thoughts in my head

Talking about my generation is something I want to avoid most times, because it is nearly impossible to do in tones that do not resemble those of lifestyle magazines that plug into an all-too familiar culture. It's the harmony of universals, and it's boring and predictable.

By now an estimated nine billion people have told us how much they love their iPods – bloggers, columnists and music journalists are the worst offenders. Even complete strangers are willing to tell you at the drop of a hat how they really feel about their relationship to the ubiquitous Apple gadget.

For a while I thought that it is because our relationship to technology is now such that we not only use it, we befriend it. Our phones and laptops and cameras are our buddies, or better, our meta-buddies that connect us to the distant contemporaries we call our friends. Maybe in this scheme, music players are anti-buddies; the two white buds stand for pristine isolation, a rare disconnectedness. But I'm sure you've read something like this before.

It's something else entirely, though – not a product or a relationship, but an event. It's a pervasive ritual that ties soundtracks into our motions and reclaims the public as private. No where more so than on public transit – step on onto a bus or a subway and you will see an uncommunity of commuters. This is the event of our generation, it's our Woodstock – for an audience of one.

REMINDER

Here's my six-month reminder that if you're reading this blog looking for new, exciting content, well, you've got another thing coming. Sucker.

Wherein I write a letter to British Airways

I just flew back for the Holidays and it was like getting a day-glow enema: spectacular and horrifying. British Airways made my shitlist by impounding my tax free booze. They have made my shitlist bigtime. Here is the letter I sent them.

Dear Sir, Madam:

I have just touched down from flying from New York to Amsterdam via London (flights BA 0174 and 0430, December 20th and 21st respectively) and regret to tell you that, barring an actual crash and fiery death, my flight experience could not have been worse. I am writing you not about the malfunctioning in-flight entertainment, the centre isle seat, the wailing infants, or the seven-year old who spent his whole time crossing the Atlantic kicking my seat. These are the grim realities of intercontinental flight. I am writing you about your company’s enthusiastic adherence to the stupidest policy in the world.

On my way for the holidays I bought my father a bottle of fine bourbon as a Christmas present at JFK’s tax free shopping. New Yorkers, for understandable reasons, are concerned about terrorism, and provide some elaborate safety measures. You are not actually allowed to take your own shopping: rather, it is delivered to you in a carefully marked and sealed bag only after you have entered the gate and are mere steps away from the actual airplane.

I had heard rumours that there might be problems with liquids being impounded when flying with British Airways. I had dismissed them as ludicrous, since it would invalidate the entire premise of tax free shopping. Surely no organization would adopt such a measure.

Imagine my surprise when I transferred at Heathrow only to find I would not be allowed to take my carefully sealed and security-cleared bottled present. It was explained to me that the fluid in the bottle did not originate from the EU and therefore represented a terror hazard. That the bag the bottle was sealed in was not made of the correct kind of transparent plastic. That the bag lacked the intricate engraving of Masonic signs and hieroglyphs that ward off terrorists. The unspoken message that shone bright and clear through the security official’s red-faced embarrassed stutterings, though, was that this was a policy as sensible as using decapitation to clear up dandruff.

While I restrained myself from resorting to more appropriate vocabulary, I was informed that my Holiday present faced being impounded and being destroyed. The attendant official helpfully offered the alternative of leaving security, heading to the main entrance area and checking in the bottle, but admitted she had no idea how long that might take. As I am somewhat familiar with official-doublespeak, I took this for a guarantee I would miss my plane.

Since my continuing flight did board at the announced time my decision was probably wise. Sadly, and in deference to tradition, the pilot decided let us spend the two and a half hours delay on the tarmac rather than in the terminal. In keeping with all tradition I was once again surrounded by wailing infants but had now lost the option of drinking my misery away.

What amazes me about all this is not only your insistence on adhering to a fundamentally stupid and ineffective policy – as I write the EU, hardly the most progressive or sensible of organizations, is moving to overturn your useless policies – but your complete failure to inform passengers that duty-free shopping is a waste of money. It is somehow preferable to pay taxes than to have your Christmas shopping impounded.

Furthermore, your adherence to this strict and profoundly idiotic anti-liquid policy leads me to question your competence of judgment. If your company is willing to stick to policies this moronic, should I trust you to do handle things as admittedly complex as international air travel? Can I trust you not to try and fly planes upside down, or into disputed territories, or to land in the ocean? How will I fare as a passenger when you discover I myself am over 70 per cent liquid? Because of these concerns, I cannot in good conscience fly with British Airways again.

However, I do believe you owe my father a Christmas present. I suggest a bottle of Woodland Reserve 12-year-old bourbon. You might have a bottle laying around somewhere.

In eager anticipation of your reply,

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