Flying Naked, the Only Way to Travel

There will not be any traveling by aeroplane for me this holiday season thanks to body searches that rival an annual exam from a physician or a violating scanner that depicts the naked human body to the delight of the hidden man behind a curtain. The future is here and so is x-ray vision, and the ability for flunkies in cush security jobs to look at hot chicks naked.

"The controversial scanner is capable of peering through clothes to create three-dimensional images of passengers to reveal any concealed weapons or explosives. The decision follows 'guidelines proposed by a working group' looking into security measures and the evaluation and confirmation by an independent body that the scanners would have 'no impact on passenger health,' France's civil aviation authority said." NPR posted this quote as part of the "To The Point" discussion on airport security.

The hilarity of the scanner is that it cannot detect items that are hidden under more than 1/10 of an inch of skin, as explained by Kate Hanni, the founder of FlyersRights.org. This means anything hidden under a roll of fat, a breast or perhaps an annal cavity will not be seen by the naked image scanners. Not sure if anyone else sees the fatal flaw in this expensive device.

Hanni countered that screen shots of the naked photos had all ready been found in Florida and there are sure to be more examples of such behavior that will be squashed, at least from the media. Have these security workers been checked for Megan's Law, she furthered, to protect similar treatment to children that are sent through the scanners. Where will the violations stop?

About 315 scanners are currently in use at 65 US airports, according to the TSA, and the machines or body pat-downs are "the best technology we have today" to screen individuals, said John Pistole, administrator of the TSA.

"A few folks are noticing that ex-Homeland Security boss Michael Chertoff, who's been quite busy defending the naked scanners, happens to be making a ton of money from one of the main ones, Rapiscan, made by OSI, a client of Chertoff's consulting firm..." a tidbit of clarifying information from Techdirt.

Not a bad deal for Chertoff considering that its taxpayer money that funds such necessary equipment.

According to Imformationliberation.com these machines may not be so harmless as supporters claim:

"The TSA, of course, will tell you that these machines can't possibly contribute to cancer. But they said the same thing about mammograms, and we now know that mammograms are so harmful to women's health that they actually harm ten women for everyone one woman they help. So I'm not exactly taking the U.S. government at its word that naked body scanner radiation is 'harmless.'"

The intensive security measures are also a publicized reaction by the authorities to several thwarted attacks, including an attempt in December last year by a Nigerian man to detonate explosives hidden in his underwear on a flight that was about to land in Detroit. No one mentions that he merely lit his pants on fire and a passenger, not a security guard, stopped his "attack."

The current measures are stopping effective devices from getting on planes. Let the TSA worry about bomb attempts in luggage, not about the sanitary panty-liner. That's right, genital search because you may be menstruating. How's that for a bad flight experience?

At this point TSA is getting such a bad rap due to its inability to decipher between real threats and the desire to appear unbiased by painstakingly searching all suspicious activity. It's for our safety, not just a mere horse and pony show, honestly.

Anyone can be a terrorist, folks. Anyone. This means grandma in her wool cardigan, tubby guy in his Hawaiian shirt and don't forget Rashid in his turban. Or at least that's what they would love you to believe in a feigned attempt to eliminate blatant racial profiling. Good luck.

Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas was sent through the scanner at LAX and reality TV personality Kim Kardashian aslo had a close encounter. Obviously the Taliban is recruiting the rich and famous of Hollywood in order to blow up planes.

Think about the well-publicized encounter of the 52-year-old woman in a wheelchair, that's right wheelchair, who showed up in a trench coat and her undergarments to avoid an "violating" pat-down. Due to the metal chair her usual experience involves such thorough searches like the one two weeks prior to her revealing incident that led her to show up in her skivvies.

She still endured an hour-long search and missed her flight after refusing to enter the metal detector. I'm sure everyone felt a little safer that day from the woman in a wheelchair. Or perhaps a little more wary of the TSA who will stop at nothing to exert its power to the fullest.

Want to keep your dignity? Travel by train. Want safety? Stay home.

This is hysteria at its finest. The Red Scare that's putting more money in politicians' pockets. If we aren't distracted from immigrants taking our jobs or the fact that bankers are in cahoots with our government, then why not scare us all straight before sailing through the clouds?

So this Peach will not get to go home to see Grandma, even despite her recent heart surgery. Cue the violins. Despite my desire to reconnect during the holidays, I will not subject myself to inflated prices and destroying my dignity in order for some guards to get a kick.

My luck, I would put up a stink at LAX shouting about my rights and the indecency of the whole ordeal, and get stuck in the hot tank. Then get put on a few watch lists.

In the meantime, I am looking for the underwear that displays the 4th Amendment when inside the scanners and lead plated pasties. Nice try TSA goons.

It May Just Be that all my Birthday Flowers are Now Dead

Woke up this morning to the smell of fall. Something crisp and damp with a hint of decay in the air. Hopefully the decay can be attributed to falling leaves and not the bums that live on a mattress behind our house.

The smell is a promise of rebirth and holidays and pumpkins lined up in parking lots, and once those are gone Christmas trees to take their place. It's enough to make anyone go buy fresh notebooks and chew on a turkey drumstick.

Fall is a fleeting tease for a city that just had 95 degree weather a week ago. This is not me complaining. I still have bumpy gourds decorating the kitchen table and melting pumpkins adhering to the front porch steps. So what if I have to hang white lights in palm trees?

FYI It really doesn't matter what state your in, those enormous snow-globe lawn ornaments look tacky no matter what the climate.

Hailing from the Midwest, I will admit a shockingly scarce amount of life-size nativity scenes in Los Angeles last year. Nothing says holidays like offering your two-year-old to play stunt double for magical baby Jesus in the manger. His real hey-day before the Zombie years.

And don't get me started on the lack of fresh apple cider. Almost gave the grocery boy at Whole Foods a stern talking to after hearing no cider until Thanksgiving. Not sure what kind of operation they are running, but apple juice does not count.

How else am I going to drink spiced rum and yell at the neighbor kids for smashing our proudly decayed pumpkins well into November? How I ask?

At Least Data Understands. Probably Connie Chung, too

As a burgeoning reporter you're expected to cover some very random topics. Especially freelance gigs can take you weird places with people that are opinionated about topics most other people don't even know exist.

These reservations and oddities are amplified when covering local issues in Los Angeles, primarily in areas where Cindy Crawford is at the P.T.A. meeting. She is still as lovely as the first time I saw her in a Pepsi commercial, I'll have you know.

Of course I am a complete professional who treats all sources as equals and tries to create a glowing rapport so they will tell me their deepest, darkest secrets and I can publish them for money. Or at least get a great quote.

Although when I saw Data from Star Trek, the talented Brent Spiner, at a Malibu school budget meeting I almost choked on my complimentary Perrier in complete excitement. Crawford would have been pissed if I spit in her hair, albeit a complete accidental reflex, so I kept my nerd meter in check.

Granted most assignments are not sprinkled with star dust. Most require grit and sheer will to not flee from the scene.

Like the time I went to cover a neighborhood coyote meeting to discuss how to coexist with these creatures that keep eating the area teacup yorkies and poodles. C'mon people you move into a canyon, you're going to run into some wilderness. And I bet the poodles are delicious.

When I heard 'neighborhood meeting' I thought I would head to a City Hall, Rec Center or even Library to get educated about why not feed wild animals, specifically when your pets are the main course.

This took place in a house nestled into a mountainside subdivision where no one would hear my screams. The least of which I needed to have at least a few glasses of table wine to stomach being packed into a foyer with agitated canyon folk.

I listened to the tearful rendition of how Noodles the lovable and heroic yorkipoo gave his life to protect sister Petunia from the jaws of a beastly coyote. The woman explained how Noodles was skinned, yes skinned, right before her eyes. Yikes.

In retrospect, coyotes rarely get over 40 pounds and she should have kicked that sucker in the head. Bam! Noodles lives to tell the tale. Teacup dogs are so little hawks regularly scoop them from the heavens. I thought it best to keep this to myself.

Seriously though, the nature conservationists invited to speak said that opening an umbrella towards one of those guys is an effective deterrent for these savage beasts. That, and not leaving out Peanut's special order doggie food or covering your trash.

To say the least this was all very informative. I was even able to awkwardly stumble out after two hours (!) fed and with crackers in my pocket for the ride home.

There are definitely worst gigs in life. At least I don't work as a telemarketer where the answer to my question is always no. Or at a McDonald's.

To check out some of my work visit smmirror.com. It's life changing stuff, that leans towards moderately interesting.

You leave Edward R. Murrow out of this!

It doesn't go as far to say we are rivals.

It may just stem from our differing views on what is acceptable behavior. In an apartment. As neighbors.

Maybe it's my love of late-night musicals or his need to build an arc at four a.m. The ark theory may be replaced by moving furniture or perhaps bowling.

Or my penchant for midday debate podcasts and his incessant need to meditate during Matlock.

Perhaps its the proximity of living quarters that is multi-unit dwellings that makes us so imposed upon by one another?

I understand that some people just can't focus when they hear talking or dishes being washed or breathing in the apartment below them. Who am I to judge?

So to say shit hit the fan is a fair assessment.

My deep appreciation for communal living and the need to coexist with my fellow brethren just reached a brick wall. And my neighbors disgruntled face.

That's right, I punched his face with merciless vernacular.

Sure words were thrown. Mostly feigned polite banter with undertones of "I wish you would go crawl back into the hole you came from," but banter none the less.

Not sure what's threatening about a middle-aged man who claims to have lived in L.A. for 20 years mid-rant. While in his pjs.

Things just got real. I waited for him to flash a Westside gang symbol, but was sorely disappointed.

It might have been interesting to hear some actual name calling, instead of a scolding that is similar to how a mother calms her child during church. Except I'm way to old to be his mom.

But Darryl, if I may call you that since I can't remember your name and past the point of not being awkward to ask again, our love of Edward R. Murrow just isn't enough.

And even though when you yelled at me the first week I moved in and entertained guests... with scrabble... on New Year's Eve, I felt one writer to another may try to cross divides and coexist on a humane level.

But there reaches a point when two people may just have to agree to disagree.

I disagree that you actually own "great" earplugs if a quiet whisper wakes you from your sleep. And yes I bet you agree that its terribly exciting I am moving out. This week. Forever.

Oh and I know it's petty, but I hope a bunch of novice musicians in a jam band move-in to replace us.

Who are heavy smokers and have a delight for urinating outside.

And also steal your New Yorkers.

Huzzah.

Buy Local! Eat Organic! Don't Support Poisonous Food!

I started thinking seriously about my eating habits two years ago. I performed a detox fast that opened my eyes to how everything I consume affects how I feel each and every day.

After purging meat, dairy, alcohol, nicotine, and environmental toxins out of my body I began to reevaluate how the simple foods I eat make me feel. I slept better, woke up regenerated and felt more energy throughout the day.

Instead of focusing on just what is easiest to prepare or quickest meal to have, I started looking at a balanced, healthy way of looking at food.

Most of all I started looking into where my food was coming from.

Through research about how animals area treated in mass producing farms and how antibiotics fed to animals may be the cause for the sweeping immunity people have to antibiotics that help sickness, I realized that the conventional meat packing industry had nothing to offer worth buying.



Yet again we are confronted in the United States with a health recall that leaves hundreds sick and a nation wary. The factory farms Wright County Egg and Hillandale Farms of Iowa are sister companies that distributed the eggs poisoned with salmonella.

More than a half of a billion eggs are recalled.

The Wall Street Journal said in an article today, "cases of salmonella were reported as early as May. In all, more than half a billion eggs from two Iowa producers have been recalled, the most recently on Sunday night when Moark LLC of Fontana, Calif., said it was recalling nearly 300,000 eggs, the Associated Press reported, that came from one of the two Iowa farms."

The jurisdiction to supervise eggs during production and then after distribution may now be shared between the USDA and FDA due to proposed legislation, but this is only after people got sick.

The FDA still does not have authority to recall food if they think there is a problem, they can only act when a company reports health problems with consumers. The FDA doesn't have the power.

Self-regulation from factory farms, that's the frightening part.

The Associated Press released that in 1997, DeCoster Egg Farms agreed to pay $2 million in fines to settle citations for health and safety violations at DeCoster's farm in Maine. The nation's labor secretary at the time, Robert Reich, said conditions were "as dangerous and oppressive as any sweatshop."

Company owner Austin "Jack" DeCoster admitted to 10 civil counts of animal cruelty in Maine after a nonprofit animal welfare group conducted an undercover video investigation, according to a CNN report.

These type of factory farms can be found all over the country.

I was shocked to drive down the 5 freeway for the first time to see cows crammed together, wallowing in their own filth, as far as the eye can see. Literally for miles.

Much of the investigation so far has been centered on restaurants in California, Colorado, Minnesota and North Carolina, WSJ reports, and looking at restaurants in Santa Monica, it's hard not to see that people are staying away.

It's hard not to notice that the community breakfast joint, OP Cafe, has been scarcely as full as it is usually is. More than one customer said today how they were surprised to find a seat around lunch time, let alone be able to walk right up to the register.

Recalled eggs fraught with salmonella have been removed from the shelves, but consumers are still looking at the label. Maybe I should say finally.

It's time to get heated and start buying smarter.


There is no other option than to think about where food is coming from. What we are willing to sacrifice for price and convenience?

Buying local and organic is the only answer to factory farms that breed cruelty and disregard human safety in the pursuit of profit.

It is foolish to think that consumers do not have the loudest effect on the market. Stop buying unsafe food.

Don't think that a few eggs left on the shelf in replacement for a few organic, free-range cartons will make a difference?

Look at your local BP gas station. There is a reason why they are 20-30 cents cheaper than the 76 across the street. Money talks, especially in a recession.

The government no longer protects citizens over big business. After one of the highest grossing campaigns in history in this country, government is big business.

Supporting local farms and visiting farmers markets not only keeps the economy flowing and creates a sense of community, but fair farming practices ensure a healthier body and earth.

I only buy antibiotic free, free-range and organic eggs and meat when I do eat them. The few extra dollars are worth the peace of mind.

Take it from someone who is still waiting on free national Health Care.


Although most eggs have been swiftly removed from shelves, here is a complete list of egg suppliers and brands that have been recalled. Let your local diners and restaurants know you want local and peace of mind.

Let the explosions begin!

This Fourth meant a biking adventure fraught with sun, surf and more adventure than you can shake a stick at. It also meant an 8.4 mile trek along the coast, around a marina and many stops to see the sights along the way.

Strapped with my new Nikon I set off to the farmer's market to get in some practice shots. I also bought a peach for a snack later, which was neither ironic nor practical.

This lovely woman is named Jennifer (Gennifer?), who I obliged in taking a picture of her festive holiday attire. I like the sheer pride in her face.

With the sun in full force I rode down towards the obscenity of the Venice Boardwalk only to find the most magnificent display of human brawn and girth. drum roll...

Ladies and Gentleman may I present the Mr. and Mr. Muscle Beach Pageant.


Linking up with Sister and Nicholas we traveled onward to street festivals filled with girls touting red, white and blue tie-dye bikinis with American flags tucked god knows where. A band played surrounded by a sea of red cups and short-shorts.

In flowing dresses and modest attire we stood out like sore thumbs. I blame Sister's fanny pack.

Scene changes to endless beer pong and cover bands. Jell-o shots and dudes smoking cigarettes. Word of warning: Avoid the lines for the keg and the bathroom. This is where the camera took a hiatus. What happens at the beach party...

Pretty soon the sea of cups turns into a typhoon of people. Mid-throw in a lack luster game of pong, the seas part for Wesley Snipes. A ripple of interest goes through the crowd.

I hear someone behind me, "When did he get out of jail?"

All was quickly forgotten in the same manner that I always walk away after setting food in the oven only to return to a burnt meal.

We lose friends who run off to other minor celebrity sitings and the crowd erupts in a chorus to "Laid" by James. People, we officially have a party. We schmooze, we drink, we leave.

There is a special kind of freedom found on a bicycle with the ocean wind on your face. A special kind of fear riding alongside cars in the traffic caused by a holiday. Exit stage right to a bike path.

Suddenly Sister turns into a decathlete cruising a top speed away from Nicholas and me. We attempt to talk, but mostly gasp out words trying to keep up. This is getting serious.

I'm on a fixed gear bike. This would be really beautiful if I could only catch my breath. This is when I remember my water bottle abandoned at the party.

I depart from the comfort of family to embark on what feels like Act II of a loaded day. This main character must travel this part of the journey alone. At least until I meet the other supporting cast.

Sun, surf, bridges built for bikes, the ocean sprawling out to the horizon.


Rendezvous with friends from across the channel. It was the type of party where you walk in and immediately feel like everyone is in on the joke except for you.

Then commenced my being shuttled around, back on to the bike to bit of my dismay, and quickly diverted through the beach festivities. Like a jailer on leave I was allowed short stops to speak to others with guided supervision. Not sure who was being protected from whom.

At that point of the day, everyone is dangerously drunk. As a good friend once said, "Here hold my drink, I'm going to set this off..."

People still scattered the sand throwing footballs and gravitating towards barbeques. The foam-house and slip-and-slide were thankfully long forgotten.

We wandered back towards food options, the kabobs deemed inappropriate.

Bellies full and the sun set deep beyond the horizon, we traipsed in the direction of the Pacific beers weighing down the boy's pockets. Nothing says American Independence like Chinese fireworks.

Red, gold, Aviva singing the National Anthem, glitter failing from the heavens, holding hands, parents clutching wide-eyed children.



This is about the time where words got a little looser and little ones started to drift off to sleep. Not sure if waking up without an hangover is a good or bad sign.

Happy Birthday 'Merica!!