We had already seen youngest son off to his concourse, and the wife and I were wandering DIA, waiting for his flight to leave.

Not that we could see it leave... not any more. No, not since non-ticketed persons cannot even enter the concourses. But we both felt like we ought to hang around.

You know, just in case we were paged for the white courtesy phone...

So, while we were admiring the morning sun rippling through their fountain,

the wife pointed at my feet.

At the standards, holding the security ribbon around the fountain's flora.

And the label attached to each and every one:

"Property of: DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT".

Ummm, folks....

We're in an international airport. One of the most scrutinized places on the North American continent. A place with more security cameras than Las Vegas casinos.

The place where every three minutes the lady's voice was coming over the public address system to remind us that the Department of Homeland Security had elevated the terrorist threat up to "Orange", and would we all please keep our eyes open for any unattended luggage.

The place where you were never more than 30 seconds out of sight of security guards (or was that just us?).

Do you really have a problem with people stealing your two-and-a-half foot metal pipes here?

Weird.