The fall equinox is still a week and a half away, but the days are getting noticeably shorter. It’s darker when I leave the house, somehow more fitting with the hydraulic farts of an early-morning delivery truck I invariably hear in the distance. I take out my phone and snap a picture so I can hold onto a bit of the gloom to comfort me through the day. The camera autoadjusts, letting in more light for a clearer, brighter picture.
Technology is not always my friend.
I walk toward Muddy’s. My ass is dragging and I really need the coffee. I had a late night last night. It wasn’t in the same league as the kind of late nights I used to have. I was in bed before midnight. I’m older now though. I may not be any more mature, but I am more tired.
I make it a point to stay focused through my coffee-and-bagel ritual. My autopilot tends to malfunction when I haven’t gotten enough sleep. There was that time I poured half and half into the brown-sugar container instead of into my coffee. I’d rather that didn’t happen again.
At least there is no hangover to contend with. I was out at a show and I don’t like to drink when I go see a band, particularly one I’m into. Beer means needing to pee. Needing to pee means missing part of the act. It’s not worth it.
The band we went to see was Stiff Little Fingers. It was their 40th anniversary and I have been a fan of their music for 30 of those years. They’re a punk band from Belfast. Though there is no shortage of anger in their lyrics (especially in their early stuff), they are decidedly more pacifist in their outlook than you’d expect from that genre. In Northern Ireland, violence was the status quo. It’s not surprising they were sick of it. Today the band only has half its original members, but their frontman Jake Burns has grown to twice his original size so I guess it all evens out.
I chew my bagel and notice I’m a little deaf. My ears got pretty well blasted last night. No matter, my hearing would come back eventually. Most of it anyway.
I keep thinking about how different I am from Jake Burns, and not just because I lack musical talent. I am not from Belfast. I grew up in Santa Barbara. Nothing bad happens to you there unless you do it to yourself.
The time is approaching 6:40 so I leave Muddy’s and walk to the bus stop two blocks away. It’s fully light out now and already warmer than I’d like. It’ll be hot as balls down in San Jose, but I’ll be in an air-conditioned office.
It’s my 9/11, I say to myself. It’s my inside job.
In some ways, 9/11 is America’s taste of Northern Ireland. Or maybe a crash course. We experienced roughly the same body count from terrorist violence as the Troubles. One major difference was that most Americans were never in any real danger. Another was that they spread their dying over decades and we got ours out of the way before lunch.
The suddenness of the attack kept me from processing it all. My behavior in its wake was certainly far from stellar. It wasn’t hate-crime bad. That’s not my style. It was joking in a crowded bar about rescue workers pulling disembodied vaginas from the rubble, blowing the dust off, and then having their way with them. That’s my style. The joking, not the violation of necrobits.
I felt pretty bad about that. I later regretted feeling bad. I lack tact and empathy is mostly an abstraction for me. I need to accept that for my own good.
I respect the hell out of Jake Burns for being able to turn his righteous anger into some great music. The problem is when I try to find similar righteousness within me and realize I don’t have any. It makes me feel shitty, maybe not kill-myself shitty, but think-about-it shitty. Not all the time, but sometimes.
At work, I try listening to some Stiff Little Fingers, but I’m not in the mood. Lunchtime comes and while I’m eating my microwaved phở, I start googling 9/11 pics on my phone. I find the one I’m looking for, the one of the explosion when the second plane hits the World Trade Center. Using my Meme Generator app, I add the caption “SO THIS HAPPENED” and upload it to Instagram.
Back at my desk, my spirits improved but I’m still not up for Jake Burns’ punk-rock earnestness. I put on Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica instead.
“My smile is stuck. I cannot go back to your frown land…”
If only, dear Captain. If only.