On the afternoon of Sept. 11, 2001, I was driving through Manhattan with three co-workers. As we approached a street corner, we noticed a handful of people looking toward the sky. When we reached them, we all looked up and saw an enormous burning hole on the side of one of the Twin Towers. The rest of that week … month was a nightmare unlike any I’ve ever experienced. From our apartment in Union Square, the wife and I could smell the burning rubble oozing through our window. There were pictures of the deceased hanging throughout the city—harsh, needed, painful reminders of the worst day ever. I can’t overstate how horrible it was. People throughout the country say, “We all suffered,” and I’m not sure they truly understand—to be a New Yorker during 9.11 was to live the ultimate horror. The ultimate.
I bring this up because I am watching Rudy Giuliani speak at the Republican National Convention, and I want him dead. No, not really dead. Just shipped to a place far, far, far away, where I’ll never have to see his face or hear his voice again.
I hate Giuliani. Loathe him. Despise him. It has nothing to do with his record as mayor of New York (mediocre, at best), and everything—absolutely everything—to do with his post-9.11 existence, as he’s milked that nightmare time after time after time after time. He talked 9.11 here, 9.11 there, 9.11 up, 9.11 down. 9.11 everything. And now, hearing him speak, I detest him more than ever.
Ugh.
