I Love Flying On Private Jets
A Missive For Travelers and Why The TSA Is Utter Bullshit

I love flying on private jets, or I would if I could afford to. I have had the opportunity to do so on a couple occasions, and the experience generally went like this:
I arrive at the private terminal expecting to pass through a TSA check point and can't find it. I push open the double glass doors and find myself in a well appointed lobby, with sheer glass on the runway side of things. The vista greeting me is one of all manner of jets, from small Lears to to those as large as passenger planes. Off in the distance, I can see the public, commercial airline terminal, which shares the same runway and can imagine, based on experience, the turmoil within its halls and waiting lounges. Here, the atmosphere is serene.
A uniformed attendant comes up to me and asks whether she can help me. I explain my being there and who I am waiting for and she nods, politely, and tells me someone will come to get me when my ride is ready. Hesitantly, I ask about security. She smiles and gently informs me, immediately understanding that I'm a neophyte to this world, that there is no security, no TSA, no private agency, that will impede my journey from the lobby to the tarmac and onto my plane. I help myself to a danish and a glass of wine, I know, a strange combination, and its only 10 in the morning, but hell, why not. I'm living large.
Before long, a guy with a hat, clearly a pilot, approaches to let me know my flight is ready and grabs my bag. We leave the building, cross the tarmac and board the plane, one of the little jets, and off we go. Faster than a speeding bullet, or almost as fast as a speeding bullet, we dash across the skies, awash in wine, whiskey and ample nourishment, until we begin our descent to our destination, land and taxi up to the private terminal, an almost cloned version of the one I had taken off from. We disembark, the pilot hands me my bag, thanks me and out of the terminal I go. There is no security checkpoint to pass through on arrival. I learned later that the only private facilities requiring security for private jet passengers are those located in the DC area.
I briefly contemplated bringing a bazooka and maybe a couple pounds of pot on my next sojourn in the world of private aviation, not for any other reason than that I could.
My next flying experience was, of course, commercial. The experience was somewhat different:
I arrived at the terminal at the suggested time, ninety minutes before my flight was due to depart, and proceeded to the TSA checkpoint. TSA was the airport security agency formed by Little George Bush in the wake of 9/11, ostensibly to ensure that air travel was guaranteed to be safe. Some sixty minutes later, I arrived at the TSA podium and conversed with the security agent there. Our chat went like this:
TSA: Ticket and Identification.
Me: Here.
Me: I have a question.
TSA: What.
Me: Why don't you guys have checkpoints at private aviation facilities that use public runways.
TSA: Because rich people don't blow shit up.
Me: What about Bin Laden, he was pretty rich, wasn't he?
TSA: Hey, asshole, you want to make your flight or do you want to spend the next two days sitting in a room here at the airport.
Me: Where do I go from here?
TSA: Through the scanner. Take of your shoes and belt and empty your pockets.
Most people will know the rest. The good news is that I made it to my boarding gate with five minutes to spare with nary a thought of bringing contraband on my next flight. And, I got a free bottle of water.
The lesson learned is that if you want to cause havoc with a plane, even a jumbo jet, fly private.
True story.




