Maybe soon was too strong a word to use re: this, the second installment of the Saga of the BSoT at the IBC. (See previous installment below.)

Where was I? Oh, yes in the Memphis International Airport awaiting our luggage.

Next to arrive at Memphis International were members of our ground support team; the Rapier brothers, Big Ma'akl E and Brother Rick, in the jaunty company of Larry 'Blue LEW' Wagoner and 'Honey Boy' Bill Janssen, (aka the Swami). They had come from Illinois, Arizona, and Colorado to throw in their support, join in on the camaraderie and get away from their wives. (Ohp. No, just kidding). The more the merrier. Big manly hugs and introductions all around! It was obvious that we were going to need all the support we could muster just to recover our luggage and get out of the airport.

Brother Rick, wearing the cloak of video-documentarian, began taping everything, including the announcement from Dafu and Aki that Kiki, the Japanese-American baggage clerk, had determined that our luggage had more than likely been loaded onto the flight from Houston following ours. This made sense even to our travel-addled brains as our transit through George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston had been hectic to say the least. We only had to wait another hour to find out if Kiki was right or just blowing jasmine-scented smoke.

In the meantime, we wearily watched as other IBC-bound musicians collected their axes, grips and valises and left for their accommodations. It was time to take decisive action and dispel the auguries of gloom by bolstering the ol' blood sugar level. "Lets get something to eat." Not exactly a clarion call but it sufficed. Off we trudged in search of food.

(Our transit through Houston is worth an aside. (In this case, a detour.) It was where we nearly lost 3 members of BoPoMoFo - namely Klaus, Aki and Dafu - to the US Department of Homeland Security Department (Heimatsicherheitsabteilung in the original German) for failing to write the complete street address on their embarkation cards of our West Memphis hotel.

Klaus escaped after only half an hour with the assistance of a uniformed DHS officer. (A deal was made involving duty-free cigarettes.) Aki and Dafu were not so fortunate. They were told they would have to go to another part of the airport to use a computer terminal. They would then be required to find the hotels address on the internet and after amending their immigration document, return to the same immigration desk for the documents to be re-examined. After going through this rigmarole - the nearest computer terminal was conveniently placed about half a league from the immigration stations - they returned to the same desk as they had been instructed to do by the very same DHS officer who now curtly informed them that she was going to lunch and that they would have to go to the back of the line and wait for the next available officer. Tough toenails.

(Question: How does one say 'self-important bureaucratic bitch' in Japanese?

Answer: One doesn't. To utter such words would be dishonorable. The proper action would be a downward slash with the katana entering between the right shoulder and the neck, passing through the spine and exiting just below the ribcage on the left side, leaving the heart relatively undamaged so that it might pump blood twice more to the brain of the self-important bureaucratic bitch so that she might experience an epiphany whereby she understands, at last, her place in the world, thus restoring honor to both parties.)

Ah, the good old days.

I have never seen Dafu so agitated as when he and Aki emerged from the bowels of the beast that is Homeland Security. All in all, it took them nearly an hour to clear immigration, leaving us scant minutes to claim and re-check our luggage, pass through security and scurry to the gate for our connecting flight to Memphis.

The likelihood that we'd catch our flight jibed with reality not at all. Undaunted, we headed for baggage claim. After collecting our bags, passing them through the maw of a ponderous monster scanning machine, Transportation Security Administration officers scowling at us through every step, we fidgeted in the waiting line before getting the call to re-check our stuff. The baggage clerk deftly rolled his eyes about the number of over-sized bags we were schlepping around. We quickly related our predicament. He nodded in feigned concern and commiserated with polite platitudes about the caprices of air travel while going about his task. Then, with the whimsical air of a fairy god-mother, despite what he plainly perceived was the futility of our efforts, he told us we'd better hurry, wished us good luck and sent us traipsing ing up the escalator with our carry-on bags.

There, waiting at the top of the escalator, was a serpentine queue of more than a hundred bedraggled travelers inching through the cattle maze towards yet another security checkpoint where each was required to partially disrobe, and reveal the contents of their carry-on items to the ever-present TSA officers. One officer, a huge brute with a Marine Corp boot-camp haircut, holding a sandwich-sized baggie aloft, continually bellowed a poorly rehearsed warning in heavily, Texas-drawled English about the maximum size of containers of liquids permitted on the flight. ("The 3-1-1 rule limits the volume of liquids, gels and aerosols to bottles 3 ounces or smaller (or 100 ml), in 1 quart-sized zip top bag; 1 bag per traveler. If you are not compliant with this regulation you are required to dispose of the liquid in question before you will be allowed to clear this security check. And then tortured. ")

 Huh!?

It was only after the third time through his hoarse, vociferous recitation that I finally got the gist of the message. Dafu got the message too late. The TSA agents held up his contraband of hand cream in an over-sized bottle at which for all there to scowl their disapproval and mutter their disdain. "Dont you unnerstand plain American, Boy?" (No, the agents didn't actually say those words but that was the sub-text of their brusquely huffed demands to comply with nonsensical regulations.) Dafu turned to me in exasperation for translation and assistance. "I just bought this cream and it's expensive. He said." "Toss it, Dafu. Lets catch our plane." Going head-to-head with dour uniformed apparatchiks is never an advised endeavor. We would have another time to fight the good fight for freedom and personal toiletries.

As luck would have it, during our descent into the fourth level of hell via the machinations of Homeland Security and the TSA, a heavy rainfall had delayed our flight long enough to give us a slim chance of getting onboard. (You can almost taste the dramatic tension, can't you?) Despite our not having properly trained for the 10-Furlong Indoor Luggage-toting Event, we made it to the gate before the airplane had fired up its engines. The shuttle bus to the little puddle-hopper of a plane had already left, however, and the gate was locked.

As luck would have it, a minor airport deity beheld our plight, saw that we were good and intervened on our behalf. We were told we would be permitted to board the plane. That's when I nearly stuck my foot in it. I asked with a distinct jocularity whether we were expected to run out to the plane.

Ooops! Warning, Will Robinson!

The gate warden's eyes widened dramatically as she reached for her walkie-talkie and puffed up to full height: a clear sign of aggression and imminent attack. We backed away slowly, maintaining eye contact, murmuring calming sounds and nodding in respectful submission. She backed off from her aggressive stance while we boarded the shuttle and headed across the tarmac to the tiny commuter plane. We sheepishly took our assigned seats as the stew closed the hatch. We'd made our flight to Memphis with only a couple of minor international incidents. All we'd lost was a little time. And a bottle of body lotion.

The US owes you, Dafu!)

More to come...