I was in line at a Bank of America branch this morning when, incredibly, a woman right behind me asks a teller, "What's the date?"
To his credit, the teller answered rather curtly and with a definite edge in his voice: "9-11!"
Not "September 11th, ma'am", but "9-11!"
Seriously, how do you
not know what day it is? How can you be
that clueless?
I have pretty much avoided all mainstream media coverage of the anniversary. This is mostly because I think the value-add from such reports is pretty darn close to zero. It's like in
The Fountainhead when Gail Wynand marries Dominique Francon and then forbids her to go out or make contact with other people. He can't stand the thought of unworthy people watching her and talking to her. In somewhat the same way, I want to protect my memories from ankle-biting second-guessers for whom the significance of September 11 is either political or maudlin.
Instead, I spent the day with my wife on Berkeley's Fourth Street, an eclectic and artsy strip of art galleries and upscale shops. I had an incredible cappuccino at Peet's and bought some gourmet grilling and pasta sauces, chocolate, crackers and cheese. We mingled with businessmen, peacenik lesbians, artists, immigrant laborers, and homeless dudes.
It was wonderful. And worth protecting.
