Well, it's nearly here, with the corresponding blue skies and gorgeous afternoons. So much of our personal 9/11 experience took place on these boards, I thought it fitting to start a topic here.
I just pulled out this old piece of writing from the New York Observer for someone who wants to republish it, and thought it might be a way to start.
For that issue, which came out at Christmas 2001 they asked 50 New Yorkers to write a short essay about the day before the attacks. And this was mine:
September 10, 2001
We awoke to glitter on our pillows and other less symbolic traces of the opening weekend of our new East Village nightclub, Daddy. Since the previous Thursday, the Baudelairean "sounds and perfumes" had swirled around my husband Johnny Dynell and me for three nights: the race to finish construction yielding to well-wishers, lines down the block and late-night diva cameos. With our coffee, we caught up on email bouquets, including Romy's: "Thank you, Daddy. Just standing on the sidewalk felt like real New York again."
In our work, even the prosaic tasks have some glamour attached, I mused, while carrying a wilted pile of evening dresses and costumes to the dry cleaners: the bias-cut satin gowns and tuxedos that are staples of High Season, the rhinestone-adorned "DADDY" t-shirt Johnny wore for opening night photos, the Gilbert and Sullivan bustles from our show at the Last Wigstock a week earlier.
"Lots of parties," the dry cleaner commented. "Tomorrow okay for these?" "Wednesday even," I answered. "Lots more parties then."
I remember the music - a favorite Jackie 60 theme tape that perfectly matched our mood, "Pooped Out Party Girls." As Courtney Love, Nico and Garbage deadpanned, we caught up on booking acts for the club, marveling over the available routines of Brooklyn's Pontani Sisters; Godfather Chair Dance, Punk Can-Can, Ganges A Go-Go. An electronic harpist of indeterminate gender had sent a CD with a note: "I would love to perform...Regardless, my Mistress and I shall see you at the opening of Daddy."
Yes, night school was in session in New York, and the fashion shows as well. There seemed no human way past the marathon demands of the next seven days, beginning with Marc Jacobs' show and party that night. I climbed into bed, surrounded by the last surviving flowers from opening night.
When I awoke, Johnny had returned and the night had gone. "I wish you had come," he whispered. "It was on the same pier as Wigstock, but Robert Isabell had covered the whole thing in beautiful grass, with hedges and thousands of gardenias. Marc looked great, and everybody you like was there."
"There'll be another one tomorrow," I said through a yawn. "I'll see everyone then."