Monday, 27 February 2006

Dental Hell

I'm not sure if this is obvious to people, but if you're going to do any kind of traveling in the third world one of the most important things you can do is take care of your teeth. I've been very lucky, but I can tell you that I've heard some horror stories about people who've had to visit dentists in Central America, and I can only imagine what a tooth extraction would be like in, say, Cambodia.

I usually schedule a routine checkup and cleaning before I head out. I've been lucky in the past because I've always had dental insurance, but this time I'm one of the 45 million uninsured Americans who's got to pony up for his medical care. So I opened up the good ol yellow pages and let my fingers do the walking.

After a few phone calls, it became apparent that I was going to be spending at least $100 for a simple cleaning and a 10 minute consultation with a dentist. Being a cheap bastard, I figured I'd shop around to get the lowest possible price.

I think you probably know where this is going.

Eventually, I found a newspaper ad for a $99 cleaning, dentist consultation, and complete set of X-rays. Somehow, this seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that I'm thinking about it, I should have probably been alarmed when they told me they had a few open appointments that day and could take my pick. Alas, I am a fool.

I went in at 3:30 and filled out all the paperwork. I explained to the woman behind the desk that I was leaving for an extended trip to Africa and I just wanted to make sure I didn't have any nasty surprises. She was very understanding and when I gave her the 30 second schtick on Kiva she was really into it.

After a few minutes spent reading US Weekly (K-Fed is such a pussy), the dentist called me in and I followed her to one of the stations. With a thick Russian accent, the Humpty-Dumpty shaped dentist asked me about any pain I'd been having, if I smoked, etc. After an brief exchange of pleasantries, she instructed me to lean back and open my mouth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her grab a pointy silver tool with a hook on the end. She took this utensil and began to stab me repeatedly in the mouth. Within seconds I could taste the blood.

My mouth was literally exploding with pain every time she jabbed me. As I sit here typing this, I can still feel my gums throbbing. The amazing thing is that I just sat there taking it. Isn't it ridiculous how you lull yourself into a false sense of security just by thinking "Well this person is a professional. She must know what she's doing." I find myself thinking the same thing in New York City taxis as they drive 90 down Broadway on the wrong side of the yellow line. But I digress.

So there she is, poking the shit out of my mouth and making these "Mmm hmm" sounds. Eventually she hands me a mirror and says, "I want you to see what I'm doing here."

Preparing for a scene out of Saw II, I slowly bring the mirror up to my face and I'm greeted with a mouthful of teeth that are redder than Bill Clinton at a cigar convention.

"See," she says as she drives the little sword in between two molars, "You bleed every time I poke you. I'm sorry to tell you this but you have gum disease."

"You stupid bitch," I said, "If I took out my Leatherman and stabbed you in the face you'd bleed like a stuck pig, but that doesn't mean you have face disease does it?"

Yeah right I said that. No, I just sat there and nodded, dumbfounded by a mixture of pain, disbelief, and shock at the fact that I'd just been diagnosed with a disease. I mean, I'm not saying I'm Dr. Teeth or anything, but I practice pretty good dental hygiene. I brush twice a day and floss maybe once a week (yeah, yeah, I know I should do it every day). My point, however, is that while my teeth may not be perfect it's not like they look like this.

Humpty-Dumpski DDS went on to tell me that her "professional diagnosis" was that I have middle stage periodontal disease. Her recommendation was that I come in for four separate treatments where they would do a periodontal scrape of a quarter of my mouth each time. Each visit would cost $210 for a grand total of $840 by the time she was done. Then she showed me my X-rays and told me some story about my jaw bone receding or something.

Of course, my immediate inclination was to go home and get on WebMD to find out exactly how full of shit this woman was. After spending about 20 minutes talking about various payment plans she offered I managed to politely extricate myself and my shredded gums from her office and we headed home to do some research.

Needless to say, I don't think I have periodontal disease. Maybe a little gingivitis, but nothing a little floss and some listerine won't fix. However, I have learned a valuable lesson from this experience, and that is this:

Posted by flow Frazao on February 27, 2006 at 02:39 PM in Little Stories, Me | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Saturday, 28 January 2006

San Francisco - America's Vaccination Destination

After waking up at 5AM and sitting on a plane for 8 hours, we hopped on the subway and headed into the middle of the city for the San Francisco Dept. of Public Health. As I mentioned earlier, the price of vaccinations here are about half the cost compared to Connecticut. And it's a damn good thing, because between Fiona and I we wound up dropping almost $1200 on shots yesterday.

The bad news, of course, was that it cost a shitload of money. The good news is that I have a much better chance of not dying of the following diseases:

• Meningococcal Disease - This one is some scary shit. The juice was precious at $110, but after I read this I was all sweaty and pretty much stopped worrying about money:
  

  Meningococcal disease is an acute bacterial disease characterized by sudden onset with fever; intense headache; nausea and often vomiting; stiff neck; and, frequently, a petechial rash with pink macules. Formerly, the case-fatality ratio exceeded 50%, but early diagnosis, modern therapy, and supportive measures have lowered the case-fatality ratio to about 10%.



• Polio - Maybe I'm naive or something, but I was under the impression this had been taken care of. I seem to remember hearing how through the "miracle of modern medicine" mankind had wiped out Polio. Apparently, this is not the case. Polio, it seems, has reached epic proportions in Africa. And that's fucked up because the shot only cost $44 and you know that includes the standard 500% markup on all pharmaceuticals sold in America.
• Tetanus/Diptheria - At the bargain basement price of $28, how could I say no?
• Hepatitis A & B - These vaccinations are actually administered over the course of six months. Luckily, Fiona talked me into starting the tract back when we were in Bangkok, so I got my third and final booster yesterday.
• Typhoid - This one comes in oral form, so I didn't need a shot for it, which was fine with me. Three in each arm was enough, thanks.
• Yellow Fever - This is the big bad mama jama of exotic tropical diseases. The one where they won't let you in to the country if you don't have the International Certificate of Vaccination for Yellow Fever.
• Rabies - I got the first of three rabies exposure shots yesterday, and at the price of $182 per shot I'd be lying if I said I didn't hesitate. I was on the fence - I mean, when's the last time you got bit by an animal - until the nurse started explaining the options. If you get bit after you've been vaccinated, then the treatment is two booster shots which are widely available even in third world countries. However, if you haven't been vaccinated then you need to get a different kind of injection made from human product which is not widely available and would require evacuation to South Africa. And what kind of psycho would inject himself with blood from THAT population? You'd probably be better of with the rabies.

Luckily, Fiona had already been vaccinated against most of the aforementioned stuff so we saved some money there. Apparently it's a "good idea" to get shots before you go to Southeast Asia. Not being one for "good ideas" I had to stock up yesterday. Fiona, on the other hand, had a different issue to deal with.

Five years ago she was in India and she started playing around with a monkey. To make a long story short, the thing bit her and (having had the pre-exposure) she went to a clinic to get the widely available booster. The Indian doctor was not, um, well-informed, so he gave her the wrong fucking shot. Not only did Fiona get a shot of human product in India which was neither effective, nor, shall we say, the best idea, but apparently the doctor also had trouble opening the vial and wound up shattering the glass before he drew it into the syringe.

Basically, Fiona allowed some Indian quack to inject her full of broken glass and third-world country juice. Which was pretty funny considering the grilling she gave the nurse in San Francisco about "how do you know the meningococcal vaccine is safe".

The effect of this episode was Fiona sitting in the Department of Public Health with a gaggle of nurses around trying to decide whether or not my wife has rabies. After a call to the guy who's currently rewriting the CDC guidelines for rabies, they decided that she should get the two booster shots ($182 each) just to be on the safe side.

And that's pretty much that. Right now my shoulders are sore as hell, but I'm told that will pass after a few days. Of course, for those of you out there who like to have things to worry about there's also a .001% chance I could die of Yellow Fever by next Thursday.

Posted by flow Frazao on January 28, 2006 at 12:58 PM in Africa, Little Stories, Me, Travel | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Thursday, 26 January 2006

I've Been to Hell I Spell It, I Spell It D-M-V

I'm sitting here at the DMV waiting for Fiona to finish her driver's test (she's finally going for a US license), and I'm really enjoying the show. As I look around I see a very diverse group of people, and I would bet that these particular people will never be in the same room again. This is a shame - just imagine what spirited conversations could transpire between the obese Arab to my left and the mulletudinous meth-head to my right. Not that I'm going to invite them back to my house or anything. I'm just saying.

Fiona just finished her written test and she's in a state of disbelief as to how easy it was compared to its Australian counterpart. I tried explaining that while in Australia driving might be considered a privilege, here in the US it's a basic human right. Judging by her scoff, I can only assume she hates freedom. I'll be reporting her for reeducation when we get home.

Update: I'm pleased to report that Fiona passed her exam! She now sports a classy Connecticut driver's license with a sweeeeet hologram that you're all so jealous of. Yeah you wish you were from Connecticut, punk.

Posted by flow Frazao on January 26, 2006 at 06:03 PM in America, Little Stories, Me | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 25 January 2006

Dental Hell

I'm not sure if this is obvious to people, but if you're going to do any kind of traveling in the third world one of the most important things you can do is take care of your teeth. I've been very lucky, but I can tell you that I've heard some horror stories about people who've had to visit dentists in Central America, and I can only imagine what a tooth extraction would be like in, say, Cambodia.

I usually schedule a routine checkup and cleaning before I head out. I've been lucky in the past because I've always had dental insurance, but this time I'm one of the 45 million uninsured Americans who's got to pony up for his medical care. So I opened up the good ol yellow pages and let my fingers do the walking.

After a few phone calls, it became apparent that I was going to be spending at least $100 for a simple cleaning and a 10 minute consultation with a dentist. Being a cheap bastard, I figured I'd shop around to get the lowest possible price.

I think you probably know where this is going.

Eventually, I found a newspaper ad for a $99 cleaning, dentist consultation, and complete set of X-rays. Somehow, this seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that I'm thinking about it, I should have probably been alarmed when they told me they had a few open appointments that day and could take my pick. Alas, I am a fool.

I went in at 3:30 and filled out all the paperwork. I explained to the woman behind the desk that I was leaving for an extended trip to Africa and I just wanted to make sure I didn't have any nasty surprises. She was very understanding and when I gave her the 30 second schtick on Kiva she was really into it.

After a few minutes spent reading US Weekly (K-Fed is such a pussy), the dentist called me in and I followed her to one of the stations. With a thick Russian accent, the Humpty-Dumpty shaped dentist asked me about any pain I'd been having, if I smoked, etc. After an brief exchange of pleasantries, she instructed me to lean back and open my mouth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her grab a pointy silver tool with a hook on the end. She took this utensil and began to stab me repeatedly in the mouth. Within seconds I could taste the blood.

My mouth was literally exploding with pain every time she jabbed me. As I sit here typing this, I can still feel my gums throbbing. The amazing thing is that I just sat there taking it. Isn't it ridiculous how you lull yourself into a false sense of security just by thinking "Well this person is a professional. She must know what she's doing." I find myself thinking the same thing in New York City taxis as they drive 90 down Broadway on the wrong side of the yellow line. But I digress.

So there she is, poking the shit out of my mouth and making these "Mmm hmm" sounds. Eventually she hands me a mirror and says, "I want you to see what I'm doing here."

Preparing for a scene out of Saw II, I slowly bring the mirror up to my face and I'm greeted with a mouthful of teeth that are redder than Bill Clinton at a cigar convention.

"See," she says as she drives the little sword in between two molars, "You bleed every time I poke you. I'm sorry to tell you this but you have gum disease."

"You stupid bitch," I said, "If I took out my Leatherman and stabbed you in the face you'd bleed like a stuck pig, but that doesn't mean you have face disease does it?"

Yeah right I said that. No, I just sat there and nodded, dumbfounded by a mixture of pain, disbelief, and shock at the fact that I'd just been diagnosed with a disease. I mean, I'm not saying I'm Dr. Teeth or anything, but I practice pretty good dental hygiene. I brush twice a day and floss maybe once a week (yeah, yeah, I know I should do it every day). My point, however, is that while my teeth may not be perfect it's not like they look like this.

Humpty-Dumpski DDS went on to tell me that her "professional diagnosis" was that I have middle stage periodontal disease. Her recommendation was that I come in for four separate treatments where they would do a periodontal scrape of a quarter of my mouth each time. Each visit would cost $210 for a grand total of $840 by the time she was done. Then she showed me my X-rays and told me some story about my jaw bone receding or something.

Of course, my immediate inclination was to go home and get on WebMD to find out exactly how full of shit this woman was. After spending about 20 minutes talking about various payment plans she offered I managed to politely extricate myself and my shredded gums from her office and we headed home to do some research.

Needless to say, I don't think I have periodontal disease. Maybe a little gingivitis, but nothing a little floss and some listerine won't fix. However, I have learned a valuable lesson from this experience, and that is this:

Posted by flow Frazao on January 25, 2006 at 09:28 PM in Little Stories, Me | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Thursday, 12 January 2006

Problems vs. Solutions

"The heart of the matter, as I see it, is the stark fact that world poverty is primarily a problem of two million villages, and thus a problem of two thousand million villagers. The solution cannot be found in the cities of the poor countries. Unless the hinterland can be made tolerable, the problem of world poverty is intolerable, and inevitably will get worse."

-- E.F. Schumacher, Small Is Beautiful

If there's one thing I learned during my years of consulting, it's that too much knowledge is a terrible thing. I couldn't possibly begin to count the number of projects I was on that had worked themselves into a state of "analysis paralysis". That is, they'd spent so much time thinking about the question that their brains froze up whenever they tried to think of an answer.

Sometimes you have to jump in with both feet and just start slogging away. Granted, you fuck up left and right, but as long as you don't keep screwing up the same thing in the same way you inevitably work your way towards a solution. It's not always the most elegant one, and it's usually not the one that will win you any industry awards, but it gets the job done. In my experience, I've generally found that the best time to solve these problems is while the talkers are talking.

Of course, as I soon as I solved a problem for a client they would immediately switch from talking about how complicated the issue was to talking about how smart they were for having fixed it. Not that it made any difference to me - as a consultant I was already out the door. But it just goes to show that you don't need to know much about a problem to solve it. You just have to be willing to bang your head against a wall for a while and hope your brain is big enough to knock it down.

"There are two kinds of people, those who do the work and those who take the credit. Try to be in the first group; there is less competition there."

-- Indira Gandhi

Posted by flow Frazao on January 12, 2006 at 11:39 PM in Little Stories, Me, Microfinancing | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Tuesday, 10 January 2006

First Day of Substitute Teaching

7:30 AM - Writing B102
Today is my first day of substitute teaching. I'm working at Hall High School, which is where I graduated from in 1994. It's pretty strange being back, mainly because it hasn't changed at all. There are still couples making out in the same dark corners, and still huge groups of kids congregating in front of the gym. The main difference is that now they all have iPods instead of Walkmen.

Another thing I notice as I look around is that every single student has a 16 ounce bottle of Poland Spring water. Is this standard issue now? I wonder if you get in trouble should you be caught without your water bottle. It's strange - when I was here you weren't allowed to drink anything in class. I seem to remember some kind of fear that kids would be swigging vodka or something.

Right now I'm sitting in my first class. It's an English class - Writing, I think. Following the script that was sitting on the teacher's desk, I told the kids that they're supposed to work on a thesis statement and have their introductions done by the end of the period. I don't have a clue what they're introducing, nor do I care. Pretty much the only other thing I said to them is that it's way too early for any of us to be awake (7:30 AM), so as long as they're quiet I not much else matters.

Amazingly, I haven't had to say a single word since class started. Every single one of these kids is working. Part of me wants to yell at them "Hey, you! Misbehave!! What do you think this is? Some kind of cubicle job?"

9:25 AM - English 10 (Standard)
This is my third period of the day. Second period was English 10 (Honors) and there's a big difference between honors and standard. The teacher left me the following note:

"Give students a brief talk about behaving properly and tell them that there will be punishment if you leave me a poor report."

The honors kids were quiet and well behaved, and the standard kids are loud and funny. I gave both groups the exact same directions and the honors class did exactly as they were told. The standard kids, however, got the directions, read through the handout and told me I had to assign each group a question from the list of five.

Naturally, I said "Does it really matter? Just pick one and do it." One girl quickly piped up and told me that in fact it DID matter because of something having to do with the way the class was being taught. So I assigned them each a question. No skin off my back.

Eventually, one of the kids asked my name. Without thinking, I responded "Jeremy". The girl laughed and said, "No, we can't call you Jeremy we have to call you Mr. Whatever." I told her my last name and then she asked me some question about Catcher In the Rye about Holden's relationship with Phoebe.

I told her that it had been a long time since I'd read that book and I had forgotten that Phoebe was a character, much less how she's different from Selma Thurner. Then I mentioned that the only thing I remembered was that aside from a revolver and a signed Double Fantasy album, a dog-eared copy of Catcher In the Rye was the only other thing Mark David Chapman was carrying when he shot John Lennon. Apparently, the teacher skipped over that little factoid.

Another interesting distinction between the honors class and the standard class is that almost all of the honors kids seemed to be members of the Cult of the White Earbuds. I would conservatively estimate that around 75% of the students in the advanced class had iPods. However, in the standard class it seemed like only a handful had them. There were significantly more CD Players than MP3 players, and it makes me wonder how much socioeconomic standing factors into academic placement. Quite a lot, I would guess.

Study Hall
They played hangman almost the whole time. But it was boring because the only thing they could think of were TV shows and movies. A few of the mystery words were:

• Baywatch


• The Brothers Grimm


• The Godfather

Posted by flow Frazao on January 10, 2006 at 11:56 PM in Little Stories, Me | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Thursday, 25 November 2004

A Night at the Opera

A few months ago, the Hartford Courant ran an ad looking for extras for the Connecticut Opera's production of Aida.  Basically, it said if you're a "well-built man" in good shape between the ages of 18 and 55 and would like to hold a spear or fan a pharoah then to call a phone number. I figured, "Why not?"  I gave them a call and they told me to come in for rehearsal a few days later.  Naturally, for the next couple of days I sweated whether or not I was "well-built" enough to cut the mustard, but as soon as I got there I realized I had nothing to worry about.  Compared to the rest of the jokers who showed up I was practically the Governer of California.  After the performance the  review said we were "the most well-fed bunch of Egyptians the world had ever seen."  Ouch.

Anyway, I went to all the rehearsals and wound up getting a relatively big part.  I played the role of "Bowl Holding Priest".  For all of Act 1, Scene 2, I was to be onstage.  Before the curtain went up, we would all be in position.  I would be standing almost in the center, next to Ramfis the High Priest. When the curtain was raised, the smoke machines were to go off, Ramfis would bless the holy sword and wash it in my big gold bowl for about a minute while he sang a little ditty.  When he's done washing, I would turn, walk up to the top of a platform and look straight ahead into the 3,000 person audience for the rest of the scene.

Pretty straightforward, right?  Maybe for you, buddy... but simple directions are no match for me.

The first night of the performance went off without a hitch.  Fiona and my Mom were in the audience, and I held that bowl like a pro.  My technique was flawless, and I feel safe in saying I made them proud.  The rest of the opera was okay too, I guess.

To be honest, I was a little bored of the whole thing by that time.  After sitting through two weeks of daily rehearsals, even the "Grandest of the Grand Operas" starts to lose it's luster.  I knew every note, and every stage direction, and it was getting old.

Anyway, the second and final night of the performance rolled around on Saturday.  I went to the Bushnell, slithered into my costume, spackled on my stage makeup, grabbed my bowl and went upstairs to watch everybody get ready.

The opera began on time, and it sounded great as always.  The orchestra was humming along, and the sopranos were wailing through their parts, so I decided I could let things take care of themselves for a while.  I headed back to the stagehands room to watch the Red Sox game.

After a couple of minutes I heard a round of applause and figured it was time for my scene to begin.  I walked out of the stagehands room, and to my utter and complete horror, I saw everyone onstage and in position.  They were holding the curtain for me.

As this realization dawned on me, some girl saw me and yelled/whispered "Where the hell have you been?!"  I bolted out onstage and got into my place feeling like a total loser.  Which, obviously, I was.  Luckily, I was only about 20 seconds late but as I'm sure you can imagine, 20 seconds is an eternity in dramatime.  Understandably, Ramfis was absolutely freaking out.  If I hadn't been there, he would have had to pretend to wash the sword in a bowl that wasn't there for over a minute.  Instead of looking like a High Priest he would have just looked High.

So I ran out and got in position, and just before the curtain went up Ramfis shot me a look that could have melted iron.  Every single person in the cast was looking at me like I was biggest asshole to ever set foot on stage at the Bushnell.  It was awful.

The curtain came up and I stood there while Ramfis washed his sword.  Then, after that excruciating minute I turned and walked up to my spot on the platform where I stood and began looking out over the audience as I slowly spiraled into insanity.

"You stupid idiot," I said to myself, "you don't even like sports, fer Chrissakes!!  How could you miss that cue?  Now everybody hates you."  I wanted to disappear.  I stood facing 3,000 people in suits and gowns and I saw them all shooting daggers at me.  I began pleading with the man upstairs.  "God," I said, "I know I screwed up.  But please, if you could just do something to get me out of this I would love it.  I don't know what, maybe like a mass murderer or something. Anything.  Please."

Needless to say, God didn't drop Ted Nugent into the Bushnell Theatre.  Instead he set the fire alarm off.

I couldn't believe it.  My prayer had literally been answered.  I stood onstage with my mouth wide open as the orchestra was drowned out by the deafening wail of the fire alarm.  I cannot possibly convey the joy that filled my heart at that moment.  Seeing 3,000 tuxedoes slowly file out of the performance hall was one of the happiest sights my eyes have ever seen.

We stood outside in full costume with the rest of the audience for a full 45 minutes while the fire department came and verified that there was indeed no fire.  They blamed it on an overenthusiastic smoke machine, but I think we can all agree on what the REAL cause of that alarm was. After everything was sorted out, everyone came back into the theatre and the rest of the show went off without a hitch.  My enormous screw-up became an inside joke, and we all had a good laugh at the tardy Bowl-Holding Priest.

I have a few pictures from the opera posted here.  Enjoy.

Now it's time to get down to business.  There's a turkey waiting to be stuffed and there's a grandma waiting to be kissed.  I hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving, and I promise I'll do my best to keep the posts coming more regularly.

Posted by flow Frazao on November 25, 2004 at 11:49 PM in Little Stories | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Tuesday, 06 July 2004

There Is No "Why"

I went up to Maine for the Fourth of July to do some whitewater rafting with some friends. I'd never done it before, but it was great fun. We spent most of the morning drifting down the Penobscot River, basking in the sun, and taking in spectacular views of Mt. Katahdin and the general beauty that is the Maine wilderness. It was a welcome change from the constant grind of Washington DC.

Whereas the morning was a calm float down the stream, the afternoon was quite a bit more intense. We hit 11 sets of rapids, with a few category fives thrown in. Apparently, this is the most violent grade - a category six is said to be "unraftable".

According to the guide, each set of rapids had an imposing, testosterony name like "Bonecrusher" and "Executioner". Needless to say, it was a hell of an introduction to the sport. Who would have thought that going over a waterfall in an inflatable raft could be so much fun?

Luckily the constant splashing made it impossible to tell who had pissed their pants.

After a great weekend, we headed back to the city this morning from Manchester NH. It was a redeye flight leaving at 6:45 AM, so we weren't exactly on top of things, and my wife wound up forgetting to take my Leatherman out of her bag. It set off the alarm when we went through security, and since it was 6:25 we were quickly told that our only option was to leave the Leatherman if we had any hope of catching our flight.

It may sound strange, but I have a bit of an attachment to my Leatherman. First of all, the thing has been around the world with me, and it's helped me out innumerable times. I spent a night in a seedy Cairo hotel with the knife blade jammed into the wall above my head in case any ambitious Egyptians got it in their heads to fuck with me. Thank God I've never had to use it in that capacity though - I can barely fillet a fish without getting queasy.

Secondly, the particular model of Leatherman (the Leatherman Flair) is no longer manufactured. It's the only high quality Multitool out there with a full length blade AND a corkscrew, both of which are absolutely essential tools as far as I'm concerned. It also has a butter spreader and a cocktail fork, but I'm not so much of a pansy that I consider those to be indispensible.

Luckily, the guy in front of us heard this whole scene with the security guard go down. His wife had just dropped him off and was standing on the opposite side of the security barrier, and he said if I ran and caught her she'd be happy to mail it back to me. I sprinted away, found her, and gave her my info, showering her with gratitude the entire time.

However, since I'd crossed the ever-important security barrier, I now had to pass through the whole process once again. By this time it was about 6:35 and our flight was due to take off in 10 minutes. What else could I do but patiently wait in line all over again?

When 6:40 rolled around, they called my wife and I over the airport intercom and told us to get our asses to the gate or else the flight would be leaving without us. By this time, Fiona was absolutely flipping out (she doesn't like to miss planes, I guess) and I had to beg the people in front of me to let me through.

I made it through the metal detector with no beeps, and my wife and I sprinted for Gate 15. We got there just as they were about to close the doors. I couldn't believe we'd made it.

How naive of me to think it would be so easy.

As I handed the Southwest guy my boarding pass, I heard Fiona call out from behind me: "J, you don't have the backpack? Where the hell is the backpack??"

In the midst of the Leatherman confusion, either she or I must have put down our carryon pack - the one with $1,000 worth of camera equipment in it - for a fraction of a second. I can only assume that at the moment it hit the floor, the crack security team at Manchester Airport snatched it up and immediately sent it downstairs to the bomb-sniffing room.

Seeing as I was willing to miss a flight for a $65 Leatherman, it was instantly obvious to me what was going to happen when the Southwest guy said "You guys need to make a decision - I've got to close these doors right now."

I was not getting on that plane without my camera.

So, without even a kiss goodbye, Fiona had to jump onto the plane and head home without me. I watched her plane taxi away from the gate and headed off to locate my bomb/camera bag.

After being bounced around from person to person for 20 minutes, I was told that my backpack was most likely in the "Communications Center". Eventually a skycap instructed me to "go down that hallway all the way to the end, take a left, take your second right and then go in the last door on the right."

As I walked deeper and deeper into the bowels of Manchester Airport, I wondered how far I'd be able to get without having somebody stop me and ask why there was somebody in pink flip-flops and a skull and crossbones T-shirt wandering around a supposedly restricted area. I started walking by people wearing air traffic control headphones and carrying those weird light up cones they use to direct planes. Nobody questioned me once.

Eventually, I found the door marked "Comm Center" and walked right in through the unlocked door. At this point, I found myself confronted with a wall of video monitors displaying what must have been every inch of terminal space. I was literally in the heart of the airport, and I had walked in without answering a single question or showing so much as a Blockbuster card.

Luckily, they had my bag, and I made it onto the next flight, where my wonderful wife was waiting for me at the gate with an iced coffee. I've done a fair amount of travelling, so I don't get bent out of shape by delayed flights or other minor inconveniences, but as I'm sure you can imagine I did get to thinking about the current state of Homeland Security.

It seems to me that our Homeland is just as secure as it ever was. The reason I was able to walk through the inner sanctum of the airport is pretty simple - I'm not going to blow anything up, and everybody knows it. Should I have been stopped by somebody? Probably, but it's really not that big a deal.

I know it might seem like an oxymoron, but it actually made me feel safer that I could walk around without having an M-16 thrust in my face by some jumpy National Guardsman. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was walking around in the America that I remember. The whole experience, from the wonderful couple with the Leatherman right through to the Comm Center Adventure made me feel like this era of constant unrelenting tension could be coming to an end.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Happy Fourth of July, everybody.

Posted by SmooveJ Zao on July 6, 2004 at 07:01 PM in Little Stories | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Friday, 18 June 2004

A lovely little tale

I just saw the most amazing thing happen.

This little old lady was standing by the side of a busy road trying to work up the courage to step into the street to hail a cab. About 50 feet away two white cops stood by their cars casually chatting to each other over a Starbucks.

I watched as a young black guy walked up to the old woman and offered to help her flag down a taxi. I couldn't hear what she said, but the relief on her face was clearly visible - she wasn't having any success,
and definitely appreciated the help.

Meanwhile, the cops were standing around chatting and watching this
whole episode unfold. The black guy stepped out into the street and put his hand up in the universal sign for "I need a cab", and not 15 seconds later a cab with no passengers and it's "On Duty" lights on went speeding by.

Obviously, this wasn't the first time the guy had been dissed by a taxi. Shaking his head, he glanced over at the cops with a look of exasperation on his face.

Here's where it gets incredible.

Without a moment's hesitation, one of the cops goes "That's bullshit" and JUMPED into his car and took off after the cab. Sadly, I couldn't see whether or not he caught him because they went around a corner.

It was a heartening little vignette. Everything from some guy helping an old lady get a cab, to the old lady not being all like "Help! A black person!!", to the cops actually doing the right thing. All in all, a great way to end the week.

Posted by flow Frazao on June 18, 2004 at 05:16 PM in Little Stories | Permalink | Comments (2)

Wednesday, 26 May 2004

Mouseland

Here's a little story by Tommy Douglas (1904 -1986), one of Canada's best known New Democrats. He first wrote it down in 1944, but it's as still as relevant as ever:

Posted by flow Frazao on May 26, 2004 at 10:56 AM in Little Stories | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack