Day Before Reflections

It is September 10, 2001. JJ-aka-PP's boyfriend Frank has a daughter who is living here in Saint Plotniko, so he comes into town to see her. Duck is out of town on business, so Frank, Monica and Plotnik go to Ti-Couz for dinner. The crepes are first class. They get back to the house around 10pm, to see Duck's cab just pulling up. They all hug on the street. "I just got in," Duck says. "It's good to be home."

I'll say. The next morning we were awakened by JJ, calling from Atlanta, saying "you'd better turn on your tv."

Like everyone around the world, we saw what was going on and thought immediately about our close friends and family in New York. The Great BZWZ had just started college at Barnard five days before, which we knew was in Upper Manhattan, five miles or so from Ground Zero, but nobody knew what was going to happen next. What a terrifying time.

Of all Plotnik's friends in New York, Captain Crow had the closest call. He was working at Ground Zero Point One and barely escaped. Other friends were stranded on tarmacs for days as air travel was canceled mid-flight. Plotnik remembers that a night or two later all the lights went out in Snowy Valley and he and his neighbors stood out on the street, looking up, saying nothing.

Have ten years really passed? Things are better, things are worse. People who were alive ten years ago are gone now, but new babies have been born too. Was there ever a world before Isabella? Well, yes, apparently.

In 2001 there was no Great Plotnik. Can you imagine?

True, there seem to be more crazy, armed loons loose in the world, but it's also true that we help create them -- we seek them out and make them media darlings.

Osama is dead. Obama is hanging on. If he keeps making speeches like the other night, people might hear him. Osama isn't making any more speeches, but he still may be up to something. Or not.

Our politics -- don't sweat it. This country is centrist to the core, whether it's elephants or donkeys. Nobody can run this place. If you really think about it, that's a good thing. All the idiotic things we have done during the last decade -- and we're still here.

And we are fat, children. We have so much we can't use it all up. Sadly, we are also awash in personal greed. We won't allow anyone to touch our excess. We don't need it, but, by God, we worked for it so you can't have it.

The Great Plotnik knows that September 11 will someday mean no more than December 7 or June 6, days that meant so much for an earlier generation, but whose importance blurred as time moved forward. Right now, though, Plottie is still the dad and grandpa, so he asked PD, 5H and BB to please stay out of Manhattan tomorrow. Get your bagels in Brooklyn. Do it for Pops.