TSA

After months of travel over several years in countless countries, I have come to one singular conclusion regarding airports: TSA is the epitome of inefficiency. Not only on the large scale/giant-arm-of-the-Homeland-Security-beast/evil bastards kinda way... but also on the most simplest and basic of terms.

Now before you get all huffy, I'm not talking about the employees. I'm sure many of you are very nice people with families and all and you're probably an alright person when you're not at work. But the redundancy of your positions are baffling.

Why are the three people at the x-ray scanner unable to touch a bag? Why do you need to call over a bag handler (especially when they're both so obviously busy harassing an elderly lady about the yogurt she forgot in her carry-on)? Would it kill you to get up from your chair and peek to make sure that dildo-shaped object in the Louis Vuitton sitting in the the microwaved suitcase isn't a bomb.

They might as well just have it a mandatory requirement that your bag must be open when you go through security. You must be naked, carrying nothing in your hands, and all your electronics are turned completely off. If you cannot follow these simple rules, a TSA agent is legally authorized to shoot you. Problem solved. The lines would move like quicksilver, I tell ya.

Also: if you're going to insist that passengers check in two hours early, ya GOTTA let us smokers smoke. I'm all for making sure my bad habits don't affect others, so stuff me in a human anchovy can. Go ahead! So long as it has an ashtray, I'm good. But expecting us smokers to remain calm while standing in a line for twenty minutes while the fifty people in front of us cant figure out that liquids must be in a ziplock baggie and, no, you can't wear your big metal cross through the metal detector (dumbass) is like putting a rotting carcass in front of a hungry lion. He's gonna go crazy and eat the fucking thing. Otherwise everything around him is going to start looking like dinner.

Favorite frustration today? Line I'm in is moving super slow, right? It's old folks. Okay. Totally understandable. I'm patient. I can wait it out. Take your time, pops. Then...

TSA agent 1 says, "Looks like the other line is moving along folks, so go ahead and move on over!

(An audible grumble is heard from a guy getting his boarding pass checked who was just about to get in that line)

(the new line piles up. I stay where I am because I am a rock in a flowing stream in a beautiful forest, maaaan. I gots all the time in the world)

A few minutes later, I hear a loud, commanding voice of TSA agent 2, who calls out, "IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THE FULL BODY SCANNER, THIS IS NOT THE LINE FOR YOU! Please return to the other line! Again, if you do not want to be pat down, please return to the other line!

(Many grumbles issue from the exodus line and from the line behind me which just moved up to fill the vacuum they left when they betrayed our trust. Selfish bastards. Several of them turn around and try to figure out where they should go and, in the chaos, they form a third, "rogue nation" line. Many more grumbles, much louder now from all around)

And I say, "Go that way! No! That way! Wait! I meant the other way! Oh, nevermind, just stay where you are!"

I suppose I probably deserved that pat down. Still...

There have been numerous articles about the inefficiency of TSA, it's outdated modes and measurements of "security", it's ridiculous standards and redundancies, it's massive hemorrhaging budget, and it's ultimate inability to protect jack from shit. They are a lumbering giant that's gone mad from the strain of holding a finger in a dike in hopes of keeping the terror from flooding in. Why someone hasn't fixed the hole yet baffles me
but, hey, that's what we got. So we just all deal with it.

Tangentially:

When I was in Fiji, the security desk was a scanner, an attendant, and two men in military uniforms carrying MP5s. The line moved fine but then there was a lady with an American accent who was stopped because she had two bottles of booze in her bag and security wouldn't let her through because of their policy regarding excessive amounts of flammable liquids on the plane. Sounds reasonable to me. This lady starts arguing loudly with the attendant. Others are also being stopped for the bottles of booze they just bought in duty-free. She says to the line of impatient people watching this debacle unfold while,standing in 200% humidity 100 degree weather in a shit hole airport in Fiji, "People! We need to come together! This isn't right!"

And I said,

"Lady, those guys over there are carrying machine guns and you're trying to rally a line of people who just want to get on the plane to unite for $50 of Jack Daniels? Move the #$%* along, already!"

Even then, the guys with the machine guns were cool, calm, efficient, even friendly. They stood there until she sheepishly replaced her shit back in her bags, sans booze.

This type of efficiency is mirrored in every other airport I've been. I've been all over the world and no airport is worse than a United States airport.

Look, I get it. 9/11 told us that if we'd had better security at our airports maybe the terrorists wouldn't have hurt us so badly. But here's a crazier idea. Maybe if we hadn't fucked over another country, they wouldn't have bred extremists who decided we were worth hurting. Maybe these extreme and disturbed people - in their inarticulate rage and hatred and determination to hurt us - would have found another way to attack us and, instead of shitty service at airports, it would be shitty service at train stations or ferry lines or at stadiums. Maybe the Homeland Security agency would be making life miserable for people heading to the supermarket, letting ten checkout clerks all try and get your groceries rung up and bagged and put in the cart and asking if you need help out today while being rude as fuck. Who knows? Not me.

But I do know that US airport security is a joke. A big, old, hot mess of a joke with no punch line and no delivery and no point.

And I, for one, am not laughing.

-D@N
9 June 2012
PDX, OR

So much to catch up on

We ended our stay at Barra de Navidad by reserving a table at Barra, a local dance club/bar where we rang in the new year in style. Tons of drinks, great beats, great friends. Strangely enough, there was no real countdown to ring in 2012 so we had to do it ourselves. It was as if the DJ couldn't be bothered to point out that 2011 was headed into the history books, what with all the body rockin' beats. Quick example of said beats: Slow build techno beat for a continuous five minutes followed distinctly by.... More slow build. When the '80s mexican remixes began, it was time to go. On the pat-yourself-on-the-back note, we closed out around 5:30 in the morning. That's how we do, homies. The place we were staying at was run by an elderly Canadian couple, one of whom was an invalid who slept on a bed in the living room and was content to tolerate us through Wheel of Fortune reruns and the world series of poker tournaments on tv. His wife was a strangely cold woman who insisted on force feeding us things we didn't want. It was odd. No, odd is too easy a word to describe their hospitality. I think the better word for it would be 'sociopathic'. But they were nice enough people, I suppose. For Canadians. More on that later. After that, we checked into the Tesoro Resort in downtown Manzanillo. The resort overlooks a quay. Or a inlet. Maybe it was a bay. I'm not quite sure what kind of body of water it was, but it was a pretty great beach nonetheless. The resort was an all-inclusive package that we hooked up due to being Hector and Jenn's wedding party. Free food, free drinks, free pool fun, free ass-kissing, free free free. The food wasn't bad (not great either, but I'm not picky). The rooms were pretty nice for being pretty old. And the water turned a strange brown mixture of flotsam after noon but, all-in-all, the experience was delightful. The wedding took place at sunset on the beach and it was a gorgeous event. The staff laid out white linens and rose petals and all the important people showed up. That night, we partied very hard. Over the last few days, I met Hector's very extended family. Cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews, oh my! One little girl in particular held a particular fascination with me. Her name is Kate and she's seven years old and is full of pure concentrated evil. That's a lie, she's really very sweet and she and I bonded immediately. She was the life of the party, out dancing all the grown ups and being just about as adorable as a girl like that can be. She was whip smart and funny and totally awesome. If I could pick and choose how my kids would end up, they'd be like her. The fact that I can't pick and choose is indicative of why I don't have kids. My luck, they'd turn out as troublesome as I was. And no one wants that. God forbid. One of the greatest moments of the night, however, came from. The sudden arrival of Hector's father's family, all the way from Guadalajara (almost a six hour drive!). They came in droves. They came with babies and. Babies and cousins and so many many people. Insane. I found out later that they hadn't been together as one familial unit like this since the last wedding almost 16 years ago. Hector cried. And we all cried with him. It was amazing. And, as always, we danced. The resort was very cool. But packed full of tourists. And, the surprising winner of the rudest white people at the resort were surprisingly not the fat Americans (they, on the other hand, we're actually pleasant most of the time). No, the rude white people award goes to the fucking Canadians (told you I'd get back to them). I've been to Canada a lot. I have family there. And every time I've traveled to Canuck-villa, I've always remarked about how friendly and welcoming the Canadians were. And now I know why. Because they ship all their assholes south to Mexico so they can infest resort towns to complain about everything and crack racist comments left and right to any local they encounter. Seriously. I heard some shockingly racist shit from these fuckers. And, of all the Canadians I met there (of which there were plenty) not one of them were kind or considerate. To the team of wake boarding diuchebags and your fat fucking nasty ass girlfriends: fuck you the very most. These sixteen year old fucks were the worst of the bunch. They say that if you're a traveling American, you should always tell the natives that you're Canadian to avoid the often well-deserved reputation of being an annoying American. But I'm here to tell you: tthose people are the last people I want to associate myself with. What a bunch of douchebags. Thus endeth the rant, eh? We packed our bags and are now staying at a rented house on top of a hill overlooking the world. There's an infinity pool that stretches out over a cliff and a veranda and an amazing view. Words do not describe it. So I'll post pictures instead. Once I'm back home. Speaking of which, I was hoping to extend my stay here a few more days. School starts on Monday and everyone knows the first day is syllabus day and doesn't technically count. So I thought I'd stay and soak in the sun for a few more meager hours. But alas, it is not to be. The boss called and needs me back. The dog calls and I need to see my boy and give him super doggie kisses and hugs. My life calls and I must needs answer it. It's time to get fucking serious about finishing school. I need to get on with being an adult and hanging around a pool all day isn't going to help. (if there's anyone out there that knows of a job where pool-standing is a necessity, please let me know. I'm really good at that job). Time to get back to real life. If for no other reason than to start saving tmget back out here again. I missed this. I think I'd like to do it some more. And maybe... just maybe... I can do it again real soon. Cheers, Dan 1/8/2012

Hola from Manzanillo

Hello again! This missive comes at you from Manzanillo, Mexico where I am staying at a beautiful rental with the wife and our friends Jenn and Hector. Jenn and Hector have decided to tie the knot down here in paradise and we're lucky enough to be a part of this glorious celebration. In about two hours, we are meeting up with Hector's family for dinner and birthday celebration for one of the kids. If you recall the last time we showed up for dinner, it lasted eight hours and we stuffed our gobs with huge amounts of food and beer. This time, I came prepared! Stretchy shorts, a loose shirt, and a well-trained liver that's undergone a serious weight-training regiment of consumption throughout the holidays. The hard hours of training will come in handy tonight, I'm sure. As for the place we're staying, it is a bungalow-style house in Barra de Navidad that's right on the canal, run by an elderly couple who are gracious and kind. I'm watching parasailors cruise the dusk sky and listening to the sound of birds on the wing. It's gorgeous here. I promise to post some pictures as soon as I have a chance to breathe. The flight(s) in we're great. Jenn had been upgraded to First Class but decided she would rather sit I coach with the wife so she passed the seat onto moi. My first time riding 1st Class! Wow, what an experience. It took relatively little time to realize that the booze was free and the food was fantastic. Plenty of leg room and some cool single-serving friends from Seattle to LA and from LA to here. The first guy was a real cad. We had a great discussion about redoing the calendar to fit in 360 days with a 5.25-day Festivus party to compensate for the leap year to be held on the Spring Equinox. Very cool. The next lady was a very nice woman from Arizona whose son lives here in Manzanillo but commutes to LA to visit his kids every weekend since the divorce. That's pretty great. But not as great as the womn herself who claims that she dated Brian fucking Wilson in high school! Yeah! That's right! Brian fucking Wilson! She said he used to show at the reunions for a while but expressed sadness when the last time she saw him, he had arrived with a nurse and as really out of it. She said he claimed to remember all of them, but it was obvious he didn't; that he was simply trying to be nice in an obviously uncomfortable social situation. I was floored. Brian fucking Wilson. No joke. Well, the wife has just left the shower after a terrifying incident with a spider that I had to go crush under my boot heel so I should probably get going. It feels good to be writing out here again. It feels natural. Simple. I hope to get more on the page soon. See you again, I'm sure. -Dan

This is what I think

When I was in Ft Augustus Scotland, the bartender told me a story about a local retired fireman who went door-to-door and raised a collection to bring the families of every firefighter who had died on 9/11/01 to their little town. The whole community, one tiny village of 650 people, paid for their flights. Doors opened to homes and businesses and the mourning tourists didn't pay a dime for their entire stay: everyone simply refused to let them pay for anything. They were given a place to come and mourn and grieve amongst strangers who had taken it upon themselves to be friends.

 

I have mixed feelings about this day.  Whether or not we should be celebrating it with the jingoist slant that we tend to have.... whether or not I believe every lie that's been told to me.  How I should react to it, if at all.  I'm still frustrated that a war that started ten years ago is still going on today and angry that I disagree with so much of all of it.  Those who perpetrated one of the worst crimes of the modern century are still profiting from their crime (yes, I'm looking at you, Dick Cheney and Junior Bush and your entire Axis of fucking Evil).  Every year I rail against the catchy slogans that are supposed to embody our collective anger and sadness in nice little bite-sized portions and get pissed that our memories and feelings are so easily manipulated and used by others to support causes I don't agree with.  Every year, September 11th is just another fucking day to me.  And just because the difference between the number of years since then and now has a convenient "0" behind shouldn't make the event any more or less important than the year before or the year before that or the year before that.

 

But this year, I'm reminded of sitting in the pub on the ground floor of the Catalonia Hotel with a local named Duncan and a bartender named Mike, far after closing time, listening to him talk about the father who lost his son in the second tower, who traveled thousands of miles to come to the gorgeous majesty of Scotland, and cried into the arms of an old, weathered ex-fireman whom he had never met before.

 

And all I can think of is how, if some random stranger can take the time and effort to do something like that just because of the sheer need to empathize with someone else... maybe our species is not so fucked up after all.

 

Dan Tabayoyon

09/11/11

Moments of pure panic interspliced with some truly good times

This last week, I was in Bend OR. It was kinda totally awesome.

So, a few months back, my very good friend Todd told me the girl he'd been seeing for a year or so had agreed to marry his sorry ass. He asked me to be his best man. Since I had never done that sort of thing before and I hate crowds to the point of xenophobia and I get bad stage fright, of course I said "SURE!"

So, last Friday he picked me up and we drove to Bend OR, where I got to stay at his kick ass pad and eat his kick ass food and meet his kick ass friends. It was... well, "great" is too small a word to describe how great it was. My reputation preceeded me and all of Todd's friends were really eager to meet me. Never a good sign. But, surprisingly, they liked me all the same! They were all very excited that I was coming because that meant some role-playing games to follow. I hadn't actually planned anything for D&D or anything, but I drudged the idea bank for scraps of copper that I tried to polish into pure gold and I ended up running two separate role-playing games while I was there. One was with Todd and his friend Marc - who quickly became my friend as well - and one with a much larger group: Marc, Todd, Joel, Lyryn, and Joel & Lyryn's 10 year old kid, Ally. At first, I was a little hesitant to let a 10 year old girl play, especially with a group of foul-mouthed hyper-egos like Marc, Todd, and myself. I am pleased to report that Ally put all of us to shame with her roleplaying skills. I mean, everything that the party casually missed that I planned on using against them later for forgetting, she picked up on and ran with. There were at least 4 times where the party had completely overlooked the obvious and Ally was right there to pick up the slack. It was a great example of how experienced game-players easily think within their own box (which makes them more experienced) while younger gamers have no boundaries (which makes them unpredictable and brilliantly inspired). Kids think waaaaay outside the box... and that was truly refreshing.

But, I did the math at one point during this marathon gaming run and realized that, within the span of 52 hours, I had been talking and gaming for at least 30 of them. Late nights of gaming until 4 am coupled with heavy on-the-fly storytelling threatened to run me down real quick like. At the end of it, I was sucking down Ricola and tea and popping Vitamin C pills like Tic-Tacs. On the plus side, apparently I'm a really good Game Master. It was shocking for me to realize that I hadn't run a group since I was about 16 or so. And everyone was really kind and forgiving of my rules mistakes when it came to the 3.5 D&D game I ran. They all kept talking about how it may have been the best game they've ever been a part of and how awesome it was... so that was nice.

I got to spend some good time with Todd and his new wife Amber prior to the wedding as well. They are stupid for each other. It's kinda great. She makes him a better person and that's saying something. For someone to make someone else who is already pretty fricking awesomesauce into someone even better, well... she's kinda amazing to say the least. And damn, she looked hot in that dress. Good for you, Todd. Here's wishing the best for you both. Oh yeah... I guess people really enjoyed my speech as well. Here's to knowing how to write a good speech. Hooray!

So, I've been riding the wave of happy-but-exhausted for a few days now. I have some homework to do but I'm drag assing on it right now (hence the blog instead of the mad dash to study study study). I just really enjoy feeling content right now. I have some plans to work on in the future concerning my future, but that's another blog to come, I suppose. For now, I'm gonna watch some stupid ass movie instead of the "classic" film I'm supposed to watch for class and probably eat some lunch and try and hold onto this happy for a little while. Yeah.

-d@n

It was a pleasure to burn

And so the first shot is fired. This, of course, is how it starts. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get my fire extinguisher.

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1 Author: XXXXXXXXX [name edited for privacy]

I don't know if I agree with the propaganda claim with regards to Casablanca--it sounds a lot like a repeat of some of the older film theory about the film. That isn't to say that Casablanca doesn't have political implications, but I always thought that it was more fun to view the film in terms of how each character might represent their cultural politics of the time instead of as an overly enthusiastic praise for America.

Well, if you call film theory fun anyway.

2 Author: Daniel Tabayoyon

As always, with all interpretation and critical analysis, any number of different approaches can alter the result. Critical thinking creates subjectivity so... it's perfectly okay that you disagree with me :) (re: I'm not mad, k? lol)

However, when you watch the film again, take time to consider that this is an American film made by an American production company that portrays an American who avoids taking sides (just as America did during the early part of World War II) who then changes his mind near the end (as the America did during World War II) and, as soon as he involves himself, is willing to make the Ultimate Sacrifice because he's just so darn noble and righteous (a view of America-at-war by Americans during World War II). Also, as told to us by the narration in the beginning of the film, America (the country) is portrayed as the last bastion of hope in a war-torn world: a "perfect place" for all the displaced children of Europe. (Of course, America actually DID open its doors with the Displaced Persons Act in 1948 for refugees of World War II Europe, so they were right at least about that. Only a mere 6 years after the war, no less)

Look, I realize my criticism of Casablanca might sound like I'm anti-American or something, which is so completely not the case by a long shot. The point I was trying to make with this blog was that all countries during World War II were using film for the dissemination of propaganda during World War II. I just think that Warner Bros. and Hal B. Wallis were better at doing it to the passive subconscious of an audience. Much better at it than Goebbels was, to say the least. Whereas most propaganda films of that era literally beat the audience over the head with the messages of its country's righteousness and steadfast assurance during a time of war, Hollywood put out a film with the same implications wrapped neatly in a romantic story about two star-crossed lovers.

Right? Wrong? I don't have an opinion about that. It's easy and dangerous to cast moral judgments from afar and I'm simply not the guy to do that. I don't think that the film is a "bad one" because of the propaganda aspect. But I look at Casablanca and see a subtext, especially considering the roles of the characters and who they represent in the film.

It is "fun" to look at each character and how they might represent the cultural politics of the time, as you mentioned. You have to do exactly that to see the propaganda aspect of this film. But also consider the time this film was made. Two weeks before the film was to be released, the Allies invaded the real life Casablanca. The film wasn't to be released until the spring of next year but the studio pushed it out for the public a mere two weeks later. I have to believe there was a motive there. And when there's a motive, there's an agenda. And an agenda through media, especially film, could be considered propaganda. Of course, it could have just been Hollywood capitalizing on current events to make a buck too. I don't know: I'm not a 1940's Warner studio exec so I can't really comment as to what their motives were :)

Of course, as I said at the beginning of this response, this can be the difficulty of critical analysis. Once one assigns a lens through which to view something, it's easy to see how everything fits into that view. As I mentioned in my blog post, this particular viewing's revelation is a new one to me. I'm not sure it comes because I'm capable of seeing those sorts of things more readily because I'm older now or if it's just a trick of my paranoid brain. Either way, that's what I got out of the film this time around. And after a dozen experiences of watching this movie, this was a new one; one that "struck me" (as the blog directions stated)... so I thought I'd talk about it.

Thanks for your comment. I'm always glad when something I write gets people to think about what they think, even if it's to disagree with me. It makes me think harder as well... and that can never be a "bad" thing, in my book.

Sincerely,
Dan

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Yeah... so....


-d@n

blog for school

This is a blog I wrote for my ENG 304: Film Studies class. We are watching Casablanca for class and I had some things to day about it, so I thought I'd post it here as well. Enjoy! Oh yeah, SPOLIER ALERT for any of you who haven't seen this movie. You've been appropriately warned.

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The last time I saw this film was in high school for a Film Studies class my senior year of high school, over 25 years ago. In that class, we focused our studies on the aspects of lighting, the use of shadow to highlight certain scenes of dialogue, the underlying themes of the setting, and each role represented by the various actors in the film. After watching the film for that class and trying to pay special attention to all the things my instructor told me to keep an eye out for, I remember thinking at the time that I had ended up looking at this film more than actually just watching it. I was determined not to let that be the case when I watched it again for this class.

But, no matter how hard I tried to ignore those aspects of the film, I still found myself peering into the scenes trying to see where the cinematographer had placed the light so as to bounce off the shoulder of Ingrid Bergman so effectively. Or trying to deduce the implied meaning behind the shadow-box technique used to show Bogey getting the cash out of the safe. I found myself searching websites to find translations of the French quote on the wall painting featuring Vichy in the opening sequence when the refugee is gunned down in front of it.

This is the problem with Casablanca. We end up looking at it rather than watching it. This film has been praised and lauded over for so long by the Hollywood film critic that we've convinced ourselves that it's a good movie by believing the technical depth of it somehow outweighs the mediocre performances, a paper-thin plot device, and the subtle yet prevalent jingoist subtext. Technically, it is a very well shot film. The use of lighting techniques alone make this film a compelling watch. But, "One of the Top 5 Films of All Time"? I just don't buy it.

Bogey is a terrible actor and an extremely unattractive male lead. Bergman is gorgeous but her portrayal of a woman is laughable by today's interpretations. Claude Rains is.... well, Claude Rains is amazing so I don't really have any complaints there. I don't know if it's because I've gotten older and therefore more aware of the media presented reality that has colored my interpretation of a film like Casablanca, but when I finished watching it this time, all I could think about the film was: "Wow, this movie might be the most successful piece of American World War II propaganda ever filmed".

Here is Rick, the "every American": a reluctant hero who refuses to get involved with the foreign policies of a world at war all around him; who only acts when he decides it's the moral right and then selflessly sacrifices everything so that order can be maintained and hope can survive (boldface to indicate rhetorical "buzz phrases"). There is the eeeeevil dastardly German officer Major Strasser (who couldn't have been lit more horribly if they had put him under fluorescent tubing) making everyone's life miserable. And who could forget the French officer, Louis Renault; a truly corrupt cop who spends his days split between entertaining German soldiers and indulging his own hedonistic desires... only to turn on his "masters" at the last minute to help the American when the American finally decides to get involved. The Czech terrorist (read as: "underground freedom fighter") and the pretty girl from Oslo are safe and sound on a plane to America: a fabled land of gumdrop kisses and the warmest reception for immigrants and refugees fleeing their homelands to find hope in the American Dream. There might as well been a footer running along the bottom of the film with the saying, "America is the greatest country of all time and you're welcome, Europe. You owe us one!" and had flag pins handed out to audience members at the door.

Germany at the time was putting out plenty of propaganda films of their own, of course. War is funny that way. There's a deluge of information filtered into the common sector that helps everyone cope with the fact that horrible things are happening somewhere else between warring nations. I think that, at the time of it's release, America was just more subtle and more clever with the dissemination of their propaganda. It's so slick in this film that it practically slips past the viewer completely unnoticed, thanks mainly to the romantic plot. And it's effective! I, too, felt my heart rise with the emotional release of the singing of "Marseillaise" over the arrogant, outnumbered German soldiers in the bar. It's hard not to get wrapped up in the emotion of that scene, especially when trivia sources reveal that "many of the extras had real tears in their eyes; a large number of them were actual refugees from Nazi persecution in Germany and elsewhere in Europe and were overcome by the emotions the scene brought out." (www.imdb.com/title/tt0034583/trivia)

I guess the point of my blog entry here is that, when I was young, I looked at this film with a critical eye towards the technical. As I've gotten older and understand better the use of film as a medium to distribute emotive content for the purpose of informing one's emotional bias towards a thing, I examined this film with a critical eye towards its rhetoric.

And, as before when I was younger, I still didn't really get a chance to just watch the film. I was too busy looking at it.

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Thanks for reading,
-d@n