The New Yorker

There are a few things every red-blooded, elite, liberal, wannabe intellectual New Yorker dreams of including on their life's resume.  Among them has to be the inclusion, somehow, in The New Yorker.  This week I realized that dream by being in the right place at the right time, holding the right photographer's kid. And there you have it, image #8.  The fact is, I was sitting on a couch next to Joe Namath when the second tower fell.  He was in the studio I was working at, recording a voice-over for Ben Gay that morning.  I don't know where he went after that, but I packed up my things, grabbed the Godfather, met wifey (who was luckily working only blocks away) and walked the sixty some odd blocks home, past dust covered survivors, kids acting like it was a holiday and just about every other sort of New Yorker you could imagine who had taken to the street.  Which was just about everyone. For the next week, we watched the smoke and dust rise and carry over South Brooklyn.  A very fresh memory indeed.  This photo actually says a whole lot.