I was already running TomDispatch and I couldn't help wondering, somewhat nervously, if my activities had preceded me to the airport. I was directed to another spot in the terminal where I lifted the suitcase onto a table in front of a Transportation Security Administration agent. She promptly unzipped the bag, flipped it open, and front and center, face up atop my folded clothes, was a book that had "Unabomber" in big letters in its title. It felt as if a jolt of electricity had shot through my body and my eyes were bugging out of my head at my obvious stupidity. As if to confirm that feeling, the agent looked stunned, too. We were both silent for a too-long moment, contemplating the reckless passenger who had a book about the Unabomber conspicuously displayed in his bag. Then she said, "How is it?"
It was the last question I expected to hear and I stumbled far too quickly to respond with something like: "I don't know. I haven't read it yet. A newspaper asked me to review it." (All true, but in translation it clearly meant: "Hey, I know this looks terrible, but I'm a reputable book reviewer, not your basic terror-lovin' sorta guy.")