It’s interesting when you can start to measure your life in decades (as I only have one full score under my belt, I don’t measure in those yet). And a decade since 9/11 means many things. It means a decade since I grew up in an instant. It contains the life of my goddaughter, who will only view that day as history. It means my pseudostepkids are not children anymore, but nearly adults. It means I’m getting fucking old.

I’m not going to revisit what 9/11 means to me. I don’t have to revisit it. I am going to sound like a heartless bitch here, but I think the rebroadcasts and retrospectives are meant for people who didn’t experience it firsthand. For those of us who lived through it, those of us who spent nine and a half years with a gaping hole in the skyline where the Towers used to be…we’ve had a reminder every single day of the past ten years. And even though being able to spot the Freedom Tower above the Manhattan skyline fills me with joy, it will always be a tangible reminder of what we lost that day, when part of our home was blown up and thousands of our neighbors disappeared. Even though I can watch the footage now (albeit with a lot of tears), I remember just fine without it. I was here, I lived it. And I still have a lot of rage directed at our ex-President about it, so maybe it’s best I don’t see his face tomorrow, because I don’t think he deserves to be at the ceremony. Weren’t here that day ten years ago when we needed you, buddy, but made it into a talking point for a good part of your career? You shouldn’t get to be here now.

Yep, still have a lot of rage. I’ll be working on a paper tomorrow, thanks.

Onto the bus comes a guy in his early to mid 20s, and at first I thought the blaring music accompanying him was his cell’s ringtone. After a minute, it was still going, and I realized he was using his phone to play music. I do not have a problem with this on the street, but on any type of mass transit, it clearly says “No radios.” I realize his cell phone is not a radio, but basically that means, “Don’t play music without headphones.” The tinny rasta music (his phone speaker was crap) went on for about five minutes, and I could see that people all around me were getting annoyed, too. I couldn’t concentrate on my reading, and with these papers looming over me, every second counts. I decided to speak up.

“Excuse me, sir.” No response. “Excuse me, sir.” Again, ignoring me. I know he could hear me because he’s not wearing headphones. “Excuse me, sir, would you mind turning the music down?”

This got a response. “I don’t need to turn my music down, I paid to get on this bus!”

“I understand that, but it’s loud and making it difficult to concentrate. I’m trying to study on my way to school.”

“I paid to get on this bus!”

It went downhill from there. I told him that I had also paid to get on the bus, and actually, so had everyone else on the bus, but that didn’t give him the right to blare music. He decided that I didn’t like rasta, and I told him that wasn’t the case, I just didn’t like rasta blaring on the bus while I was trying to study, why didn’t he use headphones if he wanted to listen to the music at a loud volume. He made comments about how if I wanted to study something, I could study his music, and told me to shut up, that I shouldn’t be talking. He then went back to his “I paid to get on this bus” refrain. Finally I said, “Look, paying to get on this bus doesn’t mean you get to blare music. Your point is moot.”

“But I paid to get on this bus!”

“So did I. Your point is moot.”

I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand what that meant, because he didn’t have a comeback for it, but I didn’t much care. To argue with me, he had turned the volume down on his phone, and I went back to reading. He got off a couple of stops later and informed me that he was leaving, and I could now enjoy my book. I should have applauded, but continued to ignore him. And then the bus lapsed back into quiet.

Most days I don’t mind commuting on mass transit. It gives me time to read and study, after all. But when you’re commuting, you’re in a confined space with other people, and you need to respect those people’s rights along with your own. If you’re impinging on my rights, I’m going to call you on it, because I do not suffer fools…at all.

More often than not, I just miss the disaster in some way. When I was in college, an earthquake hit NW PA. I was taking a nap before dinner and totally missed it except to wake with the conviction that my friends had been shaking me to wake me up. Uh, no, that was the earthquake, dumbass. This summer, an earthquake hit Ottawa, supposedly shaking people up on the fourth floor of the building in which I work. I was outside on my lunchbreak, sitting on a bench, and didn’t feel a damned thing.

Last night, I knew there were thunderstorm warnings as I went into class, and shortly into it, the sky got very dark and rain started sheeting against the building. Between that and the thunder, we all had to raise our voices to be heard, but aside from the lights flickering for a second, we were all too intent on our discussion of the economic development policy in Vietnam in the 50s to really pay much attention to it (I know, it’s amazing how good this class is). Jordana called me during class, but my phone was on silent, so it wasn’t until I got out that I got her message: “Are you okay, did the tornado get your house?” Come again, WHAT???

Apparently while we were debating about whether militarization in Vietnam was inevitable, the storm that was hitting us was wreaking havoc in Park Slope, just the other side of the hill from where I live. The National Weather Service is still looking into whether or not it was a tornado, but from these videos, it sure as hell looks like one (note: the second video is NSFW because of all the cursing, but it’s vastly entertaining).

Tornado in Brooklyn

Brooklyn Tornado

Meanwhile, when I finally made it home after delays on the part of the MTA and a longer walk than usual, everything was fine at our place. Power had never even gone out, no trees down, and the only indication that anything was amiss was the large numbers of helicopters flying over and the Manhattan-bound Prospect Expressway being shut down for a while. Another missed disaster to add to my life list. I had a glass of wine and thought “Hmm, maybe Mother Nature is trying to tell us something.”

That didn’t sound good. Oh well.

So earlier this week, I saw a free David Byrne concert in Prospect Park. I figured that was my freebie quota for a while. Possibly for the rest of the summer. But no! Because today I was reminded that Shakespeare in the Park starts, and as every New Yorker knows, that shit is free! It’s also a royal pain in the ass to get tickets to unless you don’t have a job, because traditionally, you get up at the butt-crack of dawn to line up by the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park, and even then, no guarantees that you’re going to get those tickets (they give two to each person standing in the right part of the queue).

Except! Last year someone at The Public (Theater, for those of you who don’t live here) apparently thought of us working stiffs stuck in offices all day and invented a Virtual Line. You sign up between midnight and 1 PM of the day of the performance, then log back in between 1 and 6 PM that day to see if you’ve gotten tickets. Today, I figured “What the hell, it’s the first show of the season, let’s see if I can get in.” I also figured I had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting in, because I tried a couple of times last year and it never worked out. But today, today my friends, it worked. I signed into the line at 12:55 PM, then checked back at 1:05 PM and I had tickets! So tonight, rain or shine, I am going to see Twelfth Night with Anne Hathaway and Audra McDonald. I’m jazzed! And hoping for no rain. Cross your fingers for me, will you? Because those chairs are open to lightning, and I would like to make it to Sage’s 8th grade graduation tomorrow intact.

Fortunately, although we got into line at about 6:20 (gates opened at 6:30) and were well back in it, we found a guy that Rick plays softball with. Who happens to be the head of security for Celebrate Brooklyn. (Hi, Mike!) He got us in ahead of most of the line, and we were able to set up our blanket and picnic spread in plenty of time, which means that when Amelia arrived in Brooklyn, she had someplace to meet us. Fortunately, she got in ahead of them closing the gates as well, because we hadn’t come up with a contingency plan for that.

The show was fantastic. It was a lot of songs that David Byrne had collaborated on with Brian Eno, but there were a couple of big Talking Heads hits as well, and they kept the crowd jumping. But although I was very happy that it was someone I liked doing the opening concert of the year, I was happier still that the venue was finally open. I spend a lot of time at Celebrate Brooklyn concerts/movies/dance pieces in the summer because it’s a great chance to hang out with friends and have a picnic. Seeing it through Amelia’s eyes last night, I found an added benefit.

“Wow, I didn’t know there were this many hipsters in New York!” she exclaimed when she got to our blanket. And thus the “Count the Hipsters” game was born. Last night’s total, before the show started: 54. Good times.

Seven years ago today, I did a lot of growing up in a hurry. When I woke up, I was almost 24 and relatively carefree. My coursework for my MFA was over, I was about to give up my part-time job at Some College to be a temp in the city so I could focus on dramaturgy, and all I was thinking about on my commute in to work on September 11, 2001 was how blue the sky was and how good the music on my CD player sounded. The next hours changed my life forever. I tried desperately to find out where my friends were, since such a large number of them were in and around the WTC that day. Eventually I learned that they were all safe, a miracle that even today blows my mind. That we all made it through, with only varying amounts of mental scarring depending upon where we were and what we saw/heard/felt…we were very lucky although at times over the years it hasn’t always felt like that. I was emotionally numb for days, weeks, months. The temp jobs in the city dried up, and I took my current full-time job at Some College to pay the bills. I think my artistic career has been one of the casualties of 9/11 as surely as anything else: although I do get to work as a dramaturg in fits and starts, having a 9-5 job means that I don’t get to work on shows that rehearse during those hours. 9/11 did not kill my artistic life, but it stunted it and redirected it greatly, and it’s taking a lot of work, thought, and planning to get it back to where I feel it should be (not there yet).

September 11, 2001 also put my friends and I on the path to what I call our “wild year,” the year where five of us were out drinking almost every night of the week, curled up in one dive bar or another, and sleeping on each others’ couches before running off to work the next morning. There was so much hurt to get through, so many things that we wanted to say but discovered we weren’t ready to talk about, but kept trying to get out anyway…and we were no different from anyone else. Young New York had its very own Lost Generation that year, and as we looked at the tables around us we saw faces so similar to our own trying to find an escape or at the very least some peace through laughter, alcohol, and nicotine. Eleven months after 9/11, I started dating Rick and started to emerge from that hard shell I had put up to protect myself from the hurt. Seven years after 9/11, I think I’m down to the last few layers. And what have I turned into because of this? I still have no idea.

So today, for those of you in the rest of the country and the rest of the planet: know that the living victims of 9/11, which I believe includes everyone who had their hometown or place of work hit by a plane on that beautiful day seven years ago, even those who didn’t lose anyone in the blasts…just know that we’re making it through the other side. And thank you for all of your thoughts for us over the years.

I dressed for my battle with the elements. Merrells, which are waterproof and insulated. Lands End parka with hood. Handknit hat. Cashmere scarf my brother got me last Christmas. Furry gloves that I got at a flea market last fall which are as warm as can be. I was ready. The train came quickly, after only a few minutes of waiting. (My train, it is tricksy. Because it goes above ground two stops after my house, you can never be sure if it’s running or not.) I got off the train at the stop where I transfer to the bus that takes me to Some College, turned on my iPod to listen to the latest Knitters Uncensored podcast, and waited.

At first, it was fun. My gear was keeping me warm and dry, and it was funny that the snow was piling up on me and my backpack, covering my Captain Jack Sparrow and Obama ’08 buttons. After a while, though, I was starting to get a little cold. I suppose I could have walked, but the thought of trudging miles through unshoveled sidewalks with four inches of snow on them? Not appealing. So I waited, squinting through the snow shower down the street in hopes of catching sight of the bus. Nothing. My toes in their insulated boots were starting to go numb, turning into little ice cubes that were hard to walk on. I am from Pennsylvania, people. I went to college where Lake Effect snow was just an accepted fact for seven months of the year. I am not a wus, but my feet were really freaking cold. Still no bus. I looked at my iPod and realized that I had been waiting at the bus stop for a solid hour and nothing was coming. I did what anyone would do. I called work.

I asked my boss how many people had showed up. Three, out of fifteen of us. The only people who had managed to make it to work either lived nearby or could take a train for the entire trip. I explained how I had been waiting for the bus for an hour, and how at this point walking wasn’t really an option because my feet were frozen. She told me to get back on the train and go home, and check my email because a professor was upset over something. I was okay with this decision, and after looking down the street for a couple more minutes, I got back on the train. And came home. And put my dripping parka and gloves on the radiator to dry.

I have to go back out in three hours for a meeting in Manhattan, but since that trip will not involve any busses, I think I’m fine. And afterwards, I’m getting a beer with Lori. Because if ever there was an earned Miller Time, it’s today.

Aaaanyway, several years back, he had a pet squirrel. And by pet, I mean, squirrel he trained to come into his house off the street. A New York City squirrel in his house. And in the course of time, Rocky disappeared and we all figured he’d gotten run down by a car or eaten some rat poison, or some other hideous fate that city squirrels can avoid for only so long.

Two weeks ago, Eugene emails me at work to tell me he has a new squirrel. Rocky II. And Rocky II has a girlfriend, and he brings the girlfriend to Gene’s window, but she won’t come in the apartment, only Rocky II, and…well, you see that this is another reason why we call him Shady Gene. I think he was one of those kids that just brought home every stray animal he found and he’s never outgrown it.

So without further ado, I present you with Rocky II (Eugene made these titles up, I had nothing to do with them. He’s twisted.)

Rocky II, the Sequel 

Rocky II Goes for the Nuts 

So to try to recapture some holiday zen, I will show you pictures. (Behind the cut, and there are a lot of them. Sorry, dial-up friends!)

We’ll start with a finished object, Rick’s Christmas scarf. Actually, his hat, too, since I just realized I never showed either to you all.

The hat on the bear’s head is not the finished version, since after Rick tried it on I had to add some more ribbing around the bottom to make sure it stayed on his head. The pattern was a little wonky when worked for the larger size. The scarf is the Yarn Harlot’s One Row Scarf. Both patterns can be found on Ravelry if you’re into that kinda stuff. The yarn is Knit Picks’s Swish Superwash, and I love it.

Now, for a dose of the surreal, I present the gift the Landlady gave me:

Yes, it does say New York across the back of my head. Why do you ask?

From the front, I resemble an alien. It’s kitschy, and now I make everyone who comes over try it on and I take their picture:

Some pictures of Samang’s first Christmas:

And finally, proof that you can see Neighbor Forrest’s house from outer space. Mine dims in comparison, quite literally (my place is on the left, Forrest’s on the right. Even my LED light tree on the top floor looks shabby by comparison.):