Scanners

I have now endured the humiliation of having TSA agents talk to me like I am an idiot without fully explaining the gymnastics required to pass a scanner screening. They would rather have you fail four times, clucking and shaking their heads, than explain in clear, reasonable English once what is required. I am fed up with TSA and the ineffective security screenings they pretend to give. I said so on Nate Silver's blog. (http://bit.ly/aaSSV2)

I post an article I read on Israel's procedures. It capture perfectly why I am so frustrated with the US - we - including the government, most of all - are more interested in covering our butts than in making the skies safe.

You can find the original here (http://bit.ly/bQaxhf) but I paste it below.

The 'Israelification' of airports: High security, little bother
Published On Wed Dec 30 2009

Cathal Kelly Staff Reporter

While North America's airports groan under the weight of another sea-change in security protocols, one word keeps popping out of the mouths of experts: Israelification.

That is, how can we make our airports more like Israel's, which deal with far greater terror threat with far less inconvenience.

"It is mindboggling for us Israelis to look at what happens in North America, because we went through this 50 years ago," said Rafi Sela, the president of AR Challenges, a global transportation security consultancy. He's worked with the RCMP, the U.S. Navy Seals and airports around the world.

"Israelis, unlike Canadians and Americans, don't take s--- from anybody. When the security agency in Israel (the ISA) started to tighten security and we had to wait in line for — not for hours — but 30 or 40 minutes, all hell broke loose here. We said, 'We're not going to do this. You're going to find a way that will take care of security without touching the efficiency of the airport."

That, in a nutshell is "Israelification" - a system that protects life and limb without annoying you to death.

Fliers urged to opt out of airport security en masse

Despite facing dozens of potential threats each day, the security set-up at Israel's largest hub, Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion Airport, has not been breached since 2002, when a passenger mistakenly carried a handgun onto a flight. How do they manage that?

"The first thing you do is to look at who is coming into your airport," said Sela.

The first layer of actual security that greets travellers at Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion International Airport is a roadside check. All drivers are stopped and asked two questions: How are you? Where are you coming from?

"Two benign questions. The questions aren't important. The way people act when they answer them is," Sela said.

Officers are looking for nervousness or other signs of "distress" — behavioural profiling. Sela rejects the argument that profiling is discriminatory.

"The word 'profiling' is a political invention by people who don't want to do security," he said. "To us, it doesn't matter if he's black, white, young or old. It's just his behaviour. So what kind of privacy am I really stepping on when I'm doing this?"

Once you've parked your car or gotten off your bus, you pass through the second and third security perimeters.

Armed guards outside the terminal are trained to observe passengers as they move toward the doors, again looking for odd behaviour. At Ben Gurion's half-dozen entrances, another layer of security are watching. At this point, some travellers will be randomly taken aside, and their person and their luggage run through a magnometer.

"This is to see that you don't have heavy metals on you or something that looks suspicious," said Sela.

You are now in the terminal. As you approach your airline check-in desk, a trained interviewer takes your passport and ticket. They ask a series of questions: Who packed your luggage? Has it left your side?

"The whole time, they are looking into your eyes — which is very embarrassing. But this is one of the ways they figure out if you are suspicious or not. It takes 20, 25 seconds," said Sela.

Lines are staggered. People are not allowed to bunch up into inviting targets for a bomber who has gotten this far.

At the check-in desk, your luggage is scanned immediately in a purpose-built area. Sela plays devil's advocate — what if you have escaped the attention of the first four layers of security, and now try to pass a bag with a bomb in it?

"I once put this question to Jacques Duchesneau (the former head of the Canadian Air Transport Security Authority): say there is a bag with play-doh in it and two pens stuck in the play-doh. That is 'Bombs 101' to a screener. I asked Ducheneau, 'What would you do?' And he said, 'Evacuate the terminal.' And I said, 'Oh. My. God.'

"Take Pearson. Do you know how many people are in the terminal at all times? Many thousands. Let's say I'm (doing an evacuation) without panic — which will never happen. But let's say this is the case. How long will it take? Nobody thought about it. I said, 'Two days.'"

A screener at Ben-Gurion has a pair of better options.

First, the screening area is surrounded by contoured, blast-proof glass that can contain the detonation of up to 100 kilos of plastic explosive. Only the few dozen people within the screening area need be removed, and only to a point a few metres away.

Second, all the screening areas contain 'bomb boxes'. If a screener spots a suspect bag, he/she is trained to pick it up and place it in the box, which is blast proof. A bomb squad arrives shortly and wheels the box away for further investigation.

"This is a very small simple example of how we can simply stop a problem that would cripple one of your airports," Sela said.

Five security layers down: you now finally arrive at the only one which Ben-Gurion Airport shares with Pearson — the body and hand-luggage check.

"But here it is done completely, absolutely 180 degrees differently than it is done in North America," Sela said.

"First, it's fast — there's almost no line. That's because they're not looking for liquids, they're not looking at your shoes. They're not looking for everything they look for in North America. They just look at you," said Sela. "Even today with the heightened security in North America, they will check your items to death. But they will never look at you, at how you behave. They will never look into your eyes ... and that's how you figure out the bad guys from the good guys."

That's the process — six layers, four hard, two soft. The goal at Ben-Gurion is to move fliers from the parking lot to the airport lounge in a maximum of 25 minutes.

This doesn't begin to cover the off-site security net that failed so spectacularly in targeting would-be Flight 253 bomber Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab — intelligence. In Israel, Sela said, a coordinated intelligence gathering operation produces a constantly evolving series of threat analyses and vulnerability studies.

"There is absolutely no intelligence and threat analysis done in Canada or the United States," Sela said. "Absolutely none."

But even without the intelligence, Sela maintains, Abdulmutallab would not have gotten past Ben Gurion Airport's behavioural profilers.

So. Eight years after 9/11, why are we still so reactive, so un-Israelified?

Working hard to dampen his outrage, Sela first blames our leaders, and then ourselves.

"We have a saying in Hebrew that it's much easier to look for a lost key under the light, than to look for the key where you actually lost it, because it's dark over there. That's exactly how (North American airport security officials) act," Sela said. "You can easily do what we do. You don't have to replace anything. You have to add just a little bit — technology, training. But you have to completely change the way you go about doing airport security. And that is something that the bureaucrats have a problem with. They are very well enclosed in their own concept."

And rather than fear, he suggests that outrage would be a far more powerful spur to provoking that change.

"Do you know why Israelis are so calm? We have brutal terror attacks on our civilians and still, life in Israel is pretty good. The reason is that people trust their defence forces, their police, their response teams and the security agencies. They know they're doing a good job. You can't say the same thing about Americans and Canadians. They don't trust anybody," Sela said. "But they say, 'So far, so good'. Then if something happens, all hell breaks loose and you've spent eight hours in an airport. Which is ridiculous. Not justifiable

"But, what can you do? Americans and Canadians are nice people and they will do anything because they were told to do so and because they don't know any different."

Black and White - or Maybe Gray

I had a professor in college who attacked cliches in our written assignments with a red pen and exclamation points. Through their overuse, he felt cliches had lost all meaning.

I have noticed over the years that not only have they lost meaning, but sometimes we use them incorrectly, or we use them without any appreciation of what they were intended to mean.

My favorite example is "I could care less." In today's New York Times, I noticed that Melinda Gates, co-head of the family foundation, said her husband Bill "Couldn't care less" that he had dropped to number two on the list of the world's wealthiest people. Way to go, Melinda - I appreciate her appropriate use of the cliche. And I am sure Bill could not care less if he has a few billion more or less than Carlos Slim Helu of Mexico.

Another misused cliche is "for all intensive purposes." I think the user means to say, "for all intents and purposes," but maybe would be better dropping the phrase altogether.

"You cease to amaze me" is often confused with the phrase "you never seem to amaze me," neither of which contains the wonder of the correct use of the cliche, "You never cease to amaze me." Maybe we would be even more amazed if you "nipped it in the butt." Seems a little intimate to me.

In Friday's Sun-Times, Pat Bruno wrote in response to a reader's question, "The Purple Pig is one of those restaurants you either love or hate. I am somewhere in the middle." Either "Love 'em or Hate 'em" has now entered the cliche hall of fame, or Pat is telling readers that while they must love or hate the restaurant, Pat lays special claim to being in the middle.

Does Pat have an editor? Is anybody reading this copy?

Black Pucka

Some days, around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon, I see an elderly african-american gentleman on our corner. He parks his car and takes out a folding chair to sit in. The chair is high, and he sets it up at the back of the car and looks over the car over to Agassiz Public School. He is well dressed, usually with a nice cardigan sweater and wool pants, and in the cooler fall afternoons he has started wearing a nice brown fedora which hides his silver hair. His silver mustache is still visible from beneath the hat.

I have tried to catch his eye from time to time to say hello, but his eyes are intent on the school as he waits for his grandkids. After seeing him a few times, I have started to build up in my mind this whole fantasy world about him. While I never have seen the kids, I imagined they would be thrilled to see him, just as Donny and Emily were always happy to see their Pucka after a hard day at Latin. I imagined him having these wonderful conversations with them as he drives them home to their parents. Who knows, maybe he lives with them and watches them as well. And with Allyson watching Carter these days, the entire scene brings back nostalgic, happy memories for me. In my mind, I have started calling him Black Pucka.

I don't see Black Pucka every day, but every day I see him, it gives my heart a little lift. Black Pucka reminds me of the good old days of Our Pucka and our kids when they were little. It reminds me of the circle of life, and how in some strange way, while I don't believe in reincarnation, I believe that the patterns of our lives are repeated and played out in many ways. And just as Our Pucka had his routines that we all grew used to, Black Pucka has his little routines, like his high stadium chair, that bring color to the lives of his grandkids. I even imagine the other parents and caretakers seeing Black Pucka and knowing that all is right with the world.

Today, Black Pucka was not on the corner as I went out for an errand around 4 pm. I walked north on Seminary, and saw a little african-american girl dancing on the sidewalk. As I walked closer, I saw that she was making faces at a kid in the back seat. She was either teasing him or trying to make him laugh. She danced around, made faces, waved at him. And then, the driver side door opened, and out of the car came Black Pucka! I finally got to see Black Pucka in action, watch his interaction with his grandchildren, see the great man as he performed the duties that, while appearing mundane, are critical to the kids' happiness and the functioning of a well-run household. Black Pucka in the flesh!

As he approached his granddaughter, I finally heard Black Pucka speak. His voice was a low, rumbling bass, from deep within his chest. He looked at his grandaughter and said in that low, deep voice, "Leave that motherfucker alone".

I guess there are more differences between Our Pucka and Black Pucka than just the color of their skin.

Summer in South Haven

Summer has officially arrived in South Haven.

The pool is open.

The weather this weekend was perfect - no hotter than 76 degrees. Sunny all day, cool at night.  This has been the best weather Memorial Day weekend I can recall.  Absolutely perfect.

I ran yesterday from the Haven to Avalon.  Avalon is in the water and looks ready to cruise. Allyson walked to the light house.  Summer is here.

We discovered a new restaurant in Fennville, "Salt of the  Earth," which is our new Michigan favorite.  They had a group tonight performing Lyle Lovett and blues tunes.  The food is amazing.  We shared a White Chicken pizza with bacon.  Allyson had pappardelle, Donny Gnocchi, and I braised pork shoulder with polenta and a side of brussel sprouts that were to die for.  They also have a nice wine list, with a killer $8 glass of Three Sisters zinfandel that made the music all that more enjoyable.

We went to Doug and Michael's for their inaugural summer party and connected with a number of old friends.

The stereo is working, with a mix of Allyson and Don tunes competing for attention.

We hosted an evening with Bill and Tory, Leslie and Mark last night. Just appetizers and conversation on the deck as we watched the sun set.  Summer is here.

We are getting the place ready.  Screens on the porch go up tomorrow Morning.  We are working out some winter kinks.  All in all, the house held up well during the winter.  Now, the flowers are coming in, the chives are growing in the herb pots, and the trees are providing shade.

Grace is adjusting to life as a single puppy.  She doesn't run like a little maniac on speed, but she did enjoy a little time on the beach. She ran into the water, enjoying the lake and the gentle lap of the waves.  Summer is here in South Haven.

We can't wait to see you all.

What GTM Are You?

If I were a Springer-Verlag Graduate Text in Mathematics, I would be  W.B.R. Lickorish's An Introduction to Knot Theory. I am an introduction to mathematical Knot Theory; the theory of knots and links of simple closed curves in three-dimensional space. I consist of a selection of topics which graduate students have found to be a successful introduction to the field. Three distinct techniques are employed;  Geometric Topology Manoeuvres, Combinatorics, and Algebraic Topology. Which Springer GTM would you be? The Springer GTM Test

In Memoriam: Crissy

Crissy was part of our family for the past twelve years. He passed away on March 6, 2010, in Allyson and my arms after a diagnosis of lung cancer.

Crissy was our family's first dog. He was always wonderful with the kids when they were little. He suffered through our early mistakes, as first puppies do, leading to regrets of what we could have done better. All in all, though, he seemed very happy living with us.

Crissy spent most of his days sitting on his dog bed in the family room, staring out at the back yard. He would rouse himself, barking, when someone rang the doorbell, or if he saw a rabbit or rat in the back yard. His favorite daytime activities were his walks. He ran to the front door, sometimes shaking with excitement until he got out to the sidewalk, and then marched along, sniffing and watching. No weather deterred him from enjoying the time outdoors. We felt good about engaging the services of Paws Claws and More, and he enjoyed his daily walks with Gracie and our dogwalkers, Betsy, Claire, Chris and Sam.

When I would sit at the dining room table for dinner, or while reading my Sunday paper, Crissy would come up to me and push his head into my right hand, persisting until I gave in and petted him. At times, he wanted to be petted for over an hour, shifting his body so that different parts of his body were scratched without me moving my arm. His favorite scratch was in his ears, a special treat.

In his later years, I would lift him up on Emily's bed, holding his outside legs while flipping him on his side before scratching his haunches. Crissy would stretch his neck out and smile, enjoying the bedtime attention.

Crissy was extremely well-behaved, but had naughty moments. He once jumped on the kitchen table and ate food we had left out for our niece. He also liked to sneak into the pantry and steal doggie treats. His only other fault was bad breath. Licks from Crissy were particularly hard to take, as his breath could knock you out.

Crissy also loved rides in the car. He would run to the door, jump up on the back seat, and then try to climb in the front. While we drove, he would stare out the window, occasionally barking at passing dogs, but otherwise content just to take in the scenery.

My favorite memories of Crissy will be the times we shared in the back yard at our house in South Haven. He loved the freedom of running as fast and as hard as he could, no leash to restrain him, chasing Gracie or his next-door neighbor friends, Shelby, Sadie, Murphy and Cooper. When he tired, Crissy would lay down in the grass, his front paws crossed regally in front of him, observing the antics of the other puppies. He loved his walks in South Haven even more than in Chicago.

Crissy lived a good life. His decline was mercifully sudden, but he left us before we were ready to say goodbye. We miss him terribly, and look forward to the day when we can watch him run in endless fields, playing with his friends and then panting from exhaustion, only rousing himself to poke his head into our hands, demanding scratches and attention.

Paperwork

I was waiting to cross LaSalle Street at Madison during this past week's driving snow when the gentleman next to me stepped into the path of a car running a red light.

I grabbed the soft elbow of his tan cashmere overcoat and firmly pulled him back. He whipped his head around to look at me accusingly, then turned to see the cell-phoned woman piloting the errant Camry, clueless to the world, through the snow-covered intersection. He turned his head back to me, his face filled with gratitude and apology. "Oh my God. Thank you."

I looked at him and with a mixture of paternalism and amiability crowed, "Don't worry about it. Do you know how much paperwork I have to fill out if I see some guy killed in an intersection?"

The woman next to him burst into laughter. He looked at me with bewilderment. And I walked off, content in my role as slayer of bureaucracy and thwarter of young women more concerned with cell phones than murder.