A line of motorcycles, 20 minutes long, and their police escort, 26 strong, blocked access to the Saw Mill, to New York, today as I tried to go grocery shopping with my son. American flags stralend in the translucent autumn light, reminding one that redneckism is a pan-national affiliation.
The local classic rock station dedicated “Sweet Home Alabama” to the “heroes” of 9/11.
I watered my lawn, marveling that it’s always beautiful weather on 9/11. Was amazed that my son volunteered to my wife that I’d bought spinach.
There was a country western concert tonight, in DC, in support of the troops, because you know all those Latinos and Blacks serving in Iraq love them some good country.
Those of us who were below Canal street that day, hell even below Houston; those of us who lost friends or had friends who lost friends, who understand that being senselessly immolated does not one a hero make; those of us who’s asses are still sitting right atop the bullseye; to the rest of the country who’ve somehow decided that “Patriot Day” is exactly the right time to drag a little radical nationalism into their small lives, by sympathetic magic infusing them with meaning, to you we say:
Fuck you.
No, really. Fuck you.
