Category: Life

September 11th

(written in 2005)
Man, the weather is gorgeous here right now. There is no finer place on earth than New York City in early September: deep, cloudless sapphire blue skies smile down upon a city basking in warm, radiant sunshine, gently shining with a temperature in the mid-to-upper 70s and virtually no humidity, and there is always a slight breeze out of the west/northwest that bears just the barest hint of a chill; a teasing promise of the Fall to come that is so refreshing after the oppressive, moisture-laden air of July and August. You can always feel the carefree joy in the people when the weather’s like this. Oh sure, Summer is officially over, the kids are back in school and there’re only 113 shopping days left until Christmas, but this weather causes everyone to feel refreshed, to wear a smile, and to be beautiful. It’s a scientific fact: all women are beautiful in New York during the first half of September.
As I was opening up a bottle of wine for dinner tonight (I guess this is how those slanderous rumors began: let me amend that by saying “a bottle of wine to go with dinner) my Bride (who is beautiful on non-September days, as well) summed it up perfectly by remarking “It’s September 11th weather.”
She’s exactly right. It was the most glorious day of the year: not a cloud, bright laughing sunshine that you could just taste and worship in but not so hot as to raise even the slightest hint of a sweat. A dear friend from Brazil was in town, having just flown in from Oregon where he had dropped off his 15 year old son to spend a year in school in America on an exchange program.

I picked him up at his hotel at 7:30 or so and we caught the 7:55 ferry out of Highlands, which is tucked in behind Sandy Hook, bound for Manhattan. Gosh, did I mention it was a glorious day? We sat on the roof of the ferry, laughing and joking on the cell phone with friends in Brazil as we sped along at 35 knots, the breeze rippling across our clothes. As we neared going under the Verrazano Bridge my friend said “That plane is awfully low.”
And so indeed it was, crossing the mouth of the harbor from west to east at a slow, leisurely pace and turning up the East river. But then we saw another jet follow it a few minutes later and I thought, well, if there were two planes then the controllers must be routing them that way because of the wind. One can rationalize anything, at least then. And yes, I’ve seen all the diagrams and maps of how the various experts say the planes flew that day and none of them mention this, but that’s what I saw.

We got to my office on the very end of Maiden Lane around 8:45 or so. I started looking through my emails and the first one I always read was from my friend Sylvia San Pio, who was a coffee broker at Carr Futures. Her husband, John Resta, also worked at Carr. They had gotten married in August of 2000, and man did we have a blast at their wedding. Sylvia was seven months pregnant with their first child, a boy they were going to name Dylan. I would always kid her that she was condemning him to a life of whiskey drinking, and she would laugh and say that at least they’d get some good poetry out of him.

Carr Futures was on the 92nd floor of the North Tower.

Flight 11 hit the 94th floor.

A few minutes after the first plane hit word came out that a plane had crashed into the WTC. That’s all we heard. Since the weather was so perfect we knew it wasn’t an accident; I figured some guy in a Piper Cub had committed suicide, as none of the initial reports said ‘airliner’.
I remember when the Mets (yes, the Mets) won the World Series in 1986. I worked in an office on Lower Broadway at the time, so I got to see the ticker tape parade from our windows. And at that late date, as the computer era was just starting to take hold it was still ticker tape; that, and all those millions of tiny paper dots that that all the multitudinous Telex machines that were in every office had produced. Fine, fine particles of paper cascading slowly down, like the crystalline snow you get on a January day when the temperature is in the low teens.

As I looked out the window on September 11th I saw it snowing again.

Except this time instead of small paper bits it was entire sheets of paper, whole sheets of deals and agreements and lives fluttering about like the first fat flakes on a Fall day.

We turned on the small portable TV in the office and saw pictures of the smoke pouring out of the towers just a few block away. I had tried to call Sylvia but had gotten only a busy signal, which for some reason I took as a positive sign. Then the TV signal went blank, and we got word that a second plane had hit the South Tower. One of the oddities of that day is that the huge TV antenna was on the North Tower, but we only lost the signal when the South Tower was hit.

Anyhow, by this point the phone lines were a mess and the internet had gotten extremely overloaded, piggish and slow; the only way I was able to get any outside information (aside from the radio) was when I could get a line to my sister in Pensacola, who would then tell me what the TV was saying. No one had any idea what was going on. Obviously, there had been multiple hijackings, but whether it was 3 or 30 no one, least of all the media, knew. I truly want unedited transcripts of the broadcasts of, say, CNN and Newsradio88 from 8 am until, oh, 5 pm or so from that day. I think it is a critical piece of our history, to show the evolution from bliss to fear to resolve.

I leaned out my window and looked up Maiden Lane at the two beautiful smoking towers that had always seemed so strong and sure. The paper continued to flutter down.

I called my Bride in her car and got a hold of her on the Garden State Parkway as she was driving to work. I said “Honey, don’t worry; I’m ok”. I could tell by the tone of her “Uh, ok, I’m glad” reply that she had no ideas what was going on (the KC and the Sunshine Band I heard blaring in the background was another clue that I picked up upon). “Turn on the radio,” I said, “Planes have crashed into the World Trade Center.”
I really can’t recall when we started using the word “terrorist” that day, much as I can’t recall a day since when I haven’t used it, but it certainly gained prominence early on in the many reports, many of which were false, that were broadcast during the day of explosions and crashes about the country.
We sat in our office wondering what to do. Obviously no work was possible, as our market was in the WTC and had been evacuated. Thousands of people were milling about in the street below staring mutely at the glorious towers as they burned and belched out thick columns of black smoke and rained paper down upon everyone and everything.

What could we do? What should we do? As we nervously looked at the tall green skyscraper across the street we hadn’t a clue. How would we get home? Hell, would we get home? We had no idea.

And then I heard incredibly high pitched screams of terror from the street. I ran to the open window and looked up the street. I saw people sprinting frantically towards the river, running a desperate race to escape this huge roiling khaki-colored cloud that was bursting down the street between the Federal Reserve Castle and the Chase building. I shouted for everyone in the office to close the windows, and they did so just in time, for immediately the cloud enveloped us in its dark dusty shroud of fear. Where seconds before one could literally have seen for miles one could now not see a foot through a mantle barely illumined by a diffuse gray/green/khaki glow that eliminated all reference points. We were isolated. Alone.

The radio crackled that the South Tower had collapsed. Dear God. And just as the air was clearing it happened again as the North Tower fell. Shock and numbness doesn’t begin to describe how we were or way we felt. We assumed that thousands were dead, and we saw thousands more shuffling about in the street, ash covered and heading ever north and east like so many souls on Judgement Day.

There seemed little point in leaving just then: where would we go? So we waited. Eventually the air cleared and we could see that the ferries were loading people for the trip back to the Highlands, so I grabbed a pack of coffee filters and handed them out to people to use as a mask (my only useful act of the day. Well, that and the many bottles of wine I opened that night at home).

I can’t say I’ve ever been sadder than on that ride home, retracing our happy path of the morning, only this time the brilliant blue sky was marred by an enormous black cloud that headed up and south east out over the harbor.
The usual crowd from the morning was missing many members, lost in the ruins, and they had been replaced by scores of people, many ash-covered from head to toe, all dazed and uncomprehending, who had gotten on the boat simply to get away.

My Brazilian friend ended up staying an extra week until he was able to get a flight back home.

With regard to Sylvia, John and Dylan…

all that was ever recovered were a few of John’s teeth.

Happy Burfday Crusader!!!

You know who you is and where you are.

And so do they…

Happy Father’s Day a Tad Late

But we were busy. major dad was catching up with Ebola in Germany…

…admiring the BUC-EE’s gear we keep him well supplied with…

…and then hustling out to the grill to whip up a FABULOUS Gascony-style leg o’ lamb, smoked over Jack Daniels whiskey barrel chips.

major dad worked his BUTT off!

I hope you wonderful guys had similarly rewarding days. Big hugs, and thank you.

If It Had Been Miracle Whip…

He would have been acquitted:

An Iowa man was sentenced to life behind bars for the murder of a friend he repeatedly ran over with a pickup truck after a fight about mayonnaise.

Kristofer Erlbacher, now 29, used his truck to ram Caleb Solberg, 30, outside a café in the small town of Pisgah on Dec. 17, 2020, the Des Moines Register reported. Erlbacher initially drove away, then came back and ran over Solberg two more times, according to the Register.

The two had been out drinking at a bar with another person earlier in the night in nearby Moorhead, but things took a turn when Erlbacher spread mayo on Solberg’s food, which riled Solberg and sparked a bar fight, the Woodbine Twiner-Herald reported.

Happy Anniversary My Dear Bride

Happy 4th of July!!!

God bless the Founding Fathers, their courage, and the courage of everyone who stood with them to break free, and leave us this marvelous country. This beacon of freedom, liberty, opportunity, and happiness that draws people from all over the world at this very moment.

Hold fast.

More of: Life With ths

Today turned into your typical casa de major dad day just about that fast. Part disaster, part seat-of-our-pants luck.

The terrific guys who redid all our ductwork 3 weeks ago or so were back today to blow insulation. We’d debated spending yet another grand+ after the $$$gulps ducting, but, considering we’re losing the hurricane hove-up shade trees in the back/that roof is gonna BAKE this summer, it was a painful-but-easy call. AND…a lucky one.

They got up there to find that RATS had ALREADY eaten through one of the BRAND NEW TRUNK LINES, and they were able to fix it before they started doing the insulation. Holy smokes.? Close call. We would have NEVER known.

Anchor was able to get our buddy Nick out here an hour later, with an armload of traps and glue pads? so we can finally nail those beady-eyed bastards.

Corporate policy change: outside ferals are going to see a kibble/canned food reduction, effective immediately. They are OBVIOUSLY NOT earning their keep, paw our signed agreement.? It’s like everyone wants a handout for subpar effort nowadays.

In other household observations, sometimes it pays to just sit back and wait for life to settle down a tad…

Now.

I’m going to make brownies, and ice the CRAP out of them.

A PSA About, Er, PSA

About, oh, twenty or so years ago our Dad was found to have prostate cancer. One of the “good” things about prostate cancer is that it generally progresses so slowly that one will usually die of something else before it gets you (such was the case with Dad); one of the really bad things is that there are no real discernible symptoms for a long time, so, while it doesn’t trouble you so much while you are busy dying of other things, which is good, if it does trouble you ‘unexpectedly’ then you’re pretty much done for (such was the case with Frank Zappa). As Dad’s was pretty benign they decided to treat it with the trending treatment at the time, a seed implant: they take a little piece of radioactive matter and stick it in there to gently bathe the sucker with some of Mr. Roentgen’s finest emissions to slow the progress even more, and as I mentioned that seemed to have done the trick.

But, of course, me being me, it seemed that for the following Christmas the only possible gift I could get Dad was a chestnut roaster. I think he got the joke…

Fast forward a few years, and I always make sure to get my PSA checked with every physical. It was hovering around the “let’s take a closer look” line for a few years, and this past October it crossed it, so I got the required approval from the Insurance Gods to see a urologist. Based on the family history and blood work he suggested that we do a biopsy, and that was done right before Thanksgiving. Ah, a prostate biopsy…how to describe the joys of such an event in a family-friendly way?

I can unequivocally state that if they instituted mandatory prostate biopsies at Guantanamo Bay terrorism would disappear around the world overnight. No Doubt. I’d probably best leave it at that, other than perhaps adding an allusion to “whack-a-mole”. Two weeks later I had the follow-up with the doctor, and he said that magic word that we all long to hear: “cancer.”

Well, isn’t that special. Sure, one’s mind plays tricks, especially my mind, and of course I went into this thing expecting the worst, but did he really have to confirm it? I don’t mind being wrong; I’m quite good at being wrong; now was not the moment when I wanted to be right. But there it was.

So what to do, how to fight this part of me that was planning to slowly, methodically, stealthily kill…me. Were I 15 years older it would be a different conversation, as, again, it “tends” to move slowly enough that chances are something else would take care of me before this did. So here I was, just a month shy of my 57th birthday, being told that I was Young Enough that something more aggressive was in order, to fight and hopefully turn back this barbarian which had already breached my gates…something, but what?

There were 2 basic paths to go down that we discussed: radiation and surgical, each having a set of advantages and disadvantages. In a way it reminded me of a t-shirt that I bought Daughter in late grade school when she wasn’t quite focusing the way she should: “Hard Work pays off tomorrow; Procrastination pays off today” (I’m proud to say she got the subtle hint). Anyhow, radiation, “cyberknife” or whatever marketing declares it this week, pays off today: a series of outpatient visits over more or less a week that zaps the little bastard and hopefully kills the bad cells and stunts their growth. But there are downsides. Radiation is, well, radiation after all and can potentially have side effects in the future, unpleasant ones. And, at the end of the day, the prostate is still inside me, like some 8,000 lb bomb fallen from the belly of an Avro Lancaster and embedded in the mud of the Rhein since 1943. Could it still go off? Yep. And I’d be thinking about that, expecting that boom every moment of every day for the rest of my days.

The other path was surgery, robotic surgery using a “daVinci” machine where the surgeon never actually touches me: he sits at a computer console a few feet away and manipulates the tools using 3D monitors to delve into me and remove the prostate, reconnect the plumbing, and minimize damage to various nerve bundles. As the t-shirt said, this pays off tomorrow: the prostate is gone, that little cancer-spewing cauldron won’t be able to send any of its deviant little spawn out to wreak havoc in my bloodstream, but the hard work, the side effects, oh those are definitely front-loaded.

I chose surgery.

The next week I was back at the urologist and we scheduled the surgery for January 26th. When one, well, when I at least, think of folks heading into major surgery it follows some sort of trauma, right? Something happens, there is great pain and discomfort, symptoms desperately crying out for a solution. It just didn’t seem plausible that I was feeling great, with no symptoms whatsoever, heading for a date with a scalpel-wielding robot. I had a batch of pre-admission tests scheduled for the Friday before the surgery, including of course a Covid test, so I spent that month basically isolating at home, desperately hoping that the test would be negative so the surgery would happen and not get kicked back a couple of weeks. It came back negative, so I was set to be at the hospital at 6 am on the 26th.

At this point in time, Covid is clearly the tragic event of the 21st century, and not just because of the deaths it has caused; the response to it has been the vehicle for incalculable damage to the physical and mental well-being of literally millions of people. When we arrived at the hospital my Bride had to dump me on the curb. I got out of the car and walked alone into a small, constrained entrance to the hospital. She was not allowed, no one but the patients were allowed. I was only in the hospital for about 32 hours, so ok I can deal with that, but I could not help but wonder at the terrible toll this takes on children, on the elderly, on folks who are already suffering from depression on top of other maladies; what a scary, horrific, and at times deadly additional consequence of this disease.

They tell me the surgery went well (I was knocked out), and I was discharged the next afternoon, and for the next 9 days life was more or less miserable due to the catheter. Painful? No. Uncomfortable? Yes. Depressingly miserable? Yes. I had a date emblazoned on my calendar: 10 days after the surgery I had an appointment with the urologist, where we would go over the pathology of the prostate (now that the sucker was out and the lab technicians could slice and dice it for a complete analysis). I was both looking very much forward to this, for it would also be when the catheter was taken out, and I was also dreading it, for it would be when the catheter was taken out, and I imagined that to be an amazingly unpleasant experience. It actuality it wasn’t that bad.

The report from the lab gave me an upgrade on the tumor, kind of like more legroom in coach on United: my cancer was now Stage 2, malignant, but there was no evidence that it had spread beyond the prostate. I have some bloodwork scheduled in a few weeks, and if all goes well my PSA levels should start dropping to zero. That good news, combined with the removal of the catheter, made a difference of night and day in how I feel. Each day I get more energy, and am able to move around more and drift back to a normal life. Oh sure, there are still some issues with my re-arranged plumbing, but they are healing over time. With the love and care of my beloved Bride I’ll even be returning to work next week, just 3 weeks after the surgery.

The moral of this rather long tale is yeah, the world is a shit pot at the moment, but you can’t afford to ignore your health. Cancer doesn’t quarantine. Go to the doctor. Have your check ups. Get your blood work done…and follow-up. The sooner you catch things, the greater your chances to beat them.

In Her Darkest Hour…

America finds a New Hero

An Idaho Falls man and two others were in hot water after being found with cooking pots and two chickens in a thermal area of Yellowstone National Park.

A ranger received reports on Aug. 7 that a group was hiking toward Shoshone Geyser Basin with cooking pots, a park spokeswoman told EastIdahoNews.com Friday. The ranger responded and discovered two whole chickens in a burlap sack sitting in a hot spring with a cooking pot nearby.

Minkia!

2020 once again says hold my beer

The Danish government has ordered the slaughter of all farmed mink in the country after the reported discovery of a mutant form of coronavirus in the animals. It has already spread to humans.

According to a report in the Danish newspaper Berlingske, 207 mink farms have seen infections of coronavirus. The authorities have failed to contain the virus, and all 17 million farmed mink in Denmark will now be culled, said Denmark’s prime minister Mette Frederiksen at a press briefing on 5 November. Denmark has the world’s largest mink industry.

The Danish prime minister described the mutated virus as “a serious risk to public health and to the development of a vaccine”. However, health minister Magnus Heunicke told the press briefing that there is no sign yet that the mutant virus causes more serious symptoms of covid-19.

Some areas of northern Jutland – the region of Denmark that connects to the European mainland – will be isolated to stop the spread of the virus in humans. Frederiksen said a “mutant” virus has been identified in five farms and 12 people have become infected with it.

That’s pretty scary how it can go between mammals…and mutate.

19 Years

Murdered as their life was just beginning.

When in the Course of Human Events

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

God bless, GOD BLESS America.

I Am a Philosopher

…of very little note.

Kathy Kinsley

I was so very shocked and saddened to get a text message from THS that Kathy Kinsley had died.

She was a long time commenter here, and she’d always keep checking in during those times when we had some gaps in posting, and always with grace and class.

She will be missed, and we are very, very sad.

RIP

It’s A Crazy World

Yeah, I’m still here. Been working from home for a month now, and frankly it’s a lot harder than being in the office, the work day never ends.

I hope and pray that all of you are doing well. Whether you are religious or not, the analogy of Easter holds, especially now. We find ourselves in a tomb, don’t we? Whether it be by demand of the government or by problems in life that keep us entombed between our ears, and these days a lot of us are dealing with both, now is the time to roll back that rock at the door and emerge to live anew. You can do it.

God Bless, Dear Friends.

Merry Christmas

The Nativity” by Giotto, 1305

– part of the magnificent Scrovegni Chapel frescoes, in Padua, Italy. I had to try to get a shot of Mary’s beautiful face before I left the chapel that night. I have Ebola, and especially his wonderful lady, to thank for that magical experience.

A medieval chapel, at night, with colors that defy description in spite of the gloom, and ethereal figures on every surface. I was the first person of the tour group in, thanks to her. Had it to myself for a few precious moments.

And I kept being drawn back to Mary’s face, looking at her baby boy.

Merry Christmas, my darlings. May you all be healthy, and happy.

God bless you, every one.

UPDATE: Via aelfheld in the comments, and we thank him.

O Holy Night

Où l’Homme Dieu descendit jusqu’à nous
Pour effacer la tache originelle
Et de Son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d’espérance
En cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.


Peuple à genoux, attends ta délivrance.
Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur,
Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur!

May the blessings and love of our Lord fill you and yours with hope this Christmas time.

Peace, true Peace from our home to yours, Dear Friends.

Don Cherry Fired

How dare you say such things

“You people… love our way of life, love our milk and honey. At least you could pay a couple of bucks for poppies or something like that. These guys paid for your way of life that you enjoy in Canada.”

The Truth shall set you free…of your job, it seems.

He’s 100% correct, and so of course has to go.

I’ll Never Forget

And I’ll never forgive

Rest In Peace, Al Haynes

A model of heroism and professionalism, the Captain of United 232 died Sunday.

Read the cockpit transcript, and the story of one he saved.

30 Years

We just got back from a simply lovely weekend in Cape May, where we celebrated our 30th anniversary. Can’t believe it.

We Now Live In A Python Skit

I’m Not Sniffling

YOU’RE sniffling.

I’m sorry it took the French to give us a non-doofus, wonderful father in an ad, but God bless ’em for this one.

Tito Gobbi

I don’t need to say anything else (well, other than Victoria de los Angeles)

Indeed

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