In the late afternoon of 9/11, my brother and I ventured out from his apartment onto the deserted streets, to withdraw a chunk of cash from an ATM, in the event that we were about to enter a Mad Max-style futuristic dystopia. Anything seemed possible on that day, with the Pentagon under attack and an unknown number of passenger planes still unaccounted for. In one of the few moments of levity in the day – at least in retrospect – we carried tennis rackets with us to ward off looters. We strolled down the empty Upper West Side like Bizarro-world Williams sisters, alert and on the balls of our feet, ready for the apocalypse.
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NEW from New English Review:
- Does Olivia Chow’s proposed handgun ban include the piece owned by Warren Kinsella’s girlfriend — who volunteers for Chow?
- Has Warren Kinsella resigned from Sun News yet? Day One
- Cops: unionized bureaucrats — with guns
- Mark Steyn on one of the great recordings: Frank Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me To the Moon’
- ‘I don’t understand the SlutWalk’
- Tommy, last surviving Ramone, dies, aged 65 (or thereabouts)
- Journalists: Your moral and intellectual superiors!
- ‘For too long, conservatives have ceded the popular culture to the Left’
- ‘Last year, for the first time, a young girl, French, offered me her seat on a crowded bus’
- ‘Progressives’ live in the past