What You Didn't See on 9/11

Not everyone in this country was glued to their TVs on 9/11.  Some foreigners ignored it.  I saw this in person.

I was vacationing in Las Vegas that morning.  My son called and woke me up.  "Dad, turn on the TV."  I left my hotel room and went downstairs to the casino to gauge reaction.  I expected to find everyone crowded around the bars, watching the coverage.

Many -- all from other countries -- ignored it, playing their slot machines.

I asked one player why she wasn't watching the news.  In broken English, she said something like, "Now you Americans know what it's like."  She was from Indonesia.  I sensed no compassion in her.  I asked another player.  "Al Qaeda kills people everywhere," he said.  He said he was from Lebanon.  He shrugged, and again, no compassion.

The next day, in an empty employee parking lot, I spotted an old car right in the middle, parked sideways.  It had been hastily painted red, white, and blue.  Spray painted along the side in big block letters was the sentiment all Americans felt: "Bomb the Fuckers."

I was executive producer at WBT in Charlotte at the time, and missing the biggest story since Pearl Harbor.  In those first hours, I was certain that the terrorists also would strike Sin City.  I filed reports from Las Vegas until commercial air traffic resumed days later and we could leave.  I had a great crew in Charlotte, and they performed masterfully under uniquely trying conditions.

Two images I remember vividly about that weekend are the disinterested foreigners, and that painted car out back of the hotel.

USA, pal.  USA.

Younger and Better Looking

Remember back in school finding out that someone in your class of thirty or so kids had the same birthday?  Even less likely was discovering another kid anywhere in your school with the same name as yours.

The first time it happened to me was in 6th grade, and it was a shock: There were two of me!  The other kid, however, was younger and better looking.  As an adult, I found a guy in my city with the same name.  He was younger, better looking, and made more money.  Years later in another city there was a black guy with my name.  He was younger, better looking, and made more money.

All of these fellows had different middle initials, different middle names.

Today, I live in a small town.  What are the odds?  One hundred percent, apparently.  There's a guy here with the same first name, same middle initial, AND the same last name.  He's younger, better looking and probably makes more money.

Our surname goes 'way back to at least the Middle Ages, mostly in what is now the U.K.  Over the centuries, we've had our share of lawyers, artists, horse thieves and rascals.

All of whom, no doubt, were younger and better looking.

Flight School Part Two

Awhile back I wrote of the bird flight school in our back yard.  We have since opened a restaurant for the young pilots and their families.  A bird feeder hangs off the main deck at the rear of our house.  It's about 25-30 feet above grade, which allows for a perfect view of the birds' approach patterns through the trees.

Proper procedure seems to be thus: a bird will fly to a particular tree on the edge of the property, then to another that's a little closer, and so forth.  When the tower (wherever that is) has cleared him to land, here he comes, dead centerline right up to the gate, and it's chow time!

Naturally, there are jet jockeys who butt in line.  One that I call Loudmouth flies straight in, regardless of who's lined up ahead of him.  He announces himself good and loud at the outer marker, then rushes in.  He aims for some occupied gate, frightening away the smaller bird already feeding there.  I watched a big male cardinal swoop in once and run him off.  Maybe the cardinal was with the Avian FAA. 

I have no idea what species these little birds are.  A Peterson's Field Guide suggests that they are wrens, nuthatches, and I forget what all.  There are little bitty blue birds, and dusky reds.  Some are bright yellow, and some have black wing stripes that bring to mind a '68 Camaro.

I have no intention of becoming an expert in such matters -- only to enjoy this part of retirem... Oh, look! There's a hummingbird!