In lieu of summer’s heat and fading springtime gardens… I’ll kick-start my blog with a small injection of opinion. 

Let’s face it, a potpourri of millions from around the continental globe keep commercial airlines booming.  Literally, travelers come in all (luggage) shapes and sizes.  There are devote ‘sky-dancers’ of air travel (mile-high club members not included), those adhered by the obligatory call of employment, and some who abominate the notion of ascension altogether.  A quiet observer, I’m wedged amidst the examples.  Personally, having the backside of my seat jolted for an uncomforting 11-hour flight with connections, isn’t as enticing as the springing joy of my final destination.  Point blank… no matter who you are, or where you’re going, the itinerant demand doesn’t necessarily result in smooth endeavors.  Withdrawing the melodic pitch of Frank Sinatra’s ‘Come Fly with Me’ pulsing in near distraction through the computer screen speakers, of course, I speak for myself. 

There’s simply an abundance of scheming forethought entailed to the break down of ongoing logistics, wishing the process were easier.  Sneaking up on homemade travel charts from hidden corners, and then tackling it as if a piranha to its prey, only leads to the diligence of… packing (cue the scary music).  Throw a pile of yesterday’s laundry in a bag and voila,you’re done.  Well not exactly.  I personify the stereotypical model of femininity, ardently organizing a hoard of Louis Vuitton bags reminiscent of a passenger boarding the Titanic as opposed to an Elite Access Continental.  After nearly a mile of brisk strides through a throng of lengthy corridors, clattering stilettos finally locate the last gate to my predestined terminal.  A design that is assuredly part of some new fitness program.  The airport breathes with hullabaloo as overhead PA systems blare effusively (!) to the beat of its own drummer.  I admit, the multitude of people spatter together a Picasso rendition of business, pleasure, and necessity.  Bold datum contends we are the nameless links of air transportation that saturate beneath a torrent of florescent bulbs and flight delays.  A jungle of paperbacks, multicolored Blackberrys, laptops, iPods, and diverse banter illuminate hastened boarding calls as a modicum of boredom weaves the metaphorical features of departure gates, all passengers all rows… terminal.  Without defense to unwarranted luggage cruelty, enthusiasm flatlines.  Ah, the joys of travel.

My silent scream resonates, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!” before being whisked away to a Houdini-esque disappearance in the blue.

But travelers beware.  If one arrives at the airport obtrusively clad in… oh, I don’t know, perhaps a three-piece suit and top hat ensemble (enter Sebastian Horsley), prepare for a cross-examination of integrity that will not be graded on a curve.  And a shudder befalls beneath the collective gasp of Liberachi enthusiasts!

With that said (and yes… allow me to present a diction of opinion), writers and readers alike shed a bizarre reality to the somewhat grave communal requiem of nonsense and dramatic interest.  For those uninformed…  Sebastian Horsley, British author of the memoir, Dandy in the Underworld, was denied entrance into the United States on Tuesday, March 18, 2008 at Newark International Airport, New Jersey.  Beneath a humid reiteration of editorials, reports continued the beleaguering news, as Horsley (traveling under the Visa Waiver Program) was refuted on grounds of ‘moral turpitude’.  When did humanity become overtly skewed by these overwhelming levels of vainglorious media coverage?  Spin doctoring the situation is to be expected, but it needs an ounce of moderation.  Unsurprisingly, I believe some may negate the larger picture to the voyeuristic milieu of public relation.  Dandyism is tangling the central concern.  Not only was the London writer subjectively denied entrance into the United States, decidedly our federal government maintains regulative legislation over our morality and expiation.

This fantastically flamboyant man, obviously carriages an acute intelligence to the capitalization of personal tribulation (nothing wrong in writing about it), though doubtfully is his book tour a menacing threat.  The conglomerations of devotees marching single-file, a standing ovation to bookstore launches in his tribute, empathetically harvest top hat soirees to the dance of Gheppetto strings.  This is a blatant observation to the reality of visa repudiations, foregoing 8-hour detainments better known as an interrogation of sorts.  But if a daringly unapologetic Sebastian Horsley has not committed a criminal act within the United States, is a peppered lifestyle enough for the federal government to refute travel?  The flippant affect of incident mysteriously concedes unanswered validation to the multitude of questions amassed.  However, the department of United States Customs– depending on the amount of database information– has the justified authority to deny passport stamps.  Not by a long shot is this an extraordinary act for immigration officials and Border Protection to uphold the duty sworn to their country.  Whilst Horsley’s controversial autobiography remains of little concern to the hazards of civilization, it is indeed a spotlight of humility.  This tit-for-tat even sets thematic tone for a subsequent book.  A brazen realism from London to Newark. 

At day’s end, whether your preference is plane, train, or automobile… life’s little adventurous side (!)definitely imparts a story of unexpected moments, which just might involve a bureaucratic twist.

S. A. Harris