Can We Just Take This Day Off the Calendar?

I hate this. Every year it tiptoes up on you. You walk out of a bar or to take the trash out one night and there are the goddam beams in the sky. What are they supposed to convey? Because all I ever do when I see them for the first time is whisper, "Oh god effing damn it, not again," under my breath and wish I hadn't been reminded. That's my take. They're not beautiful. They look like they're trying to celebrate the hole that used to be the center of the skyline.

You're taking your trash out in the middle of a very stupid world. Just wanted to remind you. We'll catch you next year, man.

ADDING: I didn't always feel like this. I thought the towers of light were rather beautiful and perfect the first time I saw them. But now they're just an SFX show where, six years out, there really out to be a building. How about one story of a building?

I love me some sentimental crap, but it's no stand-in for progress. As it is, the lights are just a testament to the fact that 9/11 Changed Nothing. When I look at Manhattan on each anniversary, I want to see evidence that something's been done. If it hasn't, I'd rather the downtown just continue to look like the donut-holed metropolis it still is. It's time to shut the lights off on this whole Wizard of Oz machine.

ADDING, PART TWO NOW WITH ART: The witty bit of art above was at my train stop, and I enjoyed it greatly. I hope its creator also admitted how great it was, and took a second to admire it. Because I would rather read anagrams based on unspeakable human anatomy spelled out over a typically crappy MTA-contracted paint job than have to look at those damn lights again.

This, at least, is a spontaneous attempt by someone to amuse themself and the next person to walk by. Mr. Neck Face, whoever he is, entertains me every time the F trains curves down the overpass between Smith & 9th and Carroll. I'd rather spend the day celebrating the parts of NYC that aren't broken. My favorite being the pockets of high-quality decay.

Suck it, Rudy.

ADDING A THIRD TIME: More NYC-based ad hoc artistry. The amateurs are doing just fine with their own memorials, apparently. If the professionals could please just build something to fill the gigantic hole in the middle of town, that might be a better use of their time.

ADDING THE FOURTH: Apparently, kudos to Mayor Mike:

Mr. Bloomberg, who declined to be interviewed for this article, told The New York Times just before the first anniversary of the attack: “I think the Jews do it right. They have a headstone unveiling a year after the funeral, and that’s sort of the time that you sort of stop the mourning process and start going forward. And the 9/11 ceremonies, what I’m trying to do is that in the morning we will look back, remember who they were and why they died. And in the evening come out of it looking forward and say, ‘O.K., we’re going to go forward.’ ”

In recent months, that campaign has become more urgent as Mr. Bloomberg has taken a more active role in accelerating development at the site, stepping in to break the logjams, muscling his way through the opposition with a conviction that his priorities — getting the project done, leaving a legacy for the future — and values are the right ones.

Walked out tonight and, swear to gosh I was sober but the lights in the sky were about five degrees crooked. It's either a nefarious plan by Bloomberg to make the whole process looks sloppy, or the process is just getting that sloppy.

Tragedy is looking down the road toward farce. Can we please stop this before it gets there?

Ugly Old Bars Get Better With Ugly Old People

The group went to Coney Island, stocked up on Nathan's, and then quickly retired to Ruby's, a wonderfully decayed bar that is covered wall-to-wall with pictures from Coney's finer days. Today the place is deep down market, and the owners could be evicted any day.

And frankly, when we got to the boardwalk I was wondering where the Coney magical realism of yore (being seven years ago) had gone. It had started raining outside, and the planks that looked charmingly warped looked like they could bust open under your fatness at any second.

Inside Ruby's, the juke was too loud, blasting some Adrenalize-era Def Leppard. The first booth we tried to grab smelled like a dead animal, and the second one smelled like a bum and the third one was tolerable.

But soon enough, the whole shack shimmied. The juke switched to Ray Charles, and the place flooded with people of every demographic in from the rain. There was the middle-aged salsa dancing senoras, each bearing a resemblance to Bruce Wayne in The Dark Knight Returns. An old latin dude rocking the eff out to "Don't Stop Believin'," and white people who were far too cool to acknowledge the Journey but sang along to the Counting Crows.

Gabriel and I played "How Did That Douche End Up With She?" and K-Dubbins outlined possible financing option for her new play. Damn Wifus dispensed sober, bosom-ey advice. I told tales about what I saw in Ruby's horrid bathroom.

Everyone was taking pictures, which gave me cover to rip off the roll below. If the pic looks unclear, don't worry, it will be gone in a second.


I had one more beer than anyone else, so I will close by hoping I did not annoy the life out of any of the assembled luminaries. My only defense is that when I got up to get my last beer, I met the white lab pictured. If you look closely at this muzzle, you can still see pink traces where the hoochie momma kissed him.

He played it off well.

Awww....

This is why you should never get married in a banquet hall or similar.

Via, by way of.