In Which I Grapple With A Difficult Anniversary

Tomorrow marks the 10th anniversary of that unfathomable day in which America's innocence was lost and our world changed forever.

Where were you when the towers fell?

I've been trying to pen my feelings all week about this macabre anniversary. Each time I sit down to write, I find something else to do. It's not my work-related ADD, either. It's my subconscious refusing to tackle this memory, but I feel compelled to write... something. It's too big to ignore and too devastating to forget. It's indelibly burned on my heart.

Last month, The Atlantic published excerpts from the King-of-all-my-musical-thangs, Rhett Miller's journal of September 11-13th.*** Reading his harrowing experience brought back a rush of emotions I thought I'd successfully repressed in the sub-basement of my psyche.

I posted the link on Facebook which lead to an interesting discussion between me and a couple friends, each of us reacting to the events of that day from varied corners of the country, sharing our individual experience. The conversation acting as a salve on an old scar freshly torn open.

I remember that day vividly.

George and I were at Rehoboth the morning the towers fell. We were getting ready to do our daily walk on the beach, when something possessed me to turn on the television. Maria Bartoloromo was standing in the street reporting that a second plane had just struck the South Tower. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Both skyscrapers belching thick, black smoke from their top quarters. The South tower's upper floors listing is a precarious way.

Not realizing the magnitude of what we were watching, we decided to take off for our walk. In the ten minutes it took for us to walk the stairs down to the boardwalk, the t-shirt vendor screamed out from the back of the store that the tower collapsed. We thought the top, teetering portion had fallen over. Makes senses, right? I mean, seriously, who would have imagined the entire structure would collapse. We couldn't believe our eyes. The building was there just ten minutes beforehand, on fire, but standing. And now it was completely gone.

And now nothing made sense.

I stayed on the beach, trying to shake off the images we saw. I think I was in denial. Poor Geo went back up to the room and witnessed every fear he'd ever had with regards to heights. Planes crashing. Buildings collapsing. People jumping to their deaths. All played out over and over and over on a 27 inch screen. The footage was horrifyingly compelling. He couldn't tear himself away. He's a strong man, my husband, but this rattled him to the core. I finally had to drag him out of the room and away from the constant barrage of footage for his own sanity.

The silence on the shore was unsettling. Several times over the next few days, a large, heavy military chopper would rumble up the coastline. I remember being filled with an infinite sadness that I wouldn't be able to shake for years. I cried for what seemed like a lifetime, getting teary any time my mind was idle. The sorrow and tears living right under the surface of my skin, mourning the loss of our collective innocence along with so many innocent lives.

And the stories, my God the stories from that day...

I bought a book titled, "Letters from 9/11" whose spine I have yet to crack open ten years down the road. Perhaps it will take another ten years before I can flip through its pages.

You know, I thought I was past this, but as I sit here, crying as I type, I realize the sadness is a part of me now. I may be able to muffle it, but It will never be completely gone.

Funny thing is, in all the chaos and uncertainty, I instinctively knew my nephew, who still lives in Manhattan, was alive and a safe distance away from the destruction. I don't know how, but I just knew he was safe. He lost friends to the towers, and probably felt a little guilty about it, but thank God he was unharmed, physically anyway.

We visited Ground Zero that December. It was a pilgrimage I just had to make. I remember seeing little piles of ash on window ledges and realizing that those could be all that's left of somebody's loved one...

Being directionally challenged, I used the towers as a touchstone once I emerged from the subway station. When I found them in the skyline, I could find my way. Stepping out of the dark underground, I'm just lost now.

I miss them.

To this day, when Geo and I see a low-flying plane in the Manhattan airspace, we stop, watch and wait for it to pass.

Here's a weird side note. Until the day I die, I will be forever grateful to a silly-ass robot fighting show on Comedy Central. You see our original plan for vacation was to spend a couple days at the beach then head to our friend's house near Philly where we were to drive into Manhattan for the day. It wasn't prudent to venture to a town in such turmoil where we would likely get in the way, so instead we ordered Chinese take out and stayed in, not knowing how to act, what to do, how to feel. For three days there was no levity. Nothing was funny. It just didn't feel right or respectful to laugh ever again.

As we sat there quietly eating dinner, we happened upon the much-maligned program, BattleBots. It was a show wherein pasty-faced, gear-headed geeks created remote controlled robots to pit against one another in a fight to the death. These bots were loaded with mallets, spikes and saw blades with which to pulverize their opponents in a glass encased arena. It was absolute mindless drivel, and it was EXACTLY what we needed.

For the first time in 72 anguish-filled hours, we laughed. For that brief time frame, we forgot about the  all-consuming tragedy which befell our beloved country and just.. laughed. Yep. I will always and forever have a soft spot in my heart for that ridiculously stupid, wonderfully absurd robot fighting show for affording us the opportunity to shelve the madness for sixty glorious minutes.

***You can listen to Rhett read from his journal on NPR's Here and Now here.

Let's Get Ready To Play The Family Feud!!! 
or the curious case of the Chopra's curmudgeon consciousness

Okay, an hilarious exchange happened on Twitter today between a wry writer, Suzanne Munshower, and noted, self-proclaimed "Cosmic Consciousness" spirituality guru, Depak Chopra.

A couple of Chopra's cosmic tweets didn't sit well with Munshower, so she did what many tweeters do, she commented on his BS.

As Shea Bennett from Mediabistro put it, they were pretty light retorts, but clearly, Chopra was not a peace-loving camper when he shot back this tweet:

Real mature, Dude.

Wait. Isn't he supposed to be above this kind of petty rhetoric? Doesn't he pass himself off as more enlightened than the average bear? Of course this against-his-holier-than-thou-principle retort was retweeted ad naseum as well as egged on Ms. Munshower.

As the afternoon's encounter progressed, a Mr. Singh put in his two cents, soliciting another out of public character response.

Yeah. It felt so good to this do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do yahoo that he removed this and several other similar posts from the Twitter stream. I just love that Suzanne's little three word comment got Mr. Trancendental's knickers all into a major bunch.

Nice job, Chopie. Guess what? You're fucking human like the rest of us humps after all. How's that irony taste? Try not to hit your head on your way off your pretentious pedestal.

You can read the entire article here. Enjoy.

In Which I Believe In God, Guardian Angels and American Workmanship

Okay, so I was driving around a blind corner (not speeding for a change, mind you. pinky swear) on this gray, rain-soaked afternoon, when the two cars in front of me suddenly stopped. The road was slick, I jumped on the brakes, the car fishtailed and after invoking Jesus' name, Rita came to a screeching halt a mere foot behind the piece of crap, gray, clown-car shaped Cube.

Fact: I believe in God, Guardian Angels and Divine Intervention.
Fact: I do not, however, believe in the Warren Commission's "Magic Bullet" theory. That's just fucking fantasy.

I know. A declaration of faith sounds hypocritical coming from me, abuser of the Lord's name, lover of the f-bomb and Patton Oswalt's religiously irreverent Christmas Shoes but, I am a spiritual being. Not necessarily religious, but spiritual.

Shut up. I am. Swear to Dogma. You can stop rolling your eyes anytime now.

But seriously, there have been a number of incidents in my life in which I should have died, or at the very least been badly injured. My avoidance of these potentially fatal happenings can only be attributed to the grace of a higher power. A psychic once told me that very thing. She said I have a Guardian Angel who steers me clear of wreckage. I call him Guillermo. He's all tall, dark and ripply. I owe G my life several times over. Hope he gets paid by the hour, because that Dude works a LOT of overtime.

So, yeah, I believe in God, Grace, Guardian Angels, Divine Intervention and in this case, the American Workmanship of a Pontiac Vibe.

In Which We Celebrate A Holiday For The Little Guy

Okay, so today is Labor Day. The day in which the hard-working, middle and lower-middle class union members (like myself) are celebrated across America for making our country strong and self-sustaining. Ironically, most of us celebrated laborers labor on Labor Day.

Somebody has to clean up this mess, right?

Anywho, the disgusting truth of the matter is unions and their members are under viscous attack from the cold-hearted right during these poor economic times. Ironically these are the very times in which unions are needed most to protect the hard-won workplace benefits we all feel entitled to today. I have argued innumerable times with non-union employees who don't realize the only reason they have healthcare, paid vacation, paid sick time, a safe working environment and a living wage is because union's exist in this country to fight for these conditions. They just think we're a bunch of fat, lazy slobs who sit around all day drinking coffee and bitching instead of working for a living.  
Okay, we do down the java and bitch, but we work our asses off, too. No matter how many times I say it, they don't connect the dots. Strong unions = a strong middle class = a strong economy = a prosperous country. My Dad worked to get the Post Office unionized. Today's postal workers owe him and his buddies a debt of gratitude for their salaries, overtime pay and pension.

One of the women I follow on both Facebook and Twitter, Joyce, is a ballsy, broad from Massachusetts who isn't afraid to say outloud what most of us rational humans are thinking. She puts it out there, warts and all, with no fear, no matter whose knickers she might twist.

I love her. I wish I had her stones. Someday I'm going to meet her.

She wrote a piece about the virtues as well as vices of unions that is much more eloquent than I could pen. Plus, you know, I'm a card-carrying member so natch I'm a lazy lout. You can't expect me to read the paper AND compose a post. Pffft.

Here's an excerpt:

 In an era when income inequality is outrageous, those of us who earn a wage can’t afford not to support unions. They really ARE responsible for weekends, and paid sick leave and vacations, and all the other things those cute bumper stickers proudly assert, in addition to safe working conditions and living wages where they still exist. They made capitalism work for the middle class, and in turn made our economy work, but because of those forces that propel and enable corporate interests in our system, they’ve gradually diminished in stature, and have in the past year, been cut off at the knees. This isn’t right, and I pray it can be reversed.

Right on, Joyce. Our only hope to survive the lingering madness of the Bush Error is to fight back and take back what we've earned by supporting the unions. Their all-for-one philosophy made America the marvelous country it is.

You can read her entire brilliant posting here.

Happy Labor Day. May we all wake up from this nightmare.

One More For The Road...

Because Americans take warnings seriously, yo.

hoisting his main sail into the wind

Thanks to Wesley Stace for capturing this lad's finest moment, thus allowing it to live forever on the internets. Hurricane 2011! Woo Hoo!!



This Week In Wacky Weather
or what bug's up your butt, Nature?

Okay, so weird shit's been going down in my beloved North East lately. Last week a wide span of land from North Carolina to New England felt the Earth rumble and roll from a 5.9 quake centered around Richmond, Virginia. Most of my friends and family near and far felt the crust busta move beneath their buttocks. The shaking even made the most jaded folks I know (the newsroom crew) take pause before quipping "I am NOT ready to rumble."

I was in my car when the Earth did not stand still, missing the uncommon occurrence. Natch. I am so bummed! One of the only times our personal terra is not so firma, and I miss it. I feel completely left out, and as you may have noticed, I don't like to be left out. I'm annoying that way.

One of the reasons I love America and the citizens residing within its borders is the speed with which the humor is rolled out after an unsettling event. Within minutes of realizing there were no deaths or injuries, the interwebs exploded with the funny, quake-related witticisms. Our collective irreverence is probably why the rest of the world dislikes us so. Okay, they hate us. We can make a joke out of virtually anything. And what the hell's wrong with that, right? Lighten up, people.

This gem circulated shortly after the shimmy 'n shake.

We're just a nation of lovable, quick-witted asshats.

Next up on the Nature Hit Parade...

"Does this storm surge make my butt look big?"
- Irene 2011
"no, it makes it look like an angry elephant, dude"
-me

How about a little water, Scarecrow.

FACT: For the last two years, hurricane season has been downright quiet.
FACT: It's been over 50 years since the last hurricane charged through the New Jersey/New York area
FACT: Irene decided to take advantage of the back-to-school sales and stop by Fifth Avenue in person for those killer Jimmy Choo heels she's been eyeing on line.

She's a girl after all, and a thrifty one at that. Who wants to shell out all that extra dough on shipping when you can pick them up yourself, not to mention try on a number of other beauties while you're waiting. Pffft! No brainer. Besides who can resist those 50% off, end of season bargains.

Um... clearly NOT Mama Nature.

Reduced to a Category 1 storm, Irene took her good ole time crawling up the coastline, coming ashore first in North Carolina to kite surf, stopping through Baltimore to dine on some fabulous Maryland crab cakes she's heard so much talk about before heading to Northern Jersey shore points, you know, in the off-chance Bruce Springsteen might actually be hanging around the Stone Pony. Like many, she's a big fan, especially of his early Born to Run years. Alas, he was nowhere in sight. (sad tropical storm face) Strapping on her new Nikon digital SLR, she rented a car and drove over to the Big Apple (because some doofus shut down all the PATH trains and subways), excited to shop and catch the late show of the much ballyhooed Book of Mormon only to find it and every other attraction in Times Square boarded up and dark.

Son of a Biscuit Eating Bulldog!!?!!

"Do you realize how tough it was to score those tickets?!? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu**!"

Nothing left to do but head up the coast for some fresh seafood on the cape before checking up on Sid Crosby's healing progress in Nova Scotia. She's a Pens fan, too, dontcha know.

goofball surfers taunting irene
where is his parent?
oh wait, he's the one on the left

Bend and Stretch
reach for your butt

All kidding aside, we Nor'easters aren't used to all this natural phenomena. We're generally insulated from these types of natural disasters. That said, people all up and down the coast faced power outages, flooding, wind damage. Some dealt with storm-related tornadoes. Even a nuclear reactor in New Jersey was shut down. People were evacuated, store fronts were boarded up and New York city subways were closed.

a couple of lone boardwalk bikers

By far the most freakish sites were the normally crowded Manhattan landmarks completely deserted.

when was the last time Grand Central was empty?

an eerily quiet Times Square at 7am Sunday

It's like one of those bad apocalyptic, end-of-days movies where the protagonist wakes up to find he's the last human left on the planet.

But take heart. I just saw network footage of New York youngsters giving Irene the middle finger by body surfing on the minimally flooded streets of the city. Oh NewYorkers. Your balls... er, spirit is to be envied.

While hunting for photos, I stumbled upon a Brooklyner's blog, The Smoking Nun, which has some really fascinating photos of the desolate streets and bridges. Pretty cool. Plus, c'mon! There are pictures of Nuns...smoking. Love it! I think I might have to bookmark this one for the name alone.

You can read the two related posts here and here and the final bit here.

What the EF, Nature! Earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes... what horror's next? Locusts? Pestilence? A Palin presidency?

Eeeeaghh! *shudder*

I'd rather have frogs drop from the skies.

A Cavalcade of Comedic Crap

Okay, so I can't write for shit lately (not including my last two posts which were all about the shitz). I don't know what the deal is. My muse has run off again, probably fleeing to the sunny Southwest to get away from the purported ravages of Hurricane Irene or the recent earthquake or just the long-winded pleas I've been making to her to pleasepleasePLEASE inject some creativity back into my brain. But, no. She just laughs, points and throws M & Ms at my non-existent cleavage.

Bitch.

Anywho, I'm taking the easy way out and posting some truly hilarious lists that made my inner 12 year-old spew milk from his nose.

Both of the lists are from Happyplace.com. This website is da bomb! I want to work for them and spend my professional day scanning the interwebs for the most absurd things to share.

Even if you totally don't get the idea or usefulness of Twitter, you can appreciate these smart-ass comments made to celebrity's tweets. For those unfamiliar, the text after the "RT" is the celebrity's tweet. The comment prior to the "RT" is the smart-ass's. Enjoy!

i don't think he does

hours of endless fun

touche, douche bag

ha ha! asshat

earth to yoko

These hysterical retorts almost make me want to follow these imbeciles. Almost. The full listing is here.

This next one is totally right up my alley. It's from a list of unintentionally offensive sticker placements.

and for only $250!

looks like his inside is hanging out

gotta teach 'em young

so this is why they had to move west

Unintentional, my ass. The link to the full site is here. Read them and share them with others who are as twisted and demented as you.

And for the Trifecta of funny, a little Guster frivolity. I've written about Guster before. They're a delightful pop band whose shows are huge fun. Everyone leaves happy. One of their trademarks is choosing a different, oddball cover song to perform every night.

A couple weeks ago in New England, Will Forte (of SNL McGruber fame) joined Guster not once, but twice to sing each evening's cover gem. The first was Air Supply's "All out of Love".




Forte got HUGE flack via interweb comments over wearing the band's t-shirt to the show. Apparently it's uber nerdy. Whatev. The next meeting, Will was better prepared.




Puts you in mind of Robert Stack in Airplane, right?




You can read all about it in this Boston review here.

Well, that's the end of my drivel. Hopefully inspiration will strike soon. Otherwise, see you in a month or so.