Point Five (Dialup)

I don’t care how unbelievably horny it makes you to be a US Senator.

I don’t care that you think that after 231 years, the fate of the entire American experiment has come down to you, the one indispensable man who’s holding it all together.

I don’t care that your wife didn’t fulfill some “need” you think you have. I have a “need” for a fucking Delmonico steak, and instead my wife feeds me some awful meatless broccoli and tofu casserole every fucking night, but that doesn’t mean I’m trolling the Minneapolis airport jonesing for a Ruth’s Chris, so I can swallow an illicit 12oz’er to satisfy my hunger.

(more…)

I don’t know how this day surprises me every year.

And yet I find myself waking once again to the same pale blue flicker of television light, as the cold hint of the coming sunrise starts to change night to almost-night outside the glass expanse of our bedroom doors, and the sight of those silent towers greets me onscreen, untouched yet by their coming doom.

The TV volume is almost inaudible– a car rushing past from the street over the wall drowns it out– yet when the rumble of Flight 11 thunders overhead and plunges into the first tower, the noise is deafening.

Fox showed one of the jumpers this morning. I’d never seen the footage before; on Sept. 11, 2001, at 5:46 in the morning, PDT, I was already in my office working.

My wife called me sometime after the second tower was hit– she had watched the second strike with our then 12 year old son. In no small measure, his today was determined on that day. Without 9/11/01, would he be marching somewhere around the perimeter of the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego?

The jumper fell for so long, it almost seemed like he might somehow never have to hit the ground.

Six years. And still I’m sick to my stomach. The air doesn’t seem like enough to fill my lungs.

——

Here is our remembrance of Christina Donovan Flannery from last year.

——

UPDATE: Like clockwork, I relive the day. And now, as then, the shock and sorrow grows into resolute anger.

They will never win.

Because though some may forget and falter, they are not the serious among us. The serious remember every day.

If your browser caught it (hit ctrl-F5 if not), you’ll see the sad banner announcing the departure of the Evil Emperor Mindstation from the writing staff here at Point Five.

This whole thing evolved over two years ago from a homeschool assignment for my then 16-year-old son, when I suggested that he start a blog as a way to fulfill his writing requirement. Somehow (and here in my dotage, I’m not really clear how this happened), before it even began, it morphed from a daily journal into an Onion-style rag where the both of us could rail against all the stuff we regularly railed against at the dinner table. Thus was born the Evil Emperor Mindstation (late of the Medal of Honor online servers), his appellation; my own, a4g; and our third man, (cooked up when he was 13 when he discovered the voice generator on his old computer and started typing in stuff like “Kiss me, if you like drool” and “Nurse, come over here and sit on my lap. I’m having a seizure.”), Prof. Stephen Hawking.

But evidently (and they don’t tell you this at fathering school), the little bastards grow up on you. And the direction my now 18-year-old son has decided to take, is– by way of boot camp at the MCRD just outside of Camp Pendleton– as a recruit to the United States Marine Corps. We’ll see him again in 13 weeks.

You know, there are some moments in life when you are with your family and you are laughing so hard that your eyes water, that you struggle for breath. And for a brief instant, you feel a joy so intense that you touch the divine, as if you have opened a door to something so wonderful that it isn’t rightly deserved in this world. And by God it seems like those moments will last forever.

Somehow, I woke up this morning and found out that they don’t.

I’m good at adding kids to the family.

Letting go of them– that I’m not so good at.

The gray cloud of melancholy has lifted with the morning sun.

I can think of one thousand reasons why we won’t take back the House in 08. Chief among them that our slow, steady progress in Iraq will finally show dividends by 08, and will be endlessly credited to the “New Direction.”

Why the Senate will stay in Democrat hands.

Why talk of “Bush finally picking up his veto pen” ignores 1) the nature of the man who will demonstrate a unique and profound deference to the legislative bodies as an expression of the will of the people; 2) the importance of Democrat cooperation on Iraq, for which Bush will sacrifice much; 3) and the numerous and significant issues on which Bush is really a Democrat, not a Republican.

Why “conservatism always wins where it is tried”, tried and failed in dozens of races.

Why the base-destroying wedge of illegal immigration couldn’t carry Randy Graf into the house, or retain JD Hayworth.

Why the lessons of this election, after the initial flurry of defiant calls to “Conservatism! Conservatism! Conservatism!” fade, will be the sickening truth that the Democrats won by courting moderates, and the vaunted GOP base couldn’t be trusted to show up, instead proving themselves short-sighted, petulant and unreliable.

Why the “conservative tide” sweeping over America has put us in the position of nominally controlling the Presidency; while the opposition controls the House, the Senate, the Judiciary, the Governorships, the Media and the Schools.

But, then, being a lifelong California resident and lifelong Republican, I’ve learned a thing or two about loss, about hitting bottom, about being unable to move on.

You move on anyway. And you discover there is no bottom. There is always something left for the fight.

No recounts, no court cases, no accusations. We lost fair and square. If there were any problems, we’ll fix them next time.

Now it’s time to dust off and win this war.

I’m ready.

MORE:

Good roundup post over at Wizbang.

Part of the 2996 Project

We live lives of magic and wizardry. We spend our days consumed with concerns that generations before would find strange and unreal. We worry about getting a clear cell phone signal, or traffic tie ups, we obsess over interest rates and the price of a precious oily yellow- green liquid that you can’t drink, can’t wash with, can’t use to cook. The hardships we confront on a daily basis are those of a pampered, spoiled people, with the attendant majesty and pique of a pea disturbing the royal slumber.

Yet this is the great gift that our fathers and grandfathers and great grandfathers toiled and sweated and died to give us. This moment where we have the freedom to be petty or preoccupied or profound. Where the only worry we have about eating, is which of a hundred thousand boxes we will choose at the market.

It is easy for us to forget the soil below, which we cover in buildings and concrete and plantings and parking structures, and yet, there it is– still, hidden, obscured, forgotten, but eternally beneath. If it is bedrock, it supports everything we wish to do. If it is sandy or soft or undercut by hidden water, despite our elaborate plans and aspirations cracks will form in even the most ambitious and well- designed of our edifices.

So we wake up on a September morning, and watch evil remind us in no uncertain terms that though it can be covered, graded, trenched and forgotten, it will not be denied.

* * *

Christina Donovan Flannery worked on the 104th floor of Tower Two, at Sandler O’Neill and Partners. She was 26, newly married, and a fixed income sales associate for the firm, where she had worked for two years.

As usual, she spent the morning riding the subway into work with her husband, Brian. At the moment, they lived in Middle Village, Queens. But the contracts for the home they were purchasing– their first– were with their attorney. They would be signing soon. “We talked about it non- stop,” her husband said.

It was a dream address: 10 Cranberry Lane in Plainsville, on Long Island. A three bedroom split-level ranch. There would finally be enough room for their beloved dog Tye, an Akita German shepherd, to romp around. He was their “kid for now”, but they were looking forward to starting a family soon.

The move to the Long Island home, just around the corner from her in-laws, would be the first move out of Middle Village for Christina. Born August 10, 1975, the daughter of William and Catherine Donovan, she grew up with brother Billy and sister Kathleen. She attended Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal Elementary School and Christ the King High School, where she was a star basketball and softball player.

“Everyone who knew Christina, loved Christina. Her smile and laughter [were] contagious,” said her brother. “She loved children, she loved family, she loved life.”

Even more than career, marriage had always been a dream for Christina. Her best friend Nicole Lagnese recalled how crashing weddings was a favorite hobby. “We used to drive around from church to church on Saturdays to see how other people had done it and get ideas for our own.”

Still, it was probably not the first thing on her mind when she went to Jones Beach on a first date with Brian Flannery, whom she had met on the trading floor of HSBC Bank USA. But just a few years later, in July 2000, she would be standing in the same spot as the sun was setting, when he asked her to marry him.

“She got joy out of helping others and seeing them happy,” her husband said. “Making other people happy was her happiness.”

The June wedding in 2001 was followed by a honeymoon in Hawaii.

By September, the couple had settled into the happy routine of commuting into work together. They split up each day near the end of their commute, when he went to his office in midtown– she to lower Manhattan and her job on the 104th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

After the first jet plunged into Tower One, Christina spoke to her husband Brian twice more by phone.

And then came 9:02:59 a.m., Sept 11, 2001.

United Airlines Flight 175 struck Tower Two.

* * *

“I don’t have my sister anymore, don’t have anyone to talk to. I talked to her about things I wouldn’t talk to my husband about.” Kathleen Fontana, Sister.

“We all miss Christina terribly, each one in a different way. I miss the phone calls and talks on the front stairs of the house the most.” Bill Donovan, brother.

“The world will never be the same without you. Your caring heart and your tender smile will forever be missed.” Rick Taiano, old friend

“If you had a down day, you’d just talk to her for five minutes, and she’d pick you up. Everybody who knew her just felt the same way.” William Donovan, Father.

“She made you believe anything was possible. She wasn’t afraid to dream because she made dreams come true.” Brian Flannery, Husband.

* * *

The Christina Donovan Flannery Scholarship Foundation has been established to help underprivileged children attend Catholic school. Donations may be sent to P.O. Box183, Old Bethpage, N.Y. 11804-0183.

[If you knew Christina, and would like to add or correct anything in this remembrance, please leave a comment. My apologies if I have gotten anything wrong. Published reports vary on certain details and dates, including Ms. Flannery’s birth date and the spelling of Kathleen Fontana/ Fontona.]

Others:

* Francisco Munoz
* Kenneth John Cubas
* Sarah Khan
* Maria La Vache
* Larry Beck