::09::11::11::

because i don’t have much to say, but feel like i should, i’m going to steal from myself and just say what’s already been said.

it’s okay to steal from yourself.

the photos are different, but it’s the same empty sky . . .

the post that follows this might well be of the memorial. and then i’m going to take a break from things which involve sad reflection and go back to talking about stupid stuff like dancing on coffee tables and hang gliding.

[okay, i’ve never talked about hang gliding before, but this could be a good time to start.]

it doesn’t hurt any less because a mere decade has [almost] passed.

it doesn’t feel any more comfortable just because we’ve had some time to get used to a new skyline. and hate it.

it doesn’t bring us any additional comfort to sit patiently and watch as cranes and heavy machinery attempt to bring back to life what we all know will never be again.

it isn’t any easier because i watched it crumble from a classroom in a southern state while you watched it fall from a sky that you could almost touch.

the sting isn’t any less great because i wasn’t born here.

and the sadness isn’t buffered by the fact that i won’t likely die here.

it’s a bittersweet reminder of where we came from.

and a significant blow to the idea of how far we still have left to go.

but it doesn’t make me any less proud to love this town.

and to know that she’ll flat out kick your ass if you so much as show her your teeth.

there are 2,752 things wrong with this picture.

it doesn’t hurt any less because a mere decade has [almost] passed.

it doesn’t feel any more comfortable just because we’ve had some time to get used to a new skyline. and hate it.

it doesn’t bring us any additional comfort to sit patiently and watch as cranes and heavy machinery attempt to bring back to life what we all know will never be again.

it isn’t any easier because i watched it crumble from a classroom in a southern state while you watched it fall from a sky that you could almost touch.

the sting isn’t any less great because i wasn’t born here.

and the sadness isn’t buffered by the fact that i won’t likely die here.

it’s a bittersweet reminder of where we came from.

and a significant blow to the idea of how far we still have left to go.

but it doesn’t make me any less proud to love this town.

and to know that she’ll flat out kick your ass if you so much as show her your teeth.

why are you not famous and why do i have 6 versions of this on my phone.

somewhere between the drag show in the east village and the nine hours of karaoke that ended sometime around sunrise, me-plus-three traveled 80-some blocks uptown for this:

you might think to yourself, “now that is one hefty cab fare for 34 seconds of a scottish accent and a modern-day spin on a Braveheart moment.”

and you would be right.

[although you may also notice that kristen, as seen in the bottom of the frame, is completely amused. cab fare wins.]

in that case, let me make this worth it to you by explaining just how fantastic this little place called Sing Sing really is.

[the karaoke joint, that is. not the maximum security prison. i don’t anything about that, other than the fact that they were electric-chair-happy right up until the moment everyone realized it was constitutionally barbaric. insert 8th amendment rights here.]

for free+8 bucks per hour per person, you get your own private recording studio “party room” complete with pleather couches and binders chock full of every single song you ever sang alone in the car or shower.

oh, and a butler. you also get a butler.

one mash of the button on the wall and taa-daaaaa! THERE HE IS . . . ready to bring you whatever assortment of booze drops your inhibitions low enough to make you sing loud and sing proud.

for me, it doesn’t take much.

my rendition of “Summer of ‘69” is enough to have you fully convinced that i’m canadian and that bryan adams is my father.

the resemblance is startling.