It was night time, it was my birthday, and I was about to get wasted with my friends. As I strolled the streets of downtown Taipei to my favorite bar, I passed a massive electronics store that showed the image of a plane flying into a high-rise building on every single wide-screen television in the 3 story window display. I stopped to watch and found myself standing next to a group of ex-pats.
"What's that?" I asked.
"The World Trade Center," they responded.
"Where?"
"In New York City."
I looked at them. They looked kind of schlubby. I didn't believe them.
I stared one of them directly in the eyes.
"You're a fucking liar," I said. And walked away.
30 minutes later had I met up with my friends and firmly executed operation "shit-housed". When the televisions in the bar turned on, repeating the image I saw in the electronics store window, I thought, "Holy shit. The schlubs were right!"
Being what I had already had about 5 shots of tequila, I quickly became a streetwise philosopher. I mused that those who had lost their lives in the destruction were already reincarnating as we spoke and, individually speaking, their souls were just fine... until my friend (who's birthday it wasn't, and was slightly less intoxicated) said, "Kestrin. The Families." Then I remembered Daniel. His dad worked at WTC tower 2, which I'd just watched collapse.
A war had started, and I was not there to participate in it.
after the blast 9/11/2001: somber/wasted/crosseyed-- that happens, apparently, when i drink too much:
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