9/11 Remembered

I am unable to pin down my feelings about the 9/11 Memorial Museum that opened to the public last week.  I don’t want to go just because I feel I should; I want to go to honor the dead and to get a grip on the memory of that tragic event.  I don’t know how I feel about the gift shop.  I don’t know how I would feel about children who weren’t born yet running around the way children naturally do while I’m trying to come to grips with how I feel.  I don’t want to feel bummed out and I don’t want to think I might not feel reverent enough.  I don’t want people eating their lunch there.  Or buying key chains.

For quite a while you had to have a reserved ticket (free) to even visit the plaza itself but now that rule has been lifted and you can wander at will.  How do I feel about paying $24 (well, okay, $18 for seniors) to get into the museum?  I’ve been in downtown Manhattan innumerable times over the last decade and the closest I ever came to ground zero was the Century 21 discount clothing store on Church St. or driving past the excavation site on the Westside Highway.  I always felt protected by the tall fence that stood between me and my feelings.  But that barrier is gone now.  At least I’m thinking about it and my head is out of that particular sand.  But, you know what?  I still can’t really put into words how I feel or, worse, don’t feel.

...and Prosper!

This thought is not original to me and I think I probably read it somewhere regarding the relative longevity of the human race.  With all the medical breakthroughs over the last century, or so, we have pretty much almost doubled our lifespans.  The quote that stuck with me is that it could be that children born today could live to be 150 years old.  I don’t think this is too far-fetched but might be stretching it a bit.  But a new thought (that is original to me) got placed in my brain by recent visitors who have a five year old daughter.  She was painfully shy and could hardly stand to look at me, but after their departure I had the thought that Jennifer could very possibly be around to experience the year 3000!  Of course you always have to consider what could befall anybody, meaning a major illness (most of which I think will be mostly under control in her lifetime) or accidents (or worse) which no one can predict.  In the year 3000 Jen will be 91 but I’m sure she won’t look a day over 65 and as lively and larky as she is now.  Happy New Year, cutie pie!

King James

Although I claim that I’m a sports fan I have to admit that I am pretty much a fair-weather athletic supporter.  During any one year I keep track of favorite teams in various sports but there is no fire in my heart until the end of any given season when the competition starts getting fierce and the cream has risen to the top.  This is when important plays really count; when records are set and individuals and teams make history or, the reverse, fall into infamy.

I am very fond of Derek Jeter but LeBron James is my hero for all seasons.  He is, and this is not debatable, the best basketball player in the world and, for gawd’s sakes, he seems to get better every year.  He’s only 29 and is at the peak of his health and talent and unless fickle fate decides otherwise (injury), he will dominate the basketball courts of the world for the next half-decade at the very least.  Michael Jordon was a phenomenal player but I think if the two of them were competing LeBron would be the winner.

I know you didn’t ask but, yes, I own a Lebron James Miami Heat basketball jersey and I’m proud to wear it.  If he elects to move to another team after this season (or next) it doesn’t matter to me; I’ll just order up another one in the new team’s colors.  I call that loyalty to the man, not the brand.

Birdy and Peeps

I know I should be focused on more important issues like, say, one of today’s New York Times crossword puzzle fill-ins with the clue “Top.”  The answer, of course, is Whirled Piece.

Anyway, getting over that convoluted beginning I actually have a charming vignette to tell about urban (Brooklyn) backyard society.  Last month a robin built a nest in a hanging ivy plant on my back porch and within two weeks there were four eggs, almost a cliché in their wonderful teal color and so faux looking I thought someone had played a trick on me.  But it was the robin that has pulled off the trick and yesterday I became the proud father of a tiny, wide-mouthed chick who, as we speak, is silently beseeching the unknown for succor and sustenance.  A wonder to behold and I’m doing my best not to bother the mother or the chick and to let nature take its course, for good or ill, by not feeding them or otherwise monitoring progress.

I have also tried not to anthropomorphize my avian friends by naming them and, for that matter, resisting the impulse to make a tiny omelet last month.  Truthfully, however, I refer to “my” robin as Birdy and her progeny as Peeps 1, 2, 3 and 4.  Feathers are a good thing and I’m seriously thinking about growing some myself.
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Update:  May 29, 2014