Aftermath

A week later, and I'm finally starting to get my feelings sorted out.

I've spent much of the last week alternating between following the news and walking away from the television, unable to take any more. After a while, you can't continue to watch the same tragedy over and over again, no matter what angle they show it from.

I still feel numb. As I explained to Roger Mexico the other night, it's as if someone slapped me across the face hard without warning. All I feel is this overwhelming sorrow and sadness for thousands of people I've never met.

Oh yeah. And guilt.

I feel guilty about being so strongly affected by this horrible act of terrorism. I don't live in New York. Everyone I know in New York is OK. Even the people I don't really know in New York (but read on a regular basis) are OK. So why am I still bursting into tears at least once a day? I can't even watch VH1 for fear that they'll show the Sting clip of "Fragile," recorded the night of the attacks. Or - even worse - the tribute video of the makeshift memorials and posters of the missing and the rescue units with Jeff Buckley's cover of "Hallelujah" playing beneath it. That song has always choked me up, but the shot of the fireman pinning the American flag to the back of his jacket before he joined the search gets me every time.

I almost feel unjustified to be carrying around this much sorrow for something that happened miles away from me. And I feel afraid to say what I feel about the way this atrocity, because what I see around me frightens me. The unity and compassion that has resulted in the national disaster has been amazing and awe-inspiring, but some of the "patriotic" reactions of my fellow Americans makes me wonder if we have learned anything from this past week.

Over the past week there have been reports of violence against Arab-Americans. There has been a lot of over the top patriotism where people around me have pretty much proclaimed Americans to be superior to every other nation of people on the face of this planet and are ready to send in ground troops and begin air strikes without any direction.

"Bomb first, ask questions later," they say. "Let God sort 'em out. We'll show 'em what happens when you fuck with America."

Believe me, I'm all for justice being served. But there's a big difference between justice and vengeance. Charging in blindly and laying waste to whatever stands in our way is not justice. As this letter so clearly points out, this may not be the wisest course of action.

But of course, to say something like this out loud is unpatriotic. It makes me a bad American because I don't approve of bombing Afghanistan into submission, or because our president's use of the word "crusade" makes me apprehensive. It makes me a horrible person when I wonder if we, as a nation, would have reacted as the rest of the world has if it had happened in another country.

If the attack had been on the British Parliament or the Arc de Triomphe, would Congress have taken time out to sing "God Save the Queen" or "La Marseillaise?"

But then again, according to Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, I am a bad person. And this is partially my fault.

These are men of God? If so, I fear for the future of our world.

But just when I've lost all hope that the entire world has gone mad, a small gesture reassures me that there may be hope for the human race yet. My resident manager left a note tacked to my apartment door this weekend that just completely blew me away, and I'd like to share it with you:

"I must admit that this is a letter that I never expected to be issuing, but feel that I must. In the wake of the past week's events, I have been stopped in the halls, in the parking lots, and at my door. The distress, the sadness, and even the fear in the eyes of my neighbors has caused a grief in my heart, and at the same time a renewed gladness of the diversity that exists here at [the apartment complex]. We are truly a community of man, a community of various cultures and religious beliefs.

"The terrorist acts that have caused such sadness throughout the world has not left this community untouched. I have been made aware that some of you have friends and/or family missing in the wreckage of the World Trade Center. Our hearts and prayers go out to you. I am painfully aware that for some, bigotry is being aimed in your directionon the streets, or at your place of worshp, and to you our hearts and prayers go again out. I am also aware that all of us have in one way or another been affected by this atrocity.

"My family is very much in agreement that a great act of terror was done to the American People, but in our hearts we are firm that and even greater act of terror was done to the Human Race. We are all one people sharing a very small planet. We are diverse and we are very different. We are white, beige, brown, black, and many colors in between. We are Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, and many other beliefs. We are gay and straight, and all the things in between. We are men and we are women, we are young and we are old. As different as all those things can make us, we are all HUMAN. One race, one earth, one place to live.

"Although at times we have our disputes, my family is so grateful to live in a place, as small a portion of the world as it is, that we are one. To that I want to thank my Goddess, that each and every one of you has been brought to this corner of the map. To share yourselves and your cultures.

"Again to all, I hope that you all realize that your personal safety is important to us. No bigotry of any kind will be permitted on these 5 acres. Perhaps these 5 acres can begin to make a change."

And after I sat at my kitchen table and read this (and cried...again), I began to think perhaps we, the community of the human race, will get through this. Perhaps, after we complete our own personal mourning periods, the nations of the world can work together and something good can come of this awful loss after all.

And that thought alone is enough to get me through another day.

Brothers Unaware

I apologize in advance if this post seems disjointed or meandering. I'm still having difficulty trying to get all of my ideas in order.

At 8:45 this morning, a commercial jet crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center. I was unaware of the tragedy at that moment. I was stuck in traffic on my way to work, cursing the gridlock on I-75.

At 9:03, a second plane slammed into the south tower, exploding into a massive fireball next to the smouldering tower beside it. I was pulling into the parking garage at a rather unsafe speed, desperately looking for a spot close to the stairwell.

Hell of a way to start the day, I thought. Understatement of the year.

Within a minute or two on the floor of my department, I was briefed on what little was known about the tragic events in New York. Suddenly traffic and parking woes didn't seem like that big of a deal.

In between frantically trying to do my job, I sent out a panicked email to Geekman. I knew he was somewhere in New York, and I wanted to make sure that he and his loved ones were OK.

Trying to get information from the news websites proved nigh impossible, since everyone in the nation with internet access was trying to access CNN at the same time. I gave up, and turned my radio to NPR in hopes of getting information.

At this point, the rumors started. Some turned out to be true, some not. The Pentagon had suffered a similar attack (true), the Capitol building was on fire (not true), there had been another plane hijacked (true) and it was heading directly for the White House (unconfirmed).

(Even though I don't read it much anymore, I read the thread at Three Way Action. It's a pretty good example of what was going on in pretty much every single office in the world today. The disbelief, the support, the wild rumors. They had to roll the thread over in a matter of hours. Frightening.)

Zappagirl called shortly thereafter. Timmy had called her around 10:00 to make sure she was aware of the disaster, and she continued to call all morning with updates from the television. (Well, when she wasn't calling complete strangers in foreign lands.)

All throughout this, I didn't know how to feel. Disbelief, at first. Things like this don't happen in real life. This was something out of a rejected Die Hard script. Bruce Willis was going to show up any minute and kick some terrorist ass, right?

Disbelief gave way to shock, then fear, then sadness, then anger. And I didn't know which one was the right thing to feel. I'd heard from my friends, they were all safe - a great relief. But what about all of the other people?

Somewhere on the east coast was a guy sitting in his office, looking at the massive pile of work in his in-basket, thinking about how much he really didn't like his job all that much, trying to decide if he wanted to get a salad or chicken lo mein for lunch. And then suddenly, he was gone.

And there were thousands more just like this guy. Just regular working Joes and Jills, going about their daily business, trying to decide if they should take their kids to the zoo this weekend, planning for vacations and weddings and new houses and futures that disappeared in flames fed by jet fuel, in a devastating wall of soot and ash.

And miles away I sat in my office listening to news reports, thinking of those thousands of people that I would never meet. Maybe I never would have met them even if things had gone differently this morning, but their anonymity didn't affect me any less. Each one of them was someone's child, someone's mother or father, someone's husband or wife or lover or friend. Gone in an act of terror and evil, taken away by a faceless enemy that wouldn't even give us the satisfaction of knowing where to place the blame.

It made me feel very small and powerless, because in actuality there wasn't a whole lot I could do to make the atrocities being suffered in New York and Washington any better. Suddenly nowhere was safe, not even where you work. Not even the Pentagon.

The only contribution I could think to make was to give blood, which apparently was a pretty popular thought. The phone line to Hoxworth was busy, and there have been stories of four and five hour waits at New York hospitals to donate.

(I will keep calling. I will get in there and let them poke me in the arm with the Very Big Needle. I will get my thank-you juice and cookie.)

But for now, I'm stuck watching endless footage of the horrible events on CNN, and trying to deal with the fact that I now have yet another negative moment of living history to pass along to future generations. And that bothers me a lot.

I don't like the fact that most of the history I've wiitnessed is related to horrible tragedy. Yes, I can say I saw the first man walk on the moon (OK, I can say I was in the same room...I was 16 months old, so I wasn't paying much attention to the TV). But I can also say that I remember when President Reagan was shot. Or the Iran hostage crisis. Or the Oklahoma City bombing. Or the LA riots. I can remember where I was when the Challenger exploded (in my dorm room, skipping calculus). I can remember where I was when the Columbine shootings took place (at work in my parents' store). I can remember putting off going to the hospital to do my research on my patients for nursing school so I could stay at home and watch President Bush (the other one) announce the start of the Gulf War. I can remember sitting at the Warehouse on a Monday night, then in my office downtown the following day while the Cincinnati streets erupted into riots.

This isn't the kind of history I want to pass along to my sister's children. I don't want to feel this kind of anger. I don't want to live in a world capable of creating this kind of violence and fear.

My thoughts and prayers go out to everyone who has lost someone in this horrible national tragedy, whether I knew you or not. When it comes down to it, we're all part of the same big huge family, and my heart hurts just as much for you whether I know your name and face or not.

Baby, I'm a Star

My sincere apologies for the extreme lateness of the fireworks project. It will be posted as soon as Zappagirl and I have a chance to compare notes when one or both of us isn’t busy or exhausted. If it’s any consolation, I just finished watching the replay of the TV simulcast and made notes on things I wasn’t able to write down because I was too busy staring at the sky with a blissed out smile on my face.

Soon.

But probably not in the next 24 hours, since we’re going to see the Cincinnati Pops tonight. The Smothers Brothers are appearing with them, and I’m looking forward to it. My parents introduced me to their comedy at an early age, and I was probably the only person in my fifth grade class who could recite most of Was It Something I Said? verbatim. And it’s the Pops. It’s culture. It’s an opportunity to get dressed up and go to Music Hall.

We’re not only the beautiful people, we’re cultured. Yeah, baby.

I’m also supposed to go watch the Green Bay Packers opener with my former boss at Tickets in Covington. (Tickets is the official headquarters of Packers fans in Cincinnati.) I’m not sure if I’m going. On the one hand, I used to go every weekend and had a good time. But on the other hand, the last time I went the team had a spotty season and I spent most of November threatening to burn my Brett Favre jersey in effigy. It all depends upon how I feel in the morning.

Friday night was fun. Rosencrantz and I went out with Tammy and Trish, her ex-sisters in law to karaoke night at the Silverton Cafe.

Yeah, you heard me right. Karaoke night.

At the risk of losing several coolness points, this wasn’t my first time. I went one night with a friend of mine years ago, and I spent my entire night flipping through the book looking for something to sing and claiming I wasn’t drunk enough to sing. Meanwhile, my friend was signing up for his fourth song of the night. (Interesting story about that night - I was serenaded by a local sportscaster, who stopped in after the late night news to sing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” He then attempted for the next five minutes to convince me that he’d never sung karaoke before, but couldn’t come up with an explanation why the DJ knew exactly what to play when he walked into the bar.)

I also used to go to Longworth’s with Nash on Thursday nights, and one night they got me drunk enough to sing. It only took a few pints of Bass and a couple rounds of Red Headed Sluts (Jägermeister, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice - it’s the only way you can even get me to consider drinking Jäger). Well, that and Jeff stealing the slip of paper with my selection on it (which I’d been debating turning in for a hour) and giving it to the DJ. When my name was announced, I muttered something about killing Jeff before the night was up and went onstage to mumble my way through “Common Disaster” by Cowboy Junkies. A safe bet, I figured. Margo Timmins has a lovely voice, but she only sings like five notes.

I’m not comfortable with my singing voice. Yes, I know that that’s a common thing, but my fears shouldn’t be this bad. I spent my entire high school career in the music department. Musicals, show choir, choral ensembles. I even took a solo to district competitions one year. I took music theory, can read music. I know I can carry a tune, but I still think my voice is icky.

So karaoke is a confidence exercise for me. I have to have enough faith in myself that I can select a song that I feel confident about, and then get up in front of roomful of people and prove that confidence to them as well.

So yeah, I sang. “These are Days” by 10,000 Maniacs. I’d settled on that one after I eliminated the songs that had notes that were out of my range for the evening. So no Sarah McLachlan or Dido for me. There was no Fiona Apple on the list, and no one can sing “Constant Craving” on key except k.d. lang. I briefly considered singing “Like the Weather” but decided against it when I blew the tune of the opening line three times in a row in the bathroom. (Yes, I test out songs in the bathroom to see if I can properly sing them. I am such a loser.) So “These are Days” was the final decision. I probably would have done better if I’d picked a song I’d heard recently, since I realized mid-song that I couldn’t remember how the bridge went. Ah well. There was a little voice in my head calmly repeating the words “Fake it. Fake it.” I followed that advice and improvised a melody that sounded vaguely like something Natalie Merchant might sing. Apparently it worked, since Rosencrantz said she didn’t hear me mess up. Or maybe she was just being nice. Or maybe it’s been a while since she heard the song as well.

And oh, I forgot to mention that it was a contest. There was money riding on this. This meant I was up against people who thought they were better than everyone else in the room. And no, I didn’t have any illusions of winning.

OK, just a tiny little pipe dream. Wouldn’t that have been a great ending for this story?

But it wasn’t fated to be. But I think I did OK, seeing as how it was only my second time doing karaoke, it had been 17 years since I’d sung anything solo, and I’d previously done a shot with Tammy for luck. A buttery nipple (Bailey’s Irish Creme and butterscotch schnapps). My high school choral training kicked in and screamed at me “You idiot! You’re getting ready to sing BY YOURSELF and you ordered a cream based shot? Now your throat is coated, and stop looking at those cigarettes because they aren’t going to help your situation at all.”

I reminded the choral instructor in my head that this was the Silverton Cafe, not OMEA state competitions and there were no medals for my high school letter jacket at stake here. And then I lit a cigarette and went off to find a glass of water to try to clear my throat. A compromise.

But anyways, I didn’t win. Neither did Tammy (Trish had decided not to do the contest, since she had run out of songs she knew well enough to sing.) The honors went to a girl named Jenny who belted out a dead-on cover of Alanis Morrisettte’s “ThankU.” (She hit the first high note in the chorus and Tammy and I both agreed that the contest was over and we had a winner.) But I feel like I didn’t completely humiliate myself. I was just happy that I’d been able to find the confidence to actually do it. For those of you who have never stood in front of a microphone with an audience turning their full attention to you, it’s pretty scary.

But good god, the endorphins are so worth it. As a reward for having the stones to try (OK, actually as a defense mechanism from the harrowing terror that your mind is plunged in), your body sends a wave of happy hormones coursing through your bloodstream. I got off stage and I felt so incredibly relaxed and suddenly invigorated. You’d have thought I was smoking something other than Sampoerna Extras.

We’re already talking about going back. Rosencrantz also has singing issues that she wants to conquer, and Tammy and I have decided that we are going to win one week. We’re determined. It doesn’t matter which of us it is, but Jenny must be defeated. The grand prize of $50 will be ours - at least it’ll cover our bar tab. I have a list of songs to practice for the next time.

So if any of you hear me warbling an off-key version of “Thank You” or “Walking After Midnight” in the next little while, now you know why.

Catching Up with Myopic

Happy Labor Day weekend, all. Hope everyone has big exciting plans for the three day weekend. (For those of you who have jobs that honor national holidays, that is.)

Thanks to all of you who welcomed me back with open arms after my missing-in-action period. I was worried that you'd all abandoned me, but I was wrong. Your supportive emails really mean a lot to me. I've had a rough summer, but knowing that people out there are rooting for me makes it a lot easier. Today's mail included a very sweet email from my mom, written before she and my dad left for a week in sunny Florida. I love you too, Mom. You made me cry. Thankfully only Zappagirl was here to witness it.

Oh, who am I kidding? Anyone who knows me knows I cry at the drop of a hat. I sniffle during Hallmark commercials. But it's nice to be crying for good reasons rather than bad reasons.

So, I've got some catching up to do. Where to begin?

First off, my condolences to Musashi in regards to his legal tussle with Toho Co., Ltd. Seems that they didn't findSurvivor: Monster Island as funny as the rest of us, and they sent him an email threatening a lawsuit for infringing upon their intellectual property. He took down al the links and graphics, posted his response to them and created a new t-shirt for The Destroy All Monsters Legal Defense Fund. Big business has no sense of humor, folks. The weekly updates were hilarious, and most people I knew were much more interested in whether Godzilla got booted off the island than which sniping moron made it through another week of the Outback tribal council. I suggest that the suits at Toho go out, buy a dictionary, and look up "parody." Geez.

Apparently Cafe Press has decided to offer messenger bags to all of their stores for a limited time, because suddenly everyone I know is offering screaming yellow bags with their logos emblazoned on the flap. Argh! Which to buy? My basic black bag has seen better days, and it wouldn't hurt to have a new one, but I don't know which one to buy. By the time I decide, they won't be available anymore! Maybe I'll just buy one of each. Right after I win the lottery.

Oh, wait! I get my tax check this month, don't I? Hmmm. Since I've already decided I'm going to blow the entire check on things I want, not stuff I need, I'm makeing a list of places to spend this money that the government was kind enough to send back to me. Geekware. DAM stuff. Cool stuff from Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash - I've been eying the Buddy Christ dashboard figurine for a year and a half now. And how cool is that Clerks lunch box?

Speaking of the View Askewniverse, Zappagirl and I attended a sneak preview of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back a few weeks ago. Omigod. Kevin Smith is soooo my boyfriend. I can't remember the last time I laughed that hard in a theater. (Actually, I lied. It was the first time I saw South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut.)

Not that my love for Kevin Smith is a big news flash or anything. After all, my pager message was Dante's lament (from Clerks) for months. I have the Jay and Silent Bob action figures, still in the original packaging. (But probably not for much longer. Toy geeks be damned, I like to actually play with my toys rather than marvel at the mint condition which the plastic packaging maintains.) And I own two copies of Dogma. One was a previously viewed copy from Blockbuster (that rack is dangerous when I've got extra money), and the other was...ok, I'll admit it. I bought a bootleg from a street vendor the week after the movie was released in theaters. One of those "sneaking the camcorder into the theater" tapes. The quality is awful, the sound is even worse, but it kept me happy until the film was available for rental.

The only thing mising from the new movie was a plot. (Sorry, Kevin. I may love you, but you aren't perfect.) But for fans of the other four movies, it's loads of fun. Inside joke after inside joke, a return of characters from every other installment of the New Jersey saga, and Morris Day and the Time! Whoo!

(Note: If you do go to see the movie, stay until the credits are over. You'll understand when you see it. And sing along to the Afroman song while you're reading who the best boy was.)

Ummm...what else? Oh yeah. After catching VH1 Storytellers and MTV Unplugged 2.0, I am happy to announce that R.E.M. and I are back on speaking terms. I still miss Bill Berry, but I've been guiltily grooving in secret to the stuff they've been doing since I broke up with them during Monster. Thanks to Roger Mexico for showing me the error of my ways.

Speaking of Roger Mexico, I am extremely jealous right now. Since he moved to Pennsylvania, he has been to see Air and Depeche Mode (with Poe) in Philly, and just got to see Coil at Convergence 7 in New York. (This was Coil's first ever performance in North America. Lucky guy.) And in the next month he is going to see Current 93, and probably has his tickets for Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in October. The only concert I have attended this summer was the Kingston Trio set at Taste of Blue Ash last weekend. The show was great, but the weather was less than cooperative. It rained. Hard. Zappagirl and I looked like drowned rats, but we managed to make friends with everyone sitting around us by offering Riesen candies to the entire crowd in the bleachers. Yes, that's right. Strangers with candy.

I'm serious about this one, folks. You want to get the people at a crowded social event to be nice to you? Offer them chocolate covered caramels. They'll be your best friends for the rest of the night.

The weather looks to be much better this weekend, which is a good thing. Because, as anyone who's ever lived in Cincinnati knows, Labor Day weekend means one thing: the WEBN fireworks.

For those of you out-of-towners who are looking at your computer screen with a perplexed look right now, I'll try to explain. Back in the late 70's, WEBN decided to thank their listeners with a fireworks display over the Ohio River. It was a huge success, and is now in its 25th year. The pyrotechnics are first rate (Rozzi's Famous Fireworks are simply the best in the business), the show is usually about 30 minutes long, and the entire thing is synched up to a specially mixed soundtrack. There's been usually about a million people on the river watching in any given year. It's something that has to be witnessed firsthand at least once to be believed. (If you want to get an idea of how big a deal it is, check out the portfolio on the Rozzi's site. At least 4 of the 6 stills are from past Riverfests, as are both of the QuickTime movies.)

A lot of people are adverse to going to Riverfest because of the crowds. Getting a good spot means getting there early (some people stake out their claims early in the morning), enduring a lot of people, Port-O-Lets, overpriced soft drinks (beer booths were banned back in the 80's after someone overindulged and got himself good and dead), and sitting around doing nothing waiting for 9:05 pm to arrive. I haven't been in almost 10 years, since the year I was at a cookout in Dayton and we decided at the last second to drive down for the show rather than watch them on TV. We broke every speed law in the known universe, but managed to get there 15 minutes before the show started. (And then the batteries in our radio died, since we'd used up all the juice listening to Rob's Xymox CD.)

But despite the claustrophobia-inducing crowds and the ickiness of Porta-potties, not to mention the mind-numbing thought of listening to entirely too much Led Zepplin and Lynyrd Skynyrd, Zappagirl and I will be attending the Boomsday festivities this year. (The bad pun is WEBN's, not mine. Yeah, they still refer to the month after September as "Rocktober," too.) Why, you ask? To entertain you, of course! While we are downtown guarding the small patch of land we will be securing with our blanket, we will be keeping a play-by-play record of the Riverfest goings-on. Hopefully, we'll get it posted on Monday. It'll be just like you were there...except you won't have to smell the ripeness of the crowd after sitting on Serpentine Wall for 6 hours.

So while Zappagirl is at work tomorrow moring, I have to go to Krogers and run errands. Buy bug spray, so we don't get gnawed on by the mosquitos. Stop at Tobacco Discounters and buy cloves, since we're both running low. Get some travel-friendly snacks, so we don't have to pay $3.50 for stale nachos. Find playing cards. Wash out the blanket, which stil smells a little funny after the downpour at Taste of Blue Ash. Find out where the Park and Ride stop is this year, so we don't have to deal with the street closings. Make sure there's film in the camera.

And Riesen. Can't forget the Riesen.