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So strange to be home before five on a weekday. I actually watched Ellen DeGeneres, who, ironically enough, was filming live from Orlando. Unless it was a repeat. Not bad, that Ellen. It was a tossup between her and Oprah, and I went with her because I'd already seen that story about those two girls who were badly injured in an accident and then confused by their respective families. Didn't want to bum myself out, either. For what it's worth, were I homemaker, I'd watch Ellen every day. Hmm, that's too strong. Every other day. In between diaper changes and laundry washes.

Anyhoo, domestic fantasizing aside, after realizing that I could actually do a blog from my Blackberry two days ago, I was quite pleased with myself. It's a bit of a pain in the ass because it's a tedious type and it's easy to make typos, but there's no beating it when you don't have any immediate Internet access and want to do an entry. I'd intended to do a couple more yesterday, but it ran out of juice and the connection by the pool sucked, so I bagged it.

A couple more words about the trip:

At the conference, I ran into a law school friend I hadn't seen since I graduated. Good guy, incredibly hard worker, and very smart. He was a New York cop who attended law school at night, something I couldn't even fathom doing myself, and ended up graduating #1 in the class. Pretty impressive. He doesn't look the part though. He comes across more like a prototypical New York cop. He's apple-shaped, but not fat, more stocky; and he has these hangdog eyes that light up when he laughs, but look world-weary the rest of the time. He also speaks with a Queens accent, says things like "He's good people" and "How's he doin'," and strangely, for all his accomplishments, he comes off as a little shy. I saw him walking by me in the hotel lobby one night, checked his name tag to make sure it was him -- we all had to wear these dorky name tags around our necks the entire weekend; nothing makes you feel more over the hill than wearing a name tag at an industry conference -- and said Hey.

We caught up over drinks last night at the hotel bar. The last time I saw him, he was involved with a woman who'd graduated the year before us. Her name was Annette. Theirs was an improbable relationship because he's this short, chainsmoking, hardscrabble Queens Italian, and she was this tall, blonde, lithe, and eternally sweet Queens German. He's more hamburger with onions, she's more organic tomato salad. They were total opposites, on the surface. But those Queens roots ran deeper than any superficial differences. She got him to stop smoking, took him to a good barber (pre-Annette, he did the sweep across), and pretty soon, we saw him in button downs and chinos, instead of his preferred t-shirts and jeans. It was a boyfriend makeover of the highest order. As outside observers, we were duly impressed. Many of us, including myself, Shamrock, and my other roommate Austin, harbored secret crushes on Ms. Annette and there was considerable envy and gnashing of teeth when we discovered that our dear friend had snagged her so improbably.

They dated for years after law school, and I'd even heard a rumor that they got married. But last night I didn't see a ring on his hand, so I asked him what ever became of dear Annette? We dated for six years and broke up, he said. What happened? Fear of commitment. Yours or hers? Mine. Oh.

And I realized that I was not alone in the world, but inside I wondered whether even I would have let someone like her get away. What's she doing now? Oh, she's not working anymore, she married a hedge fund trader -- she's living on the Island now, she's got a kid or two, I think. Oh okay. At the tail end of it, I met some girl at work, there was a little "overlap." Oh. They both kept asking me "When are we going to get married, when are we going to get married?!" I felt like I was going crazy, but I kept it up for a year and a half. And you didn't marry either of them? No, but I dated the other one for a few years before we broke up. Now I'm ready to get married, and I can't meet anyone because I'm working my ass off and I never go out.

Funny how life fucks with you like that, cruel, cosmic joke that it is.

Switching gears, my other observation for tonight is the absurdly transparent new program that TSA has going at all the airports. I haven't flown in awhile, so I didn't notice it before. It used to be that going through security was this surly, negative experience. Get 'em in, get 'em out. But now they've taken it upon themselves to engage you in conversation, a little jovial banter, to put you at ease. It's part of their goal to reduce tension at security checkpoints so it'll be easier to notice suspicious behavior. So, on my way through JFK, the TSA dude checks my i.d. and asks me how I'm doing. Fine, a little tired, I say, giving him my stock answer. We make a little small talk, and before it's over he's learned that I'm a lawyer and I'm on my way to Orlando for a conference. Zippety doo da. At the car rental place, the guy asks me if I have my own car in New York, and he learns that yes I do. What kind? BMW. Oh, you drive a Minicooper, that's nice, canIhavemydamnrentalcarpleasenow?

On the way back, the TSA guy in Orlando makes small talk with me again, asks me how I'm doing. What would happen if I said nothing? What if I refused to respond to these inane questions? Would they still let me on the plane? What if I responded in Arabic, with a real serious look on my face? How fun would that be? This all makes me want to learn Arabic, so I can have some fun with these insincere, happy people. It's like when the telemarketers used to call during dinner, and you'd play a game with them by asking them the same questions they asked you: "Good evening sir, this is Dinner Interrupter from Life Insurance Corporation. Do you have life insurance, sir?" "Yes, yes I do. Do YOU have life insurance? Do you have kids? Is your daughter of dating age? Is she single, cuz I'm looking to meet someone. Hello? Hello?"

And if you're like me, and you feel extra paranoid at the airport these days, you have good reason to. Besides the "How Are You Doing" program, TSA agents are walking around the airport in plainclothes, looking for suspicious behavior. One of them just helped arrest that Jamaican whacko in Orlando -- what is it with that airport -- who tried to smuggle pipe bomb-making material onto a plane. It's probably necessary, but it really makes me wonder where we're going with all this security, videocameras, phonetapping, and domestic spying. If my drunken debate with co-workers Sunday night is any indication, Americans don't seem to give a shit about any of it, as long as they're being kept "safe." Who cares if they tap my phone? If I'm not doing anything wrong, I've got nothing to worry about.

I'll bet the average German felt the same way in 1936.