Taking Liberties with my Liberty, Part II

I apologize for my unseemly and rather hasty departure last night: there is nothing worse than cold crab and cream cheese wontons, and I had to make a choice between finishing my entry or
eating.

While creatively it was enjoyable putting a comical twist on the issue, the truth is of late this has been bothering me a great deal.

The point that I was slowly arriving at was that this quick, hurried trip did not require a great deal of necessities: indeed, I actually wore my suit on the flight so I could save room in my carry-on.

As I wended my way through the security line so that I could make my way to the gate, I went through the usual process of removing my watch, wallet, keys... anything that might set off the metal detectors. Drawing near to the front of the line, I removed my shoes, and went through the process of removing my laptop from its case. And then it dawned on me (remember, please, that this was the first flight where I've ever made exclusive use of
carry-ons, so be charitable), as I was pratically de-nuded at this point, that I was carrying contraband.

Namely, that most dangerous stuff called 'saline solution, toothpaste, and hair gel', all of which, as 'McGyver' knows (those of you mid-20's or earlier will completely miss this reference) could be combined to make one lethal... gelatinous ball of goo. And when I had packed, I had forgotten that they must be less than x mount of ounces for safe travel. And, naturally, I didn't come to this realization until my belongings were already making their way through the x-ray machine.

Yes, I was stopped, searched, my belongings gone through and some of my hygienic products were confiscated. I didn't mind this, per se, as the rules are clearly stated and I was the one to not abide by the regulations. And to be honest, the only thing I was at risk for, after losing these possessions, was a really bad hair day. I mean, we know the rules, and they had just (though terribly silly) cause.

Nevertheless, it did dawn on me, whimsically, as the wand of the TSA agent traveled from crotch to underarm, that the next time I flew I wouldn't even bother to pack. Nor even dress. I'd bring an empty suitcase and all the things I needed in a garbage bag. Then, once I finally passed security, received the all-clear from these honestly very hard-working folks, I'd go ahead and put some clothes on and stuff the rest in my suitcase. I think in airports, you should arrive nude, and depart fully-clothed.

It wasn't until I alit in Las Vegas (kissing the ground, as I always do after a flight, grateful to have arrived safely) and drove to the ostentatious hotel where the conference would be held that I... finally... got angry. Pulling my rental car into the parking garage of the hotel, I was stopped by an officious individual (what made them officious was not their blue jeans or their disinterested demeanor, but the fact that they were wearing intimidating orange vests) who waved my car to a stop, and told me to open my trunk.

Excuse me?

- Open the trunk. You will not park here unless you open this trunk.

Why?

- Sir, we have to see what you have in there, or we will turn you away.

This did not exactly present a problem, necessarily, since I had absolutely nothing in the trunk (unless the rental car company had surreptitiously stuffed a body in there, prior to giving me the keys to this ugly, economical Chevy Cobalt), at least in terms of compliance. There was no reason not to do so, except that... why did I have to? Granted, had this been a major commerce building and I was driving a large truck the reeked of fertilizer, maybe there would have been just cause. But this was a seminar for those in a certain medical field (perhaps the dullest field there is) that I was attending, and for heaven's sake, the name of the hotel was The Flamingo,
(can I write that here?), which I don't think even Al Qaeda would list as a target without a modicum of giggling ('And after we destroy the Infidel's most sensitive commercial and military targets, rendering them broke and unable to respond, we'll go after that damned... *sniggle*... that ugly... *tee-hee*... that- stop that, Ahmed. It's not funny... *snicker*... that accursed hotel full of podiatrists/audiologists/orthodontists/cardiologists/veterinarians').

Moral dilemma: Do I let the officious-looking staff member (because of the orange vest) paw through the trunk of my cheap rental car, or do I make a statement on behalf of all Americans who have rights to demand entrance regardless of whether my trunk is empty or full of C-4, because this is the risk we run as Americans:

That we are free, and as a consequence we are surrounded by others who are also free?

Tomorrow I shall blog about inaccurate attributions to Benjamin Franklin, and Cleo the cat. Trust me. It will all make sense, somehow.

As I often say to my wife, 'bear with me'.

To which she often responds with: 'Shut-up and open the trunk.'