Bypass Doom

Nine years is a long time, and yet, a very short time.

I know where I was when I heard about the World Trade Center Towers' destruction. I know that I called the police four hours before to call about something so trivial as someone unknown stealing recyclables from our trashcan. I know that nine years seems so long ago, and yet so recent.

I also know that the people who are calling out for the cancellation of a mosque's plans to be build near the World Trade Center, and insensitive, unAmerican, assholes for their short-sided, ignorant views.

I know that it's incredible unAmerican how fucking retarded said assholes are being, and how much I wish they could see beyond their kneejerk, irrational, unresearched, disgusting reactions.

Yeah, I'm not biased.

I skipped 9/11 this year. Crossed the dateline going from 9/10 straight to 9/12 by a clever changing of the clock on my phone.

It was 9/11 long enough for me to write this post.

Given how intolerant some people are, I think that was plenty long enough.

Next year will be the big one.

For now, bypass doom.

 QotD: Reflecting on September 11th

What are your personal memories of September 11th?

It's four in the morning, and I'm woken by the sound of someone outside, going through the trash bins in the neighborhood. Tuesday morning, a good four hours until I need to wake up and all I can think about is how annoyed I am at the sure to be homeless person who is rummaging through my recyclables, pulling out the ones with the California deposit.

This annoys me, and I call the police. The non-emergency line has a pleasant voice. I give my details, my address, what I'm hearing, yes, they will send a car out to talk to the person, do I know which direction he's heading?

I stumble back to bed.

Four hours later, the alarm goes off. Jumbled words blare from the speaker. Unintelligible words. Without thinking, without worry, Kris reaches over and smacks the snooze button. Nothing registers for him. I hear a few words.

Four minutes later, the second alarm goes off. It is silenced just as quickly as the first.

Five minutes later, the snooze ends and the first alarm and Kris reflexively reaches to end the noise again.

"Wait," I ask. "See what's going on. That's not normal talk."

He rolls over and looks at me. What wasn't normal about the alarm, his eyes question, but he rolls out of bed anyway, and stumbles to the livingroom to turn on CNN. We have cable because he needs his ESPN. We have a television because he needs his baseball. I wanted neither, but he prevailed on that topic.

Kris returns five minutes later.

"You need to get up. New York is on fire."

I ask him what he means, as I struggle to wake fully. What is on fire? What happened? What's going on?

He doesn't know. It's bad. It's in New York. I need to wake up now.

I wake up.

At the end of the day, I wonder what the homeless person with my cans and bottles is doing. Did he know the enormity of the day? How could I have been so small, calling the police on a person doing what he needed to survive? What a petty act of mine, having the police talk to someone for taking cans, when five thousand people died so horrifically.

The images of the jumpers.

The homeless person stealing cans and bottles.

 Vox blog post: Reflecting on September 11th

Yeah, so there are a lot of blogging services out there. Mom and I tried Blogger three, maybe four years ago, but neither of us quite caught on. Eventually, I figured the whole blogging thing out. Clearly.

Recently, I signed up for the Vox service, mostly so that I could put Walt in my neighborhood (not that I'm stalking him or something). One of the neat features they do on Vox is the Question of the Day. Each day, a question is posted on the site, with an easy link to answer the question. Sometimes the questions really suck (what's your first name and what's the story behind it?), but some are interesting.

I need to figure out how to import those posts here.

Until then, I can copy the posts here:

    What are your personal memories of September 11th?

It's four in the morning, and I'm woken by the sound of someone outside, going through the trash bins in the neighborhood.  Tuesday morning, a good four hours until I need to wake up and all I can think about is how annoyed I am at the sure to be homeless person who is rummaging through my recyclables, pulling out the ones with the California deposit.

This annoyed, and I call the police.  The non-emergency line has a pleasant voice.  I give my details, my address, what I'm hearing, yes, they will send a car out to talk to the person, do I know which direction he's heading?

I stumble back to bed.

Four hours later, the alarm goes off.  Jumbled words blare from the speaker.  Unintelligible words.  Without thinking, without worry, Kris reaches over than smacks the snooze button.  Nothing registers for him.  I hear a few words.

Four minutes later, the second alarm goes off.  It is silenced just as quickly as the first.

Five minutes later, the snooze ends and the first alarm and Kris reflexively reaches to end the noise again.

"Wait," I ask.  "See what's going on.  That's not normal talk."

He rolls over and looks at me.  What wasn't normal about the alarm, his eyes question, but he rolls out of bed anyway, and stumbles to the livingroom to turn on CNN.  We have cable because he needs his ESPN.  We have a television because he needs his baseball.  I wanted neither, but he prevailed on that topic.

Kris returns five minutes later.

"You need to get up.  New York is on fire."

I ask him what he means, as I struggle to wake fully.  What is on fire?  What happened?  What's going on?

He doesn't know.  It's bad.  It's in New York.  I need to wake up now.

I wake up.

At the end of the day, I wonder what the homeless person with my cans and bottles is doing.  Did he know the enormity of the day?  How could I have been so small, calling the police on a person doing what he   needed to survive?  What a petty act of mine, having the police talk to someone for taking cans, when five thousand people died so horrifically.

The images of the jumpers.

The homeless person stealing cans and bottles.

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