A few years ago, I began seeing a GI about extremely noxious gas that I emitted. Then (as now) it smelled like a small furry animal somehow died in my ass (I swear I am no Richard Gere and have no idea how it got there!) and the odor of its rotting corpse was seeping out. My GI did not want to do an endoscopy because he felt that it would be inconclusive and he didn't want to subject me to an invasive procedure. While I appreciated the sentiment, I decided after about a year that I should seek a second opinion.
The new GI I saw wanted to perform an endoscopy immediately. At that point in time, however, I was on a modified diet and thus - surprise, suprise - the endoscopy came back inconclusive. I hung my tail between my legs and went back to my original GI, who through various medicines kept things mostly under control. Lately things have been worse than usual though. It is not good when you are going through a roll of toilet paper every other day. (Forget the toll on my body, do you know how expensive toilet paper is in NYC?!?! I'll be broke if I don't stop shitting!) The GI decided it was time for an endoscopy.
I'm not leaving things to chance this time. I suspect that what triggered my latest series of shit geysers was a scrumptious BBQ seitan (wheat gluten used for fake meats) sandwich I ate a few weeks ago. Since I want plenty of evidence for this endoscopy, I decided I should eat as much seitan as I can before the test on Thursday. Hence I had a yummy lunch of balck pepper seitan this afternoon.
You do not want to enter my apartment this evening without a gas mask.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Advice for the Upcoming Elections - Don't Fuck It Up, Please
Today is primary day here in New York, and I’m concerned about the next few elections. Supposedly, the race in November is for the Democrats to lose, but we all know how they excel at that these days. For the love of the Constitution and all that remains working in our pseudo-democarcy these days, I am begging the Democrats to get off their high horses and go back to cheating on Election Day. In the good old days, both parties engaged in fraud and malfeasance, and the party who did it better “won” the election.
As recently as 1960 (crap, was that really almost 50 years ago already?), crafty Democrats in Chicago way outmaneuvered sneaky Republicans in the southern part of Illinois, and Kennedy was thus the victor. These days, Republicans just get their friends at Diebold to manufacture voting machines so that no matter who you vote for, you vote for a Republican. An independent investigation into the 2004 Presidential election results from Cuyahoga County (Cleveland, OH) revealed that the computer codes in the voting machines had serious anomalies and security gaps. Plus, Republicans had their little lackey Secretary of State to ensure that absentee ballots didn’t count unless you basically used pure silver ink on 14k gold paper, or voted Republican.
Where is our can-do spirit on the Democratic side? Sure, we all know that we can’t rely on the so-called “liberal media,” since conservatives invented it to scare idiots into not reading the news, and then the actual media conglomerates began producing nothing worthwhile anyway. Still, I am sure there are some industrious minds and willing hands and wallets out there. Get to it! Trying to play “fair” and “be honest” is a fucking waste of time.
As recently as 1960 (crap, was that really almost 50 years ago already?), crafty Democrats in Chicago way outmaneuvered sneaky Republicans in the southern part of Illinois, and Kennedy was thus the victor. These days, Republicans just get their friends at Diebold to manufacture voting machines so that no matter who you vote for, you vote for a Republican. An independent investigation into the 2004 Presidential election results from Cuyahoga County (Cleveland, OH) revealed that the computer codes in the voting machines had serious anomalies and security gaps. Plus, Republicans had their little lackey Secretary of State to ensure that absentee ballots didn’t count unless you basically used pure silver ink on 14k gold paper, or voted Republican.
Where is our can-do spirit on the Democratic side? Sure, we all know that we can’t rely on the so-called “liberal media,” since conservatives invented it to scare idiots into not reading the news, and then the actual media conglomerates began producing nothing worthwhile anyway. Still, I am sure there are some industrious minds and willing hands and wallets out there. Get to it! Trying to play “fair” and “be honest” is a fucking waste of time.
What's in a Name? (Part II)
Given my strong feelings about changing one’s name (see Sunday for Part I's rant), it has taken me a very long time to adjust to the current trend among women my age to eagerly take their husband’s name upon marriage. Almost all of my friends, both male and female, are very progressive, so it surprises me that I know a mere handful of women who didn’t change their name. It just seems weird to me that a woman would invest so much time in her education and work life, building a reputation under an identity and accruing props along the way for her achievements, and then suddenly become someone else. Sure, she’s not really someone else. A rose is a rose by any other name, right? Even dunderheads like me know that. But it is confusing and takes explaining when you walk into someone’s office and call her Dr. Blahblah or what have you, then notice that the medical degree posted on the wall is to Susie Sunshine. Who the fuck is that? The mental reconciliation process kicks in, starting with, “Shit, am I seeing a fraud?” to “Oh, maybe she is using someone else’s office” to finally, “Ah, she’s married. I am in the right place after all.”
Anyway, after beating people over the head with blunt objects in an attempt to force them to respect my choice, I realized that I should back the fuck up when it came to judging my friends’ decisions about what they want to be legally known as. Now I don’t bother getting bent out of shape unless I am reading some article about the new “trend” of women not changing their names (I don’t think at any point in time more married women in the US had their own names than their beloved’s, so I am not sure how this marks a “trend”), which more often than not will site a return to “values” (seems that brazen hussies like me who kept their names don’t have values – who knew?) and the death of the failed feminist experiment. Usually the article includes a quote from some twat to prove that feminism is useless, and she’ll say something brainless like, “If we have the same name, we’ll never get divorced because it will bring us so much closer.” Yeah, I’m sure if Christie Brinkley had insisted that the media refer to her as Mrs. Whatever-her-cheating-husband’s-name-is, he never would have shtupped his teenage intern.
Do what you want about your name, but don’t be a moron, or I will still make fun of you.
Anyway, after beating people over the head with blunt objects in an attempt to force them to respect my choice, I realized that I should back the fuck up when it came to judging my friends’ decisions about what they want to be legally known as. Now I don’t bother getting bent out of shape unless I am reading some article about the new “trend” of women not changing their names (I don’t think at any point in time more married women in the US had their own names than their beloved’s, so I am not sure how this marks a “trend”), which more often than not will site a return to “values” (seems that brazen hussies like me who kept their names don’t have values – who knew?) and the death of the failed feminist experiment. Usually the article includes a quote from some twat to prove that feminism is useless, and she’ll say something brainless like, “If we have the same name, we’ll never get divorced because it will bring us so much closer.” Yeah, I’m sure if Christie Brinkley had insisted that the media refer to her as Mrs. Whatever-her-cheating-husband’s-name-is, he never would have shtupped his teenage intern.
Do what you want about your name, but don’t be a moron, or I will still make fun of you.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Where are our priorities? Just curious.
One more Sept. 11th-related piece of commentary and then I’ll stop obsessing. The more I think about that article I read in the New York Times today about the vast sums of money that have been invested in the process of rebuilding the WTC site and the lack of anything substantive resulting from it due to bureaucratic stupidity, selfishness, and egocentric politics, the more it ires me. On my way home from my first magazine writing class (how to pitch articles) this evening, the thought about the cost of the proposed memorial alone was enough to make me want to slap someone.
According to the article and other recent press, Mayor Bloomberg finally came to his senses and shut the sky-high dreams down by putting a $500 million cost cap on the site. Of course, this was only after the price tag reached one fucking billion dollars. Yes, a BILLION bucks to create a memorial. Are these people insane?
I noticed that many of the people who believe that price is no object for the memorial to their brave departed son/daughter/wife/husband/sister’s best friend’s uncle’s neighbor do not actually live in New York City. Thus having a random 16 acre site that generates no income for the municipality is not their problem. Too bad for those of us who actually live here and have real needs, like child care, health care, pensions, rent assistance, etc., etc. that require some regular stream of revenue to meet. Even worse for those of us who actually work downtown and would like to see some life brought back to the area. Dear God – why should we have access to a lively community when their loved one is dead? What on earth is wrong with me?
Another issue that seems to be conveniently ignored is just who the fuck is paying for this thing. I am happy to help pay for a reasonable memorial. The World War II memorial, which I just saw this summer on the Mall in DC, is gorgeous, elegant, and an important shrine to the 16 million Americans who served in the armed forces and 400,000 who died fighting tyranny in World War II. According to the National WWII Memorial homepage:
Should there be a memorial? Absolutely. How could there not be? Something horrendous and traumatizing and life-altering happened at the World Trade Center. An appropriate memorial that puts the events into context and helps us remember those who lost their lives by merely going to work one day is essential. Is an elaborate shrine to a specific person’s dead loved one the best way to convey the enormity and gravity of the events? Not so much. I would rather see my money go to help the living continue to live (see: immense needs of the citizens of NYC, above) than to build a tomb to the dead.
Again, I am sorry to anyone who lost someone dear to them that day. I know that I would be crazy with grief and very possibly as demanding if I were unlucky enough to be in your shoes. Sept. 11 is a big event and it means a lot of things to a lot of people, but we need to stop holding the needs of the living hostage in order to over-serve the dead.
According to the article and other recent press, Mayor Bloomberg finally came to his senses and shut the sky-high dreams down by putting a $500 million cost cap on the site. Of course, this was only after the price tag reached one fucking billion dollars. Yes, a BILLION bucks to create a memorial. Are these people insane?
I noticed that many of the people who believe that price is no object for the memorial to their brave departed son/daughter/wife/husband/sister’s best friend’s uncle’s neighbor do not actually live in New York City. Thus having a random 16 acre site that generates no income for the municipality is not their problem. Too bad for those of us who actually live here and have real needs, like child care, health care, pensions, rent assistance, etc., etc. that require some regular stream of revenue to meet. Even worse for those of us who actually work downtown and would like to see some life brought back to the area. Dear God – why should we have access to a lively community when their loved one is dead? What on earth is wrong with me?
Another issue that seems to be conveniently ignored is just who the fuck is paying for this thing. I am happy to help pay for a reasonable memorial. The World War II memorial, which I just saw this summer on the Mall in DC, is gorgeous, elegant, and an important shrine to the 16 million Americans who served in the armed forces and 400,000 who died fighting tyranny in World War II. According to the National WWII Memorial homepage:
The National World War II Memorial was funded almost entirely by private contributions, as specified in Public Law 103-32. The campaign received more than $197 million in cash and pledges. Support came from hundreds of thousands of individual Americans, hundreds of corporations and foundations, veterans groups, dozens of civic, fraternal and professional organizations, states and one territory, and students in 1,200 schools across the country.So it seems that we can spend $182 million to get a great, thought-provoking memorial to 16 million people, but we need to spend $1 billion – a huge chunk coming from taxpayers -to memorialize less than 3,000? I don’t think so.
Donated and pledged funds were used to cover the total project costs of approximately $182 million. These costs include site selection and design, construction and sculpture, a National Park Service maintenance fee required by the Commemorative Works Act, groundbreaking and dedication ceremonies, fund raising, and the 11-year administrative costs of the project from its inception in 1993 through completion in 2004.
Should there be a memorial? Absolutely. How could there not be? Something horrendous and traumatizing and life-altering happened at the World Trade Center. An appropriate memorial that puts the events into context and helps us remember those who lost their lives by merely going to work one day is essential. Is an elaborate shrine to a specific person’s dead loved one the best way to convey the enormity and gravity of the events? Not so much. I would rather see my money go to help the living continue to live (see: immense needs of the citizens of NYC, above) than to build a tomb to the dead.
Again, I am sorry to anyone who lost someone dear to them that day. I know that I would be crazy with grief and very possibly as demanding if I were unlucky enough to be in your shoes. Sept. 11 is a big event and it means a lot of things to a lot of people, but we need to stop holding the needs of the living hostage in order to over-serve the dead.
The Aftermath of Sept. 11: Hold Your Wallet Close Edition
If you are trying to lose weight, I suggest you read Broken Ground: The Hole in the City’s Heart by Deborah Sontag. The obscene amount of time and money (and remember, time also equals money) that has gone into the “rebuilding” of World Trade Center site will make you so sick you will either not want to eat in the first place or you’ll want to puke up whatever you did ingest. No one involved in this process comes out clean. It is the filthiest, vilest, lowest level of politics this side off the Bush administration.
The utter levels of self-interest are stunning. Somewhere along the way, the people involved forgot that there is a whole public out here whose needs differ from what the narrowly interested want, and who ultimately are going to pay for whatever is built. It is a must read.
The utter levels of self-interest are stunning. Somewhere along the way, the people involved forgot that there is a whole public out here whose needs differ from what the narrowly interested want, and who ultimately are going to pay for whatever is built. It is a must read.
Today's Sept. 11 Ceremony Miss
I watched the September 11 ceremony at Ground Zero this morning. As the names of the deceased were read by the significant others of those who died, it seemed that at least one-third of the dead were women. (I confirmed this was the case at New York Metro, which offers thought-provoking info on 9/11 by the number.) Yet the overwhelming number of name readers were women. Usually I like to hear women’s voices ringing out loud and clear, but in this case, many women whose voices are permanently silent did not have the same opportunity to have a loved one speak for them the way that the deceased men were spoken for by a grieving spouse.
For a fair representation, one out of every three name readers should have been a man. (This is not counting same-sex couples, although I was pleased to note that two gay men were included as name readers and a lesbian eulogized her partner.) It gave a weird impression that no women died that day. Where were the voices of the husbands and other male partners? Were they not invited to speak or did none accept the invitation?
I know this is terrible to say, but it became very numbing to hear the widow parade bemoaning the loss of their men one after one. At least there was a respectable amount of ethnic diversity among the women readers, but more male voices would have added depth and perspective to ceremony.
Regardless of who was picked to read, why, and how, it didn’t work as a strategy for honoring everyone. It only led to some people going on and on about their loved ones, holding pictures of their dead spouses up the entire time they read other people’s names, terrible (if heartfelt) poetry, two semi-outrageous political statements, and worst, people’s names not read at all because the readers were too upset or focused only on their dead loved one. The last two readers had to read a list of names of people who were skipped. Not cool.
For a fair representation, one out of every three name readers should have been a man. (This is not counting same-sex couples, although I was pleased to note that two gay men were included as name readers and a lesbian eulogized her partner.) It gave a weird impression that no women died that day. Where were the voices of the husbands and other male partners? Were they not invited to speak or did none accept the invitation?
I know this is terrible to say, but it became very numbing to hear the widow parade bemoaning the loss of their men one after one. At least there was a respectable amount of ethnic diversity among the women readers, but more male voices would have added depth and perspective to ceremony.
Regardless of who was picked to read, why, and how, it didn’t work as a strategy for honoring everyone. It only led to some people going on and on about their loved ones, holding pictures of their dead spouses up the entire time they read other people’s names, terrible (if heartfelt) poetry, two semi-outrageous political statements, and worst, people’s names not read at all because the readers were too upset or focused only on their dead loved one. The last two readers had to read a list of names of people who were skipped. Not cool.
Five Years Ago
May 2000 – Husband offered job at eSpeed, a divison of Cantor Fitzgerald on the 103rd floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. Husband turns it down due to low salary, despite lack of other offers at the time. This made me both relieved and nervous. Relieved because I knew that we’d have some financial issues if my non-profit salary made me the breadwinner, but nervous because nothing else was in the horizon and unemployment is worse than a moderate income.
July 2, 2000 – We get married.
August 2000 – Husband receives job offer from small private equity firm in midtown Manhattan. He is very pleased with the opportunity and begins in September.
Sept. 9, 2001 – Husband and I return from belated honeymoon in London. We had a great time.
Sept. 11, 2001 – It was a picture perfect day with the sun beaming down on the City; the type of day that makes you happy to be alive as the sun warms your nose while you walk down the street. I went to my office early that morning, as we’d been on vacation and I wanted to catch up on some work before I went to an afternoon meeting with a city official downtown. The office was empty except for one other early bird. Around 8:45 am, he came into my tiny office with a weird look on his face. His mother had called him from Rochester, where she heard on the news that some sort of plane crashed into the World Trade Center.
We tried to log on to the internet, but all the news sites were overloaded. The street became full of the high-pitched scream of sirens as emergency vehicles sped downtown. Eventually, news reached us in bits and pieces as other people arrived at the office. We heard that it was a small personal plane, like a Cessna. Then word arrived that it was a commercial airline. Still, it could have been a horrible accident. No one was sure. Then we heard about the second plane and now we knew. It was not an accident. A graduate student intern arrived upset because the second plane flew overhead while she walked to work. She saw it slam into the south tower.
My office at the time was located on the corner of the 14th Street and 5th Avenue, with a perfect view down Fifth of the towers. Years before, I had lived in an NYU dorm on 5th and 10th, and I used to lean out the window at night and look down 5th Avenue at the Twin Towers to my south, and the elegant Empire State Building to the north. These buildings bracketed a section of Manhattan and served as a compass for downtown. Now the southern compass point had been attacked. I went outside to see for myself.
Small clumps of people were standing around talking quietly on every corner. At Cardozo Law School, on the northeast corner of 12th and 5th, I stood and watched the buildings burn. There was an inferno at the tops of the towers. I thought, “No one above that fire is going to make it out alive.” That’s where Husband would have been, had we not been greedy. I sat down on the curb and cried. Never once did it cross my mind that an hour later, the buildings would collapse upon themselves. Who but an engineer could contemplate such a horrific thing?
After a few minutes, I dried my eyes and went back inside. Some time passed, with people trying to find news. We heard that one of the towers came down. Shock. Then people began to leave. A co-worker decided to walk to her parents’ apartment on the Upper West Side, and we left together. We headed as far west as we could, lest other attacks were planned on buildings in midtown. (Who knew at this point what was going to happen? Anything seemed possible.) As we trudged in the bright sunlight to the West Side Highway, we heard that the second tower fell, too.
At the pedestrian and bike path on the West Side Highway, we quickly joined the exodus of people. Mostly I remember the bright reds, oranges, and blues of the stock traders’ coats. There seemed to be an infinite number of them pouring out of downtown. People were trying to call loved ones, but cell phone signals were hard to come by. No one spoke much.
I worried about my friend who was visiting from Israel with her boyfriend. That morning they had planned to go to the Statue of Liberty and the World Trade Center. A few days ago, I had advised them to go to the Statue of Liberty first, as I had heard that the lines could take hours if you did not arrive at the island on one of the first boats out. Besides, the observation deck at the WTC did not open until later, so they might as well go to the Statue first. Where were they? She did not have a cell phone with her, so I could not even try to reach her. I hoped they would call me as soon as they got back to my friend’s aunt’s house in Brooklyn.
By the time I arrived at my apartment, Husband had already been home for quite some time. I don’t think that I had ever been so happy to see him. All I could think about was the inferno on the top of the towers, and how utterly lucky I was that he was here with me in our apartment. Husband had even taken the time to stock up on bottled water and cash from the ATM. He always thinks ahead, and while the water was never a problem, ATMs ran out of cash in the following days. What would I do without him?
In the ensuing hours, we watched TV constantly. We heard from friends. It is amazing how many people were “late” to work that day, and thus safe. (The terrorists may have chosen the hijacked flight well, and they may have succeeded in destroying several buildings and killing thousands, but they did not understand the work culture of New Yorkers – who rarely get into work before 9:30 – and thus they did not kill multiples of thousands more.) My friend eventually called me. She had been boarding the ferry to the Statue when the planes flew overhead. In the chaos that ensued, they fled over the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before the Towers fell and covered them with dust. It took several more hours to get home, but she was safe, too.
I was lucky – everyone I loved was safe, especially Husband. The New York Times ran pictures of the deceased with little stories for months. Husband saw a picture of the man who would have been his boss. Whenever I think about it, I want to throw up. Even though it was not really a close call, as he turned down the job over a year before the attacks, it still feels too close to me.
In some ways, September 11, 2001 feels like yesterday, and in others, it feels like forever. The exploitation of the events of that day by the Bush administration continues unabated. Whenever some idiot tells me I should be grateful for President Bush, “or else there might be more terrorist attacks,” I stare at him blankly. Whenever I read about the latest violation of the Constitution, I bitterly feel that people deserve what they asked for when they voted for Bush. In those instances, I know that the terrorists won.
rocketboom911
July 2, 2000 – We get married.
August 2000 – Husband receives job offer from small private equity firm in midtown Manhattan. He is very pleased with the opportunity and begins in September.
Sept. 9, 2001 – Husband and I return from belated honeymoon in London. We had a great time.
Sept. 11, 2001 – It was a picture perfect day with the sun beaming down on the City; the type of day that makes you happy to be alive as the sun warms your nose while you walk down the street. I went to my office early that morning, as we’d been on vacation and I wanted to catch up on some work before I went to an afternoon meeting with a city official downtown. The office was empty except for one other early bird. Around 8:45 am, he came into my tiny office with a weird look on his face. His mother had called him from Rochester, where she heard on the news that some sort of plane crashed into the World Trade Center.
We tried to log on to the internet, but all the news sites were overloaded. The street became full of the high-pitched scream of sirens as emergency vehicles sped downtown. Eventually, news reached us in bits and pieces as other people arrived at the office. We heard that it was a small personal plane, like a Cessna. Then word arrived that it was a commercial airline. Still, it could have been a horrible accident. No one was sure. Then we heard about the second plane and now we knew. It was not an accident. A graduate student intern arrived upset because the second plane flew overhead while she walked to work. She saw it slam into the south tower.
My office at the time was located on the corner of the 14th Street and 5th Avenue, with a perfect view down Fifth of the towers. Years before, I had lived in an NYU dorm on 5th and 10th, and I used to lean out the window at night and look down 5th Avenue at the Twin Towers to my south, and the elegant Empire State Building to the north. These buildings bracketed a section of Manhattan and served as a compass for downtown. Now the southern compass point had been attacked. I went outside to see for myself.
Small clumps of people were standing around talking quietly on every corner. At Cardozo Law School, on the northeast corner of 12th and 5th, I stood and watched the buildings burn. There was an inferno at the tops of the towers. I thought, “No one above that fire is going to make it out alive.” That’s where Husband would have been, had we not been greedy. I sat down on the curb and cried. Never once did it cross my mind that an hour later, the buildings would collapse upon themselves. Who but an engineer could contemplate such a horrific thing?
After a few minutes, I dried my eyes and went back inside. Some time passed, with people trying to find news. We heard that one of the towers came down. Shock. Then people began to leave. A co-worker decided to walk to her parents’ apartment on the Upper West Side, and we left together. We headed as far west as we could, lest other attacks were planned on buildings in midtown. (Who knew at this point what was going to happen? Anything seemed possible.) As we trudged in the bright sunlight to the West Side Highway, we heard that the second tower fell, too.
At the pedestrian and bike path on the West Side Highway, we quickly joined the exodus of people. Mostly I remember the bright reds, oranges, and blues of the stock traders’ coats. There seemed to be an infinite number of them pouring out of downtown. People were trying to call loved ones, but cell phone signals were hard to come by. No one spoke much.
I worried about my friend who was visiting from Israel with her boyfriend. That morning they had planned to go to the Statue of Liberty and the World Trade Center. A few days ago, I had advised them to go to the Statue of Liberty first, as I had heard that the lines could take hours if you did not arrive at the island on one of the first boats out. Besides, the observation deck at the WTC did not open until later, so they might as well go to the Statue first. Where were they? She did not have a cell phone with her, so I could not even try to reach her. I hoped they would call me as soon as they got back to my friend’s aunt’s house in Brooklyn.
By the time I arrived at my apartment, Husband had already been home for quite some time. I don’t think that I had ever been so happy to see him. All I could think about was the inferno on the top of the towers, and how utterly lucky I was that he was here with me in our apartment. Husband had even taken the time to stock up on bottled water and cash from the ATM. He always thinks ahead, and while the water was never a problem, ATMs ran out of cash in the following days. What would I do without him?
In the ensuing hours, we watched TV constantly. We heard from friends. It is amazing how many people were “late” to work that day, and thus safe. (The terrorists may have chosen the hijacked flight well, and they may have succeeded in destroying several buildings and killing thousands, but they did not understand the work culture of New Yorkers – who rarely get into work before 9:30 – and thus they did not kill multiples of thousands more.) My friend eventually called me. She had been boarding the ferry to the Statue when the planes flew overhead. In the chaos that ensued, they fled over the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before the Towers fell and covered them with dust. It took several more hours to get home, but she was safe, too.
I was lucky – everyone I loved was safe, especially Husband. The New York Times ran pictures of the deceased with little stories for months. Husband saw a picture of the man who would have been his boss. Whenever I think about it, I want to throw up. Even though it was not really a close call, as he turned down the job over a year before the attacks, it still feels too close to me.
In some ways, September 11, 2001 feels like yesterday, and in others, it feels like forever. The exploitation of the events of that day by the Bush administration continues unabated. Whenever some idiot tells me I should be grateful for President Bush, “or else there might be more terrorist attacks,” I stare at him blankly. Whenever I read about the latest violation of the Constitution, I bitterly feel that people deserve what they asked for when they voted for Bush. In those instances, I know that the terrorists won.
rocketboom911
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