Profiling

Stereotypes exist for a reason.

Since 9/11 the use of patterns to identify or represent a class of people has taken on the decidedly more controversial label of “Profiling.”

Right or wrong, it’s a useful time-saving device.

A drag queen carries a certain distinction they embrace in a manner I find liberating as their grandiose expression of the feminine gives me permission to do the same.

(My husband looks at me askance when I say this because I most often resemble a windswept beach urchin.)

It’s not likely you’ll find a man who sports a wife-beater and drives a truck with a Colonial flag plastered across the back window in their audience. He just might be a redneck and, stereotypically, not the ideal target audience for drag queens or Democratic campaigns.

Guys laced with tatts, sun-bleached hair and a helluva tan might be a little more laid back about the whole thing, perhaps so laid back they might forget to show up at all when a south swell rolls in, dude.

Blond flight attendant? Bimbo.
Middle-eastern male? Ah, here we go.

An acquaintance of mine is of middle-eastern descent, early 30s. He complains that every time he goes through security, he is subject to profiling. His latest Facebook entry? “They wouldn’t let me bring my gun through security… WTF?”
Idiot.

PROFILING AT AIRPORT SECURITY

We could have avoided years of unnecessary harassment at airport security if the tree-huggers hadn’t made a federal case of being non-offensive to people of particular race, religion and gender. That’s right–

The same group of folks guilty of not using deodorant in public places are worried about being offensive to others.

Profiling could have saved Grandma from embarrassing government pat-downs that revealed the only load she was packing was in her Depends. My own mother who has crippling arthritis in her knees and weebles like a wobble used to get pulled aside for additional scrutiny. A special Olympian stood a better chance of rushing the flight deck.

Newer regulations permit those born before 1937 to leave their shoes on. It took eleven years of watching arthritic fingers fumble with laces, buckles and Velcro for our government to finally realize these folks might threaten our patience more than national security?

PROFILING a DATE

After years of being politically correct I’m tossing it aside in favor of profiling.

Last week a co-worker set me up with an Italian man she said was a friend of hers. She described him as a big man who was tall, tan and handsome in a rugged way– the type you can’t help but notice when he walks into a room.

On a Tuesday night in San Diego, a blond flight attendant walks into a bar–

A big Italian man stands up to greet her with a black, silk shirt exposing a gray shag of chest hair upon which is nestled a bike chain. Not a chain resembling a bike chain but an actual bike chain.

Big?

The man looked as if he had swallowed a mozzarella round and it was straining against the few buttons actually being used for their intended purpose.

As he leaned in to air kiss my cheek this protrusion commandeered my personal space while bad cologne mingled with a stale scent I would later discover to be 45 years of smoking embedded in his pores.

As for being a friend of a friend? This man sold her a used car and it wasn’t even a Ferrari.

One word could have prevented this regrettable evening:
Guido.