Peter Phillips & Project Censored, "Censored 1998 � The News that Didn�t Make the News"
(This is part 3 of an 18-part story, which begins here. Part 5 is here. And here is where you find part 10. Part 15? Right here. And the end of this entirely too long story is located here. After that, you�re on your own.)
(2:45 p.m. � Oakland Airport � 8th hour.)
I remember as a child going on a plane and having my family walk with me right up to the gate to see me off. Of course, that�s all changed now. Now nobody is allowed past the front security gate without a boarding pass, which has to be cross-referenced with identification.
But the airports themselves, having been built long before hijackings crossed anybody�s mind, are now reversed. Now the shops, the restaurants, the airport bar, and most important, places to sit down, are reserved for those who are about to get on a plane. This is particularly so for the Oakland International Airport. The only areas I can access, seeing how I don�t have an actual ticket, are the baggage claim area, one gift shop, and the afore-mentioned coffee shop/eatery. It takes 738 steps to walk from one side of the airport to the other.
I find a baggage holding area and check in my larger suitcase, deciding to hold on to my backpack. After all, my books are in there. After I pay the lady, she tells me that I need to pick up my bag at 8:45 that night. I ask about keeping it for overnight, but the shop wont open again until 8:00 a.m., which would be after my plane leaves � if I can even get on the plane.
And as for seating, there is nearly nothing accessible. Outside are the concrete benches that have a constant swarm of cars slowly going by, all of which seem to have exhaust problems, and everybody seems to think leaning on their horn will get the line moving faster.
Inside is not much better. There are a few rows of chairs sporadically lining the outer walls, but the idea for this section is to get people in and out as quickly as possible. The chairs are small and uncomfortable and they have a solid bar between each seat to prevent people from spreading out.
I sit on the corner of one seat, leaning my head against the coke machine that is wedged between the rows, trying to read. I had less than three hours of sleep, so occasionally the words fuzzed over and I started to drift off. Inevitably, a siren would go off, signaling the arrival of more baggage, which would then start to belch from the monstrous metal machines with more banging and clattering than seems possible.
Even if I managed to semi-doze during this process, someone would purchase a coke from the machine which I rested my head upon, making the entire outer shell clank and shake with more force that what�s necessary to release a single can of soda.
I notice a new sign placed near the restrooms announcing that the airport lounge is now open. But getting sloshed in an airport bar in the mid-afternoon doesn�t seem like a good idea at the moment, and with my mood I would probably suck down the booze faster than normal. I decide to wait until 4 p.m. before I ventured upstairs.
Big mistake. When I go upstairs I find a quiet, comfortable lounge that has big cushy chairs and two loveseats in the back corner. One person is asleep on these seats, and nobody is bothering him. I order a bloody mary and attempt to do the same. But I�ve also had four cups of coffee since I arrived here, and I can�t seem to keep my eyes closed.
So I read, and the book is, well, rather dull. I like these Project Censored books, but after reading about five other volumes, they start to feel the same. I mean, it stands to figure that if health care was under-reported last year, it will still be under-reported this year. Not much is going to cause an enormous shift on what is considered newsworthy.
Or maybe I�m just cranky. Actually, I�m sure that I am, because I find some old writing in the book that turns out to be the handwriting of my crazy ex-girlfriend, and I seethe at her comments written in the margins.
But I�m starting to relax; the booze and the quiet is helping me counter all the caffeine, and I�m pretty sure I�ll be able to get a good nap in the next half hour. I finish the Censored book and walk up to the bar to order another bloody mary.
�Sorry, we�re closing up in five minutes.�
�What? It�s seven o�clock! What kinda bar closes at 7 p.m.?�
�This one,� he says simply.
About seven of us are finally ejected. I notice the crowd around me, all coming and going, all of them dressed up, some so they can look good for whomever is getting off the plane, others so they can impress whomever they�re off to see.
Meanwhile, I�m looking ragged and worn out. My five o�clock shadow decided to jump past the �Don Johnson Miami Vice look� and leap straight into �The Homeless Chic.� You can see dark circles around my eyes, jutting past the edge of my sunglasses. My hands hang loosely at my side. My hair has moved into a weird amalgamation between Andy Warhol and Thomas Dolby. I walk back to the baggage claim area, lean against my now-familiar coke machine, and shut my eyes.
And immediately a siren blares and luggage spews out from the underground opening.
