Americans to Commemorate Sept. 11th by Bitching About Minor Inconveniences

ext Wednesday will mark the first anniversary of the Sept. 11^th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, a day of tragedy that made Americans pause from their normal lives and rally together in support of the victims. In addition to fears of new terrorist attacks on the anniversary, most Americans are uncertain how to commemorate the event. Already, however, most are expected to resume their habits of complaining about the smallest of problems.

"I hope they give us the day off at work," said Texas cell phone salesman Bob Whiterich. "It's like a national tragedy and crap. How are people supposed to work on a day like that? And if I knew I could take a couple of vacation days Monday and Tuesday and head to the beach with the family."

Most companies and government agencies have decided against imposing a holiday, feeling the anniversary would be spent better keeping businesses and services functioning as normal. Even plans for restricting air travel on Sept. 11^th have been declined, feeling the statement to the rest of the world, including Muslim extremists believed to have launched the attacks, is a stronger exclamation of solidarity and a country affected, yet not shaken in their resolve by terrorism.

Mark Turnskit, a 42-year-old UPS driver and volunteer fireman in Piermont, North Dakota, however, thinks that is bullshit.

"It's bullshit, man," said Turnskit. "We need a day to remember the importance of it all and stuff. I have a lot of friends back east, in Ohio. A cousin of one of them was married to a firefighter and I think he may have been in the World Trade Center disaster and stuff. I haven't talked to them in a long time—I don't write letters and all, you know, and I don't have their e-mail address or anything. The worst part is not knowing."

Added Turnskit, "I'm a firefighter, so I know what it's like. I could have been in that place just as easy as all the guys who were."

California telemarketer Steve Gerber has made no change in plans for Sept. 11^th. "What is that, a Wednesday? I don't imagine I'll have time to think about the loss of lives and how great it is to live in a country that is still the most secure and wealthiest on the planet. Maybe some time in the evening, after work, if there's something on the Discovery Channel talking about it or—aw, shit. West Wing is on that night, right?"

"I would take a minute or two to stop and think about life and death and all that," said Howett, Tennessee factory worker Milt Darling, "but the Dodge has been crapping out on me a lot, lately. I'll probably have to worry about getting a ride to work. Life's so fucking unfair, man."

Decatur, Georgia realtor Shari Cartier summed up the feelings of most Americans on the subject: "It will be a dark day. This has been the greatest tragedy in history of all time. Something like 6,000 people died—that's more than died in Vietnam, you know. But, c'mon, I got my own life to worry about. Those damn Peel St. properties aren't going to move themselves. And the kids can't take themselves to karate."

The most significant commemoration of the day, outside of New York and Washington, D.C., is likely to come from Perkins, Nebraska, where button collector and local crackpot Vernon Heston is planning on building a scale model of the World Trade Center towers out of Popsicle sticks. Although, according to Heston, if the price of Popsicles continues to skyrocket, the whole thing will be scrapped.

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I don't write this column to alarm people, but anyone planning on a sleepover at my new neighbor's place might do well to catch up on a little of this CNN breaking news: bring a titanium neck wrap and your Visa card, unlucky campers. I have it on very good authority from my dog that this dude is a vampire.

Granted, I haven't known the man long enough to make a definitive call on the whole vampire identification, but Foghat is rarely wrong in such matters. True, he did think the mailman was a body-snatched pod-clone copy of our old mailman for about six months last year, but that was only because the guy had started going to one of those fake-and-bake tanning salons that's half tanning beds and half a video store. And you don't have to be the exorcist to know that shit just don't look right.

Astute readers might pick up a little inherent Bricks bias in that statement, owing to the failure of my "Omar Bricks' Tan-o-Mat" a few years back, and that's true enough. I still think buying out an old Laundromat and replacing all the fluorescent ceiling lights with tanning bulbs was a great idea. Where else can you get a luxurious, Caribbean tan while getting something productive done at the same time? And who wants to waste hours sitting in one of those giant George Foreman grills wearing speed-swimming goggles like some kind of creepy-ass Matrix baby?

Not me, nor my investors. But it turned out in the end that I should have invested a little more into the science end of the whole dealio, since it turned out spending too much time under those tanning lights can bleach the pigment out of your skin fast enough to turn Bernie Mac into an albino. At least that's what happened to the dude I hired to run the place, I don't remember what color he was when he started there, but by the end he could do that disappearing Preadator shit in white rooms and snowstorms. Plus, somebody on the city council said something about the Tan-o-Mat causing low-level cancer in anyone who even walked by the sidewalk out front. So it's probably a good thing that the business wasn't very popular for the three weeks that it was open, and in the end our "bring your own water" policy was really a business-killing hidden blessing.

But none of this has anything to do with my new neighbor, who's about as tan as an Irish spelunking enthusiast. I haven't seen too much of him, to be sure, but he has been popping in lately as they've been putting the finishing touches on his new house, like the roof and an exterior wall to close in the room where I've been throwing all my garbage. It's a pretty nice house; I have to say, though it's a little cold at night since they still haven't got the furnace fixed from when I was using the water heater to ferment homebrew. But it's definitely a big improvement on Dale's old house, which had a security system and smelled like burnt oatmeal all the time.

Ever since I got the undead tip from Foghat I've been trying to confirm the dog's suspicions, which is a project in and of itself. I considered quitting my gig at the commune to dedicate more time to spying on my neighbor, but in the end I realized that vampire identification just doesn't pay like it used to. So I've had to rearrange my home schedule to allow time for scouting runs around the vampire house with the huge mirror I found in the Goodwill donation bin tied to the roof of my new Panamobile.

It's a pretty sweet set-up, actually, I've got my side-view mirror angled up at the mirror bungee-corded to the roof, which is pointed at the guy's house, so if he ever comes outside while I'm making a pass and the mirror doesn't snap off and kill the guy, I'll get a pretty convincing visual confirmation. That is, if the weight of the giant oak bureau that the mirror's a part of doesn't collapse the roof of my car first.

But like they say in birth control class, timing is everything. Bricks Out.

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Twisted gas needles! It's time! 'Tis the season when a Nedmiller's happier than a hamster cut up by a coat hanger! Next Yesteryear done come and came, and Ned had hisself the biggest Next Yesteryear ever, as can be vouched by the fresh gypsies of Good King Wencelas, no less.

All was well-fittin' with the tradition of Next Yesteryear as invented by Nedley's great grandfather and greater granddappa in the year seven days before 18 hundred and 66, the same year Wencelas choked himself to death on a camel toe. As in every year, Ned scaled the great tent pole in the backyard and planted the head of a dead fish to ward off the Next Yesteryear goblin and his self-dropping breeches. "Whew!" said Ned. No sense taking chances of free-danglin' goblin willies scaring off Ned's guests at this Yesteryear party, no sir!

Course if there is any guarantee to be had of a Yesteryear party for the ages, it comes from collecting all of your person's dead skin flakes and mixing them into a fine, grainy paste. No joking! A true Nedmiller would do nothing less for the best Next Yesteryear ever, and Ned did it up good. Big old books will tell you suntanning by the mighty oak tree in the backyard makes them skins nice an flaked, and Ned will be bit on the ass by a woodpecker if that's a printed falsehood. Also, you just know climbing inside the over helps a heap for making skin flakes crunchy and ready to be flaked!

Before three possums can say Yahtzee, them party is begun. Fresh off the trolley comes Ned's fat meaty cat, and Ned cooks 'em brilliant. None for you? More for Ned!

More treats for the guests is laid out by the handfuls. Cinnamon gravy richer than the king of Siam, bottle caps with moth eggs laid nice in, and a dead guy roasting on the lawn. And them's just for appeteasers! Such a time brings back mammaries of Ned's first Next Yesteryear back on the plantation, yessir. Brings a genuine wet tear to Ned's old eye. And pinkeye to Ned's nose, it should be noted.

But them foods and decorations is just the beginning to the Next Yesteryear celebration! No Yesteryear has come to town until the clock strikes home and it's for real the Hour of the Misbegotten. Masked dogs take Ned's guests hostages and Neddy Furtado hisself has to hide in the wall outlets, crawling about like ol' 'lectricity in all its glory, dispatching one canine after another until all them guests are back to safeness. Then you know them guests take one big-sized bath together while Nedmiller the New cavorts about in a Saran Wrap diaper as Baby Clamdipper. Only when Nedder's own shadow catches him and pops him back in a bottle of that Kentucky Bourbon is this Next Yesteryear officially kaputs.

Then them post-party depressionations set in, indeedy-Steve. Ned cries hisself into the fourth dimension and back one more time, saying Nedmiller backwards eleventy times to banish away them nasty spirits if needed. Should that falter, Ned either sacrifices a virgin or deflowers a town crier, or both at one moment in stereo, whichever them situation calls. Usually one of them and a yellow pie puts Ned back into high kippers for the brand new year, ready to plan out again the next Next Yesteryear shindig proper.

Ah, tradition.

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