to the victims of 9/11 all this week.
I don’t think I could do it. I just couldn’t. If I tried to, I’d be walking around with tears on my face all day.
Tonight it’s a firefighter. That’s the one thing I still can’t handle without falling apart. I can look at the pictures of the jumpers, but not that one image of the firefighter climbing the tower in the stairwell, swimming against the current as everyone else struggled to get down and out. He looks up as he heads upward to his doom. He’s just a kid.
However, I hear that we’re in a post-9/11 phase, and everything’s okay now. And no one wants to kill us for being Americans or Westerners or infidels.
So . . . thank heavens there’s nothing to worry about any more.
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I was on a training TDY on 9/11, and that whole evening I was prowling my hotel room while the song “Hair of the Dog” ran through my head. Over and over. All I wanted was a crowbar and a plane ticket to Afghanistan.
The reaction of our self-styled cultural elites to the events of that day was disgustingly supine.