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November 2, 2006

December 7, 1941. November 22, 1963. September 11, 2001. Pearl Harbor. John F. Kennedy's assassination. Attack on the World Trade Center. Three days infamous in American history. I wasn't around for Pearl Harbor, but the other two remain burned into my mind as if they took place 15 minutes ago. And they both affected me in different ways. After Kennedy's murder, I became a student of the assassination, reading more that 100 books on the subject and interviewing many "experts" on my various radio shows. My ultimate goal in life is to figure out what really happened on that dreadful Dallas afternoon. 9-11 made me feel unsafe in my own country, the first time I'd ever experienced that startling emotion. And I'm sure it was the same for most of you reading this article. It also made me avoid airports at all costs. Not because I'm afraid to get on a plane – I've always figured when your time's up, the Grim Reaper's coming no matter where you are. I just didn't want to go through the hassle of taking off my shoes, standing in long lines and having to get to the airport hours before a flight.

So, whether for business or vacation, I drove everywhere in the western United States. Until the weekend of October 12-15 of this past month. And my first plane trip in about six years became one I'll always remember, every bit as vividly as those three dates listed above. My fiancé Elizabeth's birthday was that weekend, and UCLA was playing Oregon in Eugene, so I decided to make it a "business vacation." I'd go up and be part of the game coverage (my station, KLAC AM 570, is the flagship of the Bruins), and we'd have a couple days to celebrate her birthday. So, we get to LAX Thursday evening, and everything goes smoothly. In fact, a guy I used to work with at another radio station was one of the TSA guys manning the x-ray machine, and he made sure we got to a fast line. Flew to Portland, went to the game, had a great birthday dinner at Elizabeth's favorite seafood restaurant – the Newport Seafood Grill – and headed for the airport at 6:30 AM that Sunday morning. Suffice it to say, that's where the fun came to an unexpected halt.What I haven't revealed yet is that I was extremely ill before, during and after the trip. I had contracted a virus that left me sweating and weak 24-7. But we had been planning this for a long time, and I wasn't about to disappoint Elizabeth. So, as we walked into the Portland airport at 7:30 that morning, I was sweating as if I'd run there instead of driving. I had a towel around my neck, sweating profusely, as we walked toward the security line, which seemed a mile long. I couldn't believe it. Here we were, two hours before our flight, and the line was at least a half-hour long. Feeling as lousy as I did, you might suspect I wasn't too happy with the prospect of standing in line. So I starting grumbling and pacing, and asking if there were any way to make the line go faster. No one paid any attention, and I shut up after a while, and that was that. Or so I thought.

As I approached the metal detector, one of the TSA security people asked me to step through a different detector. I was stoked, thinking I was going to get out of there faster. I stand in the machine, she closes the door, and a burst of air comes from every part of the cylinder. As hot as I was, it felt good, and when no alarms went off and the door opened, I thought I was on my way to the boarding gate, where I could sit down, stop sweating, and change my shirt. Not so fast, Mr. McDonnell.The next thing I see is a group of eight TSA agents swarming the area, telling me not to move or touch anything. I am completely baffled as to why I'm being singled out, knowing that I had no bomb on me or any contraband that would make it necessary to detain me. Finally, I asked the woman who separated me from the line why I was being held. She responded that the machine I was in reported a positive test for explosives, and that I couldn't go anywhere until I had a complete body search. I'm thinking to myself, "What the hell is going on here. Explosives? Me? Ridiculous."

Then my mind stated whirring. Did somebody plant something on me? Am I being set up? Did somebody not like my talk show and elaborately put me in harm's way? Okay, I made up that last one. But I was concerned. Very concerned. And that concern turned to fright when a TSA agent in a gray blazer asked me to follow him to an area in the middle of the airport – and started putting on blue rubber gloves as he was walking. They're going to strip search me right here. Cavity search me in the middle of the airport. You think I was sweating before. I looked like Niagara Falls now. I'm begging for the guy to take me into a room where I can take off my clothes in private. "Why are you guys doing this in front of everyone?" I pleaded. "This can't be standard procedure." I'm about ready to pass out, when I notice that the TSA crew is laughing. Hard. The guy who was with me then asked me my name. "Joe." he said, "we're not going to do that to you. We just need to do a pat-down to see if you're carrying anything that could be part of bomb-making material. Then, we're going to check your luggage and if it's okay, you'll be on your way."

And that's exactly what happened.I was found to be explosives-free after an outside-the-body search, and after about 20 minutes was on my way to Gate 3 for the flight back to Los Angeles. Interestingly, many people came up to me as we were waiting for our flight and asked what happened. When I relayed the story, I was shocked how many said they wouldn't have stood for that, that if they knew they were clean, they would have made a real scene about being searched. I didn't say a word. But if any of those people are reading this, pay attention to the next paragraph.After the search was over, the TSA guy – who had been amazingly friendly – told me that he appreciated the fact that I hadn't made a fuss, let them do their job, and get on with it. He told me that a lot of people actually do make a scene, and it just slows down the whole process. And it doesn't make them go any faster. What he didn't say – and I'm just assuming this – is that they can make it a whole lot more uncomfortable for you if they so choose. So, take my advice on this one: If they choose to check you out, just go along with it. If you're clean, you've got nothing to worry about. If you're not, have a nice time rotting in prison. I'll spend an extra 20 minutes being questioned and searched anytime if it means I'm going to have a safe flight. So should you.Oh, in case you're wondering why they singled me out of a line that numbered more than100, it's very simple. I was showing all the signs of a potential terrorist. Sweating. Agitation. Pacing. All the indicators they're trained to look for in a security line. And if I hadn't been feeling so crummy that day, I probably would have been just like anyone else, and passed right through.

They were just doing they're job, and doing it well. And I want to thank the TSA people at the Portland Airport for showing that they take their jobs very seriously. We can only hope that every TSA agent at every airport does the same.