stock, so I was pretty sure I could get a new blanket and a gallon of Red Bull there. Yay! They had the “too small to cover a person but exactly the right size to protect hotel pillows from Casey’s red hair” blankets, and the required amount of Red Bull for a road trip, plus this blanket was extra soft and came wrapped in a pretty red ribbon. Score! We were soon back on the road. Taking Highway 101 North to Newport OR (Rogue Ales Mothership, we’re almost there!)

Ten miles out of town we approached a black and white kitty who had been hit by a car and was laying in the tiny double-wide-double-yellow-line center-divider of the highway. I went around him, and as we passed, he lifted his head and looked right at me. At us. Oh deities of all faiths, please tell me I didn’t see what I just saw. In the car, a moment of silence, then…. Me: “He’s still alive!” Dave: “He is! Should we go back? What do we do?” I thought for a couple of seconds, pulled the car over to the shoulder. Glanced left then right and pulled a high-speed u-turn back toward the kitty. Dave: “What are we going to do? What can we do?” Me: “Something. Anything. See if he’s still alive. Check around for owners. Call a doctor.”

As we approached the spot where the kitty was still laying, I slowed, then stopped on the shoulder, the nose of our car nearly parallel to the little injured guy on the highway. I was out the door and tearing into the trunk as fast as I could move. Yanked the new blanket out of it’s bag, tore it open, and tossed the cardboard sheets it had been wrapped around aside, in time to hear Dave yell, “It’s running over here!” And he had – this battered little guy had overcome the fear of being struck again and summoned the strength to move; and he’d run right to us, then collapsed into the gravel right at our feet. Blanket in hand, I cautiously approached; crouched and made myself small; spoke softly and gently touched him. I assured him that we were going to help and that he could trust us. I spread the blanket around behind him, then scooped him up, so that his weight was supported all around, but that he could see out and we could see in. He was surrounded in softness and warmth and love. Then we got to business.

One car and one truck had also stopped. No, the cat didn’t belong to them, and no, they didn’t actually think they could do anything. The car folks left right away, while the Cowboy hat-sporting gentleman from the truck went into the trailer park and asked one of the residents if he knew whose cat it could be. Cowboy hat to cowboy hat, they conferred in Spanish about the situation. The resident’s response, essentially, was “who cares?” The woman traveling in the truck with Cowboy-hat-man (and two dogs) suggested that we could take him to one of the vet hospitals back in CC, but there was no local SPCA or anything that might help for free. Cowboy-hat-man gave us lengthy directions to take the kitty to “county” – which we took to mean “sheriff” and, therefore, “someone to end it.” “OK, thanks” we say as Dave helps get me into the car so we don’t jostle the kitty. We head for town FAST. I’m holding the kitty as gently as possible, stroking his ears, and trying not to dissolve into a pile of tears. Dave’s on my iPhone dialing the nearest veterinarian. Convincing the receptionist that even though it’s not our cat, it desperately needs some help, and could they please please please be the place for us to bring this little guy.

The kitty starts to pant (his nose was clogged with blood, so maybe he couldn’t breathe?), so I turn on the air conditioner, thinking maybe he’s in shock and is getting too warm? I hold a paper to keep the sunlight from hitting him directly. I’m openly crying now. The small drops of his blood on the blanket are just SO red. Hic-hic-hiccup. Soothing noises to the kitty; a few for myself. Actually, aside from the road dirt and the blood from his nose, he looks OK. His eyes are bright and he’s paying attention to things moving and changing. He tentatively licks his nose. He’s got longer hair and cute little tufts coming out of his ears, but he has the same B&W markings as our two cats, safely back at home.

We arrive at the vet’s office. Dave helps me get out and lets us into the office. The receptionist says that every doctor and nurse is out to lunch, but are due back soon, so if we could leave kitty in one of the back kennels, they’d tend to him as soon as possible. I gently placed kitty, still snug in his new blanket, into one of the waiting cages. Asked the receptionist to please get some water for him. Offered some money to “help with the exam costs plus … you know, if…” More crying. Kitty starts to pant again. Receptionist says that’s a natural reaction to pain. She asked for details of where we’d found him and we had only a tiny bit of info. Because we were heading back that way, we assured her that we would call with road names, trailer park names, whatever we could get. I touched the little guy through the cage bars and said goodbye.

Back in the car now, Dave was driving now because I was in hysterics.We got back to the cross roads and I started taking notes to call the vet office back with details. Dave looked in the trunk for something to make signs out of and, behold, there were the two pieces of cardboard around which that blanket had been packaged. Dave wrote two copies of a note, with the details, that the cat was still alive, and could be found at the Vet Hospital, and the phone number and address of the hospital. He attached the note to the bank of mail boxes by the trailer park, and put the other note on the gate of the house across from the trailer park. I called and gave the receptionist all the information we had, and told her that we’d left notes, and hoped for the best. She told me that the vet was examining the kitty right then. I didn’t ask for an update, but I thanked her profusely for taking care of a cat who desperately needed some kindness.

Dave’s still driving, because I can’t stop crying. Bawling for a cat we barely knew, whose life had taken such a horrifying turn, and who we helped find some comfort, maybe a little less fear, and hopefully some care or at least a humane ending. Tears of sadness for the little guy, so scared, but brave enough to run to us for help. Tears of anger over the negligent parents. When you bring a domestic animal into your home, you agree to love them, to feed them, and to take good care of them. Their little lives are in your hands. And some asshole broke his agreement by letting an 8-pound animal outside within 100 feet of a freeway. Jerk.

The red ribbon that had been tied around the blanket we used to comfort the kitty? Pinned to a wall in my living room as a reminder that no matter how heart-wrenching it is to stop, it is the only possible thing to do. We all need kindness, we all need comfort, and sometimes we just need friends to scoop us up in softness and whisper gently to us that things are going to be all right.

I spend some time in a cabin in the woods. Its snowy and quiet and lovely (except when the cabin mates decide to all come up simultaneously, which is makes it crowded and not so relaxing). Last night’s drive was an exceptionally hard one – a three-hour trip took nearly seven hours. This included more than an hour of sitting in the cold in the dark in traffic on Highway 80. No explanations, no ETA on when the suffering might end. We finally edged our way over to the on ramp, backed up the damn thing, past giggling 20-something chicklets scampering down the road in the dark exclaiming, “careful, you almost got killed!” It probably would have been a blessing – they looked like breeders and that’s bad stock. But we had an all-wheel drive car and just the movement made us feel better. We did get around the no-reason block and eventually found our way to Truckee around 2:30am.

We finally got to the house and hit the hay. After about seven hours of sleep, I got up and started meandering around the house looking for caffeine and food. I discovered that the power was out, which threw me into a crying jag because I’d packed for a very short trip, which did not include those things I like to do when there’s no electricity. I wandered the house, admiring the snow that had fallen since my last visit, and paying special attention to the circle between the trees (now filled with snow) where I did Shivanata one day. It was a most powerful practice that day and it’s given me lots of new thoughts. About boundaries. And making your own space. And claiming your space. Jumping up and down saying “mine mine mine!” Though I’m too exhausted this trip to repeat the experience, the lessons have stayed with me. Stating my boundaries to coworkers. Explaining that on a given day, I might be cranky and that it has nothing to do with them. Engaging the Hippie Hubby in painful conversations about his mom’s failing health when he gets snippy at me. Trying to use NVC. But mostly knowing (in my gut) that I have established my sovereignty and am starting to own my space in this world. It only took 42 years. Heh – only.

The point here is this: stamping out your space in the snow (or the beach or even your living room) is a powerful thing. It gives this sense of rightness in your heart that helps to make other aspects of your life easier. You have the right to be here. You are important. You have a place. You have a you-ness that you previously lacked. And it feels like I’m headed in the right direction because I’ve taken this step. Our future has possibilities. And choices. And no matter what else is Hard in my life right now, I know that I have my space. And from this space I can conquer anything. It’s there for me. It is me.

Cory has been a good friend of mine for more than 20 years. I wouldn’t say that we’re close now – life does have a way of rending friends from one another without careful care – but each time I see him, it is a joyous and all-too-short encounter. I thought that one day I’d make an entire site dedicated to his stories, but now they’re just going to live here.

In his 20s to 30s, Cory was a bit irresponsible and a lot experimental. He walked an adventurous path with a great attitude and more courage than I could ever muster. No matter what the outcome, he was always up for more.

In Our College Days
Cory used to save his farts in jars. Yes, plural, making it all the more unusual gross. He inherited the most vile toxic emissions from his father. Words are incapable of describing how foul his farts could be and he took great pride in this. So he saved them, to share with unwitting friends, in jars in his bedroom. As if the practice itself wasn’t strange (weird, crazy?) enough, the results were hilarious (as long as you weren’t the victim, of course). He once unscrewed a cap for a friend to elicit the extreme inhalation disgust, then rapidly resealed the jar so he could spring it on someone else another day.

Encounter at Coit Tower
Not long after Cory moved to San Francisco, he was visiting Coit Tower at night (possibly Halloween or another fall holiday) with some friends. He was on acid, and probably some additional illicit drugs, as he’s always been an experimenter. (I’ve mentioned his tendency toward bad judgment, right?) Well, on this particular evening, Cory was walking around the Tower, admiring the views of the city from this lovely spot. All was going great until a strange girl came charging up with her boyfriend in tow and pointed at Cory and said something to the effect of “He’s the guy who tried to rape me!” Well, in addition to the statement itself being false, Cory had never before seen the girl or her boyfriend, and was incapable of such an act. He’s a really nice guy, with good intentions, and possibly one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. He’s also a raging homosexual. Not that he didn’t try a few girls back in the day, but by this time, he knew his love was for the boys.

His protestations of innocence, along with his slight frame, led to him getting a solid pounding at the hands of the boyfriend and the boyfriend’s friends. His only crime? Wrong place at the wrong time. (A crime that is probably the single most common in San Francisco.) His friends came along shortly and took him to the emergency room to get patched up. No serious harm done, except to his sense of security and a few bruises he didn’t earn.

I think that’s enough for today. I’ll post some more later.