Today, 9/11/10, I received FOUR emails/facebook messages from former classmates (you know, that improv class I’ve written about and threatened to post time and time again only to have other things on my mind take precedence?)
All four are involved in shows/standup/improv/sketch comedy tonight. All four wrote variations of “The real tragedy of 9/11 would be you missing this show.”
You know, there are tangential elements to this that are smirk inducing. By all means, make a “My Pet Goat” joke. Make a comment about laughter being the best medicine. Throw a “The terrorists win if we stay home” piece of hyperbole. I all for pointing out that our war on terror has gone awry, to put it mildly. In fact, I do nearly every day.
But telling me the real tragedy of 9/11 is that I won’t suffer through mediocre, hackneyed scenes and bits?
I remember the anguish of that day. If you don’t, I have a few documentaries to recommend. I have a few colleagues who had a hellish day nine years ago in New York. I certainly have a couple of gravesites you can visit. I have, etched in my creative memory, the taste of the cloud, the sounds of screams, the agony of deciding to burn to death or jump to death. The pain of making one last call to say “I love you.” The pain of never getting that call. The panic, the fear, the anger.
I also know that you have the absolute right to make these jokes. I have to believe they are out of ignorance and silliness.
I have the absolute right to save my 10 bucks.