Finally heard from my trader friend. She left me a message last night, her voice not sounding at all like usual. Elba hoped that she never had to go through that again... this lifetime. She was in the World Trade Center, working for Smith Barney, when it was bombed in 1993 and I spoke with her while she was on the rooftop before being led down the stairwell by flashlight by the Red Cross. She's been through, like thousands of others, two bombings. I wonder how many people will be moving out of Manhattan after the dust settles. My friend Dorota was attempting to leave the city to spend time away from the flying debris in her neighborhood. And she's concerned about airborne asbestos. Had dinner last night with three friends and one amongst us had such an incredible America-bashing take on things it shocked (and saddened) me, at one point he sneeringly asked if I am a flag-waver. He soaks in history and fancies himself a tried & tru intellect but is ignorant and outdated. Normally I excuse his eccentricities but will be taking a break from his company.
I bet most of the rock extravaganzas inked into my book will be not happening this weekend. Invited to a soirée this evening and would enjoy not talking about the international tragedy for one night. I've been burning a candle in my house for all the dead. And yes, I am a flag waver.
And so, too, is my friend Kenneth in Amsterdam. Be strong.

Because of the World Trade Center bombing I am, for the first time in my life, not thinking about my perilous fear of needles and blood and am giving blood this afternoon. Terror would be a good word to describe my thinking of the Red Cross visit but it seems like a grand thing to do being cross-state and helpless to do much else to help post-tragically. I'm looking at this foray as a personal challenge Oh, you think you're so tough Nancy, strap yourself in and let those nice people take some nice juicy (wooziness starts now) B+.
Be positive and spill loose your B+.
Canceled excursion to Toronto today as reportedly the traffic to cross is hours long. Aftermath of tragedy, most of the world in a numbed state. And some celebrating in sunny streets as if it were a holiday.
Is this karma? Why do wars involve pedestrians? Will the site of the WTC become a field of daisies? Will everyone in the US know someone or know someone who knew someone who died yesterday?
Will I faint at the Red Cross. Will I keep you posted?
You bet.

ps: went to the red cross and started crying when I saw all their flags fluttering in the breeze and a dozen volunteers collecting money on the avenue and handing out flyers to a line of cars which I was in. The man who handed me the flyer said they were so inundated with blood donors that I should return at another time. Then someone told me that they only want O now and non-first-timers. Off the hook/needle I suppose.

Happened to have the tv on this am in between workout tapes to see footage of the World Trade Center in flames and I thought it was archival from when bombs were driven into the garage and detonated. I realized it was live and in those few minutes the second plane flew into the second tower and blew up. The newscasters were dumbfounded and two of the three regained some composure while the third, a woman, was absolutely beyond comprehension and words. I watched until the tower crumpled and decided I could watch no longer. I thought about putting on my L7 tshirt with the skeleton hands but opted instead for my John Lennon shirt. I'm wrapped in a wish for peace. Yesterday I bought the NYTimes and there was a full page ad from an international Jewish org praising both our retarded president and Colin Powell for their support and rejection of the world council on racism. And today this. Are these related?
Dorota, who lives in SoHo on Broome Street, this morning heard a jet flying over her building and then an explosion and watched the towers collapse from her rooftop.
This is the only time I am glad to be in Buffalo and not NYC.
Moment of silence. Moment of silence. Moment of silence.

What a weekendous cavalcadous as to make even our block-rich lifetime both marvel and amaze. Met up with City of Light authoress Lauren Belfer this afternoon as she sketched with a local artiste and, as we reporters are wont to do, asked about her upcoming project which at first she abso-fuckin-lutely would not discuss. OH PUH LEEZ I wanted to shout into her facialed face, a response to her finishing school dusky come hither voice. Finally: she IS working on something, mucho research involved and it's not about Buffalo as if I would break down that it was not about this middling city. She mentioned the notion of the advance. I asked. Advance? To which her dusky voice responded I cannot discuss that but I will say that I am under contract. She is pleasant, beautiful, dusky-voiced, and cannot draw to save her life.
My Perfect Weekend, in a nutshell:
The Hipster Police patrolled the venue where Lee Renaldo et al performed seriously as mediocre video footage played and stage lights rested, unused. Squonky noise jazz. People, affeared of the Hipster Police, muttered into my small ears that they were unimpressed, that they felt ripped off. I eagerly await the appearance of Kim and Thurston soon, my money's on that being the show to be at, to remember and remember.
Guess Who and Joe Cocker: night of puffball XY rock. I took an informal survey in the security pit as I shot away with the boy colleagues: Burton Cummings's hair, real...or fake? Joe Cocker opened for G.W. (?)
Shot a wedding last night and the video gal was a psycho. Me and the dj and the caterers plotted her untimely death over the side of the balcony. At the reception met a few highly interesting men, and had a lengthly discussion with the groom (of all people) on the dancefloor about single malt scotches that we know and love. One of their guests kept staring at me and so I went up to him and gave him a karate chop in the head. Afterwards went about my photo beeswax and ended the evening behind the bar celebrity guest "bartending" and trying to remember was that vodka and tea or tonic. Had a two hour talk with friends in Louisville as in KY Jelly and nearly, during convo, lost my right thumb to a circa 1940 fan, learned to love the dog and his gang of fleas while sipping Oban, and shot the proverbial shit. And so much much more happened this weekend which will only come out in spurts along this rock and roll highway called my perfect life.
Oh, I think I want to write a novel like every two-bit journalist this side of Paradise. Rented house, coast of Maine, jugs of Oban, sporadic visitors, sushi takeout. Wow. And maybe a novel would usher forth. Maybe not, maybe cirrhosis...or minor misdemeanors instead. Story for future: brushes with law in the state of Maine in states of bliss. All for now, love.