From: Somewhere over the Atlantic
I’m currently some 30,000+ feet (9,000+ m) in the air on my 22nd plane in 4 months. Now, in this post I’m going to come off as a spoiled brat, but, after all, it is my journal. I reserve the right to rant occasionally. There’s your first world problems disclaimer.
I’m sick of airplanes. Moving about in an airplane is not travel.
Airplanes are a distortion of time and space. And you get frisked.
…except in our great nation we prefer molestation. Straight up, full on.
When it’s my turn for the hallowed ritual (and it’s always my turn), I choose to assert my right to receive my back-handed fondle in public, rather then slink away to the private room.
It’s just my modest contribution to the absurdity of our security theater: making the polite TSA agent cup my balls in public. Yes, that’s right everyone! Look over here, this fellow’s job is to give me a firm rubdown in front of your kids.
State sponsored groping is not what I set about to journal when I began with the title “Flying is not travel,” but the flight attendants are serving dinner and I have become quite worked up over a little friskiness.
Going to tuck the pen and notebook into the seat-back pocket and return to the thought of “flying as travel” later.