Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

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Up in the Air about Security

I’m a better driver than passenger. Not talking about the driving skills, really. I’m just more comfortable behind the wheel than in the passenger seat. Something about giving up control and trusting the driver. I can do it, no problem. I’m just saying I’d rather drive.

Jet airplane? Nah.

I’ll let the pilot do that, and trust that he (or she) has the skills or someone else would be behind the controls. I trust.

Apparently, the airline industry doesn’t. CNN reports that

Michael Roberts, a pilot for ExpressJet Airlines, refused a full-body scan last week at a Transportation Security Administration check point at Memphis International Airport in Memphis, Tennessee.

Roberts wanted to protect his privacy and thinks that security folks get too gropey while doing their “pat-downs.” I feel his pain on this one. I remember when I used to think flying was fun, sort of an adventure. Now – I consider it more of a beat-down. The whole process of getting on an airliner makes me think of cattle trudging through the chutes to slaughter.

I never get through security without having to be trotted off to the side, removing shoes and undergoing the extra measures that my co-travelers miss. It’s the subversive-looking shape I wear – gotta be smuggling something under that shirt. Hey, it’s just extra me.

Likely, Roberts wasn’t on-the-job or in uniform, but you’d think there would be some professional courtesy extended to a trusted member of the flying elite. Would a golf course charge Phil Mickelson a green fee to play a round? Does Lady Gaga have to eat in the walk-in cooler when she’s wearing the meat-dress? I don’t think so.

A writer named John Nance used to write some great suspense novels about the airline industry, but they’re hard to read anymore. In his stories, people are smoking in their seats, wandering up to the cockpit and chatting with the pilot, and – the security? I don’t think that word appears in a single one of his novels. It was a naive pre-9/11 time.

Horse and buggy days were a lot simpler for the security department. It was the sanitation boys that had it rough…

The way it used to be:

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Burning Questions…

What would you do?

You’re a firefighter and the department gets a call to a housefire at a distant farm. The home is in an area without services, but owners can pay an annual fee for protection, a sort of fire insurance. Oops. The owners of the house on fire didn’t pay the fee.

The fire department allowed the house to burn.

It isn’t a case of wishing ill on a family – losing their house and possessions in Obion County Tennessee – but there are a lot of issues at work. The family home is something special, almost sacred. Should it have been allowed to burn? Should firefighters go to work even though the homeowner declined to participate in the very program that could have saved their residence?

Why didn’t they pay their fee? Did they really forget, as they later claimed, or were they like some who believe themselves immune to tragedy? Couldn’t afford it? Everyone’s in a hurry to pay the bill when the power gets cut off. Is the power company being unethical to turn off the lights? If a doctor gets sued for malpractice, can he or she run over to the agency and quickly buy an insurance policy?

We know it doesn’t work that way.

When steam is rolling up from the radiator and the front end is crushed, it’s too late to change insurance policies. You either have it, or you don’t. Do you get mad at Allstate because they won’t pay, simply because you didn’t mail in a check?

It’s confusing, to say the least. We don’t want big government, but when something touches us personally, we want the services the government provides, a firetruck instead of a garden hose. Homeowners in Tennessee are planning a vote to decide whether a majority wants rural fire service, but if it gets voted in, it won’t be cheap.

And homeowners will have to pay for it, one way or another. In the meantime, there are fire sales on garden hoses…

Sleep of the Dead Air

The song on the radio winds down and finishes. Silence. Where’s the deejay? Where’s the next song? Nothing. Just silence.

We called it “dead air,” back in the broadcasting days. They probably don’t have it anymore, since most programming is accomplished by human-assisted computers. For some reason, even after all these years, I still have nightmares about the silence.

Last night, the scene was pretty chaotic (like most nightmares, I suppose) and the song was running out and I grabbed a pair of headphones and put them on, ready to talk my way out of the disaster.

“It’s partly cloudy and 78 degrees,” I said to my nightmare audience. “We’re looking for a high today of 85.” It was all a lie. In my dream, I was just making it all up. You say anything to avoid dead air.

“Where are all the records?” I remember asking whoever it was in the control room with me. The truth is, all the records are in flea markets and collectible malls. Records – those round vinyl things that look like CDs but are usually black and groovy in the old-fashioned groove sort of way – well…records only make appearances these days (or nights) in bad dreams.

A fellow radio-employee told me once he had similiar nightmares. He was a newsman and in his dream he’d be in the booth awaiting the start of the newscast and looked down to see that there was nothing in his hands, no copy to read. No news.

It turns out, he was a fortune teller and those dreams were just forecasting the state of the business some years down the road.

No news is good news, these days. Except for sleeping former broadcasters.

For your own night movies:

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