Leavin' on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be frisked again

Yeah, baby, I made the dolphins dance! These fellows live and play at the Baltimore Aquarium.

Yes, I have spent the day traveling. Smooshed into airplane seats clearly designed for undernourished children, havin' my little bit of airport serenity space invaded by middle-aged men in trucker hats who think the li'l lady could use some company, smooshed again the back of the taxi with two co-workers who are also in Baltimore for the conference, finding there is no Soap Net on the cable here (and they call this civilization?), couldn't find bubble bath in the shop downstairs (again, civilization?), eatin' room-service naked wings, now drinkin' a warm Dr. Pepper in my room 'cause I'm too lazy to go get more ice. This all makes me reflect on the subject of travel.

Airport security has always been fun for me, even pre-airscare.

On a trip to New Orleans in 1998, I was stupid enough to leave all the stuff in my pockets. When it came time to pass through security, of couse, I was asked to empty the contents of my pockets, and they gave me this ridiculous little sandwich-sized Tupperware container for the purpose of holding said pocket shit. Ha! Well, I emptied, and emptied, and emptied, the change, the kleenex, the overtuffed-with-inconsequential crap wallet, the lighters (yes, gotta have backups, you know), more change, mints, guitar picks, gum, more kleenex, bass picks, and yes, more change. I think I filled up four of their pitiful little Tupperware containers. I was traveling with Balulah for a conference then, and her parents, to whom I had just been introduced, stood by and watched with a combination of amusement and horror. Since then, I have learned to empty my damn pants pockets before arriving at the airport, and Balulah's parents have learned that I am, in fact, a flake.

I had a bit of a different encounter with security at Bishop when I flew to Chicago in 1997. At the time, I still had some body jewelry in; specifically, I had a navel ring and a ring in my right nipple. I hadn't flown in years, so the thought of the metal detector never occurred to me until I heard it beep its protest as I strolled through. The grandmotherly woman attending to the machine began having me remove articles of clothing that could be offending the machine. Right there in the airport, I stripped. Well, not really, but I had my leather jacket off, my belt off, and my boots off, and to me, that means I've gone to enough trouble to get laid. Grandma began to look a little nervous, and I saw her reach for the scanning wand. Trying to save us all some trouble, I volunteered, "You'll find body jewelry here" pointing to my navel "and here" pointing to my right breast. She looked even more nervous, and she started running the wand over me in a way that is usually only allowed by someone who has just bought me a rather nice dinner and plied me with alcohol. But there was no dinner, no flirtation, no goodnight kiss, not even a fuckin' corsage, as she came at me with that beeping stick in her hand and began to violate my every crease and fold. Sure enough, the warning beeps came just where I'd told her. For some reason, that made her look more distressed than before.

So she felt me up. Somebody's grandma grabbed my tits right there in Bishop Airport. And what did my supportive husband do while I was standing there in shock and a little mortification? Of course, he laughed and laughed and offered absolutely zero support while this little old lady was takin' liberties with his blameless wife. And he continued to laugh, with no remorse or shame, until I was on the airplane. And then probably on his way home, too.

Travel is always an adventure. If you should ever deign to travel with me, it will also be side show.