I’m not going to blog about 9-11. Remembering that morning still feels fresh, like so much grief does. On that day six years ago, my father, to whom I always turned for answers, had none.

That’s what I realized yesterday, the core of the ache, the magma of my grief. He’s no longer here to tell me what he thinks. I have to do it for myself. I was telling my therapist this, that I have my Top Ten of advisers, and have had my whole life (an ever-shifting list), but he was always the constant, and at the top. Interestingly, I don’t really have the rest of the list made out. I’m going to make it, though, to remind myself I’m not alone, and I found it interesting that with his departure, I elevated from somewhere lower to the top. I guess that’s all part & parcel with growing up, too.

I think about today’s date, and I think about how our country continues to change and the things that make me angry and the things I wish we could change, rapidly. Starting with responsibility. My husband’s school has had the police remove two parents, on two separate occasions, from the classroom & school this year. Because these parents aren’t really parents, in the responsibility sense of the word. Yes, their DNA fused with another person’s DNA, and they biologically produced a child, but they haven’t set their own baggage aside in any way to lead by example, to create a safe environment, to understand the need for boundaries and limits and – here it comes again – personal responsibility.

Years ago, I watched the coverage of Columbine in our office, and called James that afternoon, to find out how he felt, what he was thinking. We had just started dating, and I remember thinking that I was glad he taught in an elementary school, not high school. Less tortured teenager angst, just crazy kids. But he’s had kids with kill lists, kids who’ve threatened to bring an AK-47 to school, kids who’ve pretended to shoot at a teacher with a toy gun. And despite that recklessness at such a young age, we also talked about how he would still have the advantage of age & wisdom, and gun knowledge, and that the chance of this happening was still – well, small. But now we have unhinged parents, who don’t understand the difference between retaliation and self-defense, who place undue burdens on their children and abdicate their role as parent and moral compass. And those people make me nervous. Frightened, in fact. He’s not in the worst of the worst school districts, either. He still loves his job, and he makes a difference. I just wish for better security, and wish to be able to control it all from ten miles away.

All of this responsibility talk reminds me of something my dad used to say, back when I was a kid, and the IRA was setting off bombs and then calling the media to take responsibility for the bombing. We’d hear the announcer on NPR say something to the effect of “The IRA claims responsibility” and he would snort with anger. “Takes responsibility. Right.” And he proceeded to explain to me that they (all terrorists) were in no way taking responsibility. They were responsible for setting the bombs – and guilty of doing something horrendous. Taking responsibility means something different It means atoning and taking care of the survivors, the families and loved ones of the people they’d killed. Doing the right thing in the first place. I still hear the mental argument against the use of that word, in our new and changed world, where terrorism talks to us half a world away with glorification and delight, and where a different kind of terrorism takes place just a few miles away.

What a different, and better world we would have, if only responsibility were the mainstay of our societal fabric.

Well, we were supposed to see Ginuwine tonight, at – of all places – the Beaumont Club. Which is a little wacky, having an R&B concert and definitely a corresponding black audience all in a country-western club. We had been told our (comped) tickets were VIP and even such phrases as “Meet Ginuwine” accompanied the plans, so you know me & class C celebrities, I love ’em, and god only knows what’ll come out of my mouth, so off Kristin & I sailed, to meet up with Jimmi & hit the cluuub.

The first tip that things weren’t going as planned ocurred before we even got to the door. Someone semi-official (I assumed official based on the large plastic tickets hanging around his neck) was on the phone telling someone else that there was a mix-up and his DJ (presumably Mr. G’s DJ) wasn’t getting in until 11:20. Not good. It was only 9:00. So we gave it a go, went inside & got a drink, and seriously stood out like sore thumbs. It didn’t matter that we were fancy dressed, we had no entourage or any street cred and we knew it. If only I had worn a pair of sunglasses. (How do you see in a dark club, wearing sunglasses? Maybe you just don’t walk around so much.) Our rep wasn’t there (the one who’d gotten us the tickets) so we had no way to assimilate, and we finally settled on standing near the stage and watching the crowd. No question, there were some people there. to. party. Unfortunately, as a large banner was assembled before our eyes, we realized the opening act had even been delayed, presumably to extend the show until said DJ got there.

At what point do you say, “I’m good enough but I can’t roll without my DJ?” I understand you need your crew and your people but lordy. We split because there was no way we were staying until midnight, and we went to McCoy’s for some dessert. Numerous office peeps were there, celebrating a graphic designer’s birthday, so it was fun (albeit weird, since I never go out) to run into people we knew. When we walked back to our cars, past the club, one woman was leaving, chewing out someone about show times and how late it was going to be and how it was a lie and MMMMMMM child, she was NOT happy.

And if I’d paid $75 for a VIP ticket? I’d be pissed. Ginuwine better make me breakfast for my troubles, not showing up until that late. Fill up the gas tank. Unload the dishwasher. Screw posing for a picture with me, go get some groceries! Me? I’ll be in bed before midnight & Ginuwine probably hasn’t started singing yet. Now, Usher? I’d probably wait up for him.