Sometime just looking at my lovely gift makes me feel legit. Finding inspiration for the new year. Peach in Place has been replaced by a new and much more clever domain. It's officially on.

So I haven’t written, just written, in a long time. It is linked to an agenda or a deadline or fucking email chain long enough to make my aneurysm act up. Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep by dear lord our father go to sleep. Reading a book about a man that lives in the sky or the woods, or perhaps both, and wreaks havoc upon this fearful little town. He steals children. And hurts kills them. It was a gift, the book that is. I was told it would be dark. The imagery is quite vivid and almost lovely. I’m told the author is mentally insane or something. I have to stop reading it before bed.

It does make me wonder. If some crazy guy can write a novel that people buy with real money, why can’t I? Here I am wasting my days away embedding videos and correcting commas and making sure that I remember to eat. Lame. J.K. Rowling wrote an epic adventure on a bunch of napkins starving away. That means my saltines and I can regurgitate a bestseller. Or at least a decent cult following. Maybe something really misunderstood or ahead of its time. I’m not picky.

But don’t get me wrong. These times are exciting. The world is teetering on the brink of something disastrous, perilous, an axis tipped too close to a child holding a flame. It’s downright hyperbolic as birds fall dead from the skies. So we can only wonder how to pick the lesser of great evils while maintaining some type of normalcy. Dramatic irony is destroying the status quo one swift kick at a time. Because I’m mad as hell, and I know that we do not go alone into that good night.

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.