Shop flags

I have been walking around downtown for about two hours, from Dupont to the Mall to Georgetown, stopping once in a while to browse shops or sit for a bit. I have not been counting exactly, but noticed early on that restaurants and grocery stores specializing in foreign foods or merchandise very often have American flag stickers in the window, or if they have the flag of another country flying in advertisement, an American flag is usually flying beside it. Stores or restaurants whose nationality is not specified, which are assumed to be “American”, do not nearly as often display any flag.

Whitehouse Perimeter Security & Tourist Interactions

There are multiple police forces in DC. A visit to Lafayette Square Park and the Whitehouse reminded me just how many there are. We all know of the Secret Service. They protect prominent political figures and foreign dignitaries. The United States Park Police guards the physical Whitehouse, and they spend the majority of their days asking tourists to stay on the opposite side of Pennsylvania Avenue from the President's mansion. I watch a fat woman, probably American, bag of popcorn in hand, child at her side holding an American flag - she walks up to the gate and a uniformed policeman magically appears to ask her to cross back to the other side of the street. Asian, probably Japanese, tourists approach the gate for a group photo. Another cop randomly appears and asks them to cross the street. They obviously don't understand. An Asian man hands the cop his camera. He wants the officer to take a picture of them. They officer uses the camera to lure the group away from the foreboding fence. There are cops on bikes, plain dress, and in cars all over this complex. I wonder if other people find it amazing that they even let us as close as they do. The resident protester/bum makes constant noise. Obviously he is not a threat, or maybe they consider him a sleeper-cell. Here comes a fat family waddling my way. The obese mother figure asks if I would take their picture. I happily oblige. They are all wearing matching sweatshirts with "We will not forget" printed on the front in bold red, white and blue letters. This is a family of 7. Jesus, 5 kids. That must be expensive. They seem wholesome. I wonder if they are God-fearing Mormons?

"A Moving Memorial"

There is a car in New Jersey that has recently recieved some pretty substantial press coverage. This car is vibrant, bright, and has the names of the American soldiers who have died in the Iraq war all over it. I have had the honor of driving this car. It was a very interesting time and scenario to observe human behavior.

While in this car, you cannot help but notice the people gawking. Literally, people will turn in their seats as you drive by. If the car is parked, it inevitably attracts at least one person-- even in the rain. Some people make it a point to verbalize their sentiments. Some say sinmple things like "I like your car," while others feel the need to express true emotion that the car seems to stir in them. Some agree with the car-- which is not only a "Moving Memorial," but also a form of silent protest-- while some markedly do not. Usually, people just seemed stunned. When people do dislike the car they rarely make it a point to say so-- usually you can see them turn in away (in disgust? anger? shame?). People who agree often do make it a point to express said sentiment, which is why the owner of the car carries a journal-- to allow people touched by the car to express their experience.

One of the most intersting reactions I saw while driving the car occurred just outside a supermarket in Southern New Jersey. "It is by the way" a woman hissed at me in the parking lot as she entered the store. She was responding to the bold question plastered across the front windshield: "Is this War worth it?"

Please feel free to see the car at www.wegrieveourdeadtroops.com

"Support Our Troops"

"Support Our Troops" ribbons seem to be everywhere nowadays (though perhaps less so than in 2004). They are in the back windows of cars and SUVs and for sale (right by the door) in dollar stores on Georgia Avenue. Is this an expression of patriotism? An expression of solidarity? I wonder: is it more popular amongst drivers of certain types of cars?

Clothing as expression of war?

On Saturday morning (11/25/06), I was sitting quietly in Takoma Park, Maryland (a town notorious for being full of "hippy liberals") enjoying my breakfast. I could not help but notice when a young boy entered the restaraunt wearing an army green T-shirt with "Fleet Betallion" written on it. The shirt was obviously made to resemble an army uniform. I found it to be an interesting choice of clothing, especially considering the boy's age (could not have been more than 7) and was led to wonder: how often, in our society, is clothing used as an expression of war or terrorism (or its antecedent peace)? Can this trend be seen more amongst certain age groups? In certain areas?

Sky Harbor International Airport, Phoenix, AZ

Running late again on my way from Sedona to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, I turn in my Bat Mobile and catch the shuttle to Terminal 4. Right off the bat I'm flooded with the effects of Terrorism in this country. Bomb/drug dogs (thank god I don't have any pot, but that is also like, "duh") patrol each entrance of the terminal. Each baggage/ticket desk had its own luggage bomb screening device.

Baltimore had none of this. I immediately get to thinking, "Where in Gods name are they getting the money for this shit?" Ah yes, of course. The reduced NYC Homeland Security funding which was spread out amongst other smaller yet still nervous cities around America like Phoenix. I'm so glad that Phoenix has the most state of the art equipment and most highly trained and zealous TSA employees. That is surely benefiting this country. American West Airlines recently merged with US Airways, but they don't bother to tell passengers that you can check-in at either desk. I can see I'm not the only person confused about this. Inside the terminal are more bag screening devices. Man those things look expensive. I get to the ticket kiosk and after trying every which way of locating my reservation without success, I'm sent to a desk agent.

My flight leaves in one hour. The desk agent informs me that the Baltimore agent that routed me through Las Vegas has deleted my return reservation. I pull out my computer print-out to prove that I was actually booked on the flight. She informs me after furious typing that my flight, which I booked a first class ticket on originally, has been overbooked by 10 people. I immediately go into meltdown mode. I'm shouting and screaming because I want to get the hell out of this state. Screw America West. She calls over her supervisor, who calms me down. They offer me a one way first class voucher for future travel, and somehow guarantee me a seat on the plane that leaves in less than 30 minutes nearly a mile away through security. I had a lot of time to observe people while the agents figured out how to get me home. They're were people standing next to me that must have been from some Borough of New York City. They had arrived just under an hour before their plane took off, but the agent informed them that all checked bags must be checked at least an hour before departure. The alpha male of the traveling family lost it worse than I had. The ticket agent explained that the baggage policy was a Sky Harbor security policy. He went on ranting that they don't have this rule at Newark, JFK or LaGuardia. I chimed in and said there was no such thing at Baltimore either. "Do we look like terrorists?" the man shouted. His wife jabbed him in the rib cage "I can't answer that," the ticket woman said flatly. "Good luck getting on the plane now buddy," I thought to myself. My agent gave me a piece of paper and said that I should give this to the gate agent. I ran down the corridor, up the escalator, where I met a line of passengers. They were at least a quarter of a mile from the entrance to the security line.

I walked to the security point and waltzed through the first class line, which allowed me to make my flight. They didn't that I had been demoted from First to Coach. The piece of paper in my hand didn't indicate the class. I scanned the line, which wasn't moving, and quickly picked out 34 American flags on clothing. The line was being held up because whoever the TSA director for Sky Harbor Airport was, had decided that all of the passengers were to receive full searches. So different from the outbound flight from Baltimore. An elderly gentleman and a woman scrutinized the contents of my bag on the x-ray screen for at least 5 minutes. I look at my watch. 20 Minutes till departure. They decide that my bag needs a thorough hand search. The man finds a bottle of lotion and hair clay, which passed the Baltimore exam unnoticed. He lectures me about the newly enforced liquid restrictions like I've been living under a rock for the past 20 years. "I don't care, throw them out," I hurriedly say to him. He slowly repacks my bag and I take off in a sprint to what I thought was my gate. WRONG. My gate is a whole 3/10 of a mile away at least. I hear the final boarding call for my flight. I reach the gate and hand the agent my piece of paper. He glares at me and says, "Where did you get this?" I tell him that I got it downstairs and he says, "Fuck." He yells to the woman collecting tickets who comes over to refute my piece of paper. They are both overweight and in the midst of some sort of patriotic pin competition. Maybe they're married. I learn that they have sent another agent onto the plane to pull a passenger off so that I can have his seat. I have to wonder if they did this intentionally or not: The man they pulled off the plane was dressed typical Islamic Cleric garb. I mean he looked like Bin-Laden. I thought back to the local Sedona bar, but quickly turned my attention to the thought that he might have left something deadly on the plane. How would we know until it was too late? The flight was bumpy and cramped, but it landed in Baltimore. I was happy to be back to the East Coast.

The Vortex

God please teleport me out of this place or all the people here. Sedona is beautiful; I just have a low tolerance for non-coastal Americans. They come to Sedona for the Spiritual Vortex believed to be present as a result of the rock formations. What are these people smoking? And can I get some? Other than heavy Americans walking around clad in patriotic clothing (some of my own non-nuclear family members were guilty of this) people seemed to have an overwhelming sense of spiritual being in this place. All the non-rental cars (except Fox cars, which I suspect were far and few) were maneuvering around town plastered with patriotic bumper and magnetic stickers (my aunt's van that she drove up from Huston, TX was an astounding example). I had difficulty distinguishing tourists from locals, but I suspected most were from out of town as Sedona is a tourist destination. I got multiple tastes of the one local bar Sedona had to offer. My bro and I cruised in the Bat Mobile to The Vortex, the only and best place for Sedona nightlife. The first night we were there it was painfully obvious that we were not locals. In fact I recognized and drank with three employees of the Sedona Hyatt. Great people, all our age and so nice, but maybe it was because I was buying the rounds. I found it interesting that the band performing that night would make regular shout-outs to American troops abroad between sets. They ended the night with, "Were gonna find the Bin-Laden son-of-a-bitch, DEAD or ALIVE!" I was drunkenly thinking to myself, "Did they really just say that? Because it's so perfect for this project." I wrote myself a cocktail napkin reminder note. This act prompted curiosity from our newfound local friends, to which I explained this project while my brother silently engaged in text-message-sex with his boyfriend from Connecticut. The three drunken locals I was with each expressed the same view that the War in Iraq was the right thing to do, and Bush was the greatest president ever. “My god," I thought to myself. "This is a red state; rocks and people." I'd hate to know what they thought about gay marriage, or if they had any idea they'd just spent a night out with a pair of gay brothers. In other strange events, my grandmother announced she was cooking a ham instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving. A family coos ensued after this announcement.

Baltimore Washington International Airport

I recently gained the interest of a certain young man whom I decided to have lunch with on Tuesday the 21st of November 2006. Needless to say, after staring into his eyes for what seemed like only minutes, I realized that was late and going to miss my plane. I had an hour and forty minutes to make it from DuPont Circle to Baltimore Washington International Airport. In short, I was the terrorist on the road that day. Had it been any other day besides the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I probably would have made it. I zoomed to the terminal amazingly not killing anyone with my driving or road rage, parking in hourly parking at $20 per day. I quickly parked at what I thought was the closest spot, but turned out to be the farthest spot. I ran to the ticket counter and they told me I was too late. My rage boiled over because I knew that was the last direct flight to Phoenix. I stood next to the ticket agent shouting at my mother when another African-American ticket agent said to me in a very loud voice, "Sir is everything alright?" I turned to her and smiled and said, "Yes, course." No, everything was not alright. I had just missed my plane because of my own stupidity, but not wanting an altercation, I complied. It was almost if I had it ingrained in me to comply for fear of being labeled a crazy person, a disrupter of the peace, a terrorist. I was booked on the flight to Las Vegas which left 4 hours later, where I would connect to Phoenix. I lost my first class ticket - major bummer. I walked back to the Garage to move my car to daily parking for a cheaper $10 a day.

When I arrived at my car there was a $50 ticket for parking in an authorized vehicles only space. The space was reserved for Homeland Security Vehicles. Bull Shit. Going through security I was randomly selected to be searched. They sent me through a machine that blew air all over my body, but I didn't mind because it was faster than the main line. While I waited for a very portly TSA security agent to search my bag, which unbeknown to me had several containers with liquid in that I had forgot to take out, that he didn't find, I noticed the main line as compared to the special line. The concentration of foreign looking people were coming through the special line, including every single passenger that looked like he or she was of Middle Eastern decent. Coincidence? I think not. I parked myself at possibly the worst airport bar I've ever seen. Debbie was my waitress. She looked like a creature from night of the living dead. She is significant because she had to be wearing at least 20 different "Support Our Troops" pins in addition to two separate "We Will Never Forget" WTC pins and two different Pentagon pins. I counted the amount of people I saw walk by with American Flags on their clothing over the course of three hours: 39. One woman was wearing a head to toe outfit clad in the American flag. I accidentally ordered a double Grey Goose and tonic when I wanted soda for my first round, Fuck ME. I didn't tell Debbie because she was clearly working hard enough for the amount of money she was getting paid, and I liked her, I felt sorry for her, but I left her a generous tip, which made me feel happy. I found it surprising that most of the people in the bar were not the ones wearing the American flag garb. Most were alone and most were reading what seemed like non-fiction books. One woman was reading *BARF* author and now diplomat Karen Hughes's book, Bush at War. I hated this airport and there weren't any hot boys to look at. The flight was uneventful and cramped. I envied the first class passengers as I boarded the plane. I was supposed to be up there. I could fight off a terrorist plot better than most of the people up there.

I arrived in Las Vegas. Lots of fat people. And cops. Lots of cops. I ran from one terminal to another in a successful attempt to catch the earlier flight to Phoenix. I noticed a correlation between fat people and people wearing patriotic clothing. I finally arrived in Phoenix at 230am Mountain Time - 7 Hours after I was originally scheduled to arrive. I made it to the rental car company, a west coast company, Fox Rent a Car. I kid you not; the rent-a-car woman asked me if I wanted a complimentary magnetic decal for my Chrysler 300 Touring (I thought it looked like the Bat Mobile. My brother later agreed) that said, "Support Our Troops." "They're very popular," she said. "I have three on my car." I thought, my god, I can't possibly see more examples of the War & Terror on my 2 hour drive to Sedona. WRONG. I must have passed three billboards before leaving Phoenix that said, "Support Our Troops" or "Democracy in America, Democracy Abroad".




I was so hoping the night was over, but alas I was in the desert and I needed water. Just before arriving at the Sedona Hyatt, at approximately 5am, I pulled into an AM/PM gas station convenience store. I gathered several large bottles of water when without me knowing it the batty clerk came up behind me and shouted, "The terrorists are gonna nuke us!" I jumped and dropped my supply of water. "Are they?" I said. He went into a long rendition of how the terrorists will get a nuke from Iran. He was wearing an American flag shirt, but he wasn't overweight. He was missing quite a few teeth, however.