In other words, it's utter shite. So much so that I'm blogging this on my phone because it is faster. If I could hook the printer to my phone my boarding pass would have been sorted a half hour ago. It's a testament to how much I don't want to have to–

Oh, downloading the driver will take an hour. Fuck it, I'm finding a Kinkos.

I'll post a picture later.

"Well, I guess this is where I leave you…"

"Okay, restroom, thanks for dropping us off at the airport and seeing us this far."

"Sure thing. Have a safe trip. See you when you get back!"

Anyway, the stewardess asked me to turn mine off and I complied. I even took my earphones out when she asked me to, in case…I don't know, the flesh of my ears and the earphones had some kind of chemical reaction that would melt a hole in the side of the plane. Or something.

But I started thinking. Let's assume that there's a ban on all electronic devices simply because there's so many that the flight attendants can't be bothered to check off the good and the bad. That seems reasonable. It's just turn them all off. Fine. But I wonder where they would draw the line?

If I were planning on traveling again anytime soon, I'd consider trying to use these during takeoff and/or landing…just to see what the reaction would be:

Yeah, I know, it's a dickish thing to even consider. But they'd have a lot calmer passenger on their hands if I could listen to something besides the screaming kids and the grind of metal as the damn plane tries to claw its way airborne.

Credit where it's due. Merlin stuff here, Galaxian here, 8-track here, gramophone here and Lite Brite here.

Here's a bronze fragment that concerns grant of citizenship in Doric script, from around 490-480 B.C.E. It's nice to see that even back then you could sneak commentary about people into documents:

And this is such a human waste:

The only thing that sucked about drinking and playing in a band was I had to stay sober, for the most part. More than a beer during the course of a performance and my voice wouldn't hold out, especially if we were doing more than a couple of hours. Meanwhile, the rest of the guys, glorious bastards that they were, only played better the more soused they became.

"Widge, want a beer? Can't have one? Damn, guess I'll take it then."

They were wonderful musicians. But assholes. God bless them.

Second, we'd like to say that the company made it clear when we walked into the place what happens when you try to compete with them:

And lastly, they had a guy there who was so good with making balloon animals, he took requests. I asked, can you make me a Jean Grey circa 1977? He did a fabulous job:

Guys, I know you live at this place and thus you know it like the back of your hand, but I'm from out of town, so excuse me if I find your three-level emporium, containing what appears to be so many dead trees that Treebeard himself is coming with an army to kick your asses (but it's the book version of Treebeard's army, not the version that can just teleport itself to his side–you're lucky, you still have some time), a little daunting and would appreciate your sage wisdom. Or here's an idea–don't sit under a sign that says INFO with a big question mark next to it. Because it might lead most humans to think you're inviting them to, you know, ask you things.

If you go to the Strand and require assistance, my advice is to try and find a female member of the staff. They were much nicer and actually willing to help.

That being said, it's good to go once and see it for yourself. And then thank God for Amazon. Don't get me wrong, I love brick and mortar stores, but I'll take a nationally owned chain or an online presence over surly college students any day of the week.

Or better yet, some place like Jigsaw, which I finally got to go by and see. And I'm not endorsing them because Benjones, the owner and head burrito, was kind enough to display my books on the same shelves as Alan Moore and Bendis, mind you. But because he seemed to, you know, actually want a customer in there. And because he had books by people who, if you met them, would no doubt be happy that you wanted to read them. It's amazing when people give a shit, isn't it? Just changes the whole world.

Forbidden Planet is down the street from The Strand, and they're just what you would expect from a comic book geekery in a city like New York. Basically, they're your local store but amped up and with a cooler name. My problem is, sadly, that I already own or have seen and tried out most of what they had in there. So my enthusiasm was merely dampened by the fact that they didn't have some impossible Ark of the Covenant level bit of geekdom on display–so I'm not a good judge. We were impressed that they had sense enough to split their books into spandex and non-spandex, though. So kudos to them for that.

Now…you've probably found the flaw in this already, haven't you? I mean, beyond kicking the Fourth Amendment in the balls.

Let's say you're a T-word and you've got a B-word you want to bring on a subway train. You go to Station #1. You get selected for a random bag search. This is unlikely, because as the article points out, 4.5 million passengers go through the system on an average weekday. But let's say you do. All you have to say is "No thanks" and turn and leave the station. You're permitted to do so, according to the article.

Then you simply go to Station #2. And repeat as necessary.

This is yet another example of "Something must be done. This is something. Therefore, it must be done." And it gives the government the opportunity to search your stuff, because all subway riders are now suspects.

And incidentally, that sound you hear is the terrorists laughing at us.

Update: After being a bit shocked that Jeff Jarvis thinks this is a good idea…maybe he hasn't his coffee yet…I'd just like to underline one thing. I'm not putting this forward to be a dick. If asked to have my bag opened up, hell, I'll probably do it. Because I'm just trying to get from Point A to Point B. But if it took the guy with the English degree ninety seconds to break your lovely process and poke a giant hole in it, then the guy who does terror for a living is going to have even less of a problem. And if the process doesn't make us safer, then what's the bloody point?

Update: Shirts are now available here that straight up say you don't want to be searched. Tip of the hat to the NYC Metroblog and Jeff Jarvis. Of course, earlier today my libertarian ass came up with the perfect solution to all of this–privatize the NYC subway system. Then getting searched is just part of the TOS. Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm laughing on the inside.

There's only one problem. They sell lots of food and drink that you can take away or consume there…but no public bathrooms. And not even that. Somebody said sure, there's a bathroom, and took Cosette back to where it was, only to startle the store manager who said, no, sorry, no bathroom for you.

At first I thought that this was extremely assholish of him. The proper way to handle that situation is to explain that no, there aren't bathrooms for the public, but because our employee was confused and said yes, be our guest this one time. And oh by the way, employee, what the hell were you thinking?

Then it struck me: this was a young guy, right? It's obvious why he didn't want Cosette going and using their restrooms.

He was afraid of Death.

Think about it. Your predecessor warns you: don't let anyone come back here and accost you. They could be Death. Death is sneaky. Sometimes it looks like a young woman with a full bladder, sometimes it looks like a young Robert Redford. Keep people away from the back of the store if you know what's good for you.

That was the lesson the older manager told his protege, right up until the day that some guy wandered into the back of the store feigning a delivery of some Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, only to rob the elderly man of his life.

So of course you can't pee in their bathrooms. Death could be any one of us. I feel sorry for the guy when I think about it that way. I really do.