Flights of fury
Three-ounce bottled rage
by Regan White
regan@thecharlotteweekly.com

One of my goals for 2007 is to travel more, and yet the spine of my passport remains barely cracked. I jump-started this year, however, by boarding the Rock Boat cruise, a five-day, four-night rock festival at sea crammed with tons of yummy bands. Now in its seventh year, the Rock Boat this year was filled with the likes of Josh Kelley, the Zac Brown Band, Sister Hazel, Collective Soul, Carbon Leaf, Aslyn, Toby Lightman, Charlottean Scott Munns and Florez (who, incidentally, has the hottest bass player in the universe … even if he spells Eric with a “k”). We departed from Fort Lauderdale, Fla., and sailed to the islands of Turks and Caicos. It was fabulous.

Three-ounce threats
However, when considering my need to travel more often, I conveniently forgot that this means I’ll have to navigate security measures more often as well. I’m all for protecting America and I’d be the last person to object to just about any security measure. But it’s starting to get a little ridiculous. I already hate packing. It doesn’t help that now I have to ask myself if my soft-solid deodorant could possibly count as a gel. I considered my more-than-three-ounce bottle of facial moisturizer for so long while packing for this trip that I actually forgot it. I was left to moisturize with sunscreen for the entire cruise. Not optimal.

My sister swears that the Federal Aviation Administration has some kind of deal worked out with Glad – due to the requirement that all liquids and gels be contained in quart-sized plastic bags. I’m not a quart-sized bag kind of person. I purchase sandwich bags and gallon bags. I had to specifically purchase quart-sized bags just for this trip.

Shortly before Christmas I flew to Boston to visit a friend from college and on my return trip, I accidentally checked my Ziploc bag full of liquid items. This would have been fine, if I didn’t have two lip glosses in my purse. I held them aloft to the security guard, a move that is awkward enough by itself. He asked if I had a bag for them. Umm … if I did, I thought, I wouldn’t be uncomfortably holding them for you to see, buddy. He then removed one quart-sized bag from his stash with a satisfying, plastic “thwack” sound and promptly informed me it would cost me $5. I slammed my lip glosses down on the table and said, “Are you kidding me? The minute I walk through the scanner I’ll give you the *@$# bag back.” He shook his head and held out his hand for the cash. I informed him I only had $3 on me, which was true. He shrugged and handed me the bag for free. Thanks for the break, buddy, I thought. Merry Christmas to you, too.

Destination: Strip search
Air travel has never been easy. There are restrictions regarding the size and weight of luggage, plus you’re juggling items and tickets and identification. And now you have to put anything even slightly viscous in a small plastic bag, and remove your belt, coat and shoes. Ever watch people going through security these days? The scene is creepily akin to watching shift workers clock in at the local chicken processing plant. With all the dignity that exists in the process now, they might as well just ask people to show up at the airport naked and then dress once they get through security. It couldn’t be any more violating than asking me to take off my shoes. For short people like me, shoes are the last holdout. Once I take them off and I lose two or three inches of heel, forget it. I sadly pad through the scanner in my stocking feet, aware that I have been exposed as the hobbit-sized individual I really am.

By and large I find the situation comical, but security screeners don’t appreciate the laugh. Generally all it gets me is a private strip search in the pat-down area. Time and time again, I’m laughter-profiled.

And I’m only one person going through security – think of the mothers with babies and strollers and breast milk to worry about. What an absolute nightmare.

What’s worse is that if terrorists really want to take down a plane, I have a feeling they could work something out within the contents of a quart-sized plastic bag. There are no limitations on evil, my friends. Even three ounces of evil is not to be trifled with.

Not-so-friendly skies
On my recent return trip through the Fort Lauderdale airport, a large, overbearing security screener was verbally assaulting the people in line. She paced the line like a drill sergeant, insulting the intelligence of everyone assembled. “Carefully look through your bags, people. Think to yourselves, do I have all of my liquids and gels in this plastic bag?” she bellowed. Children cowered behind the legs of their parents. “Only one – count it, one – quart-sized plastic bag is allowed per person! All liquids and gels must be three ounces or less, each, people.” Everyone winced as she spoke, with spittle collecting in the corners of her mouth. “Bottles of alcohol or detergent? These are liquids, guys!” she spat. “And yet you people still keep trying to bring these things on board.”

I’ll admit my eyes began to well with tears. It was like being hazed.

However, perhaps the ultimate insult is that you pack your bags according to regulations, stuff all your three-ounce bottles of liquids and gels into quart-sized baggies, strip off your clothes, endure the taunting insults or complete insipidity of security screeners, and put yourself back together again – only to be subjected to the sardine can, germ-infested confines of an airplane cabin. You sit on your sticky, infant saliva-covered seat, look around and smile. You’ve arrived.