There's not much that makes the Big Book. Under the bold assumption humanity will not have self-immolated entirely by then, students of American history two centuries hence will still know 1492. Lexingon, Concord. Abe and the First World War, if only for the great prelude to its more captivating sequel. The Cold War will be a highlighted term, but not a subject that receives even a full class period. Obama's picture will be there and George W. Bush will be mentioned. Ditto Iraq, Afghanistan. On the syllabus these latter four will all fall under The 9/11 Era. If truth is objective and we set aside our fears of third rails and conversational bogeyman, we are left but no choice than to give credit where it is due. Osama bin Laden claimed that he would bring America to its knees. He was right.
This is the one where I unequivocally state that what happened on September 11, 2001 was terrible, horrific, tragic, or any other adjective that seems woefully inadequate. I'd use them all, but you get it. Burned to death by ignited jet fuel at a white-collar job on a Tuesday morning ranks right up there for worst ways to go. The dream is to expire in close proximity to ones you love, painless and complete. Many of these people spent their final hour on the PATH train at rush hour.
With my sympathy credentials established, we can resume talking about the great villain who, in all his hubris and prescience, predicted that he would get the biggest domino to topple. The statement was pure bluster and I'm sure even he was astonished at what ensued. There had to be several follow-up questions to those with news of the outside world while he was holed up in Tora Bora:
They did what?!
Really?!
You've got to be fucking with me.....really?!
A good quarterback always thanks his line and so too should Osama have given proper acknowledgment to his supporting cast. We all know the story. America's first special needs Commander-in-Chief with Dr. Strangelove calling the shots at Number Two. White bread simpletons manning the levers of executive oversight, channeling some bizarre bloodlust that breeds in two-stoplight towns. Corporate America wrote the checks, cashed in on a generous net, and everybody did their part to help the free press stuff its nuts down the part of the throat where the truth is supposed to come out. We doubled-down on consumption and discovered that, oddly enough, having millions of the country's Best & Brightest flipping real estate in the sunny states or watching numbers scroll on computer screens as their principle occupation was not exactly the cornerstone of a robust economic model. There've been a couple other things too.
The unspeakable tragedy of September 11 is the tragedy of what is not spoken about. Somewhere in the past eleven years our Great Leaders made a killing off our sucker bets in the Shell Game of our iconography. We traded the good parts of the Bill of Rights for the unadulterated reverence of a pair of office buildings.
I would say it's propaganda, but I don't think it's deliberate. The irony is simply too thick, even if the projection is so painstakingly simple: Let us mourn all those who died in the office buildings. Let us never forget the office buildings. Let it be known that we will not allow our office buildings to be attacked. Let us now build more office buildings, and we will all work in them patriotically. Except for the ones we need to go do the dirty work. We'll think about them while we're reading our cell phones at Qdoba.
And it's eleven years later and tomorrow we will talk about how we are all victims again. Those who actually did lose a loved one, whether it be that day or in the conflicts our Great Leaders leveraged out of our fear, will find the grieving grounds a little crowded. Sometimes the bumper stickers don't sate our need for attention. We'll all be happy to know that history is taking note.
This is the one where I unequivocally state that what happened on September 11, 2001 was terrible, horrific, tragic, or any other adjective that seems woefully inadequate. I'd use them all, but you get it. Burned to death by ignited jet fuel at a white-collar job on a Tuesday morning ranks right up there for worst ways to go. The dream is to expire in close proximity to ones you love, painless and complete. Many of these people spent their final hour on the PATH train at rush hour.
With my sympathy credentials established, we can resume talking about the great villain who, in all his hubris and prescience, predicted that he would get the biggest domino to topple. The statement was pure bluster and I'm sure even he was astonished at what ensued. There had to be several follow-up questions to those with news of the outside world while he was holed up in Tora Bora:
They did what?!
Really?!
You've got to be fucking with me.....really?!
A good quarterback always thanks his line and so too should Osama have given proper acknowledgment to his supporting cast. We all know the story. America's first special needs Commander-in-Chief with Dr. Strangelove calling the shots at Number Two. White bread simpletons manning the levers of executive oversight, channeling some bizarre bloodlust that breeds in two-stoplight towns. Corporate America wrote the checks, cashed in on a generous net, and everybody did their part to help the free press stuff its nuts down the part of the throat where the truth is supposed to come out. We doubled-down on consumption and discovered that, oddly enough, having millions of the country's Best & Brightest flipping real estate in the sunny states or watching numbers scroll on computer screens as their principle occupation was not exactly the cornerstone of a robust economic model. There've been a couple other things too.
The unspeakable tragedy of September 11 is the tragedy of what is not spoken about. Somewhere in the past eleven years our Great Leaders made a killing off our sucker bets in the Shell Game of our iconography. We traded the good parts of the Bill of Rights for the unadulterated reverence of a pair of office buildings.
I would say it's propaganda, but I don't think it's deliberate. The irony is simply too thick, even if the projection is so painstakingly simple: Let us mourn all those who died in the office buildings. Let us never forget the office buildings. Let it be known that we will not allow our office buildings to be attacked. Let us now build more office buildings, and we will all work in them patriotically. Except for the ones we need to go do the dirty work. We'll think about them while we're reading our cell phones at Qdoba.
And it's eleven years later and tomorrow we will talk about how we are all victims again. Those who actually did lose a loved one, whether it be that day or in the conflicts our Great Leaders leveraged out of our fear, will find the grieving grounds a little crowded. Sometimes the bumper stickers don't sate our need for attention. We'll all be happy to know that history is taking note.
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