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Oof! Not only are comments down, now all eighteen months worth of past comments have vanished. A walloping database hiccup of some kind is my best guess. I’ve got a help ticket in; cross your fingers.

Boo! The comments were my favorite part of blogging!

There are people coming to see Weasel Acres this afternoon. My agent convinced me to drop another 20% on the price, bringing it from “dear me, that’s unfortunate” all the way down to “holy shit! I’m being eaten a-live on this thing!” So I’ll be making myself scarce this afternoon. I don’t have access to personal email from work, so if you have a brilliant idea what’s wrong with sweasel.com, I’d like to hear it — but I won’t until early evening.

I keep trying to feel sorry for myself, but I can’t quite manage to do so on September 11. Noam sane?

Update: sounds like what I have is a messy/corrupted database, as suspected (thanks to admin at the GCPundit forums for soothing a jangled weasel). I’ll fix what I can fix, or alternatively break something new and more interesting, tonight.

UPDATE: Fixed! Thank you anonymous Blue Host guy!!
Weasel’s back in town — lock up yer runnybabbits!

September 11, 2008 — 10:00 am
Comments: 28

Stay mad

stay mad
September 11. This fucking day again.

My boss went to ground zero about a week later. Yeah, you wouldn’t think so, but the art department is among the second responders. Somebody has to take pictures of the damage and make PowerPoint presentations about where the bodies were found.

I kid, I kid. There were no bodies. The ‘morgue’ was a bunch of five-gallon buckets under a tarp. As workers filled them with gobbets of meat, they were taken away to the geneticists and new buckets were brought in.

The scene was heavily controlled. Access credentials were placards they wore around their necks, like backstage passes. My boss said the hardest thing was walking the blocks from the inhabited parts of the city to the cordoned area wearing his pass, knowing what he knew. Hundreds of people desperate for news mobbed him, pressing bubblejet prints into his hands. Graduations pictures. Wedding pictures. Smiling, blurry faces. Secretaries, janitors, junior managers.

Yeah, the fatcats aren’t in at eight in the morning. The dead were working doofuses like you and me. In fact, a bunch of our guys were in the building that morning for a meeting; a few didn’t make it out (nobody I knew; I’m not trying to horn in on that kind of celebrity).

He’s a stoical, Scandihoovian type, my boss. I was surprised a few months ago when he told me he still has nightmares. The smoke and the stink and the thick, pervasive, clinging dust of burned paperwork and vaporized modular cubicle furniture and office worker. There was paper, perfectly intact, everywhere. Like drifts of snow.

He brought back thousands of pictures (including some he wouldn’t let us see). I didn’t know about emergency worker graffiti. There was a symbol for “plane parts found here” and another for “body parts found here” and another for “unsafe inside” — warning marks and numbers left on all the buildings that had been searched (and they all had to be; bits were scattered far and wide) in colorful spraypaint.

That stupid fat cunt up there is a bzillion times more likely to die a ghastly terrorist martyr’s death than I am, and yet she celebrates this thing. That’s fucked up. That’s too fucked up to learn better. That’s fucked up beyond all fixing.

Why do they hate us? It’s what they do. It’s what they are. It’s all they have. They don’t have the adult temperament and the simple skills required to be office workers, so they kill and die and dip their hands in the blood and ululate in the streets. Savages.

They have to go, every last one of them that can’t learn better.

Stay mad. We aren’t finished.

— 8:09 am
Comments: 13