You couldn't help but be bombarded by the fact that yesterday was the 5th anniversary of 9/11. The aura, hushed reverent tones, and strident jingoistic ranting was inescapable. This particular political football had been kicked around by both sides for the weeks leading up to the anniversary and, frankly, I was just tired of it all.

I remember what happened. I was one of the early guys at work just like usual. I heard someone almost jokingly mention over the cubicle wall that a small plane had hit one of the Towers. I immediately thought that the pilot must have had a heart attack and that fate drove the plane squarely into the Tower. Curious, I tried to get on to CNN's website to see what they knew and found that the download was unusually slow. Soon enough though, I saw that it wasn't a small plane at all but a commercial plane... You know what happened next. There's little point in recounting it now.

I grieved in my own way. I admit to first simply being in shock. Why couldn't I get the information I needed fast enough? How many people were in those buildings when they were hit? How many lives were touched and by whom? How many more planes and what targets? Soon, I came to anger and openly wondered what I could do in face of the hopelessness of those first few days. Could I be of service in NYC? How would I do that? Could I afford to walk away from a job? Ultimately, much like the rest of America, I stood by and did little other than come to grips with my own emotions.

The days after the attacks are still a blur to me. I remember being glued to whatever news I could be near. Hearing the speculation that passed for news however, I wondered how we, as a country, would step forward and make something positive of this. Surely, there would be a war, but somehow this pacifist felt that this time we'd be justified. Still, we couldn't lash out rashly. We needed a deliberate plan...

I don't intend to diminish in any way what happened, but 9/11 saved the Bush presidency. Political observers had already begun to whisper that he'd be a one-termer just like his daddy. The economy was shaky and looking like it could get worse quickly. W had no agenda to speak of. He was floundering. Then, 9/11...

To me, the political manuevering, the lack of a meaningful plan, and the cowboy "diplomacy" that followed in those next months -- the slow squandering of the world's good will, the ill-advised war in Iraq, Abu Ghraib, the Plame incident, Guantanamo, spying on Americans, and the massive arrogance of this administration -- add up to be an insult to those that died on 9/11. The fact that the public so blindly followed a half-wit into this abyss conjures images of lemmings over the cliff. I can't help but think that much like Michael Moore, I want my country back.

By sheer coincidence I got free tickets to the Cardinal baseball game yesterday. Because I had avoided TV and radio all day, I had almost forgotten that it was 9/11. During the pre-game ceremonies though they paid tribute to the 9/11 victims. Maybe it was the surprise of it that disarmed me or maybe it was reawakening of my own outrage at what this administration has wrought, but I readily admit to nearly being overcome with emotion. Perhaps for the sake of those that are gone, I should not have tried so hard to hide those feelings. But this much I know-- I haven't forgotten 9/11 and I won't forget what W has done either.

Note: Phil Ochs was one of the early to middle 60s pre-eminent folk artists and adept at protest songs. He readily accepted the mantle of activist when Dylan pissed off folkies by not becoming the spokesman for the generation. Phil's in your face songs perhaps now appear dated, but were a vital part of the soundtrack of those early Viet Nam days.