O.M.G.I.G.F.U.

Posted on September 14, 2016 by tosabarbell
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Skol Vikings!

This was my first Instagram picture. Taken nearly four years ago, deep in the heart of Bears section, on a beautiful November day. The Bears/Vikings Soldier Field game is tradition for Matt and I. His dad has been a season ticket holder forever (literally) and his dad before that. We sit with the “Barry Boys” and their wives/sisters/friends/family/whoever they decide to bring and will give a collective groan when I walk up with my Vikings jersey. Whenever the Bears score, a bottle of something alcohol is passed down the row and whenever the Vikings score (which is almost ALWAYS immediately set up on a defensive play) I drink from my flask. Sooooo, ya. I think at the last game, I was grabbed by a “Barry Boy” and forced to drunk dance when the Bears scored at the end of the game guaranteeing the win. Matt thought that was pretty funny.

Last year, for the first time since I moved here, the weather was supposed to be sunny and 60’s and there was a strong chance that the Vikings would win (they did.) But I had a weightlifting meet 5 days later and knew that being gone all day; eating like crap; drinking, and walking four miles meant that my training would be bad on Monday and that would affect my meet week schedule. So I passed. Matt and our pretend Vegan friend went and had a blast. (We used to hang out with pretend Vegans who would claim to be Vegan and then come over and eat 15 pounds of meat as a family. The parents eat meat all the time but have talked their kids into the idea that they are Vegan so they are all malnourished and whiny. Except when they’d come here and the mom would act astounded when their malnourished youngest daughter would eat three whole smoked chicken drumsticks. See mom, she’s not a special snowflake because she’s tiny, she’s fucking hungry. Feed her a chicken hindquarter for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and see how she’ll grow. Duh. Same daughter has ended up in the Urgent Care from “stomach pains” where the doctor suggested that maybe she’s hungry. Doctor was right. They are actually really nice people and he’s very cool, but the whole food bullshit took it’s toll on the friendship and I.Just.Can’t.) OH! btw, it’s not a Vegan thang. I have a friend who is a real Vegan; has published cookbooks and posts the most amazing pictures on her IG feed that even I am tempted to try some of the dishes. She’s also mom to one of my Dazzle’s puppies so she’s most special, Vegan or not.

Anyway.

Instagram. Suddenly, we could all take pictures and put a “filter” on it to make it look like we knew what we were doing. Cool! I wanted to look back and tally my IG pictures in categories, fuggitaboutit. I have a gazillion pictures and videos. However, if I were to do a guesstimate I would say I have about 100,000 pictures of food and booze; 1,000,000 pictures of my dogs and kids (yes, in that order); a billion pictures of gym time/training/throwing, and a handful of selfies of me and Matt.

For the most part, I really enjoy Instagram. A picture or quick video from places around the world that I’d never even heard of. The stories of remote villages deep in Africa; the homeless around America; Panda bear antics from around the world, and training videos. IMO, the gold of Instagram are those videos. Sure, there is a lot of bullshit out there but there is also a lot of good. Multiple weightlifting videos that will be slowed down to get a view of positions and even more so for throwing. See, when people say something like, ‘lead with your hips’ I have no idea what that means. I believe it’s something that is so ingrained into a thrower that it’s baffling to them that I don’t understand what that means or at the very least, an understanding alone isn’t making it happen.

But I can see it. I can look at these collegiate and top throwers in slow motion and say, “ahhhHAAAAAAA! THAT’S what it looks like.” Okay, now I can break shit down and practice that. Cool.

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Prizes! IG from 2013. While I’m glad Matt’s travel schedule is easier than flying to India and more twice a month, I really miss those Euro Prizes:(

There are a multitude of both throwing and weightlifting IG’s to follow and I follow most. I can edit later which is helpful but you never know where the next “AhHa” moment is going to come from. There are many Highland Games throwers that are so smooth transitioning from position to position that I can’t see where shit is happening. Those are the best of the best and I just watch those to be amazed.

The antics of IG is tons of fun too. Prom pictures (if you know what these are, then you know); how people spend their times in airports (bevvies *LIV* are usually involved, at least for Highland Gamers); baby goats (srsly), and strongbellied men deadlifting in ranger panties (moar plz) and it’s easy to understand how suddenly 15 minutes of life is lost.

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FOOD! This was for four of us earlier this year and there wasn’t a bite left by the end of the night. Invite other throwers over and they’ll ensure there’s enough food to not run out. True story.

I’m a huge lover of the food on Instagram. I’ve ordered meat rubs that I’ve seen on IG; I’ve bought wine that I saw others drinking and know our tastes are similar and have loved it, and I’ve tried recipes that are shared. While I’m not a huge brand follower, I have ordered a t-shirt that was used as a fundraiser by hviii brand goods that I saw on IG. I’ve been able to see what friends I’ve lost contact with are doing in the gym and that’s fun. I love to see that they’re still at it! I can see others from my past that are still lying to themselves and others on IG in various ways and can remain thankful that they are no longer in my life.

In short, yeah IG.

However, and I have no idea how long it took for this to happen, the amount of skank pictures and videos on the IG is astounding. Literally, astounding. I block at least two skanks a day, mostly I believe because my ID or whatever the fuck you call it is ‘tosabarbell’ and the word “barbell” alerts the skanks to let me know they’re there in case I’m looking for a date. Those are the obvious skanks. Then there are the second tier skanks, the sports bra/see through leggings squatting on the Smith Press 25# with the camera right behind the crack of their ass while they are shoving said ass right at your view. I’ll come back to those in a minute.

There are the skank selfies trying to sell the package of, “Oh I hardly ever do this but just want to document how far I’ve come. See? Before I weighed 150 pounds and wore clothes but now I weigh 120 pounds; got a new pair of bolt-on’s, and am barely dressed. Aren’t I awesome?” Those are about 4 million a day. Fok. Off. Your blatant attempt to get dates bores me. It’s called Match.com and it’s usually free I think. Get on it. In fact, I’ll often comment, “Wow, I hope this picture gets you lots of dates this weekend.” Then I move on.

What annoys me most today, is when the second tier skanks invade the throwing posts and suddenly it shows up on my feed. It happened the other day where some little girl with a big ass in see-through leggings was shoving her ass back at me on my phone when I thought I was following a throwing account. My comment was, “annnnnnd, unfollowed.” I bet it really hurt their feelings. Bwahahaaaa! Not really. I’m sure they don’t miss me and there’s plenty of men thinking they’ll get to date her if they tell her how nice her ass is. What that has to do with throwing I have no idea.

And I think that’s the crux of the annoyance for me. Declare or shut the fuck up (Swearengen.) Are you a “food” or a “throwing” or a “drinks” or a “highland games” or an “all of the above?” Or are you skanks? Just own what you’re doing. Hello, my name is skank and I’m a skank, please to enjoy my videos. But please keep your skank off my feeds, cuz I’m not trolling for dates or if I am, I go to the “husband” contact on my phone and start there (I have no idea what his phone number is other than ‘husband.’ Not so useful when my phone dies but I like to live on the edge.)

The famous Cocksuckers brigade…command of the all whore detachment.

Al Swearengen

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Zebra Mussels

Posted on September 13, 2016 by tosabarbell
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Zebra Mussels go shopping?

A couple of weeks ago, the Oz man and I headed to the Minnesota State Fair. My niece had a few morning performances with her “clogging” class and I figured if we could get in and out of there early enough, we’d be okay.

I guess Oz had never been to the State Fair. Now he knows why. Screaming kids; parents walking around with beers at 8:00am; miles of the shittiest food imaginable (minus the Pronto Pups, those are brain food), and about 4 billion people too many. That’s the Minnesota State Fair. OH hey tho, there are sculptures made from ginormous blocks of butter of the heads of the current Dairy Princesses. So that classes up the joint a bit.

During a clogging break, my brother walked us over to the Minnesota DNR building. I can honestly say that this display is always pretty cool and a must see if hitting the Fair. They have the history of mining; hunting; fishing; conservation of all kinds; a fishing pond (no, you can’t fish but they have all of the fish that can coexist in one huge pond where there are signs all over to not throw money into the pond. So ya, there’s tons of money in the pond. Go there and never wonder again how Obama was re-elected.)

Anyway. One of the displays explained the damage that Zebra Mussels have wreaked all over the Minnesota Lakes. They had a shopping cart, like the picture above, covered in Zebra Mussels. I kind of wonder if these people just keep putting shopping carts in the sky blue waters of Minnesota just so they can make a point. Shrug.

I will be the first to admit, I know very little about Zebra Mussels. It’s been a long time since Lake life was my normal and I’d hear about watermilfoil which was the precursor, I guess, to Zebra Mussels. Oh sure, you hear about cleaning off your boat and motor when leaving lakes afterwards but it didn’t affect me. That came about sometime in the last 20 years. But I didn’t know. See, I grew up on the waters of Lake Pokegama in northern Minnesota. I literally just used the Google to pull up an image of Lake Pokegama and this is what came up:

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My beach.

Seriously, that’s my beach. How do I know. Well, it is the best white sand beach on the lake. And oh, by the way? It’s a huge lake. That Island out to the left of the first dock is Kings Island. Our neighbor, Dave Beatty, fished in it’s rocks at 5:00am every day for at least 30 years, probably more. If you swim straight out about three quarters of a mile from the right border of the picture, you’ll hit a Girls summer camp and can rest on their docks before you swim back. Guess how I know? If you move around the girls camp to the Northwest, you’ll hit the boys camp. It’s a rite of passage to sneak out at night with beer; canoe over to the boys camp, steal all of their clothes that are hanging up and drape them over their docks and diving boards.

Guess how I know.

The beach has shrunk a bit and the grass on the left border is annoying. See, the beach ran up to the tree line at the bottom of the hill but when people bought the cabin and property when my parent’s decided to sell (bad day. Very bad day) they tore out a path of trees and laid down sod. Therefore, grass has replaced beach. Fuckers.

I could write a 100 page blog on memories of the Cabin. It was my most precious church growing up. The smells; the sounds of chainsaws at 7am on a Saturday (is there a better sound to wake up to?); The loons; the waves gently lapping the beach. My brother falling asleep on an air mattress off the beach and floating down to the 169 bridge and having to swim back (he was fried crisp, it was hilarious.) You can see down at least 20 feet the lake is (was) so clear. I hope it is still so. The moon would come up over The Harbor boat up dinner club to the east. We’d lay on the beach and watch meteor showers; the northern lights, and the milky way.

Anyways. Zebra Mussels.

I just took a look on the Minnesota DNR list of infested lakes. I’m not going to lie, I held my breath a bit as I got closer and closer to Pokegama. It does have watermilfoil, which I remember hearing about. That presents it’s own trouble and hopefully they’re on the motherfucker to get it fixed. Dunno. In my head I’ll say they are. But to my knowledge, my lake is clean.

Each time we’d pack up the station wagon and head to Grand Rapids from Minneapolis, we knew that once we hit Lake Mille Lacs near Garrison, we were up north. The air got cleaner and cooler. The tree lines changed to more birch. Relax. It’s all good. (Maybe why I never took to smoking pot, I got that feeling from going up north. Dunno.) We could stop and stretch our legs, dip our toes in the water (even if the ice had just come off), let our Chinese Pug go TT. If we were really good, we could run into the Trading Post and buy a beaded coin purse or a fake bow and arrow. I still have my beaded coin purse by the way. Hoard much?

We went Ice Fishing on Lake Mille Lacs one weekend when I was younger. I was terrified of the fishing holes in the cabin; my sister entertained my brother and I by shoving Bugle chips up her nose and then eating them, and one of the workers at Eddie’s  plowed out a patch on the ice for me so I could spend my days ice skating (which I was limited to in increments of 10 minutes. How do you know it’s cold in Minnesota? Your mom would rather have you inside a fish house fighting with your brother instead of outside ice skating.) True story.

Later, we’d hit boat launch fishing expeditions on Lake Mille Lacs which really turned into a drinking expedition with a little fishing thrown in for fun. In case we didn’t get enough bevvies in, we would head to the Blue Goose when the guys were done cleaning the fish. From there, shit gets fuzzy. Needless to say, these annual trips with my brother and sister and friends were some of my funnest fun.

So when Jerry told me, while touring the DNR building, that Lake Mille Lacs was declared catch and release only for Walleye Fishing, I was shocked. WHAT? Lake Mille Lacs is one of the largest, premier Walleye fishing lakes in Minnesota. What’s up? Well, Jerry says, Zebra Mussels have a part in that. Fok! Fok you Zebra Mussels!

Now, after getting home and reading a bit about it, it seems that the reason for the  diminishing Walleye population on Mille Lacs isn’t quite figured out yet but yes, Zebra mussels that have camped out on the floor of 35% of the lake that they are able to (the other 65% of the lake bottom is too soft) they could affect the natural walleye population but they just don’t know (I dunno, I guess when they say “climate change” I assume they have no clue. They’re just throwing terms on the wall to see what will stick.)

I did read a quick article that the Zebra Mussel population may be decreasing for the first time in years. I hope so.

And  ya know what? All of that has absolutely nothing to do with today’s post. GOTCHA!

See, standing in that DNR building at the State Fair and looking at that shopping cart covered in Zebra Mussels, all I could think about what’s hanging off of me to weigh me down and make me perform (in life mostly but ya, sport too) at diminished capacity. What are my Zebra Mussels?

Netflix (srsly); Social media; TV (not as much anymore since we dumped cable, piss off Time Warner); ANW (did you see that last night? No one won. I just spent a fucking season watching this stupid “sports” show and no one won. Uhhhhh, buhbye), and Drudge. Not to mention people who I allow to affect my Quan. Phone games (if I don’t save Panda’s each day then, I dunno, Panda’s won’t be saved.)  Whatever it is that causes drag through life. I need a Department of Juli Resources to develop a program to decrease my drag. Oh ya, that’s me. I guess. Is that why “Life Coaches” are a thing in America? So we don’t have to be responsible to actually make changes ourselves? ‘Cuz now I understand. I don’t want one, but I get it now.

Connect. Plug in, to real people, not e-plugs. I need to do that more. Sure, most people drive me crazy but geez, there has to be some out there that don’t. And, let’s be honest, it’s quite possible that I drive others crazy. Improbable, I know, but possible. Heh. So work on that stuff too. So I don’t become someone else’s Zebra Mussel. That would make me very sad and very not proud. So I’ve got work to do.

Do you?

Welcome to Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average. 

Garrison Keillor

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Monday Bacon: Old Fashioned

Posted on September 11, 2016 by tosabarbell
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Diamonds aren’t this girl’s best friend, a maple bacon Rye Old Fashioned is.

I will admit, that at almost 50, I have (at times) unrealistic expectations on what a good relationship is between a man and a woman. I blame my grandparents and Nora Roberts.

Now, I’m not saying my grandparents were perfect and as is sometimes the case, my relationship with them was completely different than that of someone else’s. My cousins in Wisconsin had an entirely different view of Grandma than I grew up with and while I’m sorry that they didn’t get the good parts, I’m glad I did.

See, my Grandma was a lady. In every sense of the word. Now, she didn’t grow up rich, in fact she grew up as opposite of rich as one can be. She did not have an easy life but she grew up with class and by the time I came around, I got to see how Grandpa treated her. Always loving; always respectful, never in any way that would give a stranger the impression that he didn’t adore her. He loved to tease her and she would reply with a calm smile knowing she was being teased but wanted to let her husband have his fun. One of my most special memories of Grandma was one of our last. When she was in the nursing home, had completely lost any memories of me and most of her husband but he was teasing her about donuts appearing out of thin air and she just smiled her calm smile with a twinkle in her eye and I could just feel her knowing that her husband was there having some fun.

And she let him.

Grandma always had her fingernails painted; I never heard her raise her voice yet her boys always showed her love and respect; she almost always wore dresses (I remember she had a pair of pink polyester pants she liked to wear. I just thought it was pretty cool that my Grandma wore pink polyester pants), and never ever, ever never, EVER showed any impropriety in any way. That was Grandma.

Now, clearly, I’ve not adopted all of Grandma’s traits. I was only 21 when she died and was 17 when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s so the majority of my memories of her were from my childhood. But even in my early teens I was in awe of her and I just felt deep down that I would never quite match up the goodness of my Grandma. Which made her all the more special.

However, I am like my Grandma in one major way and that is of being Old Fashioned (not the tasty beverage but I love those too) when it comes to my behavior around men, especially as a wife of one. Oh sure, there have been times in my past where I was a silly girl with not enough self esteem so I went searching for some in ways that did not honor myself or my values but eventually we all grow out of those (ya, I know not all of us do. Kinda the point of today.) But I believe that how I behave around other men and how women behave around, especially, married men says a lot as to how they wander through life.

See, I’m nearly ancient. I believe a woman, married or single, should not put herself (yes, often times this is out of her control, not the point of today) in a situation where “grey” area becomes questionable as to motives. In simple speak, don’t be flirty with married men. Ever. Don’t hang on them; don’t constantly touch them; don’t behave in a way that if someone were seeing how you’re behaving from across the room, they could wonder if you’re coming on to someone. I believe all of that IS in our control.

Do we give hugs to other men? Yup! Sometimes even kisses (Marcel of Strongman Champions League will give you three, he’s special.) But we don’t linger in these hugs; we don’t portray in any way inappropriate thoughts where the receiver of these “good touches” feels uncomfortable. Matt knows this. It may not even be physical contact. When I have an interaction on the computer with a man, Matt knows about it (someday I’ll tell you about one of the funniest PM interactions on the planet I had recently with our favorite 3 Floyds bartender. When asking if we can do a little something special for Matt’s birthday dinner we have coming up there this coming Friday, he thought I meant a threesome with HIM being Matt’s little something special. We lulzed pretty hard about that one. I don’t think Gregg the bartender was serious but even so, we lulzed. I also told Gregg that he’s not ready for Matt;)

I don’t share these things to cover my ass with Matt, I share these things to avoid any type of impropriety of having a private conversation with another man, no matter how innocent the conversation may be. I dunno, I just saw my Grandma walk through life where no one ever questioned her actions and thought, ya-I like that.

I’ve known women (and men for that matter) whom are extremely, physically affectionate. In almost all cases, that’s fine. Whatev, that’s how they want to walk through life. I think I am too but I try to respect boundaries and I do understand that those boundaries are fairly subjective. We had a situation earlier this Highland Games season where one woman, a very nice woman, made my husband feel uncomfortable with her affectionate behavior. Honestly, that blew me away.

See, if you know Matt you already know that he’s kind, and funny, and smart, and strong, and super hunky, and a good person. What you may not know is that in most cases when it comes to women, he’s completely oblivious. I’ve seen women rub up against him when I’ve stepped away from my seat out in public and it cracks me up because he doesn’t even know it’s happening. I’m pretty sure that it would take a woman shoving her bare tits in his face before he realizes he’s being flirted with, it’s hilarious. So when he told me of this situation where he had to hotstep it da fuck out of this women’s personal space (that, it sounds like, she had invaded in the first place) so no one would take a look and wonder if there’s something going on between the two of them, I took notice.

Now, I know that there was never any intention by this person to make him uncomfortable (okay, I don’t know. But I trust it to be so. She and I are no longer friendly but I do trust this) but, in my opinion, there are times where she was too physical with married men. Again, this is most likely on me and my being so old fashioned. In fact, another man brought her name up at a post Games dinner later in the year about how flirtatious she was being. Matt shared his story and I chimed in, “At times she’s too physical with married men, or at least, my married man.” Now, she was not there to defend herself and this is something I’d gladly tell her face to face. Because I don’t think she knows that there are times where she may cross a line. But that was my feeling.

Unfortunately, my feeling got shared from someone else sitting at that dinner but instead of saying, “OMG Juli’s such a bitch, she said you’re grabby on her hubs and even Matt said that he’s felt uncomfortable around you” the message got switched to, “Ya, so Juli said that you sleep around with all the Pro’s and chase an old flame.” Um, ya. Not so much but whatev. I feel bad that two of us got played by one stupid girl who never left the junior high and likes to hurt other people with her words. I feel bad that she made this other nice woman feel bad. I wish I would have just grabbed her and pulled her aside and said something like, “ya know, I don’t think you know you do this but sometimes you’re a bit grabby on the married or committed men of the world. It may be I’m too old fashioned but it may be that it can raise flags as to your intentions and I know you’re a good person and would never want that to be portrayed. Cool?”  I wish I’d have done that.

Anways. I never saw my Grandma put her hands on another married man and while she did give hugs, it was always in plain sight of Grandpa. I never once saw my Grandpa question my Grandma’s behavior . This wasn’t blind trust, this was respect for each other and their relationship. I like that. Yes, it’s old fashioned, but it’s me. Obviously, sometimes my delivery of that belief gets me in trouble. But I stand by it. I live it. My husband knows it, and, by the way also lives it.

Sorry not sorry.

Appearances are a glimpse of the unseen.

Anaxagoras

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Today, I Just Want To Sit and Cry

Posted on September 8, 2016 by tosabarbell

In general, I’m pretty stoic. I was told that when I was around ten or eleven. It took me another 10 years until I finally looked it up. But ya, stoic. I guess you could attempt to discipline 3 year old Juli and she gave no fucks. So, blame her for today’s attitude.

Anyway. I don’t cry much. Women who use tears for manipulation don’t last long around me. Men? Forget it. Reasons men can cry: their dog died; their child died; their wife died; their parent died. In that order. I don’t want a man who’s fucking sensitive. My god, the pussification of men in America is epic (and not in a good way.) Using tears to get your way or detour a fight is so cowardly that I. Can’t. Even.

But I’m not a robot. I cry. Usually on my own but it happens. It happens every December 7. That is the day my biological mother was born and I have pictures of her. So beautiful and young. And on December 31st (or it may legally be January 1st, 1971) she died. I was four and had already been adopted by the Peterson’s who whisked me away to the Great White North of Carlton, Minnesota where I assumed snow was their method of wanting to kill me. Now I love it. Shrug.

But on December 7 each year I grieve for the mother I never knew. Who didn’t get a chance to “make it.” Who never got to see that her kids “made it.” Whom I never got a chance to tell, “it’s okay. You did the best you could. I’m okay. I did good.” That makes me sad. So I cry. Wine is usually involved. Sue me.

My husband has seen me cry less than five times. I actually remember only two but I’ll assume there were a couple more and round it off to five. So in conclusion, I don’t cry much.

But every year for the last 15, I want to just sit and cry around this time of year. Cuz:

cry.

I watched a movie today on Netflix called World Trade Center with Nicholas Cage. It made me cry. In general, Nicholas Cage doesn’t make me cry. In fact, I don’t watch movies with Nicholas Cage. Barf. But, I’ll watch this one. And it made me cry.

And in the next few days, I’ll watch more. I’ll watch documentaries; I’ll watch movies; I’ll watch reinactments. Because honestly, I just want to sit and cry.

It’s been 15 years, and still, I want to cry.

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I remember that day. Crystal clear. It was a gorgeous, fall day. We had just had a garage sale the weekend before. The kids were off to school and the Ozman and I were hanging out. I watched the “Today” show back then. Mostly to see what moronic, inane shit they would say (still do occasionally) when suddenly the first Trade Tower explosion came on live tv. And then the 2nd. I sat there watching saying, “what the fuck.” Seriously. What the fuck was going on???

I packed up Oz into his car seat and ran out to my folks to return some tables I’d borrowed for the garage sale and my dad was “scrambling” to get to a meeting. (Pastor John scrambles, at least, he did. He never went anywhere without saying, “I’m in a scramble, gotta go” to ensure that you knew how busy he was. It drove me nuts.) Just as I was pulling into their driveway, WCCO reported that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington DC. For me, that was the moment where I realized that something very serious was happening in America. We were under attack. This is so fucking bad.

So when I walked into Mom and Dad’s house and asked my dad if he’s been paying attention to the news today, and he said, “I guess, leave the tables in the garage and get going. I’m in a scramble and need to get to Dassel” I kind of shut down. That was it. Our country was under attack and instead of sitting down and giving comfort, you need to get to a meeting. Bye Felicia.

So I went home. Hugged my son. Watched for updates and cried. Bad day America. Bad day. I went for coffee with a friend and we cried. Then I went and had lunch with the Z’s at school. It was pizza day. Their friends were bemoaning how awful the pizza was. Seriously, it hit me that when these kids hate the horrible school lunches they actually go around 8 hours without eating anything. Zandra’s little friend Kelby  gave me, in detail, the bullet points of how school pizza sucks. It was a nice distraction.

But it occurred to me, during that pizza lunch, that these kids won’t remember this bad day. Some day, when they get older, they won’t remember. They won’t know how bad this day was. They won’t remember the shrieks on the television when that second plane hit.

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DoD photo by Tech. Sgt. Cedric H. Rudisill. (Released)

They won’t understand how absolutely heroic a group of people were on a plane flying over Pennsylvania ensured that only their lives were lost by fighting terrorists 10,000 feet up in the air. See, our kids think Bruce Jenner is heroic. Who’s fucked up in that scenario?

We remember how suddenly Americans were one. I remember how neighbors were nicer to each other (I don’t know if our fucknutt neighbor, Francis, was nicer to his neighbors at the time. I assume not but who knows.) I remember the one question on everyone’s mind,

WHAT CAN I DO?

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I remember hearing that the rescue dogs at ground zero were depressed. Dogs. Depressed. That their job was to rescue, and they weren’t finding anyone to rescue. So they became depressed. Mother.

Fuck.

I remember a work trip on the weekend of an anniversary of 9/11 in Brooklyn, NY where we came out of a shop and I popped across the street where candles still burned alongside of the brick building of a fire station where 4 firefighters lost their lives. I remember that completely helpless feeling of how our lives would change and yet, would remain the same because at the end of the day, I didn’t know anyone who died. I wasn’t involved.

I remember. I realized, talking once with a former client who was in her early 30’s and mentioned last year that she didn’t really get the big deal of 9-11, that to people younger than 40’s something may not remember how bad this was.

See, we’ve been brainwashed to believe that fellow American’s are the enemy. That it’s us against us and that some lives (pick a color) matter more than others. We’ve forgotten that bad day where (it seemed) American’s stood against the world and said,

NOT ON OUR FUCKING WATCH! THIS IS AMERICA AND WE HAVE EACH OTHER’S BACKS. FUCK OFF. WE WILL END YOU IF YOU EVEN TRY.

I remember how we stood together. How it was a positive being patriotic. Today, I heard part of a speech from our President where he said, “Americans are lazy, they think the world is small and don’t care what happens around them.” Well Mr. President, you don’t know me. You don’t speak for me. You have no idea how I feel about Laos or any neighboring countries. But I’ll tell you this,

I love my country. I’m proud of it. It’s survived far worse than you and it will continue to survive. And guess what, there are others like me. They come in all shapes; all sizes; all nationalities; all religions; all political spectrums, from all over. I’m aware of problems around the globe and do care. But first and foremost, America matters.

So when America hurts…

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…we all hurt. And we become better for it. Just watch us.

We’re young men. We’re not ready to die.

Kevin Cosgrove, who was on the 105th floor of the south tower moments before it collapsed.

 

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