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(Repost) September’s Process

(This is a rerun of something I wrote in 2014.  I still have nothing more to add when it comes to my reaction to the anniversary of 9/11.)

Ask the farmer to transfer the tomatoes from their box to a bunch of bags. Wince as he packs the bags too full; they’ll crush easier. Carefully tuck them into the cart, and start home, wincing again as you hit each tiny rut and bump in the sidewalk.   Grab a bag of ice as you pass the deli on your street.  Wince again, and add a groan, when you get home and realize that what with the cart, the bags of tomatoes, and the ice, you’re going to have to make more than one trip up and down the four flights of stairs to your place.  Sigh and get to it.

My local farmers’ market has a “canners’ special” each year – a bushel of tomatoes, sold cheap to those wanting to put things up. I’ve been picking up a box every year since about 2011 – it seems to be just enough to last yearlong, with about a dozen cans of tomatoes and a couple jars of fresh tomato juice each time, and the process is messy and annoying enough that I only do want to do it once.

A few years ago I got into the habit of scheduling this ordeal for the anniversary of the 9/11 Attacks.

Clean out the sink first.  You’ll need an empty sink for the dishes after, and you’ll also need it for the ice water bath when you’re peeling the tomatoes.

Weigh out your tomatoes, laying them into little clusters on the dining room table – six pounds each. Save aside the ones that crushed on the way, to make tomato sauce and salsa to keep in the fridge right away.  Throw out the couple of fungus-y tomatoes that managed to sneak into the bushel.  Fetch enough empty jars from that top shelf in the kitchen, and dig through the pile of canning supplies trying to find enough lids.  Steal a couple from the teeny jars you have in the closet.

Dig out the big stock pot you got from your cousins 20 Christmases ago. Tuck in the first of your canning jars, and fill the whole thing, jars and all, with water.  Set that to boil while you dig out the other two big soup pots – fill one with water, and start that boiling while you fill up the sink and dump in part of the bag of ice.

Different cabinet now – dig out the big mixing bowl and balance a colander on top.  Shuffle the bowl and pans around on your counter while you’re waiting for all the water to boil.   It’s already getting hot.  Look at how many dishes this is already using.  Sigh.

Canning is just complicated and frustrating enough to lure me from the thoughts I’d otherwise have this day; it’s busywork, keeping me at a low level of distraction and giving me something else to be cranky at.  It also gives me an excuse to shut myself away from people.  But it’s not so intricate that I can’t recover if I do, despite myself, slip into memory.

I was in New York City that day; I was on “standby” with my temp agency, dressed and waiting just in case they got a last-minute call so they could send me right out.   So I was at home that morning, and I lived close enough to the Towers that I heard the impact of both planes as they hit.

The reason I was on standby, though, was because the day before I’d missed a call from my agency asking if I was available for something starting on the 11th.  By the time I called them back, they’d already given it to someone else.  It wasn’t until the evening of the 11th that I remembered that my agency had a lot of clients in the Twin Towers – so it was very possible that if I’d taken that job, I’d have been one of the people in the Towers that day.

Drop the first few tomatoes into the smaller pot of boiling water.  Realize you forgot to set a timer, curse and do so.  Wait.  Start madly scooping tomatoes into the sink ice bath when 30 seconds is (sort of) up.  Wait thirty more seconds – more or less – and grab a tomato from the sink, juggling it in your hands a little.  Still hot.  But the skin is fortunately slipping off.  Peel it over the colander and dig out the tough core with your fingers, dropping skin and seeds and tomato goodge into it as you do. Crush the meat in your hands and dump it into the second pot.

Notice, as you reach for a second tomato, that you’ve squirted juice onto the side of the fridge.  Swear.  Try to dig the peel off the second tomato.  This one’s more stubborn.  Swear again.  And then again when you squirt tomato down your shirt front.

Look at the remaining tomatoes in the sink, and then over at the 14 pounds you haven’t even gotten to yet.  Swear again.

Sometimes my not having been in the Towers feels like a copout.  We hear a lot from the First Responders and their families; the next of kin of the victims; the military.  We don’t hear as much about the experiences of the ordinary schlubs like me – people whose experience with 9/11 was only in coping with the city’s aftermath.  I didn’t know anyone in the Towers, I wasn’t there myself, no one I know died.  What’s my problem?

But even if no person I know died, the place was badly wounded.  For three months I tried to ignore the smell of smoke hanging over everything – the fire at Ground Zero was still going, and that meant that something was still fueling that fire, and I didn’t want to think too hard about just what that fuel may be.  I also tried to ignore the “Missing Person” posters that blanketed every single wall and bulletin board and lamppost with their futility.  And the shrines in front of each police precinct and firehouse, a small pile of dead flowers and burnt-out bodega candles clustered against the side of the building near a taped-up few pictures of smiling cops or firemen.  You saw these things ever once in a while before, of course, when one guy or another was killed in action.  But this time it was every precinct that had one, every fire house that had one.

The president and the mayor were trying to tell us all to go about our business and get back to normal.  But there were some long and lingering signs pointing to the fact that things were not normal.  Not at all.

The pot full of jars is boiling, so start simmering the crushed tomato on the stove and start fishing jars out of the pot, carefully dumping the water back in.  Dole a spoonful of citric acid and a spoon of salt into each jar.  Get the idea to tuck sprigs of oregano into a couple jars and clip some off your oregano plant in the window.

Ladle the tomato carefully into each jar.  Swear again when you overfill one and have to scoop some out.  Wipe all the jar rims.  Start to wipe the counter while you’re at it but then realize you’re just getting started so why bother.  Screw the lids on each jar, holding each one gingerly from the heat.  Grab each jar with the funky tong thingies you got just for canning jars, praying you don’t drop anything as you carefully lower them back into the still-boiling stock pot.

Set the timer for a half hour when the stock pot’s full.  Consider sitting down for a bit, but sigh and start peeling the next pile of tomatoes.

Even in the weeks immediately after the attacks, I found myself more angry at other Americans than I was at the attackers.  My friend Colin and I had a discussion shortly after, about “what would you do if Osama Bin Laden was in this room right now?”  And honestly, the most I would have done is smacked him like Cher did to Nic Cage in Moonstruck and asked, “what the hell was that?”  Even today, I can’t entirely escape the thought that Bin Laden and the attackers were not sane.  I would no more blame them for acting while under the influence of extreme religious fundamentalism than I would blame a rabid dog – neither knew any better.

However, our country did know better when we started a war under false pretenses with the wrong damn country, one which we are still fighting today.

Even worse are the politicians who preach platitudes about supporting the brave first responders who risked their lives during the attacks – but then turn around and cancel bills meant to give those first responders support for their health care.  Or the regular people online who blanket Facebook and Twitter and such every September 11th with Photoshopped pictures of the Twin Towers and eagles and flags and the “Never Forget” slogan in sparklefont – but then go back to slagging New Yorkers as “libtards” the very next day.  Both those camps are people who are exploiting the worst day of my life to make themselves look good to others, and I have very little patience for that.

The person I got the angriest at, though, was a man who came up to me on the street two days after the attacks.  I was standing near my neighborhood’s local mosque, and he was walking past and saw me there, came over to me, and nodding at the mosque, said, “so this is where the snake pit is, huh?”

Never before in my life have I been as angry as another person as I got at that man.  “This is a HOUSE of WORSHIP!” I roared at him.  “HOW DARE YOU!”

“It’s a SNAKE PIT!” he shouted back; but he was backing away from me.  We shouted back and forth at each other a few seconds more, him calling the mosque a snake pit and me scolding him for his prejudice; but he was backing away down the street and finally just ran off, driven off by my rage.

And it was pure rage. Rage which still comes faintly back to me when I write about that moment these many years later.

Carefully lift the processed jars out of the stock pot.  Worry at one that hisses a bit.  Check the lid; it’s a good seal.  Resolve to keep an eye on it anyway.  Top up the water and drop in the next round of jars.

Carry the jars over to the window by your oregano.  Linger there a few seconds each time you do, to catch the breeze for just a minute before returning to the hot kitchen.  Fiddle again with that jar you heard hissing.  Hear one of the jars clink in the stock pot and run back to make sure it didn’t break.

Food was one thing that helped me cope during those first few weeks.  Cat food, mostly.

I got into a bad headspace after a week; I didn’t have work right away, and so I was stuck with nothing to do, which left way too much time for me to let myself get caught up in endless mental rabbit-track loops replaying what had happened.  I’d either sit in my apartment in a weird fugue state, or do things like lock myself in my room and stay awake for 48 hours reading Lord Of The Rings cover to cover.

But while I was in a bad mental place, my cat Zach was not.  War or peace, political strife or good days – it was all the same to him.  All he cared about was food – Zach was an enormous glutton.  And two hours before his dinner, he would start asking after it, with his loud and strangely nasal “Miaou!”s.  In the weeks after the attack, his “Miaou!” was the only thing loud enough to finally pierce the voices in my own head, and rouse me to get up and off the couch and give him a scoop of kibble – and oh, wait, while I’m up I maybe should get a sandwich or something, shouldn’t I?….

And so while Zach ate and I numbly nibbled, I thought about how Zach didn’t care what had happened; all he cared about was that he was alive and he wanted to stay that way – and that I was alive, and it was my job to feed him.  I had a responsibility to keep him fed – and while I was at it, I had to keep me fed too.

I was alive, and I had to keep living for the people who couldn’t.

Chop the tomatoes that crushed on the way home.  Dump them into a Tupperware container with the not-enough-to-fill-a-jar tomato meat and stick it in the fridge to deal with later.   Mix up the skins and seeds in the colander with your hand to finish straining the juice.  Empty the colander into the trash.  Drop the colander in the trash as you do. Swear again.

Get that really big measuring cup and measure the juice from the bowl.  Just over two pints; dump the water out of the tomato bath pot and dump in the juice.  Bring that to a boil while you get two more jars.  This time it’s easier to fill the jars – it’s all juice.  Much more pourable.  Save the extra aside.  Seal those up too and set the juice jars inside the stock pot.   These get fifteen minutes; take a very deep breath, summon your courage and grab a paper towel to start finally wiping down the countertops and get going on the dishes. Pause halfway through to get a rocks glass from your “bar” in the living room.

Food was a place to start living again.

I’ve always been an active cook, but I picked it up after the attacks.  Especially the canning – it started as a whim, making jam and then liqueur, and then when I moved to Brooklyn I tried canning a couple pounds of tomatoes just to see if I could.

I now routinely make jam and applesauce and pickles every year, mainly just to cope with the bounty I get from a CSA; when I know I can’t eat something fast enough, it either gets canned or frozen.  I hate to waste things, so this kind of canning is more salvage; I’m stopping it from going bad so I can have it on hand to use in something.  Someday.  At some point.

Tomatoes are a little different – it’s the only thing I can as a planning-ahead thing.  I cook a lot of Cajun and Italian food, and tomato soup is one of my comfort foods, so tomatoes are a staple, and this is my big annual stocking-up.  I boasted to my mother once that I haven’t had to buy a can of Del Monte or Contadina from the supermarket in four years.

There’s also something comforting about that big stockpile; about opening the hall closet where I keep all my canned stuff, and seeing those jars stacked up.  It’s a bounty – the means to make a years’ worth of some of my favorite foods whenever I choose, and knowing that because these are really good tomatoes, it’s also going to be really good food.

But it’s also a promise and a commitment and a celebration.  It’s my own declaration that I’m still here, several years on, to eat those tomatoes.  And share them with others who are also here.  Canning on September 11th each year is my way of celebrating that I’m here, and signing on to stay here.

Bring the juice jars over to the windowsill, and finally turn off the stove.  Leave the last pot to soak, measure out a bit of vodka and dump that into the glass with the balance of the juice.  Forgive yourself for having to look up how to make a Bloody Mary.  Finish mixing it and bring it to the chair by the window with a heavy sigh.

Look at the jars of tomatoes.  Twelve of them this year, a neat row of jars with swirls of orangey-red. Twelve meals’ worth of future soups and chilis and jambalaya.

Think about jambalaya a moment, the play of the smoky Andouille and sweet pepper on your tongue.

Take a sip of your drink.  You overdid it with the vodka a tiny bit, but the blinding freshness of the tomato comes through.

Feel the breeze through the window, a relief after the hot kitchen.  Look out the window.  You’re looking east, so you can’t see the sun, but the sky is colored for sunset anyway, the blue tinging to pink and lavender.  Sip your drink again and look at the sky.

Then back inside to your home, one which you’ve filled with friends whom you’ve fed with tomatoes in years past.  Remember one meal, all of you sitting around the kitchen table and laughing.

Look back out at the sky again, thinking of them.  Thinking of life.

You are alive.



Neighborhoods New York Project: Catching Up

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So about three years ago I announced, with much fanfare, an idea for this blog that sort of fizzled.  I think I should revive it a bit.

I actually was checking out some various places in the city during that time; I just wasn’t writing about them.  So here, real fast-like, are some impressions from some of the places I have visited.

  • Cadman Plaza

This is actually a park; it’s the traditional border between tony Brooklyn Heights and more proletariat Downtown Brooklyn.  However, this also puts it right bang in the middle of a major business district in Brooklyn, so very few people use it as a park; it’s mostly populated by people in business attire walking purposefully on their way to meetings or sitting on benches grabbling lunch and talking urgently on cell phones, with the occasional nanny with a couple kids.  I got to walk through each day myself during the two weeks that my new job was a walking distance from my house, and passed a big statue of Henry Ward Beecher each way.

  •  Downtown Brooklyn

The aforementioned Downtown Brooklyn has been a major shopping drag since I moved in; the courthouses for Brooklyn are all here, but so are three solid blocks of clothing stores, shoe stores, jewelry stores, and such all stretching down Fulton Street.  Brooklyn’s own Macy’s sits down the block from an H&M and an Old Navy and a Nordstroms, and etc., etc., etc.  Right on the edge is a new sort of mall-type building that I have to admit I’ve been to a lot (it has a Target, a Flying Tiger outpost, New York’s only Alamo Drafthouse theater, and a food court in the basement with the only Trader Joe’s I’ve seen in the city where there is no line).

But there are other little surprises tucked in – get past the shops and you see some smaller historic buildings tucked in, like the city’s main meeting house for the Society of Friends (Quakers) and the main transit museum.

  • Fulton Ferry

Otherwise known as “the buildings most people walk past to get to Brooklyn Bridge Park”.  Most tourists either line up 50-deep to get to Grimaldi’s pizza, or give up and head to the new Shake Shack that just opened up a couple blocks away.  However, I favor the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, a little ice cream shop in an old fireboat house perched right under the Brooklyn Bridge.  The ice cream is nice and simple, and the scooper staff all fresh-faced high-school kids; I always get a major flashback to the little ice cream shops you can find up and down Cape Cod in the summers.

An old boyfriend once owned the building right next to Grimaldi’s, but had to sell it during a divorce settlement. Whenever we went wandering in the city, if we passed by it, it would send him into a bit of a funk for the rest of the day.  I sort of don’t blame him.

  • Boerum Hill

Another big shopping area, with boutiques and fancy shops along Smith and Court Streets, with some tinier cafes tucked into the rowhouses further from Smith.

  • Bay Ridge

I ventured down here most recently.  The city has dramatically expanded its ferry service in the East River; instead of a single line serving three stops in Manhattan, two spots in Williamsburg and one in Astoria, there are now two more lines hopping along the Brooklyn Waterfront and the East Village, with another line heading all the way to Rockaway Beach.  Another line for Queens is coming, and there’s even supposed to be a ferry up to spots in the Bronx.

Right now the Rockaway line and the line for South Brooklyn are the only two new ones open, to encourage the development of the industrial park in Sunset Park; it also tries to give commuters from Bay Ridge, Red Hook and Sunset Park a bit of a hand getting to Manhattan.  I rode it the opposite way, though, from the Brooklyn Bridge down to Bay Ridge.

It’s pretty clear where the upscale part of Bay Ridge is; it’s the houses on the bluffs overlooking the river.   The ferry lets you off on a pier just at the head of a shoreline jogging path, with steep cliffs overlooking the water looming over you.  It’s a steep climb from the pier to the next block, and then another one to the block beyond that – so steep, in fact, that at some places the cross streets simply stop at the base of the cliff, resuming one block later at a higher altitude.  Pedestrians can walk it, though – there are stairs.

I fell in love with house after house in the little side streets I walked through; mostly the smaller, cottage-y looking places with tiny lawns and front porches, and probably just a single bedroom in the second floor.  Most of them sported flags and kitschy lawn ornaments, the occasional political sign, faded wreaths or Christian slogans.  But then I really fell hard for “The Gingerbread House”, an Arts-and-Crafts style house with six bedrooms built a hundred years ago and now an architectural landmark.

I desperately wished I could get in, wished that there was some kind of house tour.  No such luck, so I just lingered at the fence and peered through hedges, wishing I could peep inside windows.  ….I have since discovered that the house has been for sale since 2009, and the asking price is making this now one of my aspirations for if I ever win the lottery.

A couple more blocks east was 3rd Avenue, the more commercial drag; storefronts and smaller apartment buildings instead of the stately houses.  I stopped in at another landmark that pre-dates the Gingerbread House – Anopoli Family Restaurant, an old family diner that boasted a small ice cream parlor. I went in, planning to get something to go; I ordered a small dish of peach ice cream, and the man at the counter was training a teenager, clearly there on a summer job, and showed him how to dish my ice cream up and how much it cost.  But when I held up my debit card to pay for it, their faces fell.  “Only cash, sweetheart,” they said.

“Oh.  Uh…is there an ATM?”

“You could go to the pizza place next door.”

“Okay.  Uh…I’ll leave this here, then,” I said, pushing the ice cream back towards them, “and I’ll just go get it.”

“What? No.” The man scoffed.  “Stay here, eat your ice cream, then you can go get the money.”  I hesitated, thinking about the ferry I wanted to catch. “G’wan,” he chided me.  “Sit down. Relax.”

“….Okay, I probably should,” I said, meekly taking the only open seat at the counter, next to a woman with bleached-blond hair eating a plate of fried shrimp.  Almost the second I sat down another older man I hadn’t even seen put a glass of ice water in front of me as well.  I was a little worried he was going to try to chat with me – I wasn’t really in the mood for conversation – but instead, he left me alone, and I instead just listened to the patter as he teased the woman with the fried shrimp, or occasionally lectured the teenager about how to serve up pre-packed ice cream or sundaes.  He raced through all his lectures, and I wasn’t sure the kid would be able to remember it all; but when I finally got my money and paid for my ice cream, it was the kid who rang me up, and he was spot-on.



So. My apartment is about to undergo a change of cast.  I put up the Craigslist ad about 36 hours ago, and 32 hours ago I’d already had three people wanting to make appointments to have a look.

And so I am here twitching, waiting for the first contestant – who is right now about 20 minutes past his appointed arrival.  I haven’t eaten anything yet, because I wanted to have a clean kitchen when they showed, and I wanted to do a bit of writing tonight – but can’t while I wait, lest I get too deep into the weeds and have to interrupt myself when they show.

This honestly is the worst bit. I grumbled to A* that there should be some place where you’re just issued a roommate, like at Target or something.

On The Town

(Good news – this will not be about the election! Come on in!)


This weekend was the city’s Open House weekend – a day when a number of the city’s cultural, historic, and otherwise significant sites open up to the public (or, if they’re already open that day, they open on a level more so than usual). It’s an even I’ve been vaguely aware of over the years, and finally kicked myself into heading out to explore.

One of the sites was actually right in my neighborhood. I live in Fort Greene, and the Prison Ship Martyrs’ Monument has gotten to be a familiar landmark over time; it’s a spire erected in 1908 devoted to commemorating people who died in prison ships anchored in New York harbor during the Revolutionary War. When it was first built, this spire had a staircase leading up to an observation deck up top, but that was long since closed; so when the Open House brochure promised a peek inside, I made it a stop.

The “peek” inside was pretty much exactly that. There was only enough room inside for fifteen people at a time, and a pair of rangers stood outside and dutifully counted each of us off, letting only a little cluster of us in at a time to listen to a third ranger give a lecture about the history of the monument, the prison ships, and the park surrounding it. We all huddled in, respectfully trying not to step on the huge door set in the floor with an inscription commemorating the dead.


However, when one of the other attendees asked about it, the ranger’s eyes twinkled a bit and she gave us a bombshell – this door is actually a fake door, constructed as a recent movie prop. It just looked so realistic that the park service decided to keep it.

The rest of my afternoon was similarly…Revolutionary. Castle Clinton was next – it’s not a “castle” as such, but rather a fort constructed at the very tip of Manhattan. These days it also does double duty as the box office for the ferryboats to the Statue of Liberty, so most visitors just come in for no more than a five-minute visit. The “museum” on site is also similarly small; a single room with a series of dioramas depicting New York harbor over the years, a few displays on the site itself, and a couple of display cases with some archeological trinkets found on occasion. But for this weekend, the site had also sprung for an added treat – the Marquis de Lafayette.

When I walked in, he was deep in conversation with a couple of Hamilton superfans; they were talking about what they’d heard about Lafayette from the show, and he was responding in character – “I am afraid I have not seen that performance, Madame, but I have heard about it, and they do take some theatrical liberties, I must say…”  I lingered a while after they left to talk with him myself; he dropped character to tell me about how the popularity of Hamilton affected his gigs. “It used to be that I’d mention some names and get blank looks, but now I mention some of Lafayette’s more obscure friends and a couple of kids will perk up and nod, which is cool.” On the other hand, he said that during a recent gig he saw some kids’ faces light up when he was talking about Yorktown and used the phrase “rendezvous with Rochambeau”; he was a little afraid they were going to burst into song.

The Marquis got back into character when some other guests entered to tell us that “Monsieur Hamilton is actually at Federal Hall, along with Monsieur Washington, if you would like to pay a visit,” and indeed that was my next stop. That was more of a performance, though – with actors depicting Washington, Jefferson, and Hamilton in an early cabinet meeting.


I unfortunately arrived a bit too late to catch the beginning, so instead I prowled through the building itself, peering at artifacts like the Bible Washington used during his Inauguration.

did make the tour at the African Burial Ground National Monument. This is something I’ve long wanted to check out – I had only been living in the city for a few years when they first discovered the site, and the controversy over what to do with the site occupied New York’s press for a couple years after until the site was finally declared a national monument.

At first glance it’s not that different from a modern-ish city park; there’s a couple green plots, a granite memorial rising from the center, and a walkway down towards a central plaza. But the ranger leading the tour pointed out some of the design details, and each and every one was like a blow to the heart.


For instance, you can walk through the monument. That big granite slab is actually a gateway, placed just east of where some of the bodies disturbed during excavation were re-interred. They had all been buried with their heads oriented west, she explained, because the tradition was that they would face the rising sun. So the monument serves as a passage back east, back to Africa.

The ranger had us all pause inside before walking through; the design is meant to be narrow and cramped, with only a tiny skylight above offering light.  A pool alongside the monument on the outside feeds a waterfall; the whole thing is meant to represent the hold of a slave ship.


The plaza you come to after passing through the granite monument is decorated with a globe, surrounded by a spiral walkway. On the wall flanking the walkway are symbols depicting several symbols found with some of the remains. The spiral continues at the end of the walkway, in the form of engraved descriptions of some of the hundreds of remains that the excavation had disturbed.

The engraving spiraled inward on the floor of the plaza, across the map, ending in Africa.

I’d actually forgotten that the monument design included a compromise. The site was originally meant to be a high-rise office building complete with parking garage; the research suggested that the original burial ground was vast, covering much of the city’s municipal district. Ultimately, the compromise involved an acre of land set aside for the monument, and a smaller building, which also had to house a visitor center on the first floor. Before they constructed the building, scholars from Howard University did a thorough study of the bodies on the site – nearly five hundred of them. A display inside the visitors center spoke to that research, which often revealed physical effects of hard work on the very bones on the site. One showcase had a collection of some of the items found with the bodies – buttons or cufflinks left behind after the clothes had degraded away, tin symbols which had been nailed to coffins, tokens tucked into hands, beads left around waists.  One wall was covered, floor-to-ceiling, a display of all of the Polaroids they had taken of each body they found, where it lay.



There was a stand by the door where you could leave a comment card, but it was out of pencils; if I’d had a pen, I would have written that I can think of several people I wanted to drag to the site and point and say “look at this, you bastards.”

On Mattress Sales and Memory

Today, the Internet is abuzz over a cheesy commercial produced by a Texas mattress store – the kind that lots of family-owned businesses produce prior to a national holiday, where some employees are pressed into playing George Washington and saying “I cannot tell a lie about chopping down our prices” or some such. But this time, the “holiday” which inspired the ad was the upcoming 15th anniversary of the September 11th Twin Towers attacks.


As I understand it, it aired somewhere in Texas, once, and half of Texas had a collective fit, complete with angry phone calls and Yelp reviews, uploadings of cell phone-recorded videos to Youtube with “omigod can you believe this” captions and the ensuing re-tweeting and facebook sharing everywhere. The owner of the store was quick to apologize, followed by pulling the ad – and then after a couple more hours of backlash, he announced he was closing the business entirely. So by now, the only thing left is the fact that at one time this existed, and the uneasy knowledge that yes, we have just now reached a “jumped the shark” moment on 9/11.

Those who know me, know that I was here in New York on September 11th of 2001. And yes, I was indeed initially offended when I heard about this ad. But that initial shock gave way to a sort of…resigned shrug.  Because, to be honest, “people exploiting 9/11” is something I’ve been getting used to seeing for years now.

In the fifteen years since 2001, I have seen people use 9/11 to sell commemorative coins, t-shirts, ties, calendars and other tchochkes.  There were vendors hawking shirts and bumper stickers from carts around Ground Zero within a year or two. There was commemorative wine in 2011.  There was a sushi place in Arizona that featured a “Remembrance Roll“. When the 9/11 Museum opened two years ago, it drew flak for having a gift store; and to be fair, there was some demand for things like NYPD t-shirts to commemorate first responders. But people were less pleased with the commemorative cheese plate on offer (the museum quietly pulled that a week after the museum opened). People have been making a buck off of 9/11 from the beginning.

But, that exploitation I can actually swallow.  There is another kind, which has been going on just as long, which I’ve found harder to forgive – the kind practiced by politicians, or even other citizens.

Every year, in the few days leading up to September 11th I start seeing an uptick in flags on people’s Twitter and Facebook pages. On the day itself Facebook is usually covered by flags, pictures of the Towers, and people posting the words “Never Forget” again and again and again and again and again. I once lost my temper at a snide comment the friend of a friend made about how it seemed like so “few” people remembered the day that year – why, she had gotten her kids up early and dressed them up in red, white, and blue and brought them to church, she hadn’t forgotten, unlike some people….I responded that I had been close enough to hear the impact of each plane as it hit the Towers, I saw the missing-persons flyers covering my neighborhood for a months, and for a solid two weeks I had to go about my business with a huge pillar of smoke looming to the south; and that trying to forget some of that was the only way I had been able to stay sane, thank you very much.  …I think that is partly why my own Facebook feed is free of commemorative messages.

But I wasn’t spared from George W. Bush’s flag-bedecked ads during his 2004 re-election campaign, ads which actually used footage of a New York firefighter’s funeral.  Or from his press rep retorting, when hearing criticism of the ads, that  “I can understand why some Democrats not might want the American people to remember the great leadership and strength the president and First Lady Laura Bush brought to our country in the aftermath.”   I also get a lot from Rudy Giuliani, whom a lot of New Yorkers were already sick of in the years before September 11th – since then, we’ve all been suffering with an extra fifteen years of him, talking about it so much that during his 2007 bid for the presidency, Joe Biden quipped that “There’s only three things he mentions in a sentence: a noun, a verb and 9/11.”  This year, Trump and Clinton have both mentioned their first-hand memories of the day – Trump as a New York mogul, and Clinton as a junior Senator.

But even here, I could swallow it if all that was happening were just “9/11 happened and we should be sad” mentions amid a sea of other political blather. But that’s usually not the case. Here’s a sampling of what I’ve seen in the past fifteen years:

  • A Florida state senator posting billboards with a photo of the burning Twin Towers, with the slogan “Please Don’t Vote Democrat”.
  • George W. Bush invoking 9/11 to defend a bill calling for oil drilling in the Arctic.
  • A US Senate challenger from Ohio plastering his campaign ad with a picture of the burning Twin Towers, that was later found to have been photoshopped for maxiumum impact.
  • George W. Bush invoking 9/11 to defend tax cuts to businesses.
  • Trump claiming before a rally in Alabama that in the hours after the attacks, he saw “thousands of people” gleefully “dancing” over the collapse of the Towers.
  • Congress using 9/11 to support the Patriot Act.
  • Pamela Geller, a conservative political activist, blanketing New York’s public transit with anti-Islamic ads, all of them prominently featuring a picture of the Twin Towers aflame.
  • Congressmen like Ted Cruz, Rand Paul, Marco Rubio and Lindsey Graham all tweeting about the “brave first responders” to the Twin Tower attacks, but then trying to block the Zadroga Act, which would provide health care to those same first responders suffering from chronic illnesses caused by exposure to pollutants at the Ground Zero site.
  • George Bush invoking 9/11 to send us to war with Iraq.

So there are those who are exploiting memories of 9/11 to make a quick buck.  But then there are also those who are exploiting what was the worst day of my life to wrest power for themselves, and in doing so, have made the nation sicker, meaner, and poorer.

I know which I think is worse.

August Break (Catchup) 30 – Evening Light


Okay, this is cheating because I’m interpreting “evening light” as “the bar up the street from me lit up for the evening.” But it lets me tell a story about why I swear allegiance to this place.

Not that I’m that much of a barfly, honestly.  I think the most “regular” I ever got was once a week, when I was recovering from a broken foot and I marked off the weeks until I was healed by hobbling there for a glass of wine during Happy Hour.  (I also broke my foot in here, but that was my fault – all I will say is, if you’re ever at a party and someone starts a kick line to the song  Come On Eileendon’t join in.)

But it’s only one block up the street from me, and has good food and a lively staff, and the owners known me and it is thus good for spontaneous jaunts out of the house and brunches.

And also for nasty shocks.

…So, like most people, I have an ex-boyfriend who is kind of “the one who got away”. We actually met in this neighborhood – at another bar nearby, which has since closed – and we were well and truly head over heels for each other. Most of the time.  But after nearly a year – for reasons only he will ever know for sure – he cut things off with me. Soon afterward he met someone else and moved out of state with her.

I tried to stay friends on Facebook with him, and it took me a few years to catch on to the fact that this probably wasn’t great for me. But after a couple years I was pretty much over him, so I thought it was okay and I could handle it.  It still came as a shock, though, when I got home from work after an utterly lousy day, got online to lose myself in mindless websurfing, and saw my ex’s Facebook status that he was in New York City – so he could get married, that day, in a courthouse in Queens.

I read that status a couple times, turned my computer off and grabbed my wallet and proceeded immediately to Putnam’s.

The bar was about half-full at that point, and I got a seat on one of the empty stools.  When the smiling bartender asked what I wanted, I told her everything, and then asked “what would you recommend for someone in my condition?”  She clucked in sympathy and made me a Manhattan, in a big glass.

I’m not much of a whiskey drinker, so I was sipping it slowly – slowly enough that the bar filled up more, and I was still there when a man came in after getting off work himself and taking the seat next to me.  We got to chatting – I threw myself into the chat more so than usual, trying to get my mind off things – and he was witty enough that I started having a good time. Good enough, in fact, that when I finished my drink and he’d finished his cider, we each ordered another round – another cider for him, and a cranberry juice and vodka for me.  We didn’t trade numbers after, though, and two drinks were enough for each of us.  But I was still happy that I’d cheered myself up, and that I wasn’t home pouting over my ex. Quietly proud of myself, I turned to the bartender and asked for my bill.

The bartender hesitated. “Okay, here’s the thing,” she said. “Your Manhattan was on the house, and I’m gonna make this guy pay for your second drink (you cool with that, dude? Good) because in my opinion, no one who got the news you got today should have to pay for their drinks.  So…you’re set.”

And that is one of the reasons I have nicknamed this place “the best bar in the world”.

August Break 21 – Today Is…


Today was a day for Buckling Down And Getting Things Done. And like many Brooklynites, that means that for me, it was a Coffee Shop Day; my own “office” at home is a little too close to lots of things that could distract me, and I had to concentrate.  So it was off to a coffee shop for me.

My problem, though, is that I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to coffee shops. I want a place that either has spacious tables if I need to spread out, or big puffy chairs if I’m looking for a more comfortable, lazy session. I’ll need wi-fi.  And the indie, anti-corporate Gen-X’er in me will only set foot in a Starbucks under duress.  My other problem is that my neighborhood boasts two college campuses, and so on a Sunday, that means I’m competing with about half the population of Northern Brooklyn for a seat in one of the coffeehouses in the neighborhood.  I actually had to poke into two shops before I could even find a seat; and I only happened to get one because the shop I was in cut people’s access to their Wi-fi after 90 minutes, and someone’s turn ran out about two minutes after I got in and they left to find another shop.

I also left shortly after my turn at the Wi-fi was up, but was able to cram in some emails, bill paying and travel planning in the interim. I also noticed that this particular shop had a section that was reserved for people not on laptops, which could come in handy when I have more of a Luddite’s need for coffee…