If this is airport security, why don't I feel secure?

I know that last episode I promised you a continuation of my rant on why malls suck hard. But I recently had an experience that makes shopping at the mall the day before Christmas look like a day in paradise. Let me tell you what happened to me when I was traveling back from Los Angeles, and the fun I had with the Transportation Security Administration security checkpoint. Yes, my little snatchlings, yours truly managed to get herself yanked out of line and practically strip searched at LAX airport in front of an overly curious crowd. But I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. Let's start at the very beginning, which, I'm told, is a very good place to start.

On my way to Los Angeles, I got through security at BWI with no problem, and only had the minor inconvenience of having to check a bag I was assured would be able to be carried on. Oh well. Nothing horrible. I was even happy when I touched down in LA, not only because of the week of wild partying I was sure would be happening, but from the fact that my plane did not burst into a flaming ball of fiery death at 35,000 feet. In fact, I might even venture to say it was a pleasant flight. No turbulence to remind me that I was basically staking my life on a simple principle of physics. I had a screamingly good time in LA, met lots of new friends and basically had more fun than I have had in a long, long time. But, as they always do, all good things must come to an end at some point, and on Sunday night my good time in LA came to an end when my mom dropped me off at Los Angeles International Airport.

The first thing that should have tipped me off that this would not be a good experience was that there was no smoking lounge anywhere in the airport. Well, I was over two hours early for my flight, so I can stand outside for a bit and have a smoke, which I did. And it was a good thing, too. If it were not for that one last cigarette before my descent into hell, I'm sure that I would have been writing this from a federal penitentiary somewhere out in the Midwest.

When I finished my smoke, I ventured over to the security area to get to my gate. The process started out well enough. I didn't have to take off my shoes (as I did at BWI) and I was able to get my bags through the conveyor belt with no problem (or so I thought). Going through the metal detector, I set off the alarm. Stupid me forgot to take off my belt and get my iPod out of the pocket of my hoodie. I put said items on the conveyor belt and proceed back through the metal detector. It goes off again. I have to take off the hoodie, because the zipper might be setting off the alarm. It's a tad bit embarrassing at this point, as the white shirt I had on underneath was a little on the transparent side, and now everyone could see the black bra I was wearing. During all this, they decided that something looked suspicious in the x-ray of my carry on bag, and wanted dig through it right there in the middle of everybody. So they were pulling out my underwear, dirty clothes, everything. Then they hit paydirt: my Zippo lighter. They wanted to confiscate it, but I know for a fact that lighters that are not full of fluid (my Zippo was out of fluid and wouldn't even spark) can be carried on my person. The thing is, I put it in my purse when I was done smoking, and didn't think to put it in the bin as being carried on me. (Actual TSA regulations state it can be carried on your person, but not in checked baggage. I argued I was carrying on my bags, not checking them so it shouldn't have made a difference if I pulled it out of my pocket or out of my pocketbook.) So I finally got this guy to agree to take the guts of the lighter out and leave the casing, as it is special to me. Then, they came upon my cell phone.

I have a Treo 700w. It's not your ordinary flip phone. It's a PDA smartphone. Apparently, it's smarter than the kid that was checking my bags, who didn't look old enough to cross the street by himself, let alone be a federal employee. He had never seen something like it before (he states) and asked me to turn it on and make a call to prove it was a real phone. I had a moment where I wanted to call the TSA passenger information line and give him the phone right when it rattled off the list of approved carry on items, but decided against it at the last minute and called my mom instead. In the mean time, I had taken off my hoodie and managed to yet again set off the metal detector. The woman with the wand kept waving it over me, and the damn thing kept beeping at my chest. She calls the manager over and they pull me aside to another screening area reminiscent of old World War II POW movies. By now I'm livid. They've taken away my lighter and my matches (which are also allowed, thank you very much), made me disrobe in front of a ton of people, and basically publicly humiliated me by making me feel like a criminal. But I guess I had it coming to me, since I had been a bit bitter from the start of this whole deal and I let them know it too.

So, the manager takes the metal finding wand and waves it over my chest. It beeps again. He asks me what I have on my person that could be making his metal detector go off. I told him that I had underwires in my bra, and would he like to confiscate that as well? He looked appropriately flustered at this remark, and when the kid was done rummaging through my baggage, I asked him if he had found those pesky WMDs yet. They didn't like that comment, and began to remind me that this was for my own safety. Yeah. Okay. Whatever. At least they let me go. But now I had over one hour to stew about the situation and I couldn't even have a smoke to calm my nerves. Good thing they had a bar at least. Two beers did the trick and stopped me from being on the late breaking news. By the time it was all over, they had made careful inspection of my iPod, cell phone, digital camera, all the contents of my suitcase and purse, made me take off my shoes, hoodie and belt, and confiscated my lighter, matches, razor (which BWI let me have on board) and my sanity.

The thing that really works my tits with this situation was the lack of consistency between security checkpoints. The security is run by the Transportation Safety Administration (TSA), which is a federal agency. All the minions that were working the various security checkpoints all had their nifty little plastic TSA vests. Some of them even looked official and had a TSA badge and a more spiffy uniform. But my question is since it's a federal entity, shouldn't the rules be the same regardless of where the security checkpoint is? I understand if there are differences in security standards between domestic and international flights, but different standards for LAX versus BWI? It doesn't make any sense to me. Am I more safe flying out of LAX because their security hounds won't let a flea on board when it's not allowed? Am I less safe flying out of BWI because they allowed me to carry my EMPTY Zippo in my bag? What gives? I guess all BWI wants is to make sure I don't have a dirty bomb in my Chuck Taylor's, whereas LAX is more worried about my pyromania getting out of hand while at cruising altitude. I don't know. I don't have an answer. Maybe someone who actually works for TSA would care to clarify this for me. Until then, let me make one thing clear: If you're going to be that much of a hassle, then for god's sake let me have an area to smoke that does not require me to go outside, thereby necessitating a repeat at the security checkpoint!

With all the dangers and frustrations associated with flying, these risks haven't stopped Marie from chasing Finnish rock stars all over the US like a pathological Grateful Dead fan. She's just waiting for another opportunity to stalk her favorite leather-clad, eyeliner wearing hottie and is willing to brave more airport security checkpoints to do it. Contact her at poisongirl@hobotrashcan.com.