Last week, for the first time since they put the new backscatter machines in, I was directed to one. Like my colleague, I refused to go through, less because I'm afraid of the radioactivity than because if I have to suffer indignity in the name of security, I want a blushing, uncomfortable security officer suffering through it along with me. And like Mr. Goldberg, I was distinctly unimpressed by the thoroughness of the search. They took longer explaining to me that they were going to touch my breasts and buttocks, than actually conducting the search. Suffice it to say that if I had been a terrorist, I could have been smuggling quite a bit of contraband.
You'll never hear the whirring sound of a projector again.