PART 1: "SECURITY"

Well, crud; all of a sudden I don’t know anything whatsoever. Again.

I made my first flight to San Francisco some ten years ago and I didn't know anything then, either. Getting through airport security with the bare minimum amount of gear required to support a geek lifestyle -- eg, a somewhat more powerful and diverse array of technology than what NASA used to plan and run a Gemini mission, but somewhat less than what they used for a moon landing -- was a trial-and-error affair, filled with lots of guessing and second-guessing and then ultimately seeing badges and uniforms with three-letter acronyms I'd never seen before and, after some tense initial moments, demonstrating to an amazed federal officer that contrary to popular perception, the Newton MessagePad's handwriting recognition really was fast and accurate.

In the intervening decade, though, I learned. I gradually gotten it down to an exact science. Approach the checkpoint. Unsnap the buckle of my Bat-Belt -- containing PDA, cellphone, digital camera, and paramedic pouch with mini flashlight and nerd-tools -- and lay it on the conveyor. Satchel with PowerBook and support gear. Doff hat (which has a bit of wire in its brim), use it as a bucket to hold anything metallic out of my pockets, place on conveyor. Step through, collect belt, snap it back around waist with one practiced motion. Collect bag with one hand and hat with the other. Refill pockets, tip hat to the nice lady manning the scanner, and then it's what-ho for Gate 23.

But in this post-9/11 environment, I'm screwed. I've played with several different theories as I packed and repacked my bags and while I think I've made the best choices possible, my overall confidence in getting through the security screening without being sidelined for Special Searching is sufficiently low that I'm planning to wear my best underpants just in case.

An airport colonoscopy courtesy of the federal government doesn't seem out of the question, not today. Last night, in bed, I wasn't worried about suicide bombers. I was worried about myself, in particular my past selves, who keep doing things which they think are really clever but instead work out to be just colossal pains in the butt for me and all of the Andy Ihnatkos who come after me.

Take, for instance, the little red emergency pouch in my satchel. It contains dozens of little things that, in a variety of those situations that try men's souls, might complete the sentence "God, I'd give a million dollars if I had a [blank] right here, right now." Tylenols, for instance. When your date appears to be in need of a dosage and by golly, you simply reach into your omnipresent bag and produce two capsules on cue, well, gentlemen, you're twenty yards farther towards the end zone than you were a minute ago.

There's a little pill file with a single over-the-counter dosage for just about any ailment you can mention. A travel toothbrush. Little tubes of skin lotion and sunscreen that I filled myself. Foam earplugs. Chemical hand warmers. In the hardware department, we've got a few zipties, a couple of yards of duct tape, and other odds and ends.

But lying there in bed, I suddenly remembered something that Clever Andy had mentioned years ago. That while I almost always have a Leatherman or a Swiss Army Knife on me, there have been times when I've left it behind. So wouldn't it be Clever to have an X-Acto blade inside my emergency pouch, pasted between a couple of little bits of cardboard for safety?

I was fairly sure that I hadn't actually followed through on that.

Pretty sure.

No, I was sure. Totally, totally sure. 100% confident.

So naturally, I got out of bed and went into my office where my bags were and fished out the little red pouch and dumped it out on the floor.

Then I went back to bed and continued reading my book, confident that there was no knife hidden inside my bag. But I couldn't help but compare my ability to spot a distinctive angular bit of metal inside a bag to that of a complicated machine which does so by flooding its target with radiation of such power and intensity that the company that owns the machine pays the people who run it minimum wage; this way, I reminded myself, as its operators are killed off, the supervisor can just get fresh ones out of storage and replace them cheaply and efficiently, like light bulbs.

Back to the office, this time to dump the entire satchel out onto the floor.

This and other things that made sense at the time ensured that I didn't actually get to bed until roughly 5-ish. Yeah, it was a crazy idea, but in the preceding days I had thought that finally, this time I'd actually get a full night's sleep before a transcontinental flight. It's refreshing that I can still maintain that sort of childlike optimism even in my advanced age. What's next? Faith In Government, for God's sake?

My flight takes off at 2 PM. Under normal conditions, I'd want to be stepping onto a curb at the airport no later than 1. But here I am, tipping the skycap a dollar for my one checked bag (um, wait, during periods of High Alert doesn't the FAA suspend curbside check-in?) and walking into the terminal, trying very hard to walk as absolutely American as possible.

(It's all in the ankles. Americans all have firm, proud ankles.)

The first novelty -- after showing my ticket and driver's license to a camo'ed member of the National Guard; I don't know why, but "Thank you sir, and have a nice day" always sounds more sincere when it comes from a man who could have shot you in the head, but chose not to -- was having to remove my PowerBook and place it in a special little plastic bin to be scanned separately. Well, that's no good; getting it back inside will be like trying to put the Free Glow-In-The-Dark Pokémon Cereal Spoon back at the bottom of the box of Lucky Charms. But what the hey.

It does give me the opportunity to strike up a conversation with a lovely young lady just behind me in line, who's dropping her Sony VAIO into a bin of her own. Unmistakeable lustful glances were exchanged, and thoughts were immediately translated into words.

"Oooh, a Titanium PowerBook! I so want one of those!" she cooed.

I tried to send signals to communicate that her desires were well-placed, and reciprocated in like fashion.

"...but as much as I love my G4, man alive, I wish Apple would get Sony to design a PowerBook for 'em.," I replied. "It's like, 'I've got a little room left in my bag; should I take a copy of National Geographic, or a 900-megahertz PIII with DVD?'"

Seconds later, hoping to continue the conversation, I stepped through the arch.

It's the little differences that send off the biggest signals. Naturally, I've set off metal detectors before. But it's always been a beep. Then the security guy holds up a dish because he knows must have forgotten about the 78 cents in change I had in my pocket after I bought a newspaper and a Coke at an airport kiosk, and that as soon as I slap my forehead and fish the coins out and step back through I'll be back on my way.

No beep this time. Just a quiet little light. Before September 11, metal on a passenger meant an inconvenience; the sooner I and the security guy realize it and correct it, the sooner the line gets moving again. Now, metal means something different. Don't spook the guy. Go into Danger Management mode. Contain the threat.

I am walked to a little patio-like area with white resin chairs on Astroturf and just while I'm looking around for a Weber grill another security dude asks me to take off my sneaker and then makes that polite, bare-minimum gesture with the metal-detector-wand which says "Spread 'em."

I raise my arms a bit and move my right foot out about a half a step and of course, it only takes a second to discover the cause of this treatment: my Badtz-Maru wallet. It's got a little stamped-metal decoration on it, but it's never set off airport metal detectors before. Evidently the recent crises have inspired the security companies to flip the second switch in the apparatus, the one that powers up the actual metal-detecting circuitry in addition to the Random Lights-N-Sounds board.

I hand it over and he places it on a little table a disconcerting distance. And for the first time I'm nervous and I don't like this. See it from my perspective. My wallet -- containing cash, credit cards, and ID -- is over there. My bag, containing probably about $1200 in electronic gear, is way over there. My hat (containing my cellphone and a $500 PDA with all of my contacts, appointments, and notes) is elsewhere, and the most valuable thing of them all, the thing which I'd gladly risk a night in jail to protect, my PowerBook -- containing at least a dozen manuscripts-in-progress -- well, I've no idea where that is. I can't see it.

I'm constantly thinking like a criminal to try to avoid becoming a victim. Recently, I got a voice mail from the security division of my credit-card company requesting that I call their 800-number regarding some unusual recent activity. So I call back and I have to give them my credit card number so they know who I am, and then verify my home address, and then for further verification they ask me for my mother's maiden name and all of a sudden I go a little cold because I realize that a honey of a scam would be to randomly phone people and leave 800-numbers for them to call...and then in "veryifying" their identities, bang, you've got their credit card numbers and most of the info you need to pull off an identity theft.

So I hung up the phone and dialed the 800-number on the back of the card instead. And naturally, it was all on the up-and-up; in fact, their computers even had a record of how I'd just called and hung up before completing verification.

There in the airport, I felt like a Roman Emperor, realizing that he was fighting wars on far too many fronts and was hugely, vastly, terrifyingly vulnerable. If someone grabs the wallet, would I chase after him and leave the PowerBook behind? Hell, could I do anything at all? "Bad" is running off from a zone being defended by a truly Armed member of the Armed Forces; "Double-Plus-Super-Bad" is trying to run off after you've handed your sneakers to someone else.

My one act of rebellion, therefore, was to gently resist the security dude's unspoken suggestion to turn and face the other way while I was being frisked down. If there was any time when I was going to be led off into a little room for an interlude with a same-sex member of the airport staff, it was now, as I apparently reacted to the pat-down by nervously darting my eyes around the area.

Fortunately, the security dude and I shared a hearty laugh as he failed to find anything dangerous on me and we shared a cigar and a brandy in the salon afterward, or we would have had such things been available, though the spirit of bonhomie was indeed something to be noted and celebrated.

I sat in one of the resin lawn chairs as I re-laced my sneaks. I was a few feet away from someone who apparently had just left the set of an episode of "Masterpiece Theater; if it's possible to look more like a country vicar in Edwardian England than him, well, I think it'd involve going ahead and taking formal vows.

It made me feel a little better to know that they had nabbed the good vic as well. (But what do I know. They've probably seen enough episodes of "Hawaii Five-O" that they immediately suspect anyone who's trying hard to look like a priest, a nun, or a phenomenally-pregnant lady.)

The vicar and shook our heads at each other. "You know," I said, for I had just had a million-dollar brainstorm, "If the airport wanted to offset the cost of all this extra security, they could hire professional masseurs to man -- or better yet, to Woman, if I may say, Father -- this area. For an extra fifty bucks, she could do the frisk-down as a stress-relieving and constitution-bracing 15-minute Shiatsu treatment."

The good vicar agreed that this was a capital idea, after a brief worried glance to make sure that any conversation other than "Yes, sir, thank you, sir, I'll just be on my way, then, sir, God Bless America" wouldn't cause him to be dragged off and beaten.

And thank God, all of my belongings were intact when I returned to the X-Ray machine. I re-hatted and re-jacketed myself, but they were holding on to the bag.

Oh, great.

My Tenba bag is a beloved piece of fundamental daily gear, but it's caused me no end of trouble in airports over the years. I often wonder if, at some point in my travels, I might have unknowingly set it down in a puddle on the sidewalk that actually contained potassium chloride, and was underneath a vent belching out the fumes from a basement meth lab. Because it seems like one time out of every three, this bag gets pulled off the X-Ray conveyor belt and swabbed for the benefit of the electronic sniffers. "We've just been told to watch out for men carrying black satchels," a security dude once explained to me. I stifled the Basil Fawlty component of my personality, the one that wanted to suggest that perhaps they should also keep a lookout for lawyers who make a lot of loud and unnecessary calls on their new cellphone because it cost $600 and Tom Cruise used it in his last movie, or perhaps for people with eyebrows in general.

They passed the bag through the scanner again and kept it in there while people clustered around the monitor. Finally they heaved it onto a separate table and asked to search the contents. Piece by piece, pouch by pouch it was emptied until they found the culprit: my Anla'shok pin.

(The Long Explanation: in the "Babylon 5" universe, the Anla'shok (their Minbari name; English-speakers refer to them as Rangers) are this semi-secret organization of spies/soldiers -- chiefly Minbaris and Earthers, but with other races among their ranks as well -- who move around the galaxy collecting information and fighting mostly secret battles, always on the side of The Good Guys (naturally). They are identified by this, their badge, a large green stone surrounded by abstract figures of a Minbari and an Earther clasping hands)

(The Short Explanation: it's a geek detector. Most people see a very lovely piece of jewelry on my vest and say "Wow, what a pretty brooch!" But others adopt a serious bearing and tone and solemnly greet me by intoning "We live for The One. We die for The One." And thus, the ornament has served his purpose. For anyone who knows the Anla'shok oath and is willing to recite it to a complete stranger in public is someone with whom I can have a long and fulfilling conversation. End of aside.)

To Airport Security, though, the pin was a large blob of dense metal whose X-Ray silhouette they couldn't identify. Thus, the bag-search.

OK. Fine. But in the process of emptying my bag, the security lady removed a silver cigarette case from a pouch. I don't smoke, of course. Never have. But it's a thin and stylish little metal case and the perfect caddy for stamps, business cards, blank Post-It notes, and an emergency (tiny) pen...precisely what the modern geek requires when he makes his occasional forays within the analog world.

She removed the case. She turned it over in her hands once. And then she set it aside.

Without, er, opening it and looking inside.

Even though you could probably fit three or four box-cutters inside the thing and the case probably registered on the scanner as an impenetrable metal rectangle.

Oooookay.

As I repacked my satchel -- including the PowerBook, which miraculously wasn't spirited away by the Hamburglar or some other such ne'er-do-well in my absence -- I reflected that in these times, I should feel lucky that they let me board with the pin, anyway. It had been months since the September 11^th attacks, so the passage of time had nudged the concept of Terrorist Attack a little closer into its proper place in the public consciousness: as the sort of thing that only happens in movies which air after midnight on the USA Network, starring the son of someone who was a celebrity about twenty years ago, as the leader of a covert government strike force that operates under a really improbable and testosterone-ey sort of acronym.

But it was only a couple of weeks after some idiot tried to blow up a plane using explosives hidden in his sneakers, and was thwarted only because he chose to light the fuses at his seat in plain sight instead of waiting a few minutes and doing it inside one of the plane's lavatories. One imagines a totally reconceptualized and very much darker new version of Gilligan's Island, and the episode ending with Osama bin Laden visiting the terrorist in federal custody and beating him with his little hat, like the Skipper.

As I finished repacking and continued on my way to Gate 23, however, my indulgent attitude toward The New Reality dissipated. The increased security had cost me an extra fifteen minutes at the checkpoint, and with those fifteen minutes went my chance of continuing the conversation with the cute lady with the Vaio.

I tramped off, muttering that the damned terrorists have won.