September 11 bis

The day after in New York City

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September 11, 2001

On September 11, 2001, I was at LAX waiting to board a flight to Florida. My Dad had died in January of that year and I spent a lot of time flying back and forth from Los Angeles, trying to get his affairs in order.

Our flight was boarding in less than 45 minutes so I went to the ladies' room to check my makeup in case I accidentally ended up on the pilot's lap in the cockpit.

As I entered I passed a little girl and her mother who were on their way out. "Why did that plane crash into the building?" the little girl asked. Thinking it was a story her mom might have read her, I wondered what kinds of children's books were being published these days. Wasn't Little Red Riding Hood and that wolf scary enough? Finding bears in your bed wasn't enough to give you nightmares? Now there were children's stories of planes crashing?

When I came out of the loo there was a crowd gathered around an airport bar, watching TV. As I got closer I saw that one tower of The World Trade Center was partially on fire and what looked like a plane was headed for the other one. Passengers were trying to explain to each other what might be going on but the sad reality was that no one really knew what was going on. A few folks reluctantly looked away, picked up their carry-ons and made for a gate as an announcement called them to their flight.

As people wandered away I elbowed my way closer to the bar to get a better look. I watched the coverage for a while and then I knew I had to leave. There was a pregnant woman next to me, alone and sitting on a bar stool. "Come on," I said quietly, "we need to get out of here." She looked at me but said nothing. Didn't even stand up. We stared at each other for a moment longer and then I took off.

As I ran down the corridors I heard the announcements over the loud speakers. All flights canceled. Go to baggage claim. Retrieve your luggage. Leave the airport immediately. At baggage claim Delta employees had flooded the area; there were three of them to every one of us. There was no panic. No pushing. No shoving.

A Delta employee found my bags and I went outside to wait for a cab. The line was long and I remembered thinking, "What if I can't get out of here?" But the taxis rolled up one after the other and people got in quickly. Silently.

As I drove away from LAX, I heard on the radio that they had just shut it down. No one was allowed to go in or out of the airport. I missed the shutdown by six minutes.

The next day I called my best friend, who worked at the State Department back then. I told her I needed to know if I was safe in Los Angeles or if I should leave town. She wouldn't give me any details about what was going on and said only this, "Be aware the target an icon makes and be careful."

To this day I don't know what my friend's cryptic message meant. She now works at Homeland Security so my chances of finding anything out are even slimmer than before. The only icons in California are the Golden Gate Bridge and Disneyland. Were they targets? Are they still?

I flew to Florida ten days later. There were six of us on the flight. The crew gave us free alcohol and sleep kits from First Class, which was empty.

A gay guy a few rows back asked if he could move up to my row. I nodded and as he sat down next to me he said, "Girrrrl, if I have to? I'm going to totally kick some ass."

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We're With The Band

This is another picture of me and Alain. He had a band with the guy on the left, Jean-Pierre. I made Alain let me and Lindy sing with them because two people in a band is not a band, Alain.

At 15 and 13 Lindy and I owned the same dress. She always wanted to do everything I did and wear everything I wore. She probably begged my mother to buy her the same dress she bought me. And I probably yelled at her and said We're Not Twins You Stupid Moron. Because I have an incredibly sophisticated vocabulary from reading all the thick books in our library.

We entered a Battle of the Bands at the Casino de Royan, the next town over from Meschers on the west coast of France, and came in second. I was devastated but I remembered that it's not whether you win or lose but how you play the game. I bet I know who coined that phrase. LOSERS. Here we are singing at the Casino de Royan. As you can see, we just had the one performing outfit. We're even wearing matching shoes. Sure it's a horror to look at now but check out Alain's shoes. I hope to God we did not all plan to wear white shoes for the contest because if we did I have to turn in my subscription to Vogue and move to Bulgaria.

Three years later I was in college in Paris and dating a German named Karl, below. Karl devirginized me. I can still see the trauma etched on my face as it finally dawned on me why he kept pushing my head down to his crotch. I probably looked like someone in The Blair Witch Project. I saw Karl only once more, in New York, many, many, years later. His brother took me aside and said "Karl no longer speaks. He got tired of talking."

At dinner I kept up a steady stream of chatter and eventually he answered one of the forty hundred questions I asked him, Why did you give up talking? He said he had talked enough and was going to spend the rest of his life listening. Because I have excellent taste in men.

Why are some of my pictures oddly shaped? Because I used to put my photo albums together like this and yes I have a disease.

The next summer we were in Canet Plage in the south of France and my sister looked like this in a bikini: Horrifying.

She was 14 and had longer hair but I convinced her to let me cut it all off because A. I'm a terrible person and B. Not one boy found me remotely interesting while she wore that fucking bikini. But the only thing shorter hair did was call more attention to her body. She always had spectacular boobage until she lost them in a tragic aerobics accident many years later. No body fat? No boobs. Run and hide, A Cup, run and hide.

Meanwhile I can increase my cup size just by looking at pudding.

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A Thanksgiving Mystery

This is from my giant postcard collection. Click on the label at the end of this post to see some others that have made it onto my blog over the last 3 years.

The postmark on this card is from 1914 and has a One Cent stamp on it. It was addressed to Mrs. W. Goodwin in Columbus, Ohio. It was sent by her husband Walter, who wrote it on November 26:

My Darling Muriel,

Rec'd your card okay. Was more than glad to get it for old times sake.

Truely (sic) your husband Walter Goodwin.

It was postmarked in Columbus and sent to Coumbus. I wonder if this is what they did back then rather than just save the penny and hand the card to the other. Were the Goodwins living apart, on their way to divorce, or did he send it before he left for somewhere else? Did she know he couldn't spell? And if he was her husband, why did he have to add his last name to the card?

The card is so old and from the wear and tear on the right side, the blue border is all but rubbed away, I'm guessing this card was handled a lot by right-handed people. In anger? In joy? With turkey grease?

And one more question for the Goodwins; what's up with the Dutch?

Happy Thanksgiving.

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If You Like Pina Coladas...

...then you should go to Bonaire, in the Netherland Antilles, right above South America, underneath Aruba and next to Jimmy Buffet.

It's so small their ants moved to a larger island.

The man who turned my sister Lindy and I on to Bonaire was Mr. B.B. from our NYC days. She and I lived together but I eventually encouraged her to move to L.A. She always got first dibs on the rich guys in NY. She was also dating Peter K. and Peter S. at the same time and they were all wealthy and would bring me along on dates to entertain them while they drooled over Lindy. It was really annoying to have to work that hard for a lobster dinner. Those bastards used to spike my drinks because they said I got funnier. Thanks for the blackouts, guys.

After one night with Peter S. and his group, a double shot of Green Chartreuse (which I thought was one shot) and a lot of wine, I went home and felt so sick I called my then current boyfriend The Doctor, who told me to get in a cab and come over. That's the last thing I remember.

The next morning I asked him what happened and he replied, "Well, you went on a DATE with another man...."

"MEN." I corrected him.

"Are you telling the story or am I? Then you got sick, called me, came over and threw up." Great.

One night Mr. B.B. asked Lindy if she wanted to go to Bonaire with him. "You can scuba dive, can't you?"

Lindy did many things well. She snow skied, water skied and once tread water in shark-infested waters between Africa and the Seychelle Islands trying to keep her friend alive because the yacht they were swimming off suddenly pulled anchor and left them behind.

Me? I cheat at Scrabble. And you KNOW how hard that is.

My sister has always been in amazing shape. She used to have great boobs. Seriously miraculous boobs. Until she discovered aerobics and then they disappeared. She was once on the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine BUT SHE COULDN'T SCUBA AND LIED THAT SHE COULD.

The day she returned from Bonaire I was in our living room with my friend Louis. Lindy came in all bouncy and happy. She threw her luggage down and went into the kitchen with a bag of groceries. After a few minutes we heard the blender whirring. She came into the living room holding a Pina Colada and said "Now THIS is the best drink ever."

Every five minutes she went to the kitchen and emerged with a fresh drink.
"He wasn't that good in bed."
"I didn't even want to learn how to scuba."
"That island is SO fucking boring."
"His friends were a snooze fest."
"There's nothing to do but sit at the outdoor bar and drink."
"God that guy is a loser."
"The bartender said I drank all the pineapple juice on the island."

Eventually the blender stopped. After a while Louis and I noticed the silence and found her sprawled out on my bed, dead drunk.

Yeah, that guy was a real loser, Lindy.

End of chat.

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King Of The Hill

A serene, tranquil place to gather your thoughts and if you're lucky, some of Elvis's expired prescription drugs.

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All The President's Men

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