by David Seaman

Wil Wheaton wrote of his unpleasant TSA experience right on this very blog back in April, 2011:

“I believe that the choice we are currently given by the American government when we need to fly is morally wrong, unconstitutional, and does nothing to enhance passenger safety.

I further believe that when I choose to fly, I should not be forced to choose between submitting myself to a virtually-nude scan (and exposing myself to uncertain health risks due to radiation exposure*), or enduring an aggressive, invasive patdown where a stranger puts his hands in my pants, and makes any contact at all with my genitals.

When I left the security screening yesterday, I didn’t feel safe. I felt violated, humiliated, assaulted, and angry. I felt like I never wanted to fly again. I was so furious and upset, my hands shook for quite some time after the ordeal was over. I felt sick to my stomach for hours.”

Why write something original when Wheaton’s feelings mirror my own so precisely?

On a January 31st flight to New York for business (the videocast), I turned down the backscatter x-ray machine. I did so because, as I’ve written about before, the safety of these new machines is entirely up for debate: they’ve been banned in the European Union, and there’s some evidence the TSA and others have been lying (or simply don’t know) the true level of radiation exposure one experiences when going through the zapper, or “rape-scan” machine, as it’s affectionately known by frequent business travelers.

As per TSA regulations, I was subjected to an “alternative” — a full-body patdown, which fell somewhere on the scale from extremely thorough to molestation. Did a male stranger rub my groin? Yup.

Then the TSA agent swabbed my clothes and fed it into some Idiocracy machine; the machine started buzzing and coughed up a print-out. My clothes had, according to the agent, come back positive for explosive chemicals. Umm, okay. I challenged this, and he shrugged, saying they don’t know what I do in my spare time*. Zing!

At this point, I was escorted (along with my belongings) to a dark, small TSA “screening” room for a second patdown: more invasive than the first one, firmer rubbing on my privates, and not by a Victoria’s Secret angel or Suicide Girl, either.

Thoroughly humiliated and de-humanized, I was given the all-clear. The agent noticed my MacBook and helpfully noted that there was free wi-fi in the airport.

This needs to end. This is un-American. This is unconstitutional, on a variety of levels. This makes us look bad on the global stage. This doesn’t make us safer. This makes me angry. This makes me feel powerless. This makes me want to travel less (after my New York visit ends, I don’t plan to travel by air for the rest of the year — voting with your wallet is one way to vote).

And the only thing that makes me shake with anger and humiliation more than my private TSA screening room experience are the handful of Americans who believe TSA is a “necessary evil,” or even a GOOD thing. Yesterday wasn’t the first time I’ve been groped by TSA agents. But it was the last. I just can’t stomach flying until this agency is de-funded, dismantled, and scrapped. We can do better as a nation**.

I’ll leave you with this oft-quoted Ben Franklin insight: “Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”

* [This happened to a friend whom I was traveling with, who was a singer with a well known band, and clearly not a terrorist. She had recently put on hand cream before going through enhanced “smart” security, and was flagged for further screening after the handle of her bag was swabbed and electronically sniffed. The TSA officer on hand, who was rather polite and helpful, apologetically explained that their chemical sniffer machines can’t tell the difference between glycerin (as used in common garden hand creams and soaps) and nitroglycerin (as used in common garden explosives), and thus she’d been picked out for additional screening because she was guilty of moisturizing. The moral of this story: moisturize (or wash for that matter) at your own risk before flying. – Ed!]

** Even the TSA’s founder, Rep. John Mica (R. -Fla.), has gone on record as saying “the whole thing is a complete fiasco” and should be scrapped (source).

David Seaman is an independent journalist. He has been a lively guest on CNN Headline News, FOX News, ABC News Digital, among others, and on his humble YouTube channel, DavidSeamanOnline. Some say he was recently censored by a certain large media corporation for posting a little too much truth… For more, find him on G+ and Twitter.

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Is Obama Avoiding Awkward Questions About The NDAA?
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Jive Suicide in Royal Blue

• INTO: Singing, beauty, tattoos, photos, clothes, music history, video games, independence, art/posters in frames, blah blah blah.
• NOT INTO: Posters not in frames.
• MAKES ME HAPPY: Trees.
• MAKES ME SAD: All the fucked up shit on planet Earth.
• HOBBIES: Music stuff and documenting it and walking everywhere.
• 5 THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: Food, water, shelter, music, and double cheeseburgers from Smacky D’s.
• VICES: Pot. Mmmmmm.
• I SPEND MOST OF MY FREE TIME: Sleeping or eating.

Get to know Jive better over at SuicideGirls.com!

by Blogbot

Artist / SG Member Name: Dylan Borgman / Seahorse

Mission Statement: I decided on portraiture a long time ago at an art museum. I realized how every time I’d look at a painting the first thing I’d ask myself is who is this person and why did someone take the time to paint them? People are fascinated by each other. What are they doing? Why are they doing that? The answer to that can often be found in the person’s face.

That’s how I fell down the rabbit hole. I started painting large oil paintings of people caught in the middle of awkward expressions. My paintings were imposing and bizarre, and while I liked the darkness and the strangeness I could convey with paint, it also dragged me down emotionally. Eventually, I decided that my scope was too narrow and that I wanted to try depicting other emotions you don’t see every day like arousal. So my work suddenly took a turn into photographing Suicide Girls.

It’s not such a strange transition. I’ve always also been a professional photographer. I base my paintings on photography, and ever since I began painting, I’ve been working with real people in uncomfortable situations. What I like about working with Suicide Girls in comparison to most of the so-called “erotic” models is that most of them have no formal modeling training and unlike most gigs, SG lets the community voice their opinions before a model is accepted so you end up with a lot of very motivated, courageous, and unique individuals.

A few months ago, an illustrator and friend of mine, Steve Curucu, who does a lot of nudes, even some with SG’s, inspired me to try another stab at painting. So that’s what I’ve been experimenting with the past few months with some very interesting results.

Medium: I started in oils working on a large scale. Most of my paintings are six feet wide or larger. Then later I got used to a Wacom tablet. Now I use both. My digital artwork is a blend of photography, illustration, and painting, but I don’t limit myself by medium either. I weld, I work with beads, wire, rope, origami, I sculpt in clay, I program, I sew, I develop, I write – the list goes on. And of course I’m a photographer, that’s the other side of my creative life.

Aesthetic: My painting aesthetics tend toward Joseph Turner, Vincent Van Gogh, Chuck Close, and Rembrandt. It’s worth mentioning that they all share the virtue of being incredible color theorists, which is something I aspire to be. CF Payne was a local artist where I grew up and he was a big inspiration for me. His work is photographically based, and he works with multiple mediums layered one on top of another to create beautiful portraits. Illustrators also play a big part of my aesthetic. People like Bill Watterson, Ralph Steadman, and of course my father who is a cartoonist as well, all played a seminal role in getting me interested in art in the first place.

Notable Achievements: My work has been shown at the Cincinnati Museum of Art and the Montgomery Art Center in Claremont, and I received the Golden Galaxy Award in 2001. Articles about me and my work have appeared in The Cincinnati Enquirer, The Cincinnati Post, Cincinnati Magazine, and Fixie Magazine.

Why We Should Care: I think people intrinsically care about art. You don’t have to tell someone to appreciate a beautiful painting; they do it on their own. I’ve come to the conclusion that for me, art is about communicating to others the emotional energy of a moment that I have experienced. That’s why I use strong colors and iconic expressions. If I’ve done this successfully then others will care because it reminds them of their own feelings or experiences. It’s also why I like SuicideGirls. It’s a community of extremely creative people communicating with one another visually as I do.

I Want Me Some: If you’re interested in prints or originals contact dylan@dylanborgman.com or go to my web site DylanBorgman.com and click “contact.”

[..]

by Laurelin

There are a lot of things I remember about certain people, and a lot of things I’m sure I forget. A lot of the things I remember I wish I didn’t, some things make me smile, things remind me that I’m human, that things change, people change. I remember tracing outlines, wanting my fingertips to remember every dimple, every muscle line, every tattoo. I remember smells, sounds, songs playing before I drift off to sleep, songs playing in clubs when our eyes meet across the dance floor and I can just breathe in a beat. But always with these memories, I remember that things change.

I feel like I have already lived a lifetime of change when it comes to my friend Ben. I remember the first time I ever saw him, a fleeting moment of eye contact in a filthy frat house and I thought, “who is THAT…” and he was gone, and it didn’t matter because whoever he was, this was my boyfriend’s frat house. Ben and I wouldn’t talk much that summer, but I always remembered him.

Fast-forward to a year later, long after my boyfriend and I had broken up, and I was turning 21. It was a Tuesday night, and as the lights flashed for last call at my first bar my best friend Lisa ran up to me. I was drunker than I’d ever been before, and she was smiling as she gestured towards the door.

“I found him,” she said, “for your birthday. I found him, that guy from the frat house.” And there he was, she had found him somehow, and that was the beginning. It was a fairy tale in a sense, a sorority girl in a pink lettered sweatshirt and a smirking sarcastic guy with tattoos, something that didn’t make such sense but would be all and none of the sense I knew from then on.

It seems so far off now, but all those year ago I did love him, or I thought I did. We dated, we were inseparable, we would hit a rough patch and take a break. We would fight, like really fight; screaming and crying, nights where I would just want to die if he wouldn’t speak to me again. I did things that I haven’t done since and will never do again, things I can’t even say out loud let alone type. I am the most ambitious person I know, but I remember I wrote him a letter, saying that I could lay with him forever and be happy with everything I never did. Time stood still and moved like liquid at the same time. It wasn’t right, perfect to no one else but me. Then one day, he was gone.

When I say gone, I mean gone. Years together and then just gone, disappeared, fallen off the planet. It was one year almost to the day until I heard from him again. I can’t say what happened in that year; but finally, after indescribable hurt, I was eventually healing. Everything that’s happened to me since that moment has seemed like nothing I can’t conquer, every break up since then has been tough, but almost laughable. It was the longest year of my life, and then one day, it was over. 12 months later I looked down at the glow of my flip phone and recognized his number. I should have known better than to answer it I’m sure, but the apology on the other end of the phone was really a long time coming.

Add a few more years, a lot of bad choices (meeting his father for the first time while I was drunk at work at a strip club in a naughty nurse uniform), and a few good choices (endless concerts, dancing all night, swimming at the beach by moonlight, traveling to Ireland together) and we somehow found ourselves over the worst, over the on and off dating and finally, just plain friends. I don’t know when I stopped loving him, but somewhere along the line I finally found ME, and I realized that while I had always thought there was no me without him, that wasn’t the case at all.

Ten years later he would have the perfect description of what happened to us between now and then: “You moved to Boston, you found this life, this strong personality and you stopped being that small town girl from Rhode Island, that girl who just wanted someone to love her.” Our strong personalities clash, and one afternoon a few weeks ago I made a call, and he must have recognized my number. Ten years later, after yet another year of not speaking, I’m finally looking at him from across my bar. We’re both smirking with tattoos now, and I see our life together in a blur of colors, sounds, hurt feelings, songs and traced outlines. We order a round of shots and I rest my head on his shoulder, finally with my best friend again after all this time.

“How do you guys know each other?” my friend asks, pulling up a bar stool. Ben and I look at each other.

“It’s a long story,” I say, smiling.

[..]