Regulations had, of course, been slowly mounting for some time. Some airports had begun to prevent people without tickets from meeting their loved ones at the gate. It had gotten harder and harder to travel with a ticket that was purchased under someone else’s name. And the days of being able to carry a pistol in your carry-on luggage were obviously over, even in Texas.

But on September 10, 2001, Americans wanting to take a quick jaunt to Chicago for the weekend nonetheless faced a process that was, if not ideal, at least largely bearable. Walking through the metal detector was a bit jarring, but if you put your keys in the little bin and remembered to pack your marijuana in a wooden pipe, the experience was quick and painless. Jokes about bombs were of course not welcomed by the security personnel, but neither were they likely to earn you rendition to Pakistan.

But around 4pm on September 11, once the shock had started to fade a bit and I went back to having rational thoughts, I had a vision of an airport in which everyone was more frustrated and unhappy than they used to be, but no one was safer.

To be honest, very little of what I predicted would put me in the same class as Nostradamus. I foresaw a universal ban on box-cutters, but this is hardly evidence of great genius. My anticipation of multiple ID-checks also proved correct, but this as well was really pretty obvious.

All I am really proud of was the general recognition that this incident would wind up feeding the primal American compulsion to take one relatively minor problem and attack it with such a tremendous collection of money, ignorance, and bloody-mindedness that a rational observer can do nothing but sit and cry.

Still, I could never have foreseen how far our nation would follow the blind. Not content to ban toenail clippers and Congressional Medals of Honor, the federal government now demands that its citizens discard all water - the very basis of organic life - before they even reach the gate.

I was recently traveling and decided to bring along a small container of gazpacho, as I have taken do doing on long trips. A one liter container will hold two full, well-balanced meals with no need for refrigeration or utensils. Perfect, no?

As the M60 approached LaGuardia, however, I remembered the recent round of regulations and realized that I would have to stow the soup in my checked luggage, where it would be totally useless to me until I reached my destination. And so it went into the garment-bag next to my toothpaste and safety razor - two other potential implements of mass-murder. The bottle of water I had with me had to be dropped before I even reached the main security checkpoint.

Thus deprived of food, water, and toiletries, I was forced to sit on the floor in an overcrowded terminal as I waited over four hours for my delayed flight to take off. I would have forced myself to buy a $10 McChicken sandwich or $6 pretzel, or one of the other products that passes for food in Airport America, but it was after 9pm and all of the restaurants and bars had closed.

Now, while I certainly don’t want to make my experience sound like the Bataan Death March or something, the fact that such a historical event even crosses my mind when describing a routine plane flight is a sign that something as gone seriously wrong.

But even though I find these restrictions bothersome and ultimately useless, they are not what infuriates me the most. I can pay inflated prices for substandard food. I can pay three dollars for a pint of water. And really, I have never had occasion to clip my toenails on a plane in the first place. But I am put through these aggravations only after a rather extended period of insult and humiliation, and for me that is the real problem.

The bag that I check is opened and rifled through by government contractors. I am asked for my identification so many times I feel like I am trying to cross the border into West Berlin. I am forced by government officials to take off my coat, belt, and shoes in front of proper, respectable ladies - and then to stand there and hurriedly put that clothing back on with my pants falling down. And I am certainly not looking forward to the next round of technology that will run my visual profile through a database, track my movements with RF chips, and then cap it all off by blowing a blast of air into my face.

In the vain pursuit of complete safety we have voluntarily surrendered many of those elements of life which, though individually minor, nonetheless lie at the heart of what it means to be civilized.

When we make a practice of remaining fully clothed in the presence of strangers, we add to our civility. When we pause in our travels to break bread with our companions, when we refuse to accept implicit accusations of malevolent intent, we are reaffirming that we are dignified human beings worthy of respect. And conversely, when we allow ourselves to be stripped of these basic trappings of civilized humanity we agree that in some way, for some period of time, we do not deserve them. And once we agree to that, how surprised can we be when one day we find that these rights are no longer ours to demand?

As I looked over your website today in advance of the coming elections, I could not help but notice on the opening page a letter addressed to your ‘Dear Harlem Neighbors’ announcing your candidacy for ‘Harlem’s 15th Congressional District.’

You should be delighted to learn that if you succeed in your bid to oust Charles Rangel from office, you will have the honor of representing not only the people of Harlem, but also those of Washington Heights, Inwood, and Marble Hill - as well as many thousands of people living in the Upper West Side and Queens.

I hope you will have enough time between the election and your inauguration to familiarize yourself with the exact boundaries of the 15th and perhaps get to know the issues facing those who do not live in Harlem, but who nonetheless comprise the majority of the population of the 15th District.

Best of luck next Tuesday.

Sincerely,

Cal D. Margulis

When I climbed up the fire escape to break into my own apartment, this was still what I thought. When I dislocated my left shoulder struggling to pull myself, hand over hand, up the rusted black ladder that hung down over the alley, all I was thinking was how annoying it was to have such stupid neighbors. It wasn’t until I actually got up to the fourth floor that the truth began to dawn on me.

I reached my window, which I remembered leaving unlocked, and found that the screen had been left partially open. This I did not remember.

I also didn’t remember throwing my clothing out of the closet and dresser, scattering it around the room. I didn’t remember leaving my guitar case open on my bed, the guitar sort of half-way out. And I certainly didn’t remember removing my computer and MP3 player from the premises.

Slow though I sometimes am, when I saw the guitar I realized that I had been robbed. I took a minute or so to mourn the possessions that I loved so well and would never see again. Then I started to clean up.

As I did this I began to realize that the laptop and walkman were the only things gone. Many other things had been picked though, moved aside, or dumped out, but clearly only in pursuit of something else. A couple pairs of pants that I had hanging in the closet wound up on the bottom of the closet, but it seemed clear that this was done accidentally as part of the process of searching for something else - a nicer pair of pants, I suppose.

My dresser, too, had been emptied of clothing, but none of it seemed to be missing. I imagined that the thief had done this in an effort to find the jewels and rolls of hundred dollar bills that he figured I must have hidden somewhere. The guitar case, as I mentioned, had been opened, which seemed to indicate that he was in theory interested in stealing a guitar. But the fact that my guitar was still lying in it showed clearly that my guitar was not the one he wanted to steal.

It was at that point that I went from feeling relieved that most of my possessions were still there to feeling a little insulted that the burglar had decided to leave so much behind. I mean, I know my guitar isn’t a vintage, 1930s Gibson or something, but it looks nice enough, and sounds pretty good. It’s a Fender. Why didn’t he want it?

And what about my stereo? Not a tricked out hi-fi, I’ll admit, but if you position the speakers right it gives a pretty faithful sound. It’s not that big - he could have put it in a box along with my laptop and carried it back down the fire escape. But he clearly just didn’t want to.

I fixed myself a drink, nursed my rather perverse feeling of rejection, and called the police. They arrived maybe two hours later, which I thought was a pretty good response time for a non-violent burglary on the island of Manhattan. The team consisted of a nice lady named Jane, maybe 5′6″, probably a few years younger than me, and Carlo, a Greek-looking man only slightly taller than his partner and about the same age.

I took them on a tour of the place, explaining my theories on why and how the guy got in.

‘My super found two long pieces of metal lodged in the lock, so I figure that he tried to jimmy the door first, and then went up the fire escape.’

‘Maybe,’ came Jane’s endearingly husky voice, ‘but sometimes they work in teams. One guy tries the front door, and the other guy tries the window.’

I was unsure of her theory, but I also figured that there was no way that this guy would ever be caught anyway, so the question of entry seemed fairly moot.

‘So was there - Jesus! What the hell is that?’, Carlo asked with wide eyes. He had turned the corner and was looking at one of my most prized possessions: a reproduction I bought from the Prado of Goya’s ‘Saturn Devouring a Son.’ He gave an uncertain and confused laugh as the Titan Saturn, father of Zeus, stared back at him with mad eyes and slowly chewed on the arm of one of Zeus’ brothers.

I explained what it was, and he nodded at me with one eye squinted; it was clear that if he was accepting my praise for Goya at all, it was purely for the sake of argument.

We sat around and talked for a while, filling out about a quarter-inch of forms. They took my cell phone number and told me that someone would be by later to dust for fingerprints. I should expect a call from some detectives.

I shook the cops’ hands, thanked them for coming by, and offered them a scotch. Jane said she didn’t drink. Carlo said he did, but not on duty. As I led them to the door, Carlo took another look at Saturn, who was as always gnawing on his child’s corpse. Shaking his head and looking sympathetically at me he left saying, ‘Man, you gotta burn that painting.’