A fellow-traveling blog reminds us that today is the sixteenth anniversary of a workday that had Alane calling me from a bar on Chambers Street to tell me that the office had been closed because a transformer blew up down on the WTC parking level a few walls over from the Secret Service gym where she'd been working out.

"So you're all drinking," I asked.

"Yes," was her response and that's probably when her quarter ran out (those were the days of pay phones!).

So I turned on the radio. That was no transformer. That was global jihad. But (kind-a like today) the country was in a frivolous mood. Gotta maintain the status quo, y'know. Just call the cops. Put a few people in jail. Then pat ourselves on the back for getting matter all resolved.

Heh.

Anyway, I got up early this morning. No reason, just couldn't sleep. By around 6 I was cleaning up the basement -- trying to get my tools and paint cans organized. Last Saturday I fixed the window pane on the door to the back room. I actually cut a sheet of glass to size. Cut my finger too. But it's fixed. Now I gotta paint the frame.