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Seriously rethinking any future flights into the United States in the foreseeable future these days. The Speedo Bomber’s thwarted attempt to deliver a Christmas present to the American people in the form of mangled bodies and jetliner debris has caused the Canadian Air Transport Security Authority to go above and beyond American expectations of reactionary backlash.

The latest word is that no one flying into the U.S. from Canada will be permitted carry-on luggage. There will be pat-downs at the security check-in as well as manual searches of briefcases, purses and diaper-bags, which will still be allowed, and these items will be searched again when passengers are molested again at the departure gate.

Because check-in’s were taking so long (7 hours on Boxing Day in Toronto for example), the RCMP was called in to provide assistance. That’s correct. They called in the Mounties, who have a troubling history of tasing people without cause.

It is no surprise to my dear readers that I hate to fly into the U.S. and that border crossing by air or land put me in a Fox Mulder frame of mind. I see grassy knolls. But the prospect of standing meekly (because they will be watching for anything un-sheeplike) in line for hours just to be treated like a criminal and then packed into an uncomfortable seat where it is very likely that all forms of distraction for me and, more importantly, for child will be forbidden just makes me wonder, what is so great about the U.S. that I couldn’t live without visiting for the next – say – five years.

Okay, family. But they can come here. Nothing prevents them but lack of passport and it’s still possible down there to easily obtain passports. But otherwise?

Empty laps. How does one manage an empty lap for several hours in such cramped quarters? I’ve read reports that babies and books were prohibited from obscuring perfect lap view. No books? Keeping America safe from what? Knowledge?

According to the current administration, it will be up to the pilot to determine what is or isn’t okay. So if the pilot is having a bad hair day or is just a prick normally, welcome to hell in the air? It’s already not that great. And what qualifies the pilot to make such decisions?

I should be more concerned about safety, you say? I am a bit jaded on the safety thing. Speedo Bomber shouldn’t have even made it on the first plane out of Nigeria let alone the second one out of Amsterdam. If I were inclined to get all conspiracy theory I’d say that the U.S. government let the guy through hoping he would lead them to a terrorist cell somewhere. His being in Detroit with a bomb in his undies wasn’t something they considered. They risked peoples’ lives on purpose. But that’s my cynical side talking.

Ben Franklin is often quoted in situations like these because he once said something about people who willingly trade freedom for safety deserve neither. The Founder Fathers, not exactly the greatest group of guys ever, would simply not understand the wimpy people who inhabit the free nation that they risked everything to create. We are like aristocrats bred out to a point that we are barely able to think or do for ourselves anymore.

Next up will be full body scanners. Rob tells me that the radiation they emit can disrupt DNA. Are you going to walk through it when the time comes? It is coming. Or will you opt for the wand, the rough handling and possibly missing your flight for being a troublemaker?

I think we should all just pick a day and designate it for flying naked. Or plane loads of people should refuse to put away iPods. What would happen to the draconian assault on passengers if Air Marshals were suddenly having to arrest every passenger on dozens of flights for refusing to give up blankets and pillows? The blanket thing is funny in light of recent stories about flight attendants coming unglued by breast-feeding mothers. That will be even more interesting in the future. And more ridiculous.

A high school friend on Facebook thinks there should be profiling, and he thinks I am too much of a liberal to agree with him. I don’t see anything wrong with targeting demographics for extra scrutiny except for one thing. It wouldn’t stay in airports. It wouldn’t be implemented in a thoughtful or courteous manner. And eventually, it would be turned back on the average person and we’d be right back where we are now.

Unless it’s the most dire of emergencies, we are done flying into the U.S. Land crossings have the potential to be painful, but at least I won’t be trapped in an airport without clothing, toiletries or a means of stepping outside to scream in an attempt to find my zen place.


In the haze of my nostalgia, I forgot all about the 1973 Christmas special with Jason Robards titled The House Without a Christmas Tree. More cheery fair in the heart-wrenching tradition that is December entertainment.

Robards is a widower who refuses to put up a Christmas tree much to the dismay of his 11 year old daughter. It is 1946 in small, small town Nebraska and the little girl plots to get a tree into her home, sure that if her father saw it, he would change his mind. She wins the class tree and brings it home, but her father orders her to remove it, so she ends up dragging it to the home of a girl in her class whose family was too poor to afford one. The grandmother who lives with them shames the father into being less of a prick.

“Seriously, being an asshole to your child  for Christmas will make things all better for you?”

Okay, she didn’t say THAT but it was the polite of yore version of “put on your big boy tightie whiteys cuz shit happens”.

He surprises the girl with a tree, there is something about a star for the top that I can’t remember anymore, and they all go to her school Christmas pageant – the end. Except the girl grows up and never marries as far as I can tell and the father lives out his life alone because grandma, of course, dies eventually and every year they put that old star on the tree together and remember that Christmas in 1946. The end. Warms the soul, eh?

It has the standard John-boy voice over of the day and odd fade outs to pictures because, I think, the girl grows up to be an artist but I think they did that on the Waltons too.

Oh, and I found J.T. Christmas in Harlem in the late 60’s. Very up-lifting. And I think the cat dies.

You can imagine how eye-opening this story was to a 6-ish year old girl in Iowa.

Christmas specials wouldn’t have been as special without thematic commercials.

Then The Waltons Homecoming. Classic. This is one of my favorite scenes. A “missionary” comes from the city to deliver gifts to the poor little boys and girls of the Blue Ridge Mountain. Mary Ellen feeding bible verses to the kids so they can collect cast off toys from wealthy homes. John-boy’s supplying a neighbor girl with a verse from the Song of Solomon and the missionary’s reaction is a hoot as are the looks he and Mary Ellen exchange as glassy-eyed Depression kids with open mouths wait for the charity “goodies” and the missionary basks in her own awesomeness.

And no Christmas of Yore would be complete without Andy and the Osmonds.

A wholesome end to my virtual Christmas Card, dear readers. Hey, it could have been a cheesy holiday letter. I have done that to you before, you know.

Merry Christmas.


As I mentioned to UB yesterday, I should have been a history teacher, or a pure literature teacher, because I loved to insert history into my English classes.

December was Dickens just so I could watch A Christmas Carol. My 7th graders never failed to be horrified by 1830’s London. Even coming from some of the poorest working class homes, they were soft by comparison to the working poor of those days. Society’s expectations of the classes and it’s complete indifference to poverty shocked them though I don’t know that any of them drew comparisons between then and now though I tried to draw them.

I read them the opening of the story because it’s awesome and I don’t say that about Dickens lightly. Normally, I find his prose thick and cumbersome to wade through but here he almost reminds me of Twain,

“Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail. “

One of my favorite scenes is Jacob Marley confronting Scrooge.

George C. Scott will always be Scrooge to me.

It’s a great speech Jacob gives though I think the last exchange between Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present has more bite,

Edward Woodward rocks the house in this part.

I especially loved,

Scrooge: “I am taxed for them. Isn’t that enough?”

Ghost: “Is it?”

So apt for our world today which is sad because it was equally appropriate nearly 180 years ago too. Humans are nothing if not near-sighted in perspective and ability to empathize.

Merry Christmas. And (insert your preference) bless us, every one.