tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60429826288275055612024-03-14T03:54:41.294-04:00The LG ReportLazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.comBlogger299125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-13720928034039890772019-09-11T09:01:00.004-04:002019-09-11T09:04:45.040-04:00<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial","tahoma","helvetica","freesans",sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; position: relative; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
September 11, 2001 - A Remembrance</h3>
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It's hard to believe that 18 years have passed since that horrific day in September of 2001. Eighteen years. In a way, it seems like it occurred a lifetime ago, but in another way, it feels like it was much more recent.</div>
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As many of you know, I was in my office in downtown Manhattan on the morning of September 11, 2001, about five blocks away from the World Trade Center. Shortly before the first anniversary, I sat at my computer and wrote 21 pages of stories about things that occurred on that day and in the year that followed. I had passed on all offers of grief counseling, preferring instead to cry by myself periodically, usually while in the shower. My stubbornness may have been a mistake at the time, but I'm the son of a native Greek father who only went to the doctor when he had an appendage to present for re-attachment. Actually, not even then. So writing about what I'd experienced was, I believe, my catharsis.</div>
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I had a feeling, as I was memorializing those stories, that one day they'd appear in a book. Seven years later, I published a volume on the professional lines insurance industry, and those stories comprised the bulk of the chapter on September 11th.</div>
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A large number of people employed in the commercial insurance industry perished on that day, including former colleagues of mine.</div>
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There are many memories that I didn't record in those 21 pages; maybe someday I'll reduce those to writing as well. It was a very surreal time in the lives of most Americans.</div>
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The first event which made me realize how screwed up things had become was when, on September 12th, I saw a Michigan State Police car cruising along Third Avenue in Gramercy Park, not far from where I live. Did New York City really need help from that far away? I'll also never forget emerging from my normal downtown subway stop on the way to work in the weeks after 9-11 and seeing the remaining shell of the World Trade Center Towers smoldering. The entire Ground Zero site emitted an odor of burnt wire and rubber. During the first couple of days, I had to show my business card to National Guard troops in order to be allowed into the area where my office was.</div>
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One of the more emotional moments, at a time when such were plentiful, engulfed me as I was on the phone with a woman at Hertz trying to rent a car. It was a couple of days after September 11th and I wanted to drive from Manhattan to my sister's house at the Jersey Shore. When the rental agent, who, I believe, was in Oklahoma, realized that I was calling from Manhattan and had been living through the event and its aftermath, she suddenly dropped her businesslike tone.</div>
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"<em>What's it like up there? Are you OK? Can we do anything else to help you</em>?"</div>
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Her genuine concern and kindness struck a chord deep within me. It was at that moment that I took a break from thinking about the craziness around me to realize that September 11th was not a New York catastrophe, or a Pennsylvania or Pentagon catastrophe, but truly a national catastrophe that affected every single American in a profound way. Those who were close to the events of that terrible day have no special ownership of its tragedy or an enhanced right to receive sympathy. All of our lives were changed immeasurably on September 11th. Some of us, I believe, have a duty to report what we experienced so that other Americans, current and future, may have a better idea of what transpired on that fateful day.</div>
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With that in mind, below is a brief excerpt from the September 11th chapter of my book. If you would like to read the entire chapter, please e-mail me at lg727@aol.com and I will send it to you, free of charge, in a Word document. Your e-mail address will be used for no other purpose (<strong>The LG Report</strong> does not send junk e-mails; we save all our junk for our postings.)</div>
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This will be one of the few times, if not the only one, when <strong>The LG Report</strong> does not attempt to provide a humorous posting.</div>
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[Excerpted from "<em>Claims Made and Reported: A Journey Through D&O, E&O and Other Professional Lines of Insurance</em>," Soho Publishing November 2008; All Rights Reserved ( <a href="http://www.sixthandspringbooks.com/product_info.php?cPath=2&products_id=362" style="color: #cc66cc; text-decoration: none;">Click Here For Book's Webpage</a>)</div>
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<strong><em>May your strength give us strength</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>May your faith give us faith</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>May your hope give us hope</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>May your love give us love</em></strong></div>
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– Bruce Springsteen “<em>Into the Fire</em>”</div>
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“Into the Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2002 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP.) Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.</div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: medium;">VIII. September 11, 2001 </span></strong></div>
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[<strong>Note: This chapter is a revision of a piece that I wrote just prior to the first anniversary of September 11, 2001, well before I knew that I would be writing this book. I attempted to memorialize many of the events that I had seen and heard about on September 11th and during the year following that unfathomable tragedy. Given that so many commercial insurance people died on that dreadful day, I thought it appropriate to include those writings in this book. One-quarter of this book’s net proceeds will be donated to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum</strong>.]</div>
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The morning of September 11, 2001 began like most other mornings for me at the time. I woke at 6:30 am and spent 32 minutes riding my exercise bicycle in my living room on East 18th Street in Manhattan while watching TV. I then showered and got ready for work at AIG’s downtown offices. Every morning, just before leaving my apartment, I’d rip a page off my horoscope-of-the-day calendar to see what the stars were predicting for me. This routine was attributable to my mother, who passed away in 1993. She used to put a horoscope-of-the-day calendar into my Christmas stocking every year starting in about 1980. After my mother died, my sister Maria continued the tradition. My guess is that I had read my daily horoscope almost every morning for 21 consecutive years.</div>
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That day, something very strange happened even before I left my apartment. I was about to rip off September 10th’s page to read the new day’s prediction when I said to myself, for no discernible reason, “<em>The world is different now, I’m not going to read horoscopes anymore, I don’t believe in them</em>.” With that thought, I unceremoniously threw the entire calendar into the garbage. This was the first time in 21 years that I knowingly refused to read my daily horoscope.</div>
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Outside on Third Avenue I flagged a cab and headed south to my office at AIG in the financial district, in keeping with my routine. I want to emphasize here that I don’t claim to have ESP or any special ability to see the future, but there was an unusual aspect to my commute. Riding down Third Avenue (which turns into Bowery Street in lower Manhattan), there was a point in Chinatown, called Chatham Square, where the Twin Towers would become visible from the cab after being obscured earlier by buildings. In my mind’s eye, I would regularly imagine the Towers exploding from a high floor just as I entered Chatham Square. I didn’t know what would cause an explosion and I certainly never thought that a plane would be responsible. Nonetheless, I was envisioning a large eruption of gray and black smoke. This vision was the only reason that I knew the name of Chatham Square (whose sign was rather obscured): I felt strongly that someday it would be an important detail and I took special note of it. Over the previous three years, whenever I’d arrive in Chatham Square to see the Towers unharmed I would literally breathe a sigh of relief. Even on September 11, 2001 I had that (false) sense of security upon seeing them intact.</div>
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My next significant memory of that morning occurred shortly before 9 am. My home phone service had inexplicably been malfunctioning for a few days and I finally got around to calling Verizon. I was dialing customer service when a colleague, Jason Brown, entered my office to tell me that he heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center Towers. I looked out my office window and saw dense clouds of paper fluttering high across the sky towards Brooklyn. It reminded me of the many ticker tape parades that I had seen along lower Broadway after a championship season or during a world dignitary’s visit. But I knew there was no parade that day. Something was wrong.</div>
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A bunch of us went downstairs to get a better look. Standing on the sidewalk in front of 175 Water Street with an ever-growing crowd of upward-looking gawkers (much like the throngs in a 1950s science fiction film watching descending UFOs on a city street), I remember thinking, or perhaps hoping, that helicopters with fire hoses would show up…of course, they didn’t.</div>
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Mesmerized, a colleague, John Feniello, shook his head and said, “<em>That fire is going to burn for days</em>.” Of course, he had no idea, nor did I, that the fire would burn not for mere days but for months – but not high in the sky, rather much lower, among the ruins of the Towers. But it seemed logical at the time; it was the only thing that we could believe.</div>
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When the second plane hit the South Tower, any doubts I had that this was a terrorist attack were immediately erased. We knew the country was under attack. Shrill screams could be heard and genuine panic started to set in, even though the worst was yet to come. Security guards announced that our building was closing for the day and told everyone to leave the area immediately. Much of the crowd started heading toward the ferries that were gathering at the foot of Wall Street. Others started walking uptown toward subways or buses that might, or might not, be in service. People also began walking across several bridges to escape the city.</div>
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It was a horror movie coming to life.</div>
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But I couldn’t leave, not at first anyway. I wanted to watch the firefighters battling the blazes. There’s no rational explanation, but I didn’t want to move until I knew that the situation was under control.</div>
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After a while of just staring up at the Towers, I heard a deep rumbling, like gigantic concrete bowling pins colliding. The noise didn’t last long, maybe five seconds at most. Before I knew what was happening, the South Tower slipped down out of my sight. It just disappeared…like a high-rise house of cards, its base kicked out from under it by an angry child. Moments later, the three-story building in front of us stood taller than the 110-story tower in the distance that had just been compressed back into its foundation. It was the sickest feeling, one that I don’t think I can quite explain. I saw it and I heard it and I felt it but I still can’t believe it. The Twin Towers seemed like the 100-year-old oak trees in your front yard: they couldn’t be moved or bent. If anything, they held up the sky. They anchored lower Manhattan and provided a sense of direction for every New Yorker who’d ever lost his bearings.</div>
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The collapse and disintegration of the South Tower seared my brain. I sincerely hope that I never see anything as stomach-churning again. People around me started screaming and crying. Everyone on the sidewalk knew someone who was in the Towers – a relative, a friend or a business acquaintance. Some people threw down briefcases and started running. I kept staring in shock. At that instant, I think everyone on the sidewalk knew that we had just witnessed the death of an unimaginable number of people. It occurred to me almost instantly that even the most battle-hardened soldiers never see so many people killed in a single instant. The aircrews who dropped the atomic bombs in World War II were not five blocks away at ground level when their payloads did their dirty work. And five blocks was relatively far in a sense; hundreds of firefighters, police officers, emergency medical technicians and other heroes were right on site. One firefighter later described the scene in this way: “<em>Everything was on fire, everything you saw was burning. It was what I imagine Hell to be like</em>.”</div>
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Quickly, certainly more quickly than I’d have imagined, a thick white cloud of smoke came rolling at us. It was a five-story-tall fog and it was moving fast. For a few seconds I froze. The bright September sky was being obscured. Then a guy not ten feet away from me breathlessly shouted “Run…ground smoke…it could kill us!”</div>
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I suddenly realized that there might have been deadly chemicals in the plane. There was no rational basis for this belief; but then again, nobody knew anything for sure at that point. The frenzy spread instantly: people dropped briefcases and bags and started running, screaming, just trying to get away from the smoke as quickly as possible. I remember thinking, “Those bastards, they might get me too, this could be how I die…” The fear of death was real and it was everywhere.</div>
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About two or three hundred of us ran straight toward the East River, only a block away, and then north past the South Street Seaport. I’ve since heard that some people actually jumped into the river to avoid the smoke but I didn’t see that. As we ran up the closed FDR Expressway the dense white fallout followed us. We formed a seemingly endless herd of stampeding business suits. Burning smells and the piercing screams of emergency vehicles joined to assault our senses. It was a war zone, although until that moment I don’t think that I had ever actually thought to imagine one. The word that describes it best and one which I’ve never truly experienced before: Bedlam.</div>
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I was alternately running and walking with four coworkers as we headed to my apartment about two miles away on 18th Street. A friend from San Francisco who was in town on business, in the lobby of the North Tower when the first plane hit, had – by some unbelievable stroke of good luck – noticed me amidst all the confusion and joined our group. When we were about halfway up the FDR, a guy who had been listening to a hand-held radio via earphone yelled out “The second tower just fell.” People gasped but we all just kept running. A few looked back.</div>
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When we got to my apartment, I wanted to tell the outside world the names of those who were safe. However, I still had a dead home phone and cell phone service was, at best, sporadic. Fortunately, my computer’s internet connection was working so I sat down and composed a message to everyone in my e-mail address book. To this day, many years later, I have not re-read that e-mail because I know that it will bring back many painful memories. But, I later learned, it was forwarded around the globe to those interested in first-hand accounts of the events in New York City on that dark day. My friend’s wife, who is an elementary school teacher, said that she used it in her classes as an example of a first-person account of September 11th. Here is that note:</div>
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<em>From: LG727@aol.com</em></div>
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<em>Sent: Tuesday, September 11, 2001 12:58 PM</em></div>
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<em>To: Larry.Goanos@aig.com</em></div>
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<em>Bcc: Everyone in my address book</em></div>
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<em>Subject: The Surreal Events of Today</em></div>
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<em>I am shaking like a leaf in a windstorm as I type this. I cannot believe the events of today, as I'm sure you can't. I was in my office at 8:50 this morning when a colleague came in and said </em></div>
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<em>that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center and papers were flying everywhere. I looked out the window of my office and saw a ticker-tape-parade type stream of papers flittering across the sky. After a few short minutes and various reports, some erroneous, a group of us descended in the elevator to the ground floor of our building, where we exited and looked to the left a bit where we saw Two World Trade Center, five blocks away, ablaze from the top third of the building. It was unreal. The black smoke and red flames framed against a clear blue sky. </em></div>
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<em>The crowd on the sidewalk grew exponentially until we were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, at least 300 people staring upwards. One of my colleagues had just been in the lobby of One World Trade when the plane hit. He said smoke immediately came shooting down the elevator shafts and filled the lobby as people exited in terror. Pandemonium. He ran back to our </em></div>
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<em>building, covered with soot, where he stood with us to watch in horror. We all stood around gaping at the flames, not aware of any possible danger to us. I sat and thought about how many people I know in those two towers who have no doubt perished. I'm aware of at least seven people from my subsidiary of AIG who were in one tower on a high floor. We do a lot of </em></div>
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<em>business with Aon, an insurance broker on the top three or four floors of Two World Trade Center. As I type this, emergency vehicles are swirling by on the street outside my apartment on 18th Street. The massive cloud where the WTC used to stand is visible out my living room window. </em></div>
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<em>As we watched the flames, after about twenty minutes, all of a sudden World Trade Center Tower One, which we could only see above the 40th floor or so ,collapsed before our eyes. It was the sickest, most surreal, most stomach-churning thing that I have ever seen in my life. My nerves became electrified, in a bad way, and I felt almost like I would collapse as well. Other people did. People started crying and getting hysterical, obviously because they knew people in WTC One and/or know any of the many, many police and firemen and rescue workers who were in and around the building trying to extinguish the fire and save lives. I just heard the mayor on the radio and he said he can't even get a rough estimate of how many firemen and police and EMTs died in the two WTC Tower collapses, he just said the number would be very large, staggering. </em></div>
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<em>This whole day is unfathomable. </em></div>
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<em>As I type this I continue to shake. I think about all the people who I know in those two towers and I can feel tears well up. There will be far too many funerals to attend. Many bodies, I'm sure, will never be identified. It is unbelievable. At least 50 to 100 people I know died today. Can you imagine that? Unless you're in a war, which I think we will be soon, that doesn't </em></div>
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<em>happen. Many of you too, if not all, are in a similar situation, maybe you know even more who passed. Hopefully many of our friends and acquaintances were away on business or vacation, or running late. Our lives are changed forever and I don't think I'm being dramatic in saying that. </em></div>
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<em>A few seconds after WTC One collapsed, a large, probably five-story high plume of white smoke erupted, far denser than any fog I'd seen living in San Francisco. All of a sudden, someone yelled "ground smoke, run, it can kill us!" and people began panicking, although, I must say it was a controlled panic if there can be such a thing. Hundreds of people began running, although not trampling each other, actually helping each other to some extent. Although one friend of mine asked a car service to give him a ride to Westchester (the car was empty but for the driver) and he said, "Sure, $2,000." I'll let that statement stand as its own condemnation of mankind, or at least one (hopefully small) segment of mankind. </em></div>
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<em>As we walked/ran up the East Side under the FDR, past the South Street Seaport, the white cloud of deep dust/soot/whatever, followed us intently. It was moving at a good pace and, I must say, I feared for my life briefly, either from dying of smoke inhalation or being trampled. I don't think I was </em></div>
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<em>alone in that feeling, it was very, very scary, and my words don't do it justice. We continued running and walking up the East Side, myself and four co-workers. All of a sudden I heard someone say "Larry Goanos!" I looked and it was Fran Higgins, a friend from San Francisco who's brother-in-law, John Doyle, works with me at AIG. He was scheduled to be in a meeting at Two WTC at 9 am and was running late, it took him an extra hour to get in from his sister's house in Westchester and he was in the lobby when the first plane hit. He ran outside and saw debris falling and three people actually jumping off high floors in order to kill themselves via the impact rather than await being burned by the intense flames. Reports are that many other people jumped as well. Fran didn't know where to go so I invited him to join me in the trek to my apartment about two miles north. He had two heavy bags but lumbered on. His father narrowly missed the bombing at WTC in 1992. Two bullets dodged by his family at the WTC. </em></div>
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<em>Cell phones weren't working. People were screaming out names. It was sick (to re-use a phrase again and again; it is, sadly, the most appropriate.) The FDR expressway was closed. People were running everywhere, keeping an eye on the large cloud following us. Some were ready to jump into the East River to escape the smoke if need be. As we got about six or eight blocks up the FDR someone who had an earphone of a radio in their ear reported that WTC 2 had just collapsed as well. The whole thing was the sickest, most twisted, surreal, screwed up thing that I had ever heard or imagined. </em></div>
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<em>Eventually we made our way to my friend Jim Riely's place on East 22nd Street. As fate would have it, my phone had gone out of service last night and I was going to call Verizon to fix it this morning. My cell was working only in spots because of the great strain on the system. At Jim's we found Jim, Dan O'Connell, Colleen Dempsey (Doreen, Jim's wife, works uptown and ,I'm sure, is safe) and Chris Doyle, Jim's partner. Because a lot of you know a lot of these people, here are the names of people who I know are safe beside those above (a lot of phones are down but my internet cable connection is working, at least for now): Dennis Gustafson, Rose Mosca, Peter Wessel, John Feniello, Sandy Nalewajk, Kirk Raslowsky and Jennifer Raslowsky and their young daughter Alexandra (who they were just about to drop off in day care at the WTC when the first plane hit; they made it our office in tears, clothes askew, Kirk had just thrown down his briefcase, grabbed his wife and daughter, and ran) John Iannotti, Ray DeCarlo, Greg Flood, Mike </em></div>
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<em>Mitrovic, Kris Moor, John Doyle, Susan Eagan, Gail Mazarolle, Dawn Paolino.</em></div>
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<em>If you know any of their families and don't know if they've been contacted, please call them if your phone works. </em></div>
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<em>Many more are safe, I'm sure, it was just hard to get a gauge with all the smoke and pandemonium. There are now six of us in my apartment watching CNN.</em></div>
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<em>I stopped and picked up more bottled water on the way here because people were saying there are rumors of chemical warfare and possible contamination in the water (probably not true but why take a chance.) Things seem to be calming down a bit now (I've been taking a break between typing to let others send e-mails) but I'm sure our lives will never be the same. The tranquility of life in America has been shattered, we have been dragged into the trenches with the rest of the world. Our soil is no longer sacred, protected ground. Anyway, the people who I've mentioned are all safe, as am I. God bless America and God bless us all.</em></div>
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My friend Dennis and I met twenty five years ago, when we were both in college. He came to live for a summer with the Campaniles, close family friends of ours who live down the block from my childhood home at the Jersey Shore. A Virginia native, Dennis was interning for the summer with Kidder, Peabody on Wall Street. He is now Father Dennis, a Catholic priest in the New York Archdiocese. One of Father Dennis’s good friends, Father George, was an auxiliary chaplain with the New York City Fire Department in September of 2001. He was summoned to the World Trade Center shortly after the first plane hit on the morning of September 11th. That day, I was told, marked the first time in the history of the New York City Fire Department that all 30 auxiliary chaplains were summoned to a single fire. They gathered at St. Peter’s Church on Barclay Street, about two blocks north of the burning towers.</div>
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Father George said that virtually every fire truck racing to the World Trade Center stopped at St. Peter’s so that the crews could confess their sins (the majority of NYC firefighters are Roman Catholic) before charging into the flaming buildings. The commanders admonished their subordinates to skip confession because of the magnitude and urgency of the situation, but the rank-and-file firefighters paid no heed. These men forced almost every truck to stop at the St. Peter’s on what would be the final fire call for most of them. Father George sensed that these brave men did not necessarily foresee the Twin Towers collapsing, but they knew that they would very likely lose their lives saving others and they wanted to square up with God first. So many firefighters stopped for this final holy sacrament – despite the unprecedented importance of their mission – that the priests had to absolve them of their sins en masse as they jumped off the trucks. There was no time for individual confessions. These courageous public servants knew that they were going to die, and yet they pressed onward to discharge their duties. In the face of the fiercest fires anyone had ever seen, they had no thoughts of their own safety, only of saving others. Ironically, St. Peter is believed to usher the deceased through the Gates of Heaven. Perhaps on September 11, 2001 his work began for 343 firefighters at a church bearing his name.</div>
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I have not seen the story above – every word of which I believe true – anywhere in the media. Despite that, I think it’s an important account to record. The same holds true for most of the other entries in this chapter, collected during that fateful day and in the year that limped along behind it. In most cases I have not changed the temporal references so that it’s clear these were the thoughts of someone writing just a year after September 11, 2001. Every New Yorker, and every American, has vivid recollections of personal experiences connected to those attacks on our nation. As we all know, it was not merely a New York tragedy or a Washington, DC tragedy or a Pennsylvania tragedy; it was an American tragedy which left no citizen untouched. This chapter is one New Yorker’s attempt at documenting some of the events of that horrific day and its aftermath in the following year.</div>
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<strong>The Call</strong></div>
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My friend John works at Marsh’s world headquarters in midtown at Sixth Avenue and 45th Street. On the morning of September 11th he and his colleagues heard the reports of a plane crash and looked out their midtown windows to see the flames and smoke consuming the WTC North Tower that housed additional Marsh offices. Frantic calls to coworkers in the World Trade Center went unanswered.</div>
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By early afternoon Marsh management decided to survey their World Trade Center employees’ families to determine who was accounted for and who wasn’t. They asked for volunteers to call employees’ homes to see if they had checked in with their families. John, wanting to help out in some way, volunteered. He was given a list of names and phone numbers. He called the first few numbers and got only answering machines. Then a woman finally answered at one residence. “Hi, this is John, I work for Marsh,” he began, “I’m calling to see if your husband has contacted you to say he’s OK.”</div>
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The woman who answered the phone began crying. “I thought you were him,” she said through her tears. She hadn’t yet heard from her husband. John gave the woman two Marsh hotline numbers. His stomach twisted into a knot as he hung up the phone. John dialed another couple of numbers but then turned in his list, unable to make any more calls.</div>
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<strong>Michael Cahill</strong></div>
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Mike was the one I knew the best out of the three Marsh FINPRO victims whose memorials I attended. When I worked at Marsh for two years in the mid-1990s I had called Mike often for his advice on fidelity insurance matters (about which I knew nothing and he was an expert.) When I returned to working for AIG, I dealt with Mike from the other side of the table. The universal opinion on Mike was that he was a great guy who was always willing to help out and had as much integrity as anyone in the business. He was the kind of guy who you knew would be an exemplary brother or teammate; Mike was always there for you when you needed him.</div>
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Mike’s memorial service was held at St. Aidan’s Church in East Williston, New York (Long Island) on a morning in early October of 2001. The place was already jammed 20 minutes before the start. In retrospect I recall a rainy and gloomy day but I’m not sure if my memory is accurate or simply clouded by the general nature of the proceedings. Like hundreds of others in the packed church, I filed in quietly and found a seat. What transpired over the next hour I won’t recount in detail, although I can tell you that the first three to speak at the ceremony (Mike’s parish priest, his brother and his boss at Marsh, Tom Vietor) all rose to the occasion and did an admirable job under staggeringly sad conditions. The last eulogist however, Mike’s wife Colleen, left to rear their two beautiful young children herself, took it to another level. She spoke with unparalleled eloquence, passion and composure.</div>
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I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand from where Colleen drew her strength (the inspiring memories of Mike, no doubt, had much to do with it), but I have never witnessed such a display of courage and composure in the face of a tragedy of this magnitude.</div>
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Her eulogy was funny, endearing and engaging. It was simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking. It captured the essence of Mike perfectly, at least as I knew him, which only magnified our sense of loss. She recounted, among other things, that the story of who-pursued-who in the relationship differed depending upon whose version you heard, Mike’s or Colleen’s. They had met as summer-share housemates in the Hamptons. According to Mike’s version, Colleen sat by the pool reading a paperback with eyeholes cut right through the book so that she could follow his every move.</div>
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Colleen’s eyes, amazingly, remained dry throughout the eulogy. Both her words and their deliverance were truly inspirational. The final piece to Colleen’s tribute was an REM song, one of Mike’s favorites. St. Aidan’s graciously allowed the family to play the recording over the church’s loudspeakers as the memorial concluded and people filed out even though, strictly speaking, it was against church policy. I don’t recall the title, but it was about a guy who, smitten with a woman, calls to ask her out but gets her answering machine. It mirrored in a way Mike’s own courting of Colleen. As the song played my eyes were drawn to the couple’s innocent children fidgeting in the front pew of the church. It was a sledgehammer of sadness and it found its mark in most of us. As Colleen walked up the center aisle to exit, the previously-muted sobs of the crowd began to rise in unison, unabated. All but those few souls who had already cried themselves out were in tears as the church emptied.</div>
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Again, for a copy of the entire chapter, please e-mail <a href="mailto:lg727@aol.com">lg727@aol.com</a></div>
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For information on the National September 11 Memorial & Museum, please go to <a href="https://www.911memorial.org/">https://www.911memorial.org/</a></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-22584700497891829702019-02-20T17:57:00.002-05:002019-02-20T17:57:48.374-05:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Four Perfecto Days in Barcelona </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ok, Ok, LG knows, nothing is perfect, even four days in Barcelona. But this is social media, where everything IS perfect. Everyone is beautiful, fashionable, young and scores 100% on all quizzes no matter what their porn name might be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So when LG, The Wife and two friends took a mini-vacation to Barcelona earlier this month, <u>it all was perfect</u>. And LG has the photos, and snarky captions, to prove it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What's a vacation without taking the obligatory out-the-airplane-window photo that screams to your fellow passengers, "This baby is going on social media!" Mission accomplished. Oh, and those are the Pyrenees, the mountain chain separating Spain from France. But you already knew that since you score 100% on all social media trivia quizzes. It's hard to believe how smart you are at such a seemingly (from your photos anyway) young age. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Barcelona beachfront was man-made (must be true, the tour guide told us...) in advance of the 1992 Summer Olympics. That small sand peninsula sticking out on the left was meant to symbolize Michael Jordan's tongue as he went up for a Dream Team dunk. Ok, that part is BS, but the first part is (supposedly) true. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You don't want to miss the main food market in Barcelona (St. Josep La Boqueria for those of you who can't read Spanish.) Actually, the co-official language of Catalonia, the region of Spain of which Barcelona is the capital, is Catalan [<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catalan_language">Click Here for More on Catalan</a>]. It's very similar to Spanish, but different enough to be annoying to those who only know high school Spanish. LG, of course, is fluent in Spanish and 32 other languages (see, e.g. his Facebook trivia quiz results). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The market contains a veritable orgy of foods, everything from fish and meats to fruits and desserts. In a nod to food porn, LG will take a break from commentary while you feast your hungry eyes on the chow depicted below: </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was much more, including restaurants and snack bars, both ringing the market and interspersed among the food stalls, but LG's 110 Instamatic camera ran out of film. For those of you with squeamish stomachs, don't look too closely at the squab (fancy name for pigeons), rabbits, chicken and other formerly-cute, 6th-grade-class-pet-type animals hanging from the racks above. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Barcelona's anti-smoking campaign includes large "no smoking" symbols floating on hot-air balloons throughout the region. Oh, wait, sorry, that's just a sticker on the bus window. This is a mundane photo of an unsightly industrial plant. Hey, they call can't be winners. It's a nice break from beautiful vacation scenery, no? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the Santa Maria de Montserrat Abbey, a monastery located on the mountain of Montserrat (translates as "serrated mountain"), about 30 kilometers (look it up if you want the mileage translation Einstein) west of Barcelona. It was founded in the 11th century (when Bernie Sanders was still in high school) and rebuilt in the 1600s (not wired for cable at the time.) There are about 70 Benedictine monks in residence in this mini-city with its own hotels, stores, restaurants and police department. More at: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Maria_de_Montserrat_Abbey">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Maria_de_Montserrat_Abbey</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A view through an arch at Montserrat. Legend has it that you shouldn't get into a disagreement with your traveling companion here or they'll become...wait for it.....your arch enemy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The inside of the main church at Montserrat. It's hard to discern from this photo, but in the lighted area above and to the right of the crucifix (in the center of the photo) tourists are in a hallway viewing a Black Madonna (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Madonna">Click Here for More Info)</a> which they visit to make requests for blessings, such as to appear on an internationally-prestigious blog like The LG Report. Miracle granted people! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another 30 minutes west of Montserrat, LG, The Wife and traveling companions (The LG Report didn't secure rights to reveal names or provide photos of said traveling companions) took a tour of a local winery. This is a long-distance view of the serrated mountains from a balcony at the winery. The small-batch wine is not available in the United States, so don't ask. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkLlOIBQEZBLJNwah9fFAQTPtXVAjkv-yET4QdYm5pKuDiAytqMk2uNSDIQaGBf6_wVd6vF-DHwQbOVUedfTVjWQmJKo44cT5moryF33zH1rnpFE_s1w539UCr0spPP7F3qZMTrgLXqieA/s1600/20190214_172150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkLlOIBQEZBLJNwah9fFAQTPtXVAjkv-yET4QdYm5pKuDiAytqMk2uNSDIQaGBf6_wVd6vF-DHwQbOVUedfTVjWQmJKo44cT5moryF33zH1rnpFE_s1w539UCr0spPP7F3qZMTrgLXqieA/s640/20190214_172150.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The French are widely-renowned for having the best culinary skillz in Europe, if not the world, but Spain can certainly hold its own with high-end establishments such as this! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioqWmc-43LF3krMW4fn_RXQsD2C9bdNjA2J9fTmw_pX7AUula4rTmqGcwV4CI_3ibipEhjnePDU3MEYXvWr_4T7Ej9MDYccQlz2CmEemFXjbhirFnRodb0tOyj0vyWLPJj4M_-t8EbkJa/s1600/20190214_200830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioqWmc-43LF3krMW4fn_RXQsD2C9bdNjA2J9fTmw_pX7AUula4rTmqGcwV4CI_3ibipEhjnePDU3MEYXvWr_4T7Ej9MDYccQlz2CmEemFXjbhirFnRodb0tOyj0vyWLPJj4M_-t8EbkJa/s640/20190214_200830.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For those who get tired of eating great food and lugging around a lot of extra cash, there's this restaurant, Alta Marea. It bills itself as having the "best views" of Barcelona. That's probably true, but the food was mediocre at best and the prices were Manhattan-On-Steroids. Not fine dining, but fine viewing. The LG Report suggests you stay away. Pro Tip: If you could bring a bucket of the Colonel and a six pack up here, it would be perfect! You can also partially offset the high cost of the food by stealing small items from the restaurant. Not that LG did this, of course... </span></div>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzzVhn3K5wGn2Q2T9C1LbTNSTYwrkv0Kbj-MNOJeFixIlfg01W9r5fl8jzPer8YEx8sufiE_BEA94Fpdfc2zUm4K6yO6buY_FcqApNY_iFPUhaNe-zfY1DAmJcg7Dw_FT_oqJw-ZtHJ0_/s1600/20190215_104115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzzVhn3K5wGn2Q2T9C1LbTNSTYwrkv0Kbj-MNOJeFixIlfg01W9r5fl8jzPer8YEx8sufiE_BEA94Fpdfc2zUm4K6yO6buY_FcqApNY_iFPUhaNe-zfY1DAmJcg7Dw_FT_oqJw-ZtHJ0_/s640/20190215_104115.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This, my friends, is Sagrada Familia, a humongous, unfinished basilica in Barcelona that is probably the city's #1 tourist attraction. It was mobbed on a weekday in mid-February, so one can only imagine the crowds during tourist season. Construction was begun in 1882 and is slated to be completed in 2026, the 100th anniversary of the death of the main architect, Antoni Gaudi. He was hit and killed by a self-driving Tesla while looking at his Palm Pilot. It's an architectural wonder. Most tourists will need to purchase tickets in advance. For an additional price, you can take an elevator up about 55 stories to the top of one of the towers. Here's another of the many differences between Europe and America: In the elevator on the way to the top of the tower (no BS), the elevator operator tells you -- for the first time (there are no warning signs) -- that you will have to walk down to the ground floor. And the spiral stairway is exceedingly narrow, not for the faint of heart. If someone stops along the way, everyone behind that person must stop, there's no room to pass someone. In the United States, you'd see six written warnings before you get in line for the elevator and you'd be forced to sign three waivers before walking down the 55 flights. Not in Spain though, surprise! For more info on Sagrada Familia, click <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sagrada_Fam%C3%ADlia">Here</a>. </span></div>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SCajb0fpmubVI7zqyx6pfcoRBgwIea-51YQFVtAJWre9aPEFwLi7w_yb5X9fzrm6kCDABVa5N8HLuwwykpZa0e_gZujR7vSfk762EGdtUSye0p7YRLNcZnM9ZhnZbHCWhfTnn4sJPSsW/s1600/20190215_115554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SCajb0fpmubVI7zqyx6pfcoRBgwIea-51YQFVtAJWre9aPEFwLi7w_yb5X9fzrm6kCDABVa5N8HLuwwykpZa0e_gZujR7vSfk762EGdtUSye0p7YRLNcZnM9ZhnZbHCWhfTnn4sJPSsW/s640/20190215_115554.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One of the towers with its ornate top. The building abounds with symbolism, none of which The LG Report cares to explain. You're welcome. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLe-J2v7e7bcw4RN9p9XriSpxxowJcnP7XTksXqTsCOlSrljVT7HeySK9obVaN9xsyyBfZSebkU69WzEZHy_YZxoWq5y8D18dzR8AFxQrEgKDHQ60__Jvq4YCijSlRkGEZZefzz1nQEnkA/s1600/20190215_115104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLe-J2v7e7bcw4RN9p9XriSpxxowJcnP7XTksXqTsCOlSrljVT7HeySK9obVaN9xsyyBfZSebkU69WzEZHy_YZxoWq5y8D18dzR8AFxQrEgKDHQ60__Jvq4YCijSlRkGEZZefzz1nQEnkA/s640/20190215_115104.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not sure why LG took this shot but here you have it. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBSfNH6rnnFwakSz7sApRLJTnn9Vv99E3XhwrScOoR6rH3X_MNZEzu06ZbGyGG1xqMF6YqGpuKA1T2aVln3DGdZgqlGkR2NQRYKst9iBqqlF3DJJmY5VV1z1eMhY9qqp3qg-iUt4aFd4t/s1600/20190215_110927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBSfNH6rnnFwakSz7sApRLJTnn9Vv99E3XhwrScOoR6rH3X_MNZEzu06ZbGyGG1xqMF6YqGpuKA1T2aVln3DGdZgqlGkR2NQRYKst9iBqqlF3DJJmY5VV1z1eMhY9qqp3qg-iUt4aFd4t/s640/20190215_110927.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Impressed? You should be. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qhEK7hd21tw4wqVsfagfQcnt_J8cKNrzwy30P596fSzgqektl39_T8gIdV4AbT1WrzTEckocm44PmL_V-9qYt5FGBOuJJvpuFpvaJ9UJpirdPvsQ7ve8BdzkVc9WQibMSR43yQ5X-L72/s1600/20190215_111239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qhEK7hd21tw4wqVsfagfQcnt_J8cKNrzwy30P596fSzgqektl39_T8gIdV4AbT1WrzTEckocm44PmL_V-9qYt5FGBOuJJvpuFpvaJ9UJpirdPvsQ7ve8BdzkVc9WQibMSR43yQ5X-L72/s640/20190215_111239.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The photo doesn't do it justice. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeb3S1WkNsNJNv6LgMSFpOnvFjTPBE7StkfMMhRpoTBd7gIuoXZAETQjDJf8nRu6UhqGzYSCyq0VkwnKmSRaY4TK3w_yOBXfcSGj3fdlWKWgWZvXfvhlKpuSQ7y9EEWmMHAAQ3NZzQegO/s1600/20190215_123105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeb3S1WkNsNJNv6LgMSFpOnvFjTPBE7StkfMMhRpoTBd7gIuoXZAETQjDJf8nRu6UhqGzYSCyq0VkwnKmSRaY4TK3w_yOBXfcSGj3fdlWKWgWZvXfvhlKpuSQ7y9EEWmMHAAQ3NZzQegO/s640/20190215_123105.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The beachfront in Barcelona stretches for miles and boasts a wide variety of restaurants, hotels, stores, marinas and more. Plus some graffiti. The Spanish built this wall to keep immigrants from swimming ashore and accessing the city (just in case Donald Trump is reading this.) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuGPx0Wg2VMp-S1IdnQ-76wzMlJWpJIa6oxgrf2Uq8Ce-JR_8XIf7Jb3TSQYekF9G8Xd6d41LVF28aDwYZPOSMM36Ji2ZYBngeuP4WGSgBjFx22SVrbO0GyWYqLor_krlChX2_3ZiUWj0o/s1600/20190215_150510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuGPx0Wg2VMp-S1IdnQ-76wzMlJWpJIa6oxgrf2Uq8Ce-JR_8XIf7Jb3TSQYekF9G8Xd6d41LVF28aDwYZPOSMM36Ji2ZYBngeuP4WGSgBjFx22SVrbO0GyWYqLor_krlChX2_3ZiUWj0o/s640/20190215_150510.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A W Hotel is on the Barcelona beachfront. The building resembles a ship's sail, LG assumes that's intentional. If not, it's quite a coincidence. For those of you who don't speak Spanish, "W" translates into English as "W." A while back there was a massive earthquake and this was the "M" Hotel temporarily. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZr21Gp6y5eM4U4hlNt2eSR4DUOlyb7g-glOkczBYqMW4TILO06PykMR98zDe5FuuGMGWz-uMMBOTLMGGxqZFeunoFAz69x1wN6aLgjoTuGDYnrmbx9ndRBAuVrstxEN9FMFLtEat49hFI/s1600/20190215_150740.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZr21Gp6y5eM4U4hlNt2eSR4DUOlyb7g-glOkczBYqMW4TILO06PykMR98zDe5FuuGMGWz-uMMBOTLMGGxqZFeunoFAz69x1wN6aLgjoTuGDYnrmbx9ndRBAuVrstxEN9FMFLtEat49hFI/s640/20190215_150740.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some ne'er do-wells strolling the beach midday and midweek. Probably plotting to pickpocket some tourists (speaking of which, pickpocketing is a common crime in European cities, beware American tourists!) The two males on the right of the photo are merely shadows of their former selves. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaw8i2GesfiEQNnOf757IBHGFGMrNLP9h8z96hbPXErZ_MxhmJa81Wj_yOzbBGLNzrm5mFe1CqLGOhyphenhyphenJJ8JjDueR7kqOapdKp5BP6aIGQgslzBQ5cchuGYLx_52js2TKTiL-ZgYNnhcQ5m/s1600/20190216_150558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaw8i2GesfiEQNnOf757IBHGFGMrNLP9h8z96hbPXErZ_MxhmJa81Wj_yOzbBGLNzrm5mFe1CqLGOhyphenhyphenJJ8JjDueR7kqOapdKp5BP6aIGQgslzBQ5cchuGYLx_52js2TKTiL-ZgYNnhcQ5m/s640/20190216_150558.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Wife procured one of these yoga rugs, displayed on the beach by enterprising businessmen, for 12 Euros. We saw same exact rugs later in a store in the Barcelona shopping district for 5 Euros. But that was of no concern to The Wife since LG paid the 12 Euros, not her! Pro Tip: Get someone else to pay and all souvenirs are reasonably priced. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTxlUABMGS2x70Uhy-WlQYjlg-HcELXoe489F_I4jp608ondN-j28h2gsEEgZug7vubPwcelMUL-2ouXFdUjDD5vQ8ABWjVpvlITMOgZnypi8l6r9kmqm5Sl67VR1s-Jy1OSCGNuIUE3H/s1600/20190216_152947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTxlUABMGS2x70Uhy-WlQYjlg-HcELXoe489F_I4jp608ondN-j28h2gsEEgZug7vubPwcelMUL-2ouXFdUjDD5vQ8ABWjVpvlITMOgZnypi8l6r9kmqm5Sl67VR1s-Jy1OSCGNuIUE3H/s640/20190216_152947.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG rented a sailboat and, while representing the New York Yacht Club, won the 2019 Barcelona Sailing Cup in 2:04:28. Ok, not really, LG took this picture from the beachfront and had to come up with an interesting caption. If you believed that first sentence, please slap yourself in the head while holding a heavy metal object. Thank you. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YZUK5LOXozp3Ln8nD7W1h6Ro2IUkpAj4nSYGxJfzfN1CJDR1W44R5eQBELhtd419jYw8FUpGC59kVkiIEIFdJlY3GYrI0ddBe0d3VU-kzFXZwvob86rBJbKOes3mlsF03-X-7BT7E_CE/s1600/20190216_153005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YZUK5LOXozp3Ln8nD7W1h6Ro2IUkpAj4nSYGxJfzfN1CJDR1W44R5eQBELhtd419jYw8FUpGC59kVkiIEIFdJlY3GYrI0ddBe0d3VU-kzFXZwvob86rBJbKOes3mlsF03-X-7BT7E_CE/s640/20190216_153005.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another view of the beachfront. But you knew that. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWttmIBkOBqM_UiB2mfRTsAsqc98JmrNTEBGdSpD-INNooXN2xzMbzHYvAgRet2_KjzxB52T5b7J0ZbSQVF02kbrcDt_yFPK8JEYqnpeFKNiG-U6REXEGCD8g5x7BOf8N_3iMuI9T3VhXP/s1600/20190216_121413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWttmIBkOBqM_UiB2mfRTsAsqc98JmrNTEBGdSpD-INNooXN2xzMbzHYvAgRet2_KjzxB52T5b7J0ZbSQVF02kbrcDt_yFPK8JEYqnpeFKNiG-U6REXEGCD8g5x7BOf8N_3iMuI9T3VhXP/s640/20190216_121413.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a building in Park Guell, the most famous park in Barcelona. It's built on the side of a small mountain. Comfortable walking shoes and a CPR kit are recommended. "Park Guell" translates into "grueling park that will make you sweat even in February." </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzWdTpD43G6mT1dC9EcavI7cWgtdBK3w78wM4pO42nCHZ5XMQZPovMnjRWxwJJdpCmp88WHNv8TXHdJIoVe8jgLKjCwOy-a9raMh6ebv5hIIX4g_JAJ5muUqtuXnb-p_FhXDkBj9uycUZ/s1600/20190216_121430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzWdTpD43G6mT1dC9EcavI7cWgtdBK3w78wM4pO42nCHZ5XMQZPovMnjRWxwJJdpCmp88WHNv8TXHdJIoVe8jgLKjCwOy-a9raMh6ebv5hIIX4g_JAJ5muUqtuXnb-p_FhXDkBj9uycUZ/s640/20190216_121430.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ditto. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xEYqz4CCSIReOQo0UaYmc0p8g_g89hmpeF8kcq3DuqKwzN6_W44waYrwUKV6gGwofN8JFr-ndVFGsFevVm8nlw-xLOQM2OHLP5JttbxwE1josfGvJgvdZURvBEBA_Odmm-FLlnU8vdJZ/s1600/20190216_181500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xEYqz4CCSIReOQo0UaYmc0p8g_g89hmpeF8kcq3DuqKwzN6_W44waYrwUKV6gGwofN8JFr-ndVFGsFevVm8nlw-xLOQM2OHLP5JttbxwE1josfGvJgvdZURvBEBA_Odmm-FLlnU8vdJZ/s640/20190216_181500.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A shot of Sagrada Familia from a distance. Another difference between Europe and America: Construction continues, with cranes lifting heavy loads, as tourists scurry around below. A personal injury lawyer's idea of Heaven! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7e7GCPUZkUoaRVsm658cabG5wpu9D8-dQn_Qex_eV2HZ_X-EPgTG1JGQvG5YFcIGYPGhVrSlnVjgedEAE3DysJaBEs4m2PiAiSa8dVxS_iDmgkHN362yw8WFIq2lGAJ7gY9xfyAUDIt9-/s1600/20190216_210827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7e7GCPUZkUoaRVsm658cabG5wpu9D8-dQn_Qex_eV2HZ_X-EPgTG1JGQvG5YFcIGYPGhVrSlnVjgedEAE3DysJaBEs4m2PiAiSa8dVxS_iDmgkHN362yw8WFIq2lGAJ7gY9xfyAUDIt9-/s640/20190216_210827.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG's friends had the presence of mind to purchase, in advance, tickets to an FC Barcelona soccer game. It was an amazing experience. The stadium, Camp Nou, seats just under 99,000 people and it appeared to be sold out for a run-of-the-mill game against a much lesser opponent, Valladolid. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hctkldHNDfO8ocIsAa_6dAKQFkBNhAIUeBcao9KPXj36RuQSkmLOH5_0DH_x9-ubSQQIFnhEZXd0TxM1DhJWDWCm-5PEyZEzrlS83M1hq19q_aCVoiTgCS7WXGvzBaq81AHX70qWeMwp/s1600/20190216_212940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4hctkldHNDfO8ocIsAa_6dAKQFkBNhAIUeBcao9KPXj36RuQSkmLOH5_0DH_x9-ubSQQIFnhEZXd0TxM1DhJWDWCm-5PEyZEzrlS83M1hq19q_aCVoiTgCS7WXGvzBaq81AHX70qWeMwp/s640/20190216_212940.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG captured a photo of the only goal of the game (yes, honestly), scored by none other than Lionel Messi, FC Barcelona's international star from Argentina. Messi is considered to be to soccer what LG is to blogging, i.e. one of the best ever (proof can be found by clicking <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6042982628827505561#editor/target=post;postID=2258470049789182970">Here</a>). </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SqLxfu2bMrQHnpsHT6iaMLMjAqJ1HCrqcpJnbGfhh-M41f0s8GuaWeriK7jsVo_oCQfFzxaRQgvgjq2-PbXAo0BuxPlW4f1Y_MObBoIQkossq960bsGFnqId3VeFkFOnNgN-8cKbxJts/s1600/20190216_211056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SqLxfu2bMrQHnpsHT6iaMLMjAqJ1HCrqcpJnbGfhh-M41f0s8GuaWeriK7jsVo_oCQfFzxaRQgvgjq2-PbXAo0BuxPlW4f1Y_MObBoIQkossq960bsGFnqId3VeFkFOnNgN-8cKbxJts/s640/20190216_211056.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a picture of a particularly rowdy fan section behind the FC Barcelona goal. Surprisingly (although sensibly), no alcohol is sold at the games, yet fans sing loudly and wave flags and banners non-stop throughout the game. Something tells LG that most fans pre-game, as they say. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbtXYAYRLamOBqial7HhDJ9U6JIdsVAezjYJgCZpsaGivl4frsJkbMjK0LnmikSzmV3b6ilELnYmYJxV_K-43q0LPd8fcfIBXKWSQDv1O6VDj2cCm-MQ_XGz981ecsCkjZhiv55xohBqU/s1600/20190217_125934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbtXYAYRLamOBqial7HhDJ9U6JIdsVAezjYJgCZpsaGivl4frsJkbMjK0LnmikSzmV3b6ilELnYmYJxV_K-43q0LPd8fcfIBXKWSQDv1O6VDj2cCm-MQ_XGz981ecsCkjZhiv55xohBqU/s640/20190217_125934.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Seen in one of Barcelona's shopping districts. Looks like Melania's handwriting. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_S6Z5UcdxKgUjmt-H6e7bm6ccq0CV9zURMs1QgqifxBXUjTCagXjJeyM7eqrgCDOErhHRx7zHY3JDHuy7uSGMHUgO0sf7gocWZyU7HUwZh8wi3YEnLKu8CrJdc6mtrMdPL_Aa_B3HqMA/s1600/20190217_144151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1508" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_S6Z5UcdxKgUjmt-H6e7bm6ccq0CV9zURMs1QgqifxBXUjTCagXjJeyM7eqrgCDOErhHRx7zHY3JDHuy7uSGMHUgO0sf7gocWZyU7HUwZh8wi3YEnLKu8CrJdc6mtrMdPL_Aa_B3HqMA/s640/20190217_144151.jpg" width="602" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Certain business names in Spain would not translate well in America. Although maybe two former U.S. presidents would disagree. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVE5w-UdYVByJ3-D-wRfbjtjB32f9CX0EOUWC5bEBRd5CSYNRFf_X2KunbDPCwZFS-EH4dLVvdKAHJAGMsmQe0ttwosSqBcwSSTyaNSsSE2bXkVm5YN9AAn21bTcoQcXAfztczzDclOXv/s1600/Naked+Guy+Censored.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVE5w-UdYVByJ3-D-wRfbjtjB32f9CX0EOUWC5bEBRd5CSYNRFf_X2KunbDPCwZFS-EH4dLVvdKAHJAGMsmQe0ttwosSqBcwSSTyaNSsSE2bXkVm5YN9AAn21bTcoQcXAfztczzDclOXv/s640/Naked+Guy+Censored.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On a 50-degree day in February, two naked men were speaking on their cell phones on the beach. LG attempted to restore order by yelling out, "Hey, buddy, this isn't a JUNK yard!" but to no avail. Our thanks to LG Report intern Anne S. for blocking out the Sagrada Familia Jewels with her Photoshopping skillz. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDTnmTE2gqcrJH1Ag1Na2PKq4o_SGW_c2ejgkc0VpLE6VWanIhlmIb3byNW_V7enupyXEX8LLGN-BVmRkhhqc3peMsvc9qcyvm8JslCdzusVwNfZFApNQndrmSKNzbMqXsv1DOHt-34qk/s1600/20190217_183902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1600" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDTnmTE2gqcrJH1Ag1Na2PKq4o_SGW_c2ejgkc0VpLE6VWanIhlmIb3byNW_V7enupyXEX8LLGN-BVmRkhhqc3peMsvc9qcyvm8JslCdzusVwNfZFApNQndrmSKNzbMqXsv1DOHt-34qk/s640/20190217_183902.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A final photo as the sun sets over Catalonia and this LG Report blog post comes to a close. We hope you enjoyed this brief overview of Barcelona, a wonderful city with a lot to offer!* </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*And no, we won't send you the unedited photo of the guy on the beach. </span></div>
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-60923904732048134642018-10-23T20:52:00.001-04:002018-10-23T20:52:51.745-04:00Just the Fax - Halifax, Nova Scotia That Is... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">LG and The Wife went to Halifax, Nova Scotia on Canada's eastern coast for a long weekend recently, eh? We chose mid-October because it's an ideal time to go if you like avoiding crowds of tourists and high prices, eh? We also avoided warm weather and many restaurants and attractions which close down in September, eh. You can't have it both ways hoseheads! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, here's a photographic of LG's Halifax holiday (play your own soundtrack of Canadian musician/singers Neil Young, Bryan Adams, Justin Bieber, Drake, Celine Dion, Anne Murray, Rush or Gordon Lightfoot, et al. in the background as you look at the pictures. Eh?) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Tw_FWDkRwmvu-Kqtn8IGsVMspsvVT2CktNz4mef103fvnJXGWcDirMhPf4K6cNVH7ELDdBohF2i5Pf_O7kdD-XBsyPbK5TlzjPFDym-S145NNNuy___B2IRTSDS2n7fMFtlYLCZ6XnpG/s1600/20181019_122851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Tw_FWDkRwmvu-Kqtn8IGsVMspsvVT2CktNz4mef103fvnJXGWcDirMhPf4K6cNVH7ELDdBohF2i5Pf_O7kdD-XBsyPbK5TlzjPFDym-S145NNNuy___B2IRTSDS2n7fMFtlYLCZ6XnpG/s640/20181019_122851.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the lighthouse in Peggy's Cove, a town of 35 year-round residents about a 40-minute drive from Halifax on winding country roads. The town is very picturesque and chocked full of souvenir and arts/craft shops, eh? Is my repeated use of the Canadian "eh?" annoying you yet, eh? </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFHhp6D-Ono8i0N8Bd1lPf1tfZulMrFXfVQZtY-abd5jM-swn16-xZP-sRlG6kg65gGY4Vm8AMAlBorHbg34cOKbcclqwIii-JtIVXzmXGK8AsnD75ruvZnOe91GeP85b-ng37NlMDW5b/s1600/20181019_130544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1583" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFHhp6D-Ono8i0N8Bd1lPf1tfZulMrFXfVQZtY-abd5jM-swn16-xZP-sRlG6kg65gGY4Vm8AMAlBorHbg34cOKbcclqwIii-JtIVXzmXGK8AsnD75ruvZnOe91GeP85b-ng37NlMDW5b/s640/20181019_130544.jpg" width="632" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is a church in Peggy's Cove. It can hold up to 200 collection-plate contributing tourists. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJU1IS70QZQyngcjqOV_lByXwSZSD7_egF-KOSU2TmsCF2OX4Fn5HBa6g0FuSgInIsIIj2vk-XsiF289Mjs44I-dOm5UeCXIqcPazImneN8QeYclS5dZl-yMWWNC6tNYIqYYeSPWxhqI3O/s1600/20181019_131555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJU1IS70QZQyngcjqOV_lByXwSZSD7_egF-KOSU2TmsCF2OX4Fn5HBa6g0FuSgInIsIIj2vk-XsiF289Mjs44I-dOm5UeCXIqcPazImneN8QeYclS5dZl-yMWWNC6tNYIqYYeSPWxhqI3O/s640/20181019_131555.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a memorial to the people on SwissAir Flight #111 who died when their plane went down off the coast of Nova Scotia in 1998. It's about a mile from Peggy's Cove. A major part of the recovery operations after the flight went down were run out of Halifax. There were no survivors. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1wdOtwlFGjvKypMiZjV_-oRu6QmnJ9GY3bQ3fe-wbpvcpmDTAte9ax8qAtWdQg5V-9hqSG2E4YWyPn4SZAkS2UZUziaJXxnGPrB7irmfaS2pSx3fdat3ndWaQAIqGa8WHLWpThExnJeZ/s1600/20181019_154609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1wdOtwlFGjvKypMiZjV_-oRu6QmnJ9GY3bQ3fe-wbpvcpmDTAte9ax8qAtWdQg5V-9hqSG2E4YWyPn4SZAkS2UZUziaJXxnGPrB7irmfaS2pSx3fdat3ndWaQAIqGa8WHLWpThExnJeZ/s640/20181019_154609.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is the town of Lunenberg, about an hour's drive from Hailfax. Quaint and charming little burg with the usual line-up of tourist traps and faux artsy fartsy venues. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQz2yeg7XsybQhnaUod5Up8hdjz7Ho9wTW0lG-1QEjVfJq17_shVu15qvs_PtnPtxZci6c_wWtwVrf-LNzmne6JQFWb_29HjSQ0BTp3p3pIoW5dp6_Oy58QH_q5zNLqcbRpejAjFGMcL2/s1600/20181019_155151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQz2yeg7XsybQhnaUod5Up8hdjz7Ho9wTW0lG-1QEjVfJq17_shVu15qvs_PtnPtxZci6c_wWtwVrf-LNzmne6JQFWb_29HjSQ0BTp3p3pIoW5dp6_Oy58QH_q5zNLqcbRpejAjFGMcL2/s640/20181019_155151.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of "fartsy," every cultured individual knows what a "Dutch oven" is [in case you don't: It's when you pull the covers over a bed mates head and let loose with flatulence.] Who knew that you could actually cook in that hot space? Another life hack! This gives a new meaning to the phrase "rump roast." </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDTlLg_1bgRnjAppNmwdCd2xHxkTsnqPOZd3si_weceTU0nZD9vANCb7iIZiBHeSk0O65Ch2DO6wOpnQp4reQOBCxxbR_wc8MFSoCxJGO_ebroAAKznJMxgVaktqWsWsD8lX5Dz2_o6W_/s1600/20181019_162835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDTlLg_1bgRnjAppNmwdCd2xHxkTsnqPOZd3si_weceTU0nZD9vANCb7iIZiBHeSk0O65Ch2DO6wOpnQp4reQOBCxxbR_wc8MFSoCxJGO_ebroAAKznJMxgVaktqWsWsD8lX5Dz2_o6W_/s640/20181019_162835.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another photo of Lunenberg, eh? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-_I6_6_UYF3hwH1yIDrONF_dg4_WI__6S9SLP2xWLqyR1zrAQyDENRmbpdZmSRibUXEQyyRH1wfu_ollNiF1YYVeyFFprhYvj2jsZ54ktIUxtIfVTtlXPmXkpGVQw80elX3LtQSAJBZM/s1600/20181019_164049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-_I6_6_UYF3hwH1yIDrONF_dg4_WI__6S9SLP2xWLqyR1zrAQyDENRmbpdZmSRibUXEQyyRH1wfu_ollNiF1YYVeyFFprhYvj2jsZ54ktIUxtIfVTtlXPmXkpGVQw80elX3LtQSAJBZM/s640/20181019_164049.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nova Scotia, being just north of Maine, is home to a lot of delicious seafood, including the fabled flying lobster fish. This one is just about to swoop in on some Japanese tourists to steal their cameras. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzZ2AFBIkoi4wl51eNMaCYSImVJxOkEBdRTGtyKvAI_i1homdj5VBi8FO9hU0dfxHcKZw8-0xGAb54iN4ASQX65WzjTBRi0-Jc3LrFmGqwcTZdANCdZ5_niN3b1T5gecVz1HGb3itkcmw/s1600/20181019_195310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzZ2AFBIkoi4wl51eNMaCYSImVJxOkEBdRTGtyKvAI_i1homdj5VBi8FO9hU0dfxHcKZw8-0xGAb54iN4ASQX65WzjTBRi0-Jc3LrFmGqwcTZdANCdZ5_niN3b1T5gecVz1HGb3itkcmw/s640/20181019_195310.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Canada is relatively advanced technologically, but still behind the times at the pump, where locals still buy their gas for their Model T's from Esso. Hey, without a full tank how are you going to drive to the Blockbuster Video store? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BZgDDvuz1_6bFOvSVRqaMwKQgNwsTORNoIIzb2GpNwW-fWEEWPVGcfmsovhtWCZ3P6B-sNoR_9_ppvj8l41OymndhCj4QhTIz3erQbWAbEpDAVVus4WdwIJ7Y56s09eMF5qTCkp_tRZ-/s1600/20181020_144330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BZgDDvuz1_6bFOvSVRqaMwKQgNwsTORNoIIzb2GpNwW-fWEEWPVGcfmsovhtWCZ3P6B-sNoR_9_ppvj8l41OymndhCj4QhTIz3erQbWAbEpDAVVus4WdwIJ7Y56s09eMF5qTCkp_tRZ-/s640/20181020_144330.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is Merlin, the resident macaw at the Maritime Museum in Halifax. Macaws can live to be 90 years old when Colonel Sanders isn't around. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKBeI8iY8NqRv7I_i0jjxCTtnWhKuqNYJurYzZER4LkaqPG9YvffyDbUxufnG8sgj6e92XF2fjvIKHJQ652ajT7L-lTbF2RlJoOqX-kxbZdlDALlxuRAwXB_-NKoNrZ9o7CFIvndEvPxT/s1600/20181020_152707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKBeI8iY8NqRv7I_i0jjxCTtnWhKuqNYJurYzZER4LkaqPG9YvffyDbUxufnG8sgj6e92XF2fjvIKHJQ652ajT7L-lTbF2RlJoOqX-kxbZdlDALlxuRAwXB_-NKoNrZ9o7CFIvndEvPxT/s640/20181020_152707.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Many of the 700 or so survivors of the Titanic's 1912 sinking were brought to Halifax, as were the dead bodies and some of the wreckage. This is one of the few remaining deck chairs from the Titanic. LG tried to rearrange it in accordance with that old saying about trying to repair failing enterprises ("It's like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic") but the museum's security would have none of it. Not pictured: Celine Dion. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLKUHUBzT4QtpFALElCkEnbzzVD8lGj5E1mccKOlVrVxG7xMHhOpLxk8O1pzDP22_OXGwp9O3u4hQF3Kbep7BiYOW6sYZ_BOR772tKVxhuMPLAJpVvhFYgLcxGK-QmS2JpG_vua1s8afh4/s1600/20181021_105840.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLKUHUBzT4QtpFALElCkEnbzzVD8lGj5E1mccKOlVrVxG7xMHhOpLxk8O1pzDP22_OXGwp9O3u4hQF3Kbep7BiYOW6sYZ_BOR772tKVxhuMPLAJpVvhFYgLcxGK-QmS2JpG_vua1s8afh4/s640/20181021_105840.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG won't insult you by telling you that this is the entrance to Halfax's Public Gardens. Oops, too late...eh? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_IxdoCKss-znvVZQ2QRXVN1KgtF1jNNHm3Tnj3earm2aRLwZRKeeU18OyFGU2QD_RBxE55l5wGZexFTnVEpEZL2SggYQcrsygGlSbb__KTK3WWLqpqSjQUsxiurlv2-LF-kgby__OhFwg/s1600/20181021_110116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_IxdoCKss-znvVZQ2QRXVN1KgtF1jNNHm3Tnj3earm2aRLwZRKeeU18OyFGU2QD_RBxE55l5wGZexFTnVEpEZL2SggYQcrsygGlSbb__KTK3WWLqpqSjQUsxiurlv2-LF-kgby__OhFwg/s640/20181021_110116.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG was pleased to run into another American at the Halifax Public Gardens. He appears to be an expatriate with American roots, although we are unaware of the family tree. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFPfXCwEdAOzlFJSEbg-nl1LSzATDHo6vxAVfxfEnbvGdO3_8KGroVxW1bz9dq2x1rUtbKggsvHwcjOUPuAeRMPPSIQKX8zVaVK7-R6xL13qUpWj6XhtXja6nTspAUzo4yXMGaEptb4kR/s1600/20181021_110438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFPfXCwEdAOzlFJSEbg-nl1LSzATDHo6vxAVfxfEnbvGdO3_8KGroVxW1bz9dq2x1rUtbKggsvHwcjOUPuAeRMPPSIQKX8zVaVK7-R6xL13qUpWj6XhtXja6nTspAUzo4yXMGaEptb4kR/s640/20181021_110438.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oow, aaaah. Go ahead, say it, eh? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-TGolPkUL3NDxE5ZOtrFO5bETXEoqSEQ4RUKYjK8zrxUOJl7mK3CQh2vxX1vbtz1gFFAjSdwcSAzOQD-LoeYo5D5_UVHySdkmQ8AkEBHcF273wVeV_ndhXitJfcW5nh1QbUIWO39wphL/s1600/20181021_110520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-TGolPkUL3NDxE5ZOtrFO5bETXEoqSEQ4RUKYjK8zrxUOJl7mK3CQh2vxX1vbtz1gFFAjSdwcSAzOQD-LoeYo5D5_UVHySdkmQ8AkEBHcF273wVeV_ndhXitJfcW5nh1QbUIWO39wphL/s640/20181021_110520.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two model boats on the pond in the Public Gardens are pictured shortly before LG re-enacted Pearl Harbor on them. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0xNH8BWg_KSbyX3Rws9hw8yDFDuTZW8SKx6sKzKjvIw6CPRN2nh2fN6BMLCSFuH1rdl3SyCMVLKFEwUSQkyKnSkoDhxgGV3RGah35id7T6uD3ZjRjiG_adqtMGhGQUI_sVMXOPll1bEe/s1600/20181018_163557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0xNH8BWg_KSbyX3Rws9hw8yDFDuTZW8SKx6sKzKjvIw6CPRN2nh2fN6BMLCSFuH1rdl3SyCMVLKFEwUSQkyKnSkoDhxgGV3RGah35id7T6uD3ZjRjiG_adqtMGhGQUI_sVMXOPll1bEe/s640/20181018_163557.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG had a really witty caption for this one but he can't remember it now. Somebody pass the Fritos. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUhO701uVgzLd3vzc1KmCvFoCaP8Pj50uSQP4mDRa_3ml_WLZNurguSTuhI0mMEKZh9tr6hDcScEJ-XtuCGrTzkj4DFiMWaeZcWFkbNO2WIMEFbB6XvmTErxhzi1w6A_Fk1ghHAEcm4X8/s1600/20181018_165342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUhO701uVgzLd3vzc1KmCvFoCaP8Pj50uSQP4mDRa_3ml_WLZNurguSTuhI0mMEKZh9tr6hDcScEJ-XtuCGrTzkj4DFiMWaeZcWFkbNO2WIMEFbB6XvmTErxhzi1w6A_Fk1ghHAEcm4X8/s640/20181018_165342.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They have some unusual comic books in Canada. No offense intended to Jimmy's offspring. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrsBPe3o_1O9DQ-46bA3q9JPZ5u85nvqfa86oqZ_7LsRU3EWuo2CRVJ4uHS4HEThyphenhyphenLFHTzPx1Xy6DL5aQ1ZMFZm2kUX8h0Zo2x1BGpI02X0tPVOb3OVKv1yrrM-kCpR2k2_H6GyDmvdij/s1600/20181018_165847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrsBPe3o_1O9DQ-46bA3q9JPZ5u85nvqfa86oqZ_7LsRU3EWuo2CRVJ4uHS4HEThyphenhyphenLFHTzPx1Xy6DL5aQ1ZMFZm2kUX8h0Zo2x1BGpI02X0tPVOb3OVKv1yrrM-kCpR2k2_H6GyDmvdij/s640/20181018_165847.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In case you forget where you are after consuming some of the now-legal local cannabis, it always helps to look at a local flagpole, eh? We're told that flag is made of hemp. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQFGOWEmR9FzUFOkFkdvfy3fo5F9Qa0Ojs6OQlC8S1RjneA4Y0YyB1sABz8PzBcANNpKJh_zR7KcqFooi5a0-F3RLLdv4qtomVwQF59-R9BI6pXWrP9cBv9l6D7TOhTNzqaGQH2yQBcvg/s1600/20181019_113550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQFGOWEmR9FzUFOkFkdvfy3fo5F9Qa0Ojs6OQlC8S1RjneA4Y0YyB1sABz8PzBcANNpKJh_zR7KcqFooi5a0-F3RLLdv4qtomVwQF59-R9BI6pXWrP9cBv9l6D7TOhTNzqaGQH2yQBcvg/s640/20181019_113550.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And, finally, a symbolic photo showing man's struggle for solitude in an increasingly crowded world, adrift in a sea of confusion. At least that's one interpretation of this picture but, hey, whatever floats your boat. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Until next time kidz, this is The LG Report signing off...</span>Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-62340443758101017612018-08-17T16:48:00.002-04:002018-08-17T16:48:35.370-04:00Those Wacky European Signs...<span style="font-size: large;">As die-hard readers of The LG Report know, LG and The Wife recently returned from a European riverboat cruise vacation. You may also know that the wacky Europeans have signs and product names that would most likely not fly in the United States, but hey, they provide a bit of entertainment for Americans abroad so who's complaining? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here's a sampling of some of the kooky signs that LG encountered on his recent holiday. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-auMPahh-kOgyWaln9_wnRJGGWMxz8rvRmqxOBzbpRaKjZ5Pa-45l3zZrvEMFiJ4501V5Y05P76jm-8HunZjmYb8xjI39a3FvQukcDSDv7FIpN8Cd7OZoOJAp8rTC76RSmENs4YksBd8E/s1600/20180721_082209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-auMPahh-kOgyWaln9_wnRJGGWMxz8rvRmqxOBzbpRaKjZ5Pa-45l3zZrvEMFiJ4501V5Y05P76jm-8HunZjmYb8xjI39a3FvQukcDSDv7FIpN8Cd7OZoOJAp8rTC76RSmENs4YksBd8E/s640/20180721_082209.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">This establishment was in the Frankfurt airport. If LG had to guess based on the breads and cakes in the display cases, he'd say this place was a traditional bakery. Oh, wait, look at the sign...apparently they have truth-in-advertising laws in Germany. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzCkRshj0l4021N8JW4euZL53hh8zCu9ag4bEdDOTbs1hpNpTbxZx6B1df-2E3DGhY-vuUFFeTgtxQgOtJHxHZBNpB5xQNDHPSyiDPUM-K83ocn3YbVDR1ED1IniklZ8Z9Yp46WowpKBs/s1600/20180721_192544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzCkRshj0l4021N8JW4euZL53hh8zCu9ag4bEdDOTbs1hpNpTbxZx6B1df-2E3DGhY-vuUFFeTgtxQgOtJHxHZBNpB5xQNDHPSyiDPUM-K83ocn3YbVDR1ED1IniklZ8Z9Yp46WowpKBs/s640/20180721_192544.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Afraid of getting Mad Cow Disease (also known by the catchy name of bovine spongiform encephalopathy) while in Europe? Then you'll probably want to take a pass on this restaurant. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAFTXDHh5J3431Kxp7yCyVskNeHwVBJdZALV5DaXkZoi8KmZUFev87UUI6fKSlarLhYVL_rIsW9YXjQPH23Xfw6Aa9CfrECMTtufr7k4GpPYuKOg76m5jStePvwzAOSQml_elUGwqDCfW/s1600/20180722_205713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAFTXDHh5J3431Kxp7yCyVskNeHwVBJdZALV5DaXkZoi8KmZUFev87UUI6fKSlarLhYVL_rIsW9YXjQPH23Xfw6Aa9CfrECMTtufr7k4GpPYuKOg76m5jStePvwzAOSQml_elUGwqDCfW/s640/20180722_205713.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This clothing store is reportedly a favorite shopping spot for Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump when they're in Prague. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmpniKA-_oK-8c8DQMuJb0Oz5gUYIqrdZUabJ-rpCxhO2I8x3CSnvRA_-OMel3-iD1Si7hCTGSGCwydmT1Tgd6xLuGfq-ivTZyH1wOUlzlmDwEVUbJXNmuWF_jwG1_dstC5-biiAGZacc/s1600/20180723_113755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmpniKA-_oK-8c8DQMuJb0Oz5gUYIqrdZUabJ-rpCxhO2I8x3CSnvRA_-OMel3-iD1Si7hCTGSGCwydmT1Tgd6xLuGfq-ivTZyH1wOUlzlmDwEVUbJXNmuWF_jwG1_dstC5-biiAGZacc/s640/20180723_113755.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hey fellas, trying to impress a young lady on a first date? You may want to take a pass on the garlic soup. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vrv8Iyvc1SyMUsv1PRKgOiWoH6HvEJh__y1aldxLS8vVc6RL1o0G0ZaqQwUfeNNQicbQ2hhf4HZ8mlCicAPlMz-QczRLgNdpYUTVXQt2__c_qZedqL_neG60YG6UI7YjE1Hdx7TVtQSV/s1600/20180725_104020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1156" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vrv8Iyvc1SyMUsv1PRKgOiWoH6HvEJh__y1aldxLS8vVc6RL1o0G0ZaqQwUfeNNQicbQ2hhf4HZ8mlCicAPlMz-QczRLgNdpYUTVXQt2__c_qZedqL_neG60YG6UI7YjE1Hdx7TVtQSV/s640/20180725_104020.jpg" width="462" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Clean Air movement in Germany has really taken hold. Anyone fahrting on the autobahn must exit here...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGqi3gLzav-LTwe6zHny1-3wXaetwzcaNhg7ohoc-_rOemzmuJDsn71bhTVW34lChizh7xUDd0Th4BV1dJutUzZDDi4edWCTu9R4ihyphenhyphenSOnF7PXPxSDuqsQm4T-c7DMWh5zX-vVGRu7FCm/s1600/20180726_113846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGqi3gLzav-LTwe6zHny1-3wXaetwzcaNhg7ohoc-_rOemzmuJDsn71bhTVW34lChizh7xUDd0Th4BV1dJutUzZDDi4edWCTu9R4ihyphenhyphenSOnF7PXPxSDuqsQm4T-c7DMWh5zX-vVGRu7FCm/s640/20180726_113846.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The good folks at Kellogg's probably don't have a problem with these "<b>Corny Flakes</b>" infringing on their copyrighted name of "<b>Corn Flakes</b>." They reportedly go well with a good bottle of Cokey Cola. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Dxj58Ed99MU4EnjvwNlI3E6IJiehXSjx1e3iHJkIxHDaiGUpANfwVRhDNagoq9Gegb_y4hNEtU9-rEGNq-TyxnYaogp9-9zvJhlP9ZGyuhxNKumnhDEYjc-7_Has5oWKmJdIP97BN2Kv/s1600/Black+Jack+Cola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1275" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Dxj58Ed99MU4EnjvwNlI3E6IJiehXSjx1e3iHJkIxHDaiGUpANfwVRhDNagoq9Gegb_y4hNEtU9-rEGNq-TyxnYaogp9-9zvJhlP9ZGyuhxNKumnhDEYjc-7_Has5oWKmJdIP97BN2Kv/s640/Black+Jack+Cola.jpg" width="510" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of colas, this "Black Jack" cola in Austria would probably sell like gangbusters in America with its catchy slogan of the "Original BJ." Please fellas, do NOT accept the imitation BJ. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrrEe62of9sxQ0qE6YZ3XOuv4VkWqlKxAXFPaSjjUFyr9ZeU7SU8NvMtkkIxHB7_vZ65jUQCDCIRkuz_qiKQ4DusUKC73QA0GA88MeDmh5hUITmXD2vnorXyADEP3UTvw-O4zmnOBPJPr/s1600/20180726_113706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrrEe62of9sxQ0qE6YZ3XOuv4VkWqlKxAXFPaSjjUFyr9ZeU7SU8NvMtkkIxHB7_vZ65jUQCDCIRkuz_qiKQ4DusUKC73QA0GA88MeDmh5hUITmXD2vnorXyADEP3UTvw-O4zmnOBPJPr/s640/20180726_113706.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Again the European truth-in-advertising laws strike. Here's a clothing store owned by followers of David Koresh. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YEbWkNhv6H-3o884gi9uiBxtAXADbmiMPzSheqtyp9-jFR-8eXLRzorVzIPxAmJTWIZEIAN60-y4-sCgN3bQ5oPqZyxiq71O_bu3Ql0YJCv8pOugbFBxfAYOyBbiHZ6h9zHiCu6hACx9/s1600/20180726_114606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YEbWkNhv6H-3o884gi9uiBxtAXADbmiMPzSheqtyp9-jFR-8eXLRzorVzIPxAmJTWIZEIAN60-y4-sCgN3bQ5oPqZyxiq71O_bu3Ql0YJCv8pOugbFBxfAYOyBbiHZ6h9zHiCu6hACx9/s640/20180726_114606.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When you see a book with the word "bastard" on the cover, you just have to take a picture of that bastard. PS We hear that Buch isn't actually a bad guy, certainly not a bastard. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1z6aFVyQINTCsQ7RxwMCWWtf3xBnVsK_rtKY-tbWH8FUcKfcCU9zUud-flmT53Wt5oFRISGlmRROh6slDMrezyKOK6oMMuL5KXBLUU3r3DMzp0fY9JmRvFGxgoKdpJgomvje0CmFvc_Z/s1600/20180726_210440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1z6aFVyQINTCsQ7RxwMCWWtf3xBnVsK_rtKY-tbWH8FUcKfcCU9zUud-flmT53Wt5oFRISGlmRROh6slDMrezyKOK6oMMuL5KXBLUU3r3DMzp0fY9JmRvFGxgoKdpJgomvje0CmFvc_Z/s640/20180726_210440.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Calm down ladies, this restaurant isn't named after "Jack the Ripper," it's "Jack the Ripperl," with an "L" at the end. You'll be perfectly safe for dinner here. And may we recommend that for dessert you go next door to their sister restaurant, Jeffrey Dahmerl. Try the brain-flavored ice cream. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9dq-VhtG3M3JAIup_1ik4n3b5T4p0Z2IMNEktcZX51RtvuurKF1r-xsDdag0xz01feuEkamNuPvog3dTECiQVPxhFv0B3a2PTlcDfPWVte1rIfVOcEl4ox-Q6VYq50hB_HoOXDD2ZWOnP/s1600/20180726_211336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9dq-VhtG3M3JAIup_1ik4n3b5T4p0Z2IMNEktcZX51RtvuurKF1r-xsDdag0xz01feuEkamNuPvog3dTECiQVPxhFv0B3a2PTlcDfPWVte1rIfVOcEl4ox-Q6VYq50hB_HoOXDD2ZWOnP/s640/20180726_211336.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Again, truth-in-advertising laws force this store to admit that it is "gross." At least you know that going in...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bxn8_ziAL_I6jJsEPO-pZ4pVYuHx08dIlOjXkWgRqnmHYMHpKHGbvYh8V9qphDqkypI4AgaBFhEXHqP5XfBrMNcXqJ_xKVcAjPrVFJre7KteNgFW4u7dqDFI-U2mtlYELuA44JKUSWpf/s1600/20180727_110407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bxn8_ziAL_I6jJsEPO-pZ4pVYuHx08dIlOjXkWgRqnmHYMHpKHGbvYh8V9qphDqkypI4AgaBFhEXHqP5XfBrMNcXqJ_xKVcAjPrVFJre7KteNgFW4u7dqDFI-U2mtlYELuA44JKUSWpf/s640/20180727_110407.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kids in Austria don't have it too bad, they get to go to "biergarten summer camp." However, after drinking all those beers, ausfarhten is strictly prohibited in the bunkhouse! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep7qR9GGesatV7WcQLa3gHzQWk5Nkis1VQ1wW3bhssSYYYeV9d5J_-6AlSh3upNUDOKg83S1ulSzVvSnBPSB21SLfNnwXiRo-I1Xm6M83wYIkl9PPy7xI6aCB_ciOlJrwQR5MrsJi6s1J/s1600/20180727_111755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep7qR9GGesatV7WcQLa3gHzQWk5Nkis1VQ1wW3bhssSYYYeV9d5J_-6AlSh3upNUDOKg83S1ulSzVvSnBPSB21SLfNnwXiRo-I1Xm6M83wYIkl9PPy7xI6aCB_ciOlJrwQR5MrsJi6s1J/s640/20180727_111755.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Do you consider yourself uncultured and not much of an art expert? We've got the perfect gallery for a schmuck like you...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eboqRzCwxmHegTwcp61kKD4kkCJszYzNSOMPEZAy3K3yACNFTejkeGjskRHWPJoLUFggcG5h63LGfYZP5quPpmAv3Rlp9RD3j07oAsS9ZKWmOlanXpxcUX_S50O4O4Fpwz4icEmmoH9F/s1600/20180727_130626+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eboqRzCwxmHegTwcp61kKD4kkCJszYzNSOMPEZAy3K3yACNFTejkeGjskRHWPJoLUFggcG5h63LGfYZP5quPpmAv3Rlp9RD3j07oAsS9ZKWmOlanXpxcUX_S50O4O4Fpwz4icEmmoH9F/s640/20180727_130626+%25281%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Forget Compton, Salzburg, Austria is the real ghetto! Who doesn't think of hip hop when they think of Salzburg? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xXARBerQuF9dnMmekJJ-RA71zfcmbOPsCybH_q0fmdo_VnIur_fFbwFK8aiS1XucrKFqSgDDR5xRnHfcD9JPi430CuVruLdPwoGB36QEqSCNFnmvB2Z24sBa4Ym-fY0SUraWp3EMxKJK/s1600/20180727_144651.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xXARBerQuF9dnMmekJJ-RA71zfcmbOPsCybH_q0fmdo_VnIur_fFbwFK8aiS1XucrKFqSgDDR5xRnHfcD9JPi430CuVruLdPwoGB36QEqSCNFnmvB2Z24sBa4Ym-fY0SUraWp3EMxKJK/s640/20180727_144651.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Late at night you need to watch yourself here ladies, this bar can get a little sketchy. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja6z-t9qhLQqb_ir0KhYzWnlUyWUGwvnLkhD7pPlAmxK6mt_3BbiHXOUy2oPyUHsjabYS2ykmdvzCZysq4I9O4JIPSfiTKXBBfDRXdNTAIu4EgFiuoTlndi2MSTXqiD6psPAi8sk0WhVss/s1600/20180729_113528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja6z-t9qhLQqb_ir0KhYzWnlUyWUGwvnLkhD7pPlAmxK6mt_3BbiHXOUy2oPyUHsjabYS2ykmdvzCZysq4I9O4JIPSfiTKXBBfDRXdNTAIu4EgFiuoTlndi2MSTXqiD6psPAi8sk0WhVss/s640/20180729_113528.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">This is a souvenir license plate seen in Vienna. This guy tells all the women that he's hung like a Horst. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouErdshNUzN1rxhdyBg_wX0bK9NUOwW74rtAXTakwh6mL2ve6H1MmcRWRjEf7vGIsY49H35aE3OnFUdQ5HKBlVRlpAZa1bylTDIN5kZvCwtbUqeRiPQSN-2tFKm2IbqrpIVzKViXi5z62/s1600/20180728_191809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouErdshNUzN1rxhdyBg_wX0bK9NUOwW74rtAXTakwh6mL2ve6H1MmcRWRjEf7vGIsY49H35aE3OnFUdQ5HKBlVRlpAZa1bylTDIN5kZvCwtbUqeRiPQSN-2tFKm2IbqrpIVzKViXi5z62/s640/20180728_191809.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Believe it or not, a lot of knuckleheaded tourists (not smart people like you who read The LG Report) go to Austria and ask where they can find kangaroos, confusing it with AUSTRALIA (notice the different spellings?) Thus, these t-shirts are quite popular in tourist shops (but not with the locals, who will also refuse to throw shrimp on the barbie for you and claim to have never heard of Crocodile Horst.) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOvGt5CVPST35I6lFA_09DWPAw0SSpQmw2uFZSOPLPJW3-HAZ2mN8jEWEaOlWZQiaWCTnPJ_n108PenvPZlPB39yaM1wfTeCn3zvCbncolVe7hb4Alp2ZP5oOyt6pFZEmHAyD6gYsiLkr/s1600/20180729_095051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOvGt5CVPST35I6lFA_09DWPAw0SSpQmw2uFZSOPLPJW3-HAZ2mN8jEWEaOlWZQiaWCTnPJ_n108PenvPZlPB39yaM1wfTeCn3zvCbncolVe7hb4Alp2ZP5oOyt6pFZEmHAyD6gYsiLkr/s640/20180729_095051.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At least they give you a warning that these fiakers are going round fahrten (translation supplied by LG without reference to any external sources). </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wbCaOghxr0XN_KaHSj1GG6_7xIqYMR2S7GQ427ihRNn3rIbp89Zzch7AS1TSmb-zSKIXrxh0rbwNPXF7dMdYMAvDWm7ulEE1iautkxqJtb2zWt7KNFMZf3wCar7rGF91cKer7bsGctv5/s1600/20180731_143440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wbCaOghxr0XN_KaHSj1GG6_7xIqYMR2S7GQ427ihRNn3rIbp89Zzch7AS1TSmb-zSKIXrxh0rbwNPXF7dMdYMAvDWm7ulEE1iautkxqJtb2zWt7KNFMZf3wCar7rGF91cKer7bsGctv5/s640/20180731_143440.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the United States the "Dorko" brand isn't likely to do well in any product area, except for maybe pocket protectors. "Hey dorkos, get your Dorkos here!" </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQK2-IOPh5dw2WPwoo2OkbFQzA6gMMTvMA2y11j2E96PJ1dfL8LXg-mhXPgoQEhK6gRyGvJcUpcPCVTavqoS1xhO45LmA4hv1pxFipebRoHNVmcyNGfezrZVFk-rVEDYxhKrGxa1Q0D9i/s1600/20180731_180738.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQK2-IOPh5dw2WPwoo2OkbFQzA6gMMTvMA2y11j2E96PJ1dfL8LXg-mhXPgoQEhK6gRyGvJcUpcPCVTavqoS1xhO45LmA4hv1pxFipebRoHNVmcyNGfezrZVFk-rVEDYxhKrGxa1Q0D9i/s640/20180731_180738.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Have you been eating a bit too much and skipping the workouts lately? Don't fret, we have just the shore store for you! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EvXgUYCpuf9FmUe1e93Iv4fVzI5cpTPd9fAJBFvkE1E0SwZWOeB85bag5lkkxsmhFvQbsNGpwOXZ0316flQUfyqLomgATukMIKZQiM0NcHWmWWkeO8NLd5ezXmf1mv5Ua69eb91daqgk/s1600/20180731_180853.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EvXgUYCpuf9FmUe1e93Iv4fVzI5cpTPd9fAJBFvkE1E0SwZWOeB85bag5lkkxsmhFvQbsNGpwOXZ0316flQUfyqLomgATukMIKZQiM0NcHWmWWkeO8NLd5ezXmf1mv5Ua69eb91daqgk/s640/20180731_180853.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Couldn't have effing said it better myself...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYq6utw8NCt3ErFe3NAAcsKsPMI5Juxa6SkEcP2e6Evw7ZSQaxrBKRqmAQBthd36wSPyAQ6w6KM-74Kvrh_5ELtdIP8mwzPUSE9V_xWm2_nZK3gJenTvxsBE2jhX2a8Rjalt-eJSTvbrm/s1600/Wilder+Mann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1358" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYq6utw8NCt3ErFe3NAAcsKsPMI5Juxa6SkEcP2e6Evw7ZSQaxrBKRqmAQBthd36wSPyAQ6w6KM-74Kvrh_5ELtdIP8mwzPUSE9V_xWm2_nZK3gJenTvxsBE2jhX2a8Rjalt-eJSTvbrm/s640/Wilder+Mann.jpg" width="542" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hmm, seems like they're catering to the traveler who shouldn't expect to get his room damage deposit back...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARJmRW_RvmZjbS-5Lq94yTxISKzgO0W2sfIIlavbbuaX1aKZ64izAKOYs0xWNVISwy2ULEHEnsrv_hNMQ2FGQVh2H58ygfSZTrYnkOd66lzORHBCJ_Cv4kuJNQUhjcpYLHGIh063rODoq/s1600/Closed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARJmRW_RvmZjbS-5Lq94yTxISKzgO0W2sfIIlavbbuaX1aKZ64izAKOYs0xWNVISwy2ULEHEnsrv_hNMQ2FGQVh2H58ygfSZTrYnkOd66lzORHBCJ_Cv4kuJNQUhjcpYLHGIh063rODoq/s640/Closed.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And finally, when you need a retail store name that tells customers that it's open and eager to serve them, what could be better than "Closed?" It's brilliant, "Hey customers, we're Closed!" Apparently, the names "Bankrupt" and "Go Eff Yourself" were already taken. And with that, The LG Report will be closed until the next post goes up (Vienna and Salzburg). Thanks for stopping by! </span></div>
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-42118816190875759762018-08-14T20:32:00.003-04:002018-08-15T09:01:39.679-04:00European River Cruise 2018 - Germany <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The second and third stops on European River Cruise 2018 were Regensburg and Passau, Germany. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The German people are generally warm and hospitable (well, maybe not Angela Merkel, but the others.) However, on the whole, they're not funny (Lousiville is funny, as you can see <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Louisville-Is-Funny-143098729806767/">HERE)</a> But that won't stop LG from trying to inject humor and snark into these Germanic photos. Jawohl! (Picked that up from Sergeant Schultz...) </span><br />
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<img alt="Regensburg - Steinerne Bruecke ohne Dom.jpg" height="245" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/86/Regensburg_-_Steinerne_Bruecke_ohne_Dom.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This is the Stone Bridge, a pedestrian-only structure which connects Old Town Regensburg to what appears to LG to be the New Town, but is technically called "Stadtamhof." If anyone knows what that means, please leave a comment. LG guesses it means "Stadium where David Hasselhoff performs." E-Z Pass not accepted. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Cobblestone streets and sidewalks are everywhere in Central Europe. Pro-Tip: We know you hate to hear this ladies, but wear sensible shoes. Your dogs will thank you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a section of the Danube in Regensburg. Locals sunbathe on the shores while lamenting that Frau Merkel was not successful in buying an island from Greece. Luckily, Frau Merkel herself was not sunbathing while we were there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A tourist boat makes its way down the Danube at lunchtime. This is not a cruise ship with cabins, but rather a party boat with dining and dancing areas. David Hasselhoff was performing on board this day, singing "Stairway to Heaven" as the boat passed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of which...the crowd on our Avalon Panorama ship got pretty rowdy a few nights. The average age was 92.5, but nonetheless these folks could boogie (unlike an ocean cruise ship, there were no kids or teens on board). Here we see a conga line about to unleash its fury. There was a nightly dance contest with the winner receiving a month's supply of Depends. There were some singles on the trip and, believe it or not, some hook ups. Hearts and hips were broken. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">David vs. Goliath is depicted on this building in Regensburg. Nobody names their kid "Goliath" anymore, this guy ruined it for everyone. Perhaps if he had beaten David, we'd be talking about Goliath Hasselhoff today. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This nice fraulein conducted a presentation on different kinds of beer on board the boat. It was actually quite informative. There was also a beer tasting component to the session. While the local German beers made a strong showing, Utica Club and Schlitz tied for first. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Here's a view of Passau (not an LG photo, he didn't get one as nice as this.) Adolf Hitler lived in Passau for two years with his family (1892 - 94) but, as you can imagine, it's not something the tourist bureau advertises. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is Exhibit A in the rule of thumb that tour guides are generally full of shiiite. We were told by two or three tour guides that in Passau we'd find "the biggest organ in the world." Turns out that it wasn't even in the Top 20. It's actually only the largest <u>church organ</u> in Europe. And, on top of that, this isn't even that organ, LG didn't get a photo of that one, this is a smaller organ in another church. See, even bloggers can be full of shiiite! Hey, if you want to see a big organ go watch some porn, this is a family-friendly blog. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not that you asked, but this is a view of one of the hallways on our boat. The vessel accommodated about 166 passengers plus crew. And the rooms were surprisingly nice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We close this segment of our European River Cruise 2018 blog series with another view of the Stone(r) Bridge in Regensburg (ignore those kids smoking pot on the left side). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Next up: Wacky European Signs</span><br />
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-61438438680416485162018-08-08T13:59:00.002-04:002018-08-08T13:59:14.660-04:00European River Cruise Vacation 2018: First Stop - Prague - Czech It Out<span style="font-size: large;">The Wife and <b>LG</b> went on a European riverboat cruise vacation in late July. It's a quite different experience from an ocean-going cruise. The ship is much, much smaller (160 passengers vs. up to 6,000 on large ocean cruisers) and there are no shops, restaurants, casinos, game rooms, spas, pools, rock walls, etc. But there is the charming intimacy of getting to know a fair number of fellow passengers, as well the opportunity to see small towns close-up as you cruise past. And the rooms on our particular boat (run by Avalon Waterways, a competitor to Viking Cruises -- admit it, you thought of Viking first) were quite nice and, supposedly, 30% larger than the industry average. We did not survey other cruise lines' rooms so we'll take Avalon's word for it since their name is a town in New Jersey, so we trust them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We started our vacation in Prague (photos below) and then took a bus to Regensburg, Germany where we boarded the boat. Our boat's name was the "Panorama," which is cruise line code for "expensive."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We were supposed to get on the boat in Nuremburg, Germany but due to a drought, the Danube River was too shallow for the boat to pass. Avalon provided ample warnings on its website and in printed literature about the possibility of a low river forcing changes in itinerary. Apparently, it's a fairly common occurrence on river cruises. According to our cruise director (no, not Julie McCoy but her Dutch cousin) some cruise vacations were scuttled in their entirety this year because of low river levels. Pro Tip: If you go in late fall or early spring, the risk of low water is generally decreased. But the risk of bad weather increases. You can't win. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Prague is a charming city, the capital of the Czech Republic. Annoyingly, though, the Czech Republic doesn't use the euro, it has its own BS currency (although most places do take Czechs!) You can actually pay with euros at many shops and restaurants but beware: The establishment will probably give you a very unfavorable exchange rate for your euro. It's best to get some Czech currency (the koruna) out of an ATM and then just constantly Google the exchange rate to U.S. dollars and grumble about it as <b>LG</b> did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So let's get to the pix, we know that's what you're here for...</span><br />
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<img alt="Image result for czech currency" height="308" src="https://www.leftovercurrency.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/20-czech-koruna-banknote-king-premysl-otakar-i-obverse-1.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Here's a 20 Czech koruna note. That might be satan on the bill, it's hard to say since LG doesn't speak or read Czech. Satan is definitely on the 666 koruna bill. The guy pictured, at the least, has a Czech-ered past. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This fellow is NOT holding an instrument that symbolizes that he was double-crossed in life; rather, he's displaying what's known as a "patriarchal cross" (getting your learn on). More deets here if you're interested: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patriarchal_cross">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patriarchal_cross</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">An avant garde work of art - two female figures searching for an expensive store in which to shop (Not pictured: the husbands sitting somewhere on a bench reading ESPN on their phones.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One of the many squares in Prague. The sculptures in the center, dating from 1544, represent tourists who can't find their way back to their hotels and they have no wifi connections for GPS. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another square and church. As most of you know, European cities are comprised mostly of churches, squares and castles. But each unique and worthy of your tourist dollars in their own way. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6TaJg2tvnWV3UW6LfLbuoO4r6QlJy4z0fpaN-ev0WkoOOje6e2sGTMTqH5nXbgXfLVP3xyTjPNZE5VdjpwtrMrY3Q4lCXg560OWlAscO3EtU5Hd9NfJ-WUlg3Mt7Yz5yoGLrgT17oTJAQ/s1600/20180721_211436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6TaJg2tvnWV3UW6LfLbuoO4r6QlJy4z0fpaN-ev0WkoOOje6e2sGTMTqH5nXbgXfLVP3xyTjPNZE5VdjpwtrMrY3Q4lCXg560OWlAscO3EtU5Hd9NfJ-WUlg3Mt7Yz5yoGLrgT17oTJAQ/s640/20180721_211436.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is from the Sex Machines Museum (yes, true, you can Google it) in Prague. This photo was taken from the entrance area, we did NOT pay to go in. LG won't explain what's happening here, you'll have to enlarge the photo for yourself and figure it out (if you do, you are certifiably a pig, sorry). </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4m_SKEYj90zKPMY7HCXSqSbrNHIO5zWa3zchrC9PoiD7jg_zzL56U7hzn6abYb4KL7cs5PaybRsu5mbwauaOq-R1gdabbXbPtjyXe9HjK3WpOFwY48zlIB1JmetURFkLcnbIH6YteC1RP/s1600/20180722_084452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4m_SKEYj90zKPMY7HCXSqSbrNHIO5zWa3zchrC9PoiD7jg_zzL56U7hzn6abYb4KL7cs5PaybRsu5mbwauaOq-R1gdabbXbPtjyXe9HjK3WpOFwY48zlIB1JmetURFkLcnbIH6YteC1RP/s640/20180722_084452.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nothing quite as fun as being herded around like cattle as part of a tour group. Not audible: Soft mooing sounds of the crowd. PS It as hot, in the 90s every day of the vacay. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitf7LuUWmQZQeqr34S3o1QbmWxIEvUtKRnEybQ9DmgGdQCUACswQZjaOUqi3xQIbvOKrT4cfuVXvZ3x8K3SPkMZfTl8VsypDrfwWNSKKXs6ID_fE0nUpDkBAlxDYZRdq7MTElQ3dJRqQ0u/s1600/20180722_085925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitf7LuUWmQZQeqr34S3o1QbmWxIEvUtKRnEybQ9DmgGdQCUACswQZjaOUqi3xQIbvOKrT4cfuVXvZ3x8K3SPkMZfTl8VsypDrfwWNSKKXs6ID_fE0nUpDkBAlxDYZRdq7MTElQ3dJRqQ0u/s640/20180722_085925.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This sculpture is at a place known as Prague Castle. The Castle is the only site in Prague where a medal detector was used; the country's national legislative office buildings don't even use them. Shows you how popular tourism is in Prague. LG's response when the tour guide said there were no medal detectors at the legislative offices: "Of course not, all the crooks are already inside!" The population of the Czech Republic is about 11 million people and the country expects more than that number of tourists this year. Everyone is Czeching it out. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsh-4Tu1C6An78Adv79Va2_-CNZUabn9a6A9IxBtwRSHAQPvUGbQmXt30QMkVm2278GQo7ou_yW5yMRzEkqkD2Z8NcUtnUjrAARiWvc90Rl-Kc0Tfi3NkGJvRMTP2rbS-vC1qLSMgSroT/s1600/20180722_090204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsh-4Tu1C6An78Adv79Va2_-CNZUabn9a6A9IxBtwRSHAQPvUGbQmXt30QMkVm2278GQo7ou_yW5yMRzEkqkD2Z8NcUtnUjrAARiWvc90Rl-Kc0Tfi3NkGJvRMTP2rbS-vC1qLSMgSroT/s640/20180722_090204.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Part of Prague Castle. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqX0LNmt8uIdzXtf05U9VIl5VWwKbIyzvWbUxSW1wcFMg9ur3ZUUL4XpGzUJiu_pr_LuC4UJ5o4dRRIHQAgfDd_qSC2UCOwxbrJFY2Xg7GzT82VROPMI_iMnOHWGWg30ggUKFpCCYJa3Fa/s1600/20180722_090407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqX0LNmt8uIdzXtf05U9VIl5VWwKbIyzvWbUxSW1wcFMg9ur3ZUUL4XpGzUJiu_pr_LuC4UJ5o4dRRIHQAgfDd_qSC2UCOwxbrJFY2Xg7GzT82VROPMI_iMnOHWGWg30ggUKFpCCYJa3Fa/s640/20180722_090407.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Looking out from the Prague Castle courtyard through gates into another stately area (where we weren't allowed). There were a lot of stately areas in Prague. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Triple bang for your buck here, part of Prague Castle, a courtyard and a statue. The gentleman in the foreground with the backpack is suspected to be D.B. Cooper, the famed hijacker, and he may have his illicit money in that backpack. That's what some homeless guy told LG anyway. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7NNuywOnBRd-fyRJL9WSZzs4XQ5W6lZ928BwGwAEObmPFEG7PPBnKLPnss2ckwFBDT9EeBsE6h4dHjha5Q_PV9ND64YVPraoFMSYqao0DH3s88OOAOl_wIfr_gNPbTB6gdlzM71qnZpw/s1600/20180722_092902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7NNuywOnBRd-fyRJL9WSZzs4XQ5W6lZ928BwGwAEObmPFEG7PPBnKLPnss2ckwFBDT9EeBsE6h4dHjha5Q_PV9ND64YVPraoFMSYqao0DH3s88OOAOl_wIfr_gNPbTB6gdlzM71qnZpw/s640/20180722_092902.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The church associated with Prague Castle. Many cathedrals have souvenir shops, which does not surprise you, we know. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JEIBqc5VA83VySb3UyRoNqlDxtbDiwqJR3yPGX2QuS1D3eMRPRTdxYLPuuUknt33W2wTgMPkXRKUU6lnqOyyGB_ouZWOvPutyVo-2lee4xTrcu5wjKmcMAtcG3Drn5dhkQmp02PcSqih/s1600/20180722_093800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JEIBqc5VA83VySb3UyRoNqlDxtbDiwqJR3yPGX2QuS1D3eMRPRTdxYLPuuUknt33W2wTgMPkXRKUU6lnqOyyGB_ouZWOvPutyVo-2lee4xTrcu5wjKmcMAtcG3Drn5dhkQmp02PcSqih/s640/20180722_093800.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">See explanation below. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKCtv6QwQSjAw_sEGGFEe6XX4uFt_CuGYoCpDP39iDPx7t6eua0PEQvhS89QtefAYTj6gWLV1IJZPFmrJ5AJcoCNi51_7tIQVfRmmKF02-md8KGljKEEpNLhe2jS3qxRvbCO8Z86YbA8o/s1600/20180722_093848.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKCtv6QwQSjAw_sEGGFEe6XX4uFt_CuGYoCpDP39iDPx7t6eua0PEQvhS89QtefAYTj6gWLV1IJZPFmrJ5AJcoCNi51_7tIQVfRmmKF02-md8KGljKEEpNLhe2jS3qxRvbCO8Z86YbA8o/s640/20180722_093848.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">According to our tour guide, it's a popular practice for brides-to-be, especially from Asia, to get wedding photos in Prague with its picturesque backdrops even though the weddings themselves are going to take place on another continent. We saw quite a few brides posing for professional photographs throughout Prague. Of course, LG tried to photobomb as many as possible. Brides-to-be don't generally have a good sense of humor about those things. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-zSYfuQoaghn1O4XlnHcMUwtyvvrkZm6waG_zmLzmSxs77zj6V13k2JoONqXN_YQ4zTuzNYO71eDp5fJYd3LAyO_Da8Pj0x9SLl3nUue03HnGNHE-tRN3J2b0MTF0JmNPVTVuKwJY1Nn/s1600/20180722_095354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-zSYfuQoaghn1O4XlnHcMUwtyvvrkZm6waG_zmLzmSxs77zj6V13k2JoONqXN_YQ4zTuzNYO71eDp5fJYd3LAyO_Da8Pj0x9SLl3nUue03HnGNHE-tRN3J2b0MTF0JmNPVTVuKwJY1Nn/s640/20180722_095354.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Every European country, it seems, has its own version of the rigid and silent Buckingham Palace guard. This guy at the Prague Castle was no exception. LG walked up to him and said sternly: "No soup for you!" The guard then stepped out of character and exclaimed "I love that episode! I also want serenity now!" Shortly thereafter, he was hauled away in chains for violating his duty. Oh well. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MOA72wii3zvd-m-oBg0KYrAMv9xsoKUgJNnn8zQ0zsFfUKYof-zEOI3NovrQS8LOegQuQfkZH8L7R1LoC94C3uTAf2xUPjSr6LOeRajTz_HkDNEbhIib4A0qiV1onrrQyoh6BQ61mSj-/s1600/20180722_105703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MOA72wii3zvd-m-oBg0KYrAMv9xsoKUgJNnn8zQ0zsFfUKYof-zEOI3NovrQS8LOegQuQfkZH8L7R1LoC94C3uTAf2xUPjSr6LOeRajTz_HkDNEbhIib4A0qiV1onrrQyoh6BQ61mSj-/s640/20180722_105703.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a depiction of something called the Astronomical Clock on the Old Town Hall in the Old Town Square of Prague. It's under renovation currently, so the good people at the Prague Tourism Bureau decided to paint a facsimile of it on a canvas outside the actual clock in order to placate landmark-seeking tourists. When our tour guide brought us to this spot, LG cracked: "I heard it got it's name because the repair costs are astronomical." She said she'd incorporate that into her spiel going forward. More deets on this clock at: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prague_astronomical_clock">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prague_astronomical_clock</a> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFrFNICCZY4_WZFbeA2bwxvx_D2alm5f5dG0t9Y1rkfVKOh8DMy-Oh2pI7LQxxYau0eeG61AOBvhvB9LhFv2xZ_qGUE5ZviGmBHWwtttGkzpaUBW50b30ExWqVat7DQu9jXo1rdJlV_TU/s1600/20180722_105913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFrFNICCZY4_WZFbeA2bwxvx_D2alm5f5dG0t9Y1rkfVKOh8DMy-Oh2pI7LQxxYau0eeG61AOBvhvB9LhFv2xZ_qGUE5ZviGmBHWwtttGkzpaUBW50b30ExWqVat7DQu9jXo1rdJlV_TU/s640/20180722_105913.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tourists in a frenzy to take photos of the burlap covering the Astronomical Clock. Note: These are actual tourists, not painted likenesses on burlap. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KAnj71P_vRmox4B85h52frJg53FFXYE_63QmLqktvL_ki1F6QdVCC4BGo1GRhqb4XskJTYZb_Z35E56qnFYa01MCmUQXJdNoMAwU16va7NQRq0WIxwG0SapRJTv_Io5Rg79vcGbT3_in/s1600/20180722_140711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KAnj71P_vRmox4B85h52frJg53FFXYE_63QmLqktvL_ki1F6QdVCC4BGo1GRhqb4XskJTYZb_Z35E56qnFYa01MCmUQXJdNoMAwU16va7NQRq0WIxwG0SapRJTv_Io5Rg79vcGbT3_in/s640/20180722_140711.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The un-captioned photos above are from Terezin, a Nazi concentration camp about 30 miles north of Prague. Many children were held at this camp and artwork that they created while there is on display. Visiting it was a very sobering, somber and moving experience. More details at: <a href="http://www.terezin.org/the-history-of-terezin/">http://www.terezin.org/the-history-of-terezin/</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This photo is of an area known as the "Venice of Prague." A copyright dispute is now brewing as Venice seeks to create a "Prague of Venice" section of its city. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQs0SQ2ubE3GCIqTO8RT20pQAVi1MuiPXwSTzAp_rtkKlT8KIEv9BhxNejmYEl15O9gjWw_JmfuJjc0E_opjmS7RRDQ_A0CV50knimqq7ND1o3f0wBDp9tI2XlSmpUeTKjDGUyhHYjc3X/s1600/20180723_084507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQs0SQ2ubE3GCIqTO8RT20pQAVi1MuiPXwSTzAp_rtkKlT8KIEv9BhxNejmYEl15O9gjWw_JmfuJjc0E_opjmS7RRDQ_A0CV50knimqq7ND1o3f0wBDp9tI2XlSmpUeTKjDGUyhHYjc3X/s640/20180723_084507.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Vltava River and part of a castle wall. Calm down. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGA85LJGpRcTRdvZIblWcIoEOHUkEmawVB6YpZQQWDlzXlX3bmFkIHq66Y-G99NZH0_GwC9L6ZRkNk0CQJ1XYMGEOPG7gUK_31jpnSj5zwng3YvfUBHiqv_5gQQP4woqZmy1510wVfcLc/s1600/20180723_090236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGA85LJGpRcTRdvZIblWcIoEOHUkEmawVB6YpZQQWDlzXlX3bmFkIHq66Y-G99NZH0_GwC9L6ZRkNk0CQJ1XYMGEOPG7gUK_31jpnSj5zwng3YvfUBHiqv_5gQQP4woqZmy1510wVfcLc/s640/20180723_090236.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A tower of the famous Charles Bridge, completed in 1402. It was built under the auspices of King Charles IV (hence the name) and connects the main part of Prague with its Old Town and the Prague Castle. E-Z Pass is not yet available but they're working on it. Actually, it's a pedestrian-only bridge, but not a pedestrian bridge in the artistic sense. You see what LG did there. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XEN5svrvYQA8_2aVcSEk8lXkbfWg-QXZBMbN36uZSrrctuuraR8_sfll53HMDRhrjq5xCicfLaCIVvdl716o8uNbQwUG4OqP-t5PUoGVgymE5TAT7hDcp-9DJUdnjTzuj1NQtIpOS7su/s1600/20180723_090834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XEN5svrvYQA8_2aVcSEk8lXkbfWg-QXZBMbN36uZSrrctuuraR8_sfll53HMDRhrjq5xCicfLaCIVvdl716o8uNbQwUG4OqP-t5PUoGVgymE5TAT7hDcp-9DJUdnjTzuj1NQtIpOS7su/s640/20180723_090834.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">More of the Venice of Prague. For a better depiction of Venice, go to Venice. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUM-uSqg-O8uB3ehqF5_bXPDdNFhmuO_8voXIGUb9oft3eQNW2sUSMlxm-4Q_aUaFq_LCn3rLTvajpBF0vHrUfyW_YIq1W6k85EVgZGLlHPb-VVboWPYfwfNuRtgNPrLj4Q0vCoy5wRHz/s1600/20180723_091122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUM-uSqg-O8uB3ehqF5_bXPDdNFhmuO_8voXIGUb9oft3eQNW2sUSMlxm-4Q_aUaFq_LCn3rLTvajpBF0vHrUfyW_YIq1W6k85EVgZGLlHPb-VVboWPYfwfNuRtgNPrLj4Q0vCoy5wRHz/s640/20180723_091122.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is on the Charles Bridge and yes, those are Hebrew letters. For more deets: <a href="http://strangeside.com/prague-statue-of-jesus-with-hebrew-letters/">http://strangeside.com/prague-statue-of-jesus-with-hebrew-letters/</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3U63QkqoUTl-3VEorY2_Zsu_luTd_uZhEsuWGmFtcWgt-qn5yZXV-i-l7U86ce265-ihsAZwU5RuniXySuNv5dT11g4cywUldiU8Zp4jhdZh6IPhBu2ykbx7FK40BqieN8ZF_LN5RlxV/s1600/20180723_091234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3U63QkqoUTl-3VEorY2_Zsu_luTd_uZhEsuWGmFtcWgt-qn5yZXV-i-l7U86ce265-ihsAZwU5RuniXySuNv5dT11g4cywUldiU8Zp4jhdZh6IPhBu2ykbx7FK40BqieN8ZF_LN5RlxV/s640/20180723_091234.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a statue of a holy man contemplating nature, thus the bird on his head. Trained birds take turns sitting on this statue in 3-hour shifts. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2HOahyphenhyphenEeVdLP47q_GlakSVEXz4HjBwQPxC7PLUSjBQ66yio4TQd683uX32HtaxuJEHAe_ncKRWHzWt7LBFxmT0lyystG5LnImEpiM-JUrwMjBv7EOk1wpZj8h290PhDQrQz0_E0DbHu6/s1600/20180723_091828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2HOahyphenhyphenEeVdLP47q_GlakSVEXz4HjBwQPxC7PLUSjBQ66yio4TQd683uX32HtaxuJEHAe_ncKRWHzWt7LBFxmT0lyystG5LnImEpiM-JUrwMjBv7EOk1wpZj8h290PhDQrQz0_E0DbHu6/s640/20180723_091828.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">More Charles Bridge decorative ironwork. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CDQQ7rTjoHD7s6nWAx8ULDtE89jbQ_pRnlrDAzec2pLVYJkWF5frZCsOwFkTKBtSRd9-e6D5l1kIdRwNQ2klo4NWuKooEf9ZmJKJLqQO7XZ5hNQ0waMkYyR94S6Pr4RepaRRzZS0ugMw/s1600/20180723_092636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CDQQ7rTjoHD7s6nWAx8ULDtE89jbQ_pRnlrDAzec2pLVYJkWF5frZCsOwFkTKBtSRd9-e6D5l1kIdRwNQ2klo4NWuKooEf9ZmJKJLqQO7XZ5hNQ0waMkYyR94S6Pr4RepaRRzZS0ugMw/s640/20180723_092636.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another incongruous bridal photo. This couple is getting married in Antarctica in 2021. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXRNKkpYuwOqeMz89xV3OXWEYcxoyaQcAvOKkn9Ii9xMhT5Fm6xX5tA59OngR3S_EzKkX6UJsYjPdnNZhOfvD917TFlgls-mveEPdk-hwSlen5D3xDKYpLmIcjl_3nqr3hxH250ZNgD9b/s1600/20180723_093533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXRNKkpYuwOqeMz89xV3OXWEYcxoyaQcAvOKkn9Ii9xMhT5Fm6xX5tA59OngR3S_EzKkX6UJsYjPdnNZhOfvD917TFlgls-mveEPdk-hwSlen5D3xDKYpLmIcjl_3nqr3hxH250ZNgD9b/s640/20180723_093533.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Prague's manhole covers are nicer than most U.S. museum pieces, so take that you ugly Americans! (That's LG's interpretation, anyway, of the Czech writing on the manhole cover.)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QEM-TigJKn0OE07c_nG5hljcPc3gUmutsP2cCBoFF_OKjH8WMgSGYeojMx3lUr4sgMv1OKTAlKAASwPymiyYhzrmzd9HnOp3hNA9EnQVGWz5HKrm45awbSaCKDyrSRvs8cvN6_pE7cl0/s1600/20180723_095408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QEM-TigJKn0OE07c_nG5hljcPc3gUmutsP2cCBoFF_OKjH8WMgSGYeojMx3lUr4sgMv1OKTAlKAASwPymiyYhzrmzd9HnOp3hNA9EnQVGWz5HKrm45awbSaCKDyrSRvs8cvN6_pE7cl0/s640/20180723_095408.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YIUqfEHMVo-JlL90ZfCf5UE9-0CyOEubHjOP5hW2uPmodCVIUH6-_QzD0SJaTAZprQGe9Um7r2Cuwzo6pjxg4xIBEHueAfFbCE_5OZtET1XAf1cbpjK2NK4boM0vGXXx0g0-zH2hGhTe/s1600/20180723_095609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YIUqfEHMVo-JlL90ZfCf5UE9-0CyOEubHjOP5hW2uPmodCVIUH6-_QzD0SJaTAZprQGe9Um7r2Cuwzo6pjxg4xIBEHueAfFbCE_5OZtET1XAf1cbpjK2NK4boM0vGXXx0g0-zH2hGhTe/s640/20180723_095609.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCur2dCIirzu0ywJ2FWSn1l0SC_Zh-FFl4yzqy0LBrfY5mHjz65vpFdJy0EPhVf6sR_By4g9uP9D_3f5q9sQvUQmXHO8SmlIy_VeNJIDaSMYX0k_UPF2E1sUFMAJQPoE3o2bU0LHbC_TM/s1600/20180723_095706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCur2dCIirzu0ywJ2FWSn1l0SC_Zh-FFl4yzqy0LBrfY5mHjz65vpFdJy0EPhVf6sR_By4g9uP9D_3f5q9sQvUQmXHO8SmlIy_VeNJIDaSMYX0k_UPF2E1sUFMAJQPoE3o2bU0LHbC_TM/s640/20180723_095706.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Graffiti is considered an art form in some areas of Prague (when confined to those designated areas) and John Lennon is a particularly revered figure. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJ3pmbAOXUTznRW66fTSVR7D0ikwtVBRQTnUP0wVAv5mo5gtsLAm9zVqf1RLye-UWBb9KenT6RuahhtBY7x7QDqNKDp4ydSOxH2PkevfM3W60WSrcFHjwNUZxFJZ6L65dHXPnuy-WHzoB/s1600/20180723_102941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJ3pmbAOXUTznRW66fTSVR7D0ikwtVBRQTnUP0wVAv5mo5gtsLAm9zVqf1RLye-UWBb9KenT6RuahhtBY7x7QDqNKDp4ydSOxH2PkevfM3W60WSrcFHjwNUZxFJZ6L65dHXPnuy-WHzoB/s640/20180723_102941.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is one of the Czech national parliament buildings. LG was thinking of running on a "Make the Czech Republic Great Again" platform, but then reconsidered since he had more cities to see on this holiday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Next up (and coming soon): Regensberg and Passu Germany. We know, you can't wait! </span></div>
<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-49434547115092451412017-08-29T20:14:00.006-04:002017-08-29T20:14:35.139-04:00Vacation Pix (Don't Yawn Yet!): Alaska & The Pacific Northwest<span style="font-size: large;">LG and The Wife (and four friends) recently completed an 11-day vacay to Seattle, Oregon, Alaska and Victoria, British Columbia.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Here for your viewing pleasure are some snaps from said vacay, along with LG's patented snarky commentary (call it "Snarkentary" if you must...) The Wife already posted many photos on Facebook, so she somewhat stole LG's thunder, but that's OK, she doesn't have the snarkentary. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Some of LG's comments are truthful and will cause you to get your learn on, while others are total BS creations of his imagination which he wrote just to amuse himself. Sort of like he amuses himself by referring to himself in the third person on The LG Report blog. To help you out, LG labeled the captions as true or BS. You're welcome. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">P.S. The above is not BS. Again, the BS will be labeled. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Now LG advises you sit back and enjoy, as you are transported to the magical land of the Pacific Northwest (and, best of all, airport and tourist taxes are being waived...)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfdn9LtlYn_LPDwWQEYeHcd5ubkM97B1ygqWBVcHBwqu4AFRo0tiuIFMIfiJLugO5aeGe4y9UvBfBiDwTcqpbn6PDY_C473L722NLcnMn8gkGQTLevgrN-hiAeSjrChR7F2heAiibaWiE/s1600/Space+Needle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfdn9LtlYn_LPDwWQEYeHcd5ubkM97B1ygqWBVcHBwqu4AFRo0tiuIFMIfiJLugO5aeGe4y9UvBfBiDwTcqpbn6PDY_C473L722NLcnMn8gkGQTLevgrN-hiAeSjrChR7F2heAiibaWiE/s640/Space+Needle.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is the Space Needle in Seattle, created for the 1962 World's Fair. That World's Fair was also the setting for the Elvis movie, "It Happened at the World's Fair." (True). As you probably know, the Space Needle has now been specially retrofitted to inject opiods into any invading space aliens (BS). Seattle was experiencing a near-record 52nd straight day of no measurable rain when LG and The Wife visited (True). </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7NKRmVkgVE56Lko6l1uAIHIFe5CfByMpo6WHTfVoAyynHmv1XrrigXy5p6KigUghd1OjzfJ_O7-V7JuOf3yjLZyp4W8ktatdFvFbSuAdR7FT-c6tGLz-r9eQYvgLF1nnVj4Htfst1JU/s1600/NJ+Chowder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC7NKRmVkgVE56Lko6l1uAIHIFe5CfByMpo6WHTfVoAyynHmv1XrrigXy5p6KigUghd1OjzfJ_O7-V7JuOf3yjLZyp4W8ktatdFvFbSuAdR7FT-c6tGLz-r9eQYvgLF1nnVj4Htfst1JU/s640/NJ+Chowder.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Seattle tour bus stopped at Chinook's, a restaurant where they serve "Jersey Chowder." LG grew up in NJ and lives there now and has never heard of "Jersey Chowder." Apparently, it's half New England Clam Chowder and half Manhattan Clam Chowder. One thing did make it "Jersey Chowder" however; LG found one of Jimmy Hoffa's fingers in his cup. Wedding ring still attached. (Ok, BS, but had you for a second there...) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoyJqkWynieqYRiJiIbEU9SFIeLZLglk-dVPteuDVifOJcckG23Uwj3vPnGnbeiuQo8cIWGXrH194ZTyqoTTEAaDvmamHvifdmeW2li2kbfN-CHjPkN3oSiQxgpNsmYCWT7-G1GdHG28/s1600/Seattle+Eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoyJqkWynieqYRiJiIbEU9SFIeLZLglk-dVPteuDVifOJcckG23Uwj3vPnGnbeiuQo8cIWGXrH194ZTyqoTTEAaDvmamHvifdmeW2li2kbfN-CHjPkN3oSiQxgpNsmYCWT7-G1GdHG28/s640/Seattle+Eye.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's the "Seattle Eye" Ferris wheel on the city's waterfront. (True) It's like the famous London Eye, except that it's not as big, or as impressive, and it's a blatant rip-off of the London original. We later visited Seattle's Medium Ben clock tower and the Lloyd's of Seattle insurance building. (BS) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS8Hc01O3hmfta7oArtmVx4TcoOSvoFLOwL4J31OMJ2nna6Bv4poE-4kKYjIZEyPmAceBT1N-iwr1miY-Vo7vRjo_Rn7CBPryI9zdlcHZwCFCci8hmxf_WPS4SemaegzSemGlEsm056p4/s1600/Gardens+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS8Hc01O3hmfta7oArtmVx4TcoOSvoFLOwL4J31OMJ2nna6Bv4poE-4kKYjIZEyPmAceBT1N-iwr1miY-Vo7vRjo_Rn7CBPryI9zdlcHZwCFCci8hmxf_WPS4SemaegzSemGlEsm056p4/s640/Gardens+3.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is a glass sculpture of the back of Taylor Swift's head on a bad hair day. (BS) Hey, if you have a funnier caption, leave it in the comments, otherwise, Shake It Off. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ALu4cqbc_dCQuEsFnDnPPP3RE1115XU_sjmC_FsUr6ewMIG7xgMcnmu7nq6u6IWGaVZgJ0Zp91NHVGWDditvenSsyuaSwOEH3Z1kPGOtdw-tvNoIc-iVqZnHVr6LxB8ibhWMoHpeEyU/s1600/Gardens+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ALu4cqbc_dCQuEsFnDnPPP3RE1115XU_sjmC_FsUr6ewMIG7xgMcnmu7nq6u6IWGaVZgJ0Zp91NHVGWDditvenSsyuaSwOEH3Z1kPGOtdw-tvNoIc-iVqZnHVr6LxB8ibhWMoHpeEyU/s640/Gardens+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is another piece from Seattle's famous Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum next to the Space Needle. This piece is named "Banana Split with Onion." (BS) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim53O0m8zxN4fxwExqF4nblPkbXrxELMrxZvBElOcj5hLJAjptDKQ39z6Kh1NZhzfyfPB7R6X3p7uQlSTy2TuPWts8on_WhznQ8ZHitRSmJ12M4y_rWqNoJE3J8XdVUko6NXYZxqy2hSM/s1600/Gardens+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim53O0m8zxN4fxwExqF4nblPkbXrxELMrxZvBElOcj5hLJAjptDKQ39z6Kh1NZhzfyfPB7R6X3p7uQlSTy2TuPWts8on_WhznQ8ZHitRSmJ12M4y_rWqNoJE3J8XdVUko6NXYZxqy2hSM/s640/Gardens+6.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">These glass photos are getting boring now, LG knows, but they seemed pretty cool at the time. Note: They don't let you throw a football around with friends in the glass museum. (True) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWVgy2sAK89RtyrPJX1-u9RSJetBtGiWaaa87FnwKE_PiqZWarECQfVIc4kU2HZtFdEWrl05cIkNfu2Q_r7U7ImfWBIStSd7ZELVT108sXa9wnFNHRwC-1Y3QLqBqcTb8c-nkeURE0T4/s1600/Seattle+Skyline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWVgy2sAK89RtyrPJX1-u9RSJetBtGiWaaa87FnwKE_PiqZWarECQfVIc4kU2HZtFdEWrl05cIkNfu2Q_r7U7ImfWBIStSd7ZELVT108sXa9wnFNHRwC-1Y3QLqBqcTb8c-nkeURE0T4/s640/Seattle+Skyline.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">This is a photo of Seattle's skyline from the closest affordable apartment to the city. According to our tour guide (who was proven to be somewhat full of shiite when he said that some Seattle golf course was "the oldest in America;" a quick Google search revealed that it wasn't even in the top 25 so he quickly recanted), there are 52 active cranes in Seattle and each is backed up with future assignments as soon as they are done with current work. (True) And this doesn't even count Fraser Crane. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a field in Junea Alaska. It will be covered in 10 feet of snow by September 15th (maybe true, who knows...) This is the future site of a Walmart and four Starbucks. Plus, the Alaska Eye (BS). LG took this photo to make the other tourists think he was sensitive and cares about flowers. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh831ur9wwPxABgmWK5_KRYR_GqDeSX64VDiBQfuIMF5voz_EJF2LlIoZirnXCVOixzChMwylv_HF2aDWvdzteqPiBgzsB2kPBMnrg1dLM5sOpXqxQL0W1g8-Kuh_RylHjgGYPAVk3Wt-c/s1600/Bus+Interior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh831ur9wwPxABgmWK5_KRYR_GqDeSX64VDiBQfuIMF5voz_EJF2LlIoZirnXCVOixzChMwylv_HF2aDWvdzteqPiBgzsB2kPBMnrg1dLM5sOpXqxQL0W1g8-Kuh_RylHjgGYPAVk3Wt-c/s640/Bus+Interior.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the view of the back of the head of my friend Lee on a tour bus. I had to slow down on the exciting photos for a while to give you some time to catch your breath. Lee's father-in-law, on the left in maroon, is NOT picking his nose. (BS) Trivia: Tour buses in Alaska run on whale oil. (Come on, don't be a moron, BS!) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYc4oRjFGWFj19s4SqoRxrbmn2O0WTLVbQuHMbxip87IDcTt2mtAKLOsL2uQUbKApqm6hL2xBxjhJlqpA67SCGOlQsBvv3WhF1iXucQ868yesmVBDHLz4iCEcX9Mqp97g6KaWmTjFTW-4/s1600/Back+View+of+Dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYc4oRjFGWFj19s4SqoRxrbmn2O0WTLVbQuHMbxip87IDcTt2mtAKLOsL2uQUbKApqm6hL2xBxjhJlqpA67SCGOlQsBvv3WhF1iXucQ868yesmVBDHLz4iCEcX9Mqp97g6KaWmTjFTW-4/s640/Back+View+of+Dogs.jpg" width="360" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the rear view of our dog sled team in Skagway, Alaska. Sled dogs are no longer large Huskies but are now mid-sized Alaskan Malamutes who are more obedient, eat less and have more energy. The original Iditarod race was won (in 1973) in 20 days. The most recent race (it's 1,100 miles folks) was won in 8 days due to better-trained dogs, better equipment and better driving techniques. (True) The musher can actually order the dogs to fart in unison to get a turbo-charge on his sled ride. (BS) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdqkFcvgwBG8Bt0lNI-TaLF62A55SZfDojUZ_gxPq1HSClMVzGZnVyWPtU1ITDwO5UcoqagVp0yIKv79zlTymgKIU2uH9H9jtMnTCaJspS6_UZ1xlwNbxvudwE0LUjmQPRPU58j60Jyc/s1600/Alaska+Water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdqkFcvgwBG8Bt0lNI-TaLF62A55SZfDojUZ_gxPq1HSClMVzGZnVyWPtU1ITDwO5UcoqagVp0yIKv79zlTymgKIU2uH9H9jtMnTCaJspS6_UZ1xlwNbxvudwE0LUjmQPRPU58j60Jyc/s640/Alaska+Water.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's Alaska folks, this is the standard photo of a lake and low-hanging clouds and mountains. The water in that lake is so pure that it's used to filter plutonium for nuclear bombs. (Total BS in case Kim Jong Un is reading this) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The movie "A River Runs Through It" was filmed here in Skagway, Alaska (BS). True Trivia however: Juneau, Alaska is the only capital city in the entire United States that is not accessible by road from outside the area. Until they finish the Great Alaskan Highway (Mexico is supposed to pay for that too...), Juneau can only be reached by air or sea. (True) LG bets Ju-didn't-neau that. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUir94M4bQnc5ajxMCtYl2CkDhc0qDaW32T9gbMvVpedyPknf2uHW580oCUah7hrea1_U-2-BhR9r0RfazTvtT66gxg0OFwk_xNwfxPKFR-Ykz8pdvx2IlY-WPsRhlihQaOIQKffUTCs/s1600/Dead+Salmon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUir94M4bQnc5ajxMCtYl2CkDhc0qDaW32T9gbMvVpedyPknf2uHW580oCUah7hrea1_U-2-BhR9r0RfazTvtT66gxg0OFwk_xNwfxPKFR-Ykz8pdvx2IlY-WPsRhlihQaOIQKffUTCs/s640/Dead+Salmon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Only 1% of salmon live long enough to spawn. (True) They swim facing the current and move backwards downstream because it's the only way that they can breathe. (True) They have about 120 species of predators, including bears, hawks and other salmon. (Also true, we're on a roll!) But because they swim not facing the direction in which they are traveling, they can easily be attacked from behind by predators (including Bill Cosby). They also return to within three feet of where they were born, after traveling hundreds or thousands of miles, to lay their eggs. (True according to our sketchy tour guide) The fish in this photo is not actually dead. Alaskan salmon are so cool that they do yoga and this one is in her downward dog position. (Could be BS, or not, you decide) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb-j058skurl3u28GP8IgTAZ6X-0jSs3RU4FJsBaZtocw8BvF1XezNIsX3OD8htZQulhHgrEz74aS2RMBZoQbb-AMFLGzMuPWDJLPcQLyWFciH2r9ttkKzyhFc-a3vXO2IjTB4YDa6-U/s1600/Dogs+2+and+Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb-j058skurl3u28GP8IgTAZ6X-0jSs3RU4FJsBaZtocw8BvF1XezNIsX3OD8htZQulhHgrEz74aS2RMBZoQbb-AMFLGzMuPWDJLPcQLyWFciH2r9ttkKzyhFc-a3vXO2IjTB4YDa6-U/s640/Dogs+2+and+Tower.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is from the musher camp in Skagway. LG doesn't know the exact purpose of that tower, so let's just say that it contains a big-screen TV for watching NFL games during dog training. (Probably true)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBQvV-K6sUpPrZfkWQkpfd30mt1aZ1IgjTMQZVhbiYAJuM8ZVPktXs2IvxpjJYn9xPobKX7ecYEfA16If7dyb-PUHgH3pKOisuy7kkSzjnqMQyiH5YAF5xNHTVwWkd4Q2_fsTGzf8WVE/s1600/Elow+and+LG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBQvV-K6sUpPrZfkWQkpfd30mt1aZ1IgjTMQZVhbiYAJuM8ZVPktXs2IvxpjJYn9xPobKX7ecYEfA16If7dyb-PUHgH3pKOisuy7kkSzjnqMQyiH5YAF5xNHTVwWkd4Q2_fsTGzf8WVE/s640/Elow+and+LG.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">LG and the wife in Victoria, British Columbia. That's an island off the west coast of Canada. (True) Canada is not a U.S. state but, rather, is its own country. (Actually true!) As the local tour guide described Canadians, "We're like unarmed Americans but with universal healthcare." </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiarjl4gjucin9BhdppNwviKjrJf7U8j0o0tdt8lkmjSSJZrRSe1pbZiljgKye4N_R0ODCqDHgvJLuimXetZhsC5SdJ6DBignlPoh5iIhDQUVKOh5L73T2Q7hyphenhyphen95_gHnRvc7mCSJk1ZKnw/s1600/George+Dobson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiarjl4gjucin9BhdppNwviKjrJf7U8j0o0tdt8lkmjSSJZrRSe1pbZiljgKye4N_R0ODCqDHgvJLuimXetZhsC5SdJ6DBignlPoh5iIhDQUVKOh5L73T2Q7hyphenhyphen95_gHnRvc7mCSJk1ZKnw/s640/George+Dobson.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On a whale-watching boat in Juneau. It's sort of a rip-off, all you see are the tops of the whales' backs, but the boat ride itself is cool. You also see seals and drug smugglers. This particular ride featured the Gortons of Gloucester fisherman (near left, looking disoriented or about to commit a crime.)(BS) The woman in the white knit cap on the right is Cameron Diaz (Could be true, we're not sure) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's a glacier in the background (insert "oohs" and "ahhs" here.) Basically, an Alaskan glacier is what you'd refer to as a sheet of ice in the Lower 48. If you want to spice up the office conversation next February, mention how you hit a glacier and skid a bit on the way into work. Sheet of ice in Toledo = free to see; Glacier in Alaska = Fork over $120 for a tour. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a photo of someone taking a photo. Very existential and deep. Think about it for a while. Then look at your navel. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That blue floating object is the same iceberg that sunk the Titanic in 1912. It was imported to Alaska, much like the London Bridge was moved to Arizona. (One-half BS). It was mostly gray, rainy and about 50 degrees while we were in Alaska. Trivia: Alaska's Tongass National Forest is one of the largest rain forests in the world. It's what's known as a "temperate rain forest." (True) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two random tourists on the boat during "Yellow Formalwear Dinner Night." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A cruise boat passenger contemplate jumping ship rather than enduring another cattle call of disembarkation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG with the current Mayor of Wassila, Alaska, John "Big Bear" Smith. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Despite TLC's admonition, LG and The Wife went chasing waterfalls...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG and the Alaskan Governor, Ed "Moose" Zak. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">An overhead view of one of the lifeboats on the cruise ship. There were 5,000 people on the ship. (True) LG doubts that there were enough lifeboats for everyone. It would've been fun to find out though. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">An Alaskan merkin. (<a href="http://www.dictionary.com/browse/merkin?s=t">http://www.dictionary.com/browse/merkin?s=t</a>) Everything is bigger up there. And down there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's Mt. Baldy in the foreground and Mt. Baldy in the background. (BS)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Olympic Mountains as seen from Victoria, BC. Among other celebrities who have homes in Victoria (according to the bus tour guide) are Tom Selleck, Danny Devito, Steve Nash, Sarah McLaughlin and Leonardo DaVinci. (Somewhat BS, but mostly true). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a road in Oregon. (True) It was once the Oregon Trail that Lewis & Clark (Jerry Lewis and Dick Clark) traversed when discovering Oregon. (................BS) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Those people are wanted on charges of art theft but this is the closest that LG could get to them. (BS) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">An ancient artifact on display in Seattle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Queen of England appeared on our Royal Caribbean cruise ship to sing with the Queen tribute band. It was really her, no kidding. (BS) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Juneau and Skagway rely heavily on tourist dollars, so please get yourself booked on a cruise ship up there ASAP. Try the salmon. PS Alaskan King Crab legs, which The Wife expected to be inexpensive since they're local, were very expensive. One counter-service restaurant (not a fancy place) wanted $122 for three king crab legs. The Deadliest Catch is also the Most Expensive Catch! (True) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">203 salmon (LG counted)(BS) swim in a stream in Alaska on their way to Seattle to see the Space Needle. Why are fish such lousy tennis players? Because they're afraid to get near the net. Why are fish so healthy? Because they eat fish! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sea Lions resting on an island near Juneau. Lazy bastards. You'd think they could stand up for the tourists. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs1iScdwoVOWNbcLneYiJ7Oqk8SqUns2eJEU34Hn1zd8eM8-B59hLULSZHYwsmRxAMu72hjdWKYZsnT5CbNJOD5VlWwIuw5hgZujH8-6nczrWShAnBL_jCllrrAXiBoiEUwq5BMjtIHs/s1600/Selfie+Stick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs1iScdwoVOWNbcLneYiJ7Oqk8SqUns2eJEU34Hn1zd8eM8-B59hLULSZHYwsmRxAMu72hjdWKYZsnT5CbNJOD5VlWwIuw5hgZujH8-6nczrWShAnBL_jCllrrAXiBoiEUwq5BMjtIHs/s640/Selfie+Stick.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What kind of moron buys a selfie stick only to use it for regular, forward-facing photos? And what kind of moron takes a photo of a moron using a selfie-stick? Err, wait a second... PS That's a whale's tail in the water. (True) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aPri3btQBQiwXovsUliSJgKARviqKtR9E0jg5SdX8fERlK69U8VpjxlUTar8XG3Oq6beuW7aAMdiw9LdbkzBLlM2NFYukihSYKbiv5kSq_tBdxbJ3e9V9WlFXIyhNSMl09vjzOBDNn4/s1600/Sitting+Dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aPri3btQBQiwXovsUliSJgKARviqKtR9E0jg5SdX8fERlK69U8VpjxlUTar8XG3Oq6beuW7aAMdiw9LdbkzBLlM2NFYukihSYKbiv5kSq_tBdxbJ3e9V9WlFXIyhNSMl09vjzOBDNn4/s640/Sitting+Dog.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Sled dogs taking a break from the dog-eat-dog world of competitive dog sledding. LG would say it's a rat race, but it's a dog race. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another view of the sled dogs. They were all friendly and allowed tourists to pet them. (True) Nummies! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjya7J-DoIhhxv_eN-xgHMdbJ8B-BosrUdKJuQUOjZ98gOHVxZ3veK41dHuZLaHItAQKyByoaH-buYEBS57CwB6_4o_hOMJKIY9ilcDZJnWP-ERhwJwH_TnmByTywtWp1UgeR3DVu4sMnQ/s1600/The+Girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjya7J-DoIhhxv_eN-xgHMdbJ8B-BosrUdKJuQUOjZ98gOHVxZ3veK41dHuZLaHItAQKyByoaH-buYEBS57CwB6_4o_hOMJKIY9ilcDZJnWP-ERhwJwH_TnmByTywtWp1UgeR3DVu4sMnQ/s640/The+Girls.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two hot mommas hired by Royal Caribbean to attract men onto the cruise ships. (True) (Trying to score some brownie points with The Wife here...) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHIGyy3FIgfeIdVb0v1cguJwPc8z2LgnBiLddPaihXKd8b1MB6o29q4Z6BQW1Eb8kB83zq_iRpaipMgvd0khzXmKEyGToLK7LBqhoHm430nvkKOVjNpKucLt_wXGLBvPnABQI6uYx0nc/s1600/Tourists+Taking+Photos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHIGyy3FIgfeIdVb0v1cguJwPc8z2LgnBiLddPaihXKd8b1MB6o29q4Z6BQW1Eb8kB83zq_iRpaipMgvd0khzXmKEyGToLK7LBqhoHm430nvkKOVjNpKucLt_wXGLBvPnABQI6uYx0nc/s640/Tourists+Taking+Photos.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A photo of tourists taking a photo. Although people think he's dead, that's Malcolm X on the right in the green rain jacket. At least he didn't use a selfie-stick. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yawn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">More yawn. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Inside the tourist train in Skagway, people talk amongst themselves. Very exciting stuff. The train travels about 15 miles an hour, but luckily you receive offers to buy souvenirs while riding. (True)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A view from the cruise ship of an Alaskan fjord. Not to be confused with a Fjord Mustang. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">There's the back of a whale, barely breaking through the water. These whales, like the sea lions, are lazy bastards. (True)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Subtle welcoming sign. Translation in Canadian: Please spend a lot of money here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A view of Victoria, BC from afar. Which is how they like American to see it (other than when they're spending their tourist dollars.) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKya-ieiYu_zicHdlDMeLVxM1sdCwZKdml0ZO_-loULkOB6Wf7xg_rs-k5F6NyxpkdgrHQNWdJQI5w0eU-5shpspRRsjM1_haufgYLama1iM4QYtnNFLVUc_dsPGyx_YKWeGJa5vkw1to/s1600/Victoria+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKya-ieiYu_zicHdlDMeLVxM1sdCwZKdml0ZO_-loULkOB6Wf7xg_rs-k5F6NyxpkdgrHQNWdJQI5w0eU-5shpspRRsjM1_haufgYLama1iM4QYtnNFLVUc_dsPGyx_YKWeGJa5vkw1to/s640/Victoria+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">More Victoria, BC. The town is very clean and the people are very nice. There's nothing like it in America! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_l6Cns7wSZTZABWzbi1yeqZJ04_7JLWS4eN5j7Dh1RCvNIqpe1uqfaMtmS4yjSJR6w7kIZSLMm4uy2_C_0Ll-ZOqxjR-0_6hjXlxNZc4zKQHgSyEndTJ7ztyDfwFJ8UWnOspsaWPs4E/s1600/Victoria+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_l6Cns7wSZTZABWzbi1yeqZJ04_7JLWS4eN5j7Dh1RCvNIqpe1uqfaMtmS4yjSJR6w7kIZSLMm4uy2_C_0Ll-ZOqxjR-0_6hjXlxNZc4zKQHgSyEndTJ7ztyDfwFJ8UWnOspsaWPs4E/s640/Victoria+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">And, finally, our last view of beautiful Victoria. LG hopes you liked this pictorial tour of Seattle, Alaska and Victoria. Until next time folks...</span><br />
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-8786051282892922062016-09-10T12:18:00.000-04:002016-09-10T12:20:09.643-04:00<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
September 11, 2001 - A Remembrance</h3>
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It's hard to believe that fifteen years have passed since that horrific day in September of 2001. Fifteen years. In a way, it seems like it occurred a lifetime ago, but in another way, it feels like it was much more recent.<br />
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As many of you know, I was in my office in downtown Manhattan on the morning of September 11, 2001, about five blocks away from the World Trade Center. Shortly before the first anniversary, I sat at my computer and wrote 21 pages of stories about things that occurred on that day and in the year that followed. I had passed on all offers of grief counseling, preferring instead to cry by myself periodically, usually while in the shower. My stubbornness may have been a mistake at the time, but I'm the son of a native Greek father who only went to the doctor when he had an appendage to present for re-attachment. Actually, not even then. So writing about what I'd experienced was, I believe, my catharsis.<br />
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I had a feeling, as I was memorializing those stories, that one day they'd appear in a book. Six years later, I published a volume on the professional lines insurance industry, and those stories comprised the bulk of the chapter on September 11th.<br />
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A large number of people employed in the commercial insurance industry perished on that day, including former colleagues of mine.<br />
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There are many memories that I didn't record in those 21 pages; maybe someday I'll reduce those to writing as well. It was a very surreal time in the lives of most Americans.<br />
<br />
The first event which made me realize how screwed up things had become was when, on September 12th, I saw a Michigan State Police car cruising along Third Avenue in Gramercy Park, not far from where I live. Did New York City really need help from that far away? I'll also never forget emerging from my normal downtown subway stop on the way to work in the weeks after 9-11 and seeing the remaining shell of the World Trade Center Towers smoldering. The entire Ground Zero site emitted an odor of burnt wire and rubber. During the first couple of days, I had to show my business card to National Guard troops in order to be allowed into the area where my office was.<br />
<br />
One of the more emotional moments, at a time when such were plentiful, engulfed me as I was on the phone with a woman at Hertz trying to rent a car. It was a couple of days after September 11th and I wanted to drive from Manhattan to my sister's house at the Jersey Shore. When the rental agent, who, I believe, was in Oklahoma, realized that I was calling from Manhattan and had been living through the event and its aftermath, she suddenly dropped her businesslike tone.<br />
<br />
"<em>What's it like up there? Are you OK? Can we do anything else to help you</em>?"<br />
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Her genuine concern and kindness struck a chord deep within me. It was at that moment that I took a break from thinking about the craziness around me to realize that September 11th was not a New York catastrophe, or a Pennsylvania or Pentagon catastrophe, but truly a national catastrophe that affected every single American in a profound way. Those who were close to the events of that terrible day have no special ownership of its tragedy or an enhanced right to receive sympathy. All of our lives were changed immeasurably on September 11th. Some of us, I believe, have a duty to report what we experienced so that other Americans, current and future, may have a better idea of what transpired on that fateful day.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, below is a brief excerpt from the September 11th chapter of my book. If you would like to read the entire chapter, please e-mail me at lg727@aol.com and I will send it to you, free of charge, in a Word document. Your e-mail address will be used for no other purpose (<strong>The LG Report</strong> does not send junk e-mails; we save all our junk for our postings.)<br />
<br />
This will be one of the few times, if not the only one, when <strong>The LG Report</strong> does not attempt to provide a humorous posting.<br />
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[Excerpted from "<em>Claims Made and Reported: A Journey Through D&O, E&O and Other Professional Lines of Insurance</em>," Soho Publishing November 2008; All Rights Reserved ( <a href="http://www.sixthandspringbooks.com/product_info.php?cPath=2&products_id=362" style="color: #cc66cc; text-decoration: none;">Click Here For Book's Webpage</a>)<br />
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<br />
<br />
<strong><em>May your strength give us strength</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>May your faith give us faith</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>May your hope give us hope</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>May your love give us love</em></strong><br />
<br />
– Bruce Springsteen “<em>Into the Fire</em>”<br />
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<br />
“Into the Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2002 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP.) Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: medium;">VIII. September 11, 2001 </span></strong><br />
<br />
[<strong>Note: This chapter is a revision of a piece that I wrote just prior to the first anniversary of September 11, 2001, well before I knew that I would be writing this book. I attempted to memorialize many of the events that I had seen and heard about on September 11th and during the year following that unfathomable tragedy. Given that so many commercial insurance people died on that dreadful day, I thought it appropriate to include those writings in this book. One-quarter of this book’s net proceeds will be donated to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum</strong>.]<br />
<br />
<br />
The morning of September 11, 2001 began like most other mornings for me at the time. I woke at 6:30 am and spent 32 minutes riding my exercise bicycle in my living room on East 18th Street in Manhattan while watching TV. I then showered and got ready for work at AIG’s downtown offices. Every morning, just before leaving my apartment, I’d rip a page off my horoscope-of-the-day calendar to see what the stars were predicting for me. This routine was attributable to my mother, who passed away in 1993. She used to put a horoscope-of-the-day calendar into my Christmas stocking every year starting in about 1980. After my mother died, my sister Maria continued the tradition. My guess is that I had read my daily horoscope almost every morning for 21 consecutive years.<br />
<br />
That day, something very strange happened even before I left my apartment. I was about to rip off September 10th’s page to read the new day’s prediction when I said to myself, for no discernible reason, “<em>The world is different now, I’m not going to read horoscopes anymore, I don’t believe in them</em>.” With that thought, I unceremoniously threw the entire calendar into the garbage. This was the first time in 21 years that I knowingly refused to read my daily horoscope.<br />
<br />
Outside on Third Avenue I flagged a cab and headed south to my office at AIG in the financial district, in keeping with my routine. I want to emphasize here that I don’t claim to have ESP or any special ability to see the future, but there was an unusual aspect to my commute. Riding down Third Avenue (which turns into Bowery Street in lower Manhattan), there was a point in Chinatown, called Chatham Square, where the Twin Towers would become visible from the cab after being obscured earlier by buildings. In my mind’s eye, I would regularly imagine the Towers exploding from a high floor just as I entered Chatham Square. I didn’t know what would cause an explosion and I certainly never thought that a plane would be responsible. Nonetheless, I was envisioning a large eruption of gray and black smoke. This vision was the only reason that I knew the name of Chatham Square (whose sign was rather obscured): I felt strongly that someday it would be an important detail and I took special note of it. Over the previous three years, whenever I’d arrive in Chatham Square to see the Towers unharmed I would literally breathe a sigh of relief. Even on September 11, 2001 I had that (false) sense of security upon seeing them intact.<br />
<br />
My next significant memory of that morning occurred shortly before 9 am. My home phone service had inexplicably been malfunctioning for a few days and I finally got around to calling Verizon. I was dialing customer service when a colleague, Jason Brown, entered my office to tell me that he heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center Towers. I looked out my office window and saw dense clouds of paper fluttering high across the sky towards Brooklyn. It reminded me of the many ticker tape parades that I had seen along lower Broadway after a championship season or during a world dignitary’s visit. But I knew there was no parade that day. Something was wrong.<br />
<br />
A bunch of us went downstairs to get a better look. Standing on the sidewalk in front of 175 Water Street with an ever-growing crowd of upward-looking gawkers (much like the throngs in a 1950s science fiction film watching descending UFOs on a city street), I remember thinking, or perhaps hoping, that helicopters with fire hoses would show up…of course, they didn’t.<br />
<br />
Mesmerized, a colleague, John Feniello, shook his head and said, “<em>That fire is going to burn for days</em>.” Of course, he had no idea, nor did I, that the fire would burn not for mere days but for months – but not high in the sky, rather much lower, among the ruins of the Towers. But it seemed logical at the time; it was the only thing that we could believe.<br />
<br />
When the second plane hit the South Tower, any doubts I had that this was a terrorist attack were immediately erased. We knew the country was under attack. Shrill screams could be heard and genuine panic started to set in, even though the worst was yet to come. Security guards announced that our building was closing for the day and told everyone to leave the area immediately. Much of the crowd started heading toward the ferries that were gathering at the foot of Wall Street. Others started walking uptown toward subways or buses that might, or might not, be in service. People also began walking across several bridges to escape the city.<br />
<br />
It was a horror movie coming to life.<br />
<br />
But I couldn’t leave, not at first anyway. I wanted to watch the firefighters battling the blazes. There’s no rational explanation, but I didn’t want to move until I knew that the situation was under control.<br />
<br />
After a while of just staring up at the Towers, I heard a deep rumbling, like gigantic concrete bowling pins colliding. The noise didn’t last long, maybe five seconds at most. Before I knew what was happening, the South Tower slipped down out of my sight. It just disappeared…like a high-rise house of cards, its base kicked out from under it by an angry child. Moments later, the three-story building in front of us stood taller than the 110-story tower in the distance that had just been compressed back into its foundation. It was the sickest feeling, one that I don’t think I can quite explain. I saw it and I heard it and I felt it but I still can’t believe it. The Twin Towers seemed like the 100-year-old oak trees in your front yard: they couldn’t be moved or bent. If anything, they held up the sky. They anchored lower Manhattan and provided a sense of direction for every New Yorker who’d ever lost his bearings.<br />
<br />
The collapse and disintegration of the South Tower seared my brain. I sincerely hope that I never see anything as stomach-churning again. People around me started screaming and crying. Everyone on the sidewalk knew someone who was in the Towers – a relative, a friend or a business acquaintance. Some people threw down briefcases and started running. I kept staring in shock. At that instant, I think everyone on the sidewalk knew that we had just witnessed the death of an unimaginable number of people. It occurred to me almost instantly that even the most battle-hardened soldiers never see so many people killed in a single instant. The aircrews who dropped the atomic bombs in World War II were not five blocks away at ground level when their payloads did their dirty work. And five blocks was relatively far in a sense; hundreds of firefighters, police officers, emergency medical technicians and other heroes were right on site. One firefighter later described the scene in this way: “<em>Everything was on fire, everything you saw was burning. It was what I imagine Hell to be like</em>.”<br />
<br />
Quickly, certainly more quickly than I’d have imagined, a thick white cloud of smoke came rolling at us. It was a five-story-tall fog and it was moving fast. For a few seconds I froze. The bright September sky was being obscured. Then a guy not ten feet away from me breathlessly shouted “Run…ground smoke…it could kill us!”<br />
<br />
I suddenly realized that there might have been deadly chemicals in the plane. There was no rational basis for this belief; but then again, nobody knew anything for sure at that point. The frenzy spread instantly: people dropped briefcases and bags and started running, screaming, just trying to get away from the smoke as quickly as possible. I remember thinking, “Those bastards, they might get me too, this could be how I die…” The fear of death was real and it was everywhere.<br />
<br />
About two or three hundred of us ran straight toward the East River, only a block away, and then north past the South Street Seaport. I’ve since heard that some people actually jumped into the river to avoid the smoke but I didn’t see that. As we ran up the closed FDR Expressway the dense white fallout followed us. We formed a seemingly endless herd of stampeding business suits. Burning smells and the piercing screams of emergency vehicles joined to assault our senses. It was a war zone, although until that moment I don’t think that I had ever actually thought to imagine one. The word that describes it best and one which I’ve never truly experienced before: Bedlam.<br />
<br />
I was alternately running and walking with four coworkers as we headed to my apartment about two miles away on 18th Street. A friend from San Francisco who was in town on business, in the lobby of the North Tower when the first plane hit, had – by some unbelievable stroke of good luck – noticed me amidst all the confusion and joined our group. When we were about halfway up the FDR, a guy who had been listening to a hand-held radio via earphone yelled out “The second tower just fell.” People gasped but we all just kept running. A few looked back.<br />
<br />
When we got to my apartment, I wanted to tell the outside world the names of those who were safe. However, I still had a dead home phone and cell phone service was, at best, sporadic. Fortunately, my computer’s internet connection was working so I sat down and composed a message to everyone in my e-mail address book. To this day, many years later, I have not re-read that e-mail because I know that it will bring back many painful memories. But, I later learned, it was forwarded around the globe to those interested in first-hand accounts of the events in New York City on that dark day. My friend’s wife, who is an elementary school teacher, said that she used it in her classes as an example of a first-person account of September 11th. Here is that note:<br />
<br />
__________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<em>From: LG727@aol.com</em><br />
<em>Sent: Tuesday, September 11, 2001 12:58 PM</em><br />
<em>To: Larry.Goanos@aig.com</em><br />
<em>Bcc: Everyone in my address book</em><br />
<em>Subject: The Surreal Events of Today</em><br />
<br />
<em>I am shaking like a leaf in a windstorm as I type this. I cannot believe the events of today, as I'm sure you can't. I was in my office at 8:50 this morning when a colleague came in and said </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center and papers were flying everywhere. I looked out the window of my office and saw a ticker-tape-parade type stream of papers flittering across the sky. After a few short minutes and various reports, some erroneous, a group of us descended in the elevator to the ground floor of our building, where we exited and looked to the left a bit where we saw Two World Trade Center, five blocks away, ablaze from the top third of the building. It was unreal. The black smoke and red flames framed against a clear blue sky. </em><br />
<br />
<em>The crowd on the sidewalk grew exponentially until we were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, at least 300 people staring upwards. One of my colleagues had just been in the lobby of One World Trade when the plane hit. He said smoke immediately came shooting down the elevator shafts and filled the lobby as people exited in terror. Pandemonium. He ran back to our </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>building, covered with soot, where he stood with us to watch in horror. We all stood around gaping at the flames, not aware of any possible danger to us. I sat and thought about how many people I know in those two towers who have no doubt perished. I'm aware of at least seven people from my subsidiary of AIG who were in one tower on a high floor. We do a lot of </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>business with Aon, an insurance broker on the top three or four floors of Two World Trade Center. As I type this, emergency vehicles are swirling by on the street outside my apartment on 18th Street. The massive cloud where the WTC used to stand is visible out my living room window. </em><br />
<br />
<em>As we watched the flames, after about twenty minutes, all of a sudden World Trade Center Tower One, which we could only see above the 40th floor or so ,collapsed before our eyes. It was the sickest, most surreal, most stomach-churning thing that I have ever seen in my life. My nerves became electrified, in a bad way, and I felt almost like I would collapse as well. Other people did. People started crying and getting hysterical, obviously because they knew people in WTC One and/or know any of the many, many police and firemen and rescue workers who were in and around the building trying to extinguish the fire and save lives. I just heard the mayor on the radio and he said he can't even get a rough estimate of how many firemen and police and EMTs died in the two WTC Tower collapses, he just said the number would be very large, staggering. </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>This whole day is unfathomable. </em><br />
<br />
<em>As I type this I continue to shake. I think about all the people who I know in those two towers and I can feel tears well up. There will be far too many funerals to attend. Many bodies, I'm sure, will never be identified. It is unbelievable. At least 50 to 100 people I know died today. Can you imagine that? Unless you're in a war, which I think we will be soon, that doesn't </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>happen. Many of you too, if not all, are in a similar situation, maybe you know even more who passed. Hopefully many of our friends and acquaintances were away on business or vacation, or running late. Our lives are changed forever and I don't think I'm being dramatic in saying that. </em><br />
<br />
<em>A few seconds after WTC One collapsed, a large, probably five-story high plume of white smoke erupted, far denser than any fog I'd seen living in San Francisco. All of a sudden, someone yelled "ground smoke, run, it can kill us!" and people began panicking, although, I must say it was a controlled panic if there can be such a thing. Hundreds of people began running, although not trampling each other, actually helping each other to some extent. Although one friend of mine asked a car service to give him a ride to Westchester (the car was empty but for the driver) and he said, "Sure, $2,000." I'll let that statement stand as its own condemnation of mankind, or at least one (hopefully small) segment of mankind. </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>As we walked/ran up the East Side under the FDR, past the South Street Seaport, the white cloud of deep dust/soot/whatever, followed us intently. It was moving at a good pace and, I must say, I feared for my life briefly, either from dying of smoke inhalation or being trampled. I don't think I was </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>alone in that feeling, it was very, very scary, and my words don't do it justice. We continued running and walking up the East Side, myself and four co-workers. All of a sudden I heard someone say "Larry Goanos!" I looked and it was Fran Higgins, a friend from San Francisco who's brother-in-law, John Doyle, works with me at AIG. He was scheduled to be in a meeting at Two WTC at 9 am and was running late, it took him an extra hour to get in from his sister's house in Westchester and he was in the lobby when the first plane hit. He ran outside and saw debris falling and three people actually jumping off high floors in order to kill themselves via the impact rather than await being burned by the intense flames. Reports are that many other people jumped as well. Fran didn't know where to go so I invited him to join me in the trek to my apartment about two miles north. He had two heavy bags but lumbered on. His father narrowly missed the bombing at WTC in 1992. Two bullets dodged by his family at the WTC. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Cell phones weren't working. People were screaming out names. It was sick (to re-use a phrase again and again; it is, sadly, the most appropriate.) The FDR expressway was closed. People were running everywhere, keeping an eye on the large cloud following us. Some were ready to jump into the East River to escape the smoke if need be. As we got about six or eight blocks up the FDR someone who had an earphone of a radio in their ear reported that WTC 2 had just collapsed as well. The whole thing was the sickest, most twisted, surreal, screwed up thing that I had ever heard or imagined. </em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>Eventually we made our way to my friend Jim Riely's place on East 22nd Street. As fate would have it, my phone had gone out of service last night and I was going to call Verizon to fix it this morning. My cell was working only in spots because of the great strain on the system. At Jim's we found Jim, Dan O'Connell, Colleen Dempsey (Doreen, Jim's wife, works uptown and ,I'm sure, is safe) and Chris Doyle, Jim's partner. Because a lot of you know a lot of these people, here are the names of people who I know are safe beside those above (a lot of phones are down but my internet cable connection is working, at least for now): Dennis Gustafson, Rose Mosca, Peter Wessel, John Feniello, Sandy Nalewajk, Kirk Raslowsky and Jennifer Raslowsky and their young daughter Alexandra (who they were just about to drop off in day care at the WTC when the first plane hit; they made it our office in tears, clothes askew, Kirk had just thrown down his briefcase, grabbed his wife and daughter, and ran) John Iannotti, Ray DeCarlo, Greg Flood, Mike </em><br />
<em>Mitrovic, Kris Moor, John Doyle, Susan Eagan, Gail Mazarolle, Dawn Paolino.</em><br />
<br />
<em>If you know any of their families and don't know if they've been contacted, please call them if your phone works. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Many more are safe, I'm sure, it was just hard to get a gauge with all the smoke and pandemonium. There are now six of us in my apartment watching CNN.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>I stopped and picked up more bottled water on the way here because people were saying there are rumors of chemical warfare and possible contamination in the water (probably not true but why take a chance.) Things seem to be calming down a bit now (I've been taking a break between typing to let others send e-mails) but I'm sure our lives will never be the same. The tranquility of life in America has been shattered, we have been dragged into the trenches with the rest of the world. Our soil is no longer sacred, protected ground. Anyway, the people who I've mentioned are all safe, as am I. God bless America and God bless us all.</em><br />
___________________________________________________<br />
<br />
My friend Dennis and I met twenty five years ago, when we were both in college. He came to live for a summer with the Campaniles, close family friends of ours who live down the block from my childhood home at the Jersey Shore. A Virginia native, Dennis was interning for the summer with Kidder, Peabody on Wall Street. He is now Father Dennis, a Catholic priest in the New York Archdiocese. One of Father Dennis’s good friends, Father George, was an auxiliary chaplain with the New York City Fire Department in September of 2001. He was summoned to the World Trade Center shortly after the first plane hit on the morning of September 11th. That day, I was told, marked the first time in the history of the New York City Fire Department that all 30 auxiliary chaplains were summoned to a single fire. They gathered at St. Peter’s Church on Barclay Street, about two blocks north of the burning towers.<br />
<br />
Father George said that virtually every fire truck racing to the World Trade Center stopped at St. Peter’s so that the crews could confess their sins (the majority of NYC firefighters are Roman Catholic) before charging into the flaming buildings. The commanders admonished their subordinates to skip confession because of the magnitude and urgency of the situation, but the rank-and-file firefighters paid no heed. These men forced almost every truck to stop at the St. Peter’s on what would be the final fire call for most of them. Father George sensed that these brave men did not necessarily foresee the Twin Towers collapsing, but they knew that they would very likely lose their lives saving others and they wanted to square up with God first. So many firefighters stopped for this final holy sacrament – despite the unprecedented importance of their mission – that the priests had to absolve them of their sins en masse as they jumped off the trucks. There was no time for individual confessions. These courageous public servants knew that they were going to die, and yet they pressed onward to discharge their duties. In the face of the fiercest fires anyone had ever seen, they had no thoughts of their own safety, only of saving others. Ironically, St. Peter is believed to usher the deceased through the Gates of Heaven. Perhaps on September 11, 2001 his work began for 343 firefighters at a church bearing his name.<br />
<br />
I have not seen the story above – every word of which I believe true – anywhere in the media. Despite that, I think it’s an important account to record. The same holds true for most of the other entries in this chapter, collected during that fateful day and in the year that limped along behind it. In most cases I have not changed the temporal references so that it’s clear these were the thoughts of someone writing just a year after September 11, 2001. Every New Yorker, and every American, has vivid recollections of personal experiences connected to those attacks on our nation. As we all know, it was not merely a New York tragedy or a Washington, DC tragedy or a Pennsylvania tragedy; it was an American tragedy which left no citizen untouched. This chapter is one New Yorker’s attempt at documenting some of the events of that horrific day and its aftermath in the following year.<br />
<br />
<strong>The Call</strong><br />
<br />
My friend John works at Marsh’s world headquarters in midtown at Sixth Avenue and 45th Street. On the morning of September 11th he and his colleagues heard the reports of a plane crash and looked out their midtown windows to see the flames and smoke consuming the WTC North Tower that housed additional Marsh offices. Frantic calls to coworkers in the World Trade Center went unanswered.<br />
<br />
By early afternoon Marsh management decided to survey their World Trade Center employees’ families to determine who was accounted for and who wasn’t. They asked for volunteers to call employees’ homes to see if they had checked in with their families. John, wanting to help out in some way, volunteered. He was given a list of names and phone numbers. He called the first few numbers and got only answering machines. Then a woman finally answered at one residence. “Hi, this is John, I work for Marsh,” he began, “I’m calling to see if your husband has contacted you to say he’s OK.”<br />
<br />
The woman who answered the phone began crying. “I thought you were him,” she said through her tears. She hadn’t yet heard from her husband. John gave the woman two Marsh hotline numbers. His stomach twisted into a knot as he hung up the phone. John dialed another couple of numbers but then turned in his list, unable to make any more calls.<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael Cahill</strong><br />
<br />
Mike was the one I knew the best out of the three Marsh FINPRO victims whose memorials I attended. When I worked at Marsh for two years in the mid-1990s I had called Mike often for his advice on fidelity insurance matters (about which I knew nothing and he was an expert.) When I returned to working for AIG, I dealt with Mike from the other side of the table. The universal opinion on Mike was that he was a great guy who was always willing to help out and had as much integrity as anyone in the business. He was the kind of guy who you knew would be an exemplary brother or teammate; Mike was always there for you when you needed him.<br />
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Mike’s memorial service was held at St. Aidan’s Church in East Williston, New York (Long Island) on a morning in early October of 2001. The place was already jammed 20 minutes before the start. In retrospect I recall a rainy and gloomy day but I’m not sure if my memory is accurate or simply clouded by the general nature of the proceedings. Like hundreds of others in the packed church, I filed in quietly and found a seat. What transpired over the next hour I won’t recount in detail, although I can tell you that the first three to speak at the ceremony (Mike’s parish priest, his brother and his boss at Marsh, Tom Vietor) all rose to the occasion and did an admirable job under staggeringly sad conditions. The last eulogist however, Mike’s wife Colleen, left to rear their two beautiful young children herself, took it to another level. She spoke with unparalleled eloquence, passion and composure.<br />
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I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand from where Colleen drew her strength (the inspiring memories of Mike, no doubt, had much to do with it), but I have never witnessed such a display of courage and composure in the face of a tragedy of this magnitude.<br />
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Her eulogy was funny, endearing and engaging. It was simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking. It captured the essence of Mike perfectly, at least as I knew him, which only magnified our sense of loss. She recounted, among other things, that the story of who-pursued-who in the relationship differed depending upon whose version you heard, Mike’s or Colleen’s. They had met as summer-share housemates in the Hamptons. According to Mike’s version, Colleen sat by the pool reading a paperback with eyeholes cut right through the book so that she could follow his every move.<br />
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Colleen’s eyes, amazingly, remained dry throughout the eulogy. Both her words and their deliverance were truly inspirational. The final piece to Colleen’s tribute was an REM song, one of Mike’s favorites. St. Aidan’s graciously allowed the family to play the recording over the church’s loudspeakers as the memorial concluded and people filed out even though, strictly speaking, it was against church policy. I don’t recall the title, but it was about a guy who, smitten with a woman, calls to ask her out but gets her answering machine. It mirrored in a way Mike’s own courting of Colleen. As the song played my eyes were drawn to the couple’s innocent children fidgeting in the front pew of the church. It was a sledgehammer of sadness and it found its mark in most of us. As Colleen walked up the center aisle to exit, the previously-muted sobs of the crowd began to rise in unison, unabated. All but those few souls who had already cried themselves out were in tears as the church emptied.<br />
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Again, for a copy of the entire chapter, please e-mail lg727@aol.com. <br />
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For information on the National September 11 Memorial & Museum, please go to <a href="http://www.national911memorial.org/" style="color: #cc66cc; text-decoration: none;">http://www.national911memorial.org/</a>.</div>
Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-52658452536495777152015-09-15T20:33:00.002-04:002015-09-15T20:33:18.387-04:00LG Vacation Summer 2015 - Italy & Greece<span style="font-size: large;">LG, The Wife and six friends went to Italy and Greece on vacation a few weeks ago. As a self-declared internationally-acclaimed travel writer (no need to Google it, trust somebody for once you skeptical, trust-issue-having S.O.B), LG felt obligated to post some photos of his vacation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It started in Rome and continued during a seven-day cruise (Royal Caribbean; LG gets $1,000 every time he mentions the company) to four stops in Greece. It concluded, after the cruise, with LG and The Wife (LG loses $1,000 every time he refers to his spouse as "The Wife") enjoying two days in Venezia (that's Venice for you unwashed masses down at the roller rink and laundromat). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So here we go.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the Roman Coliseum. A funny thing happened to LG on the way to it, but that's a long story. You can rent a headset and listen to a bunch of seemingly-interesting facts about the Coliseum for three hours or you can take one photo and make up your own facts. That red port-a-potty in the lower left of this photo is from 435 B.C. It was invented by Julius Hava Shatticus. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNnYv8akEYeQQL4Zz_i8ow__cKcrDvuMUWv8s4v9Fu0HrmGNGhzsxoqa9bayyTfW95lpmYDYUlDqfIQDMIxyDsxU3MEfHDJoyKeEa8bpGHkBpH0Jye1NlPP-HygTxPVqv-eXKfTSQe3FL/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNnYv8akEYeQQL4Zz_i8ow__cKcrDvuMUWv8s4v9Fu0HrmGNGhzsxoqa9bayyTfW95lpmYDYUlDqfIQDMIxyDsxU3MEfHDJoyKeEa8bpGHkBpH0Jye1NlPP-HygTxPVqv-eXKfTSQe3FL/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+097.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> This was our open-air tour bus in Rome. Pro Tip: Don't take an open-air tour bus in Rome. Not in August anyway. The sun is hotter in Rome in August than it is on the actual surface of the sun, and there is no shade in an open-air tour bus. Also, very few of the people speak English so they don't understand when you say "Hotter than a witch's tit" and sweat a gallon of fluid onto the bus floor. And, believe it or not, that phrase is not in most Italian language phrase books. Little did these people realize that the backs of their foreign heads would be on an internationally-acclaimed blog. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You think your town has some run-down areas, there are a lot of very old buildings in Rome. This one is older than Betty White. And there are buildings like this everywhere. Rather than stop to discover what it actually is/was, LG just rides by and marvels and makes shit up. Although reliable sources say that this was once a Home Depot. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0JNjsn1U3EUTMbpKHwiE2sgP7yz4IgQc54hEUyO758_8ej5sW0HDDGXBtwYmS371ySBplSTfZk_8ieAabJnr5cwf1tRBLbS7LIdy1xd8xVWoxoAu7_ExNuMHjChMpzk3-ZJp_9-Q__lg/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0JNjsn1U3EUTMbpKHwiE2sgP7yz4IgQc54hEUyO758_8ej5sW0HDDGXBtwYmS371ySBplSTfZk_8ieAabJnr5cwf1tRBLbS7LIdy1xd8xVWoxoAu7_ExNuMHjChMpzk3-ZJp_9-Q__lg/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+095.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For you foodies, this was a typical Italian meal in Rome. Whoops, guess the photographer was a bit slow on the shutter. What was there was pretty dang good. All of the food in Rome is at least very good if not excellent. Better, even, than your average Olive Garden. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgen_2HfLVL5bALNAXBCgQIx6-oIZk6NrlnCdHMd-KF3iXawpgDo4Za7mKXjRHkO1IWsZGt5nzpMMy1Q778pPkqXzsJmh3vKWyqdMrbBzbRbVORdSMINifwJ2WMeNCAo-j6g2sRyeHwkcsJ/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgen_2HfLVL5bALNAXBCgQIx6-oIZk6NrlnCdHMd-KF3iXawpgDo4Za7mKXjRHkO1IWsZGt5nzpMMy1Q778pPkqXzsJmh3vKWyqdMrbBzbRbVORdSMINifwJ2WMeNCAo-j6g2sRyeHwkcsJ/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+106.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Romans haven't fully embraced modern technology yet. Apparently, when one receives a fax in Rome the customary practice is to spray paint the word "Fax" on the side of the recipient's office building so that they know to check their fax machine. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UK3tfem6-n6xqwYj85wEUwhiGkA8-fh6Fn-HJlmQ0ewPq5ulPNo9p4gpHGNfXPcDuPfLMfHL-z7rUoReN8zeONDGc6QPOC6HCBCgalrEhDGHE9yhNnDYRDLP66wZVq66pln3LvdGNlyV/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UK3tfem6-n6xqwYj85wEUwhiGkA8-fh6Fn-HJlmQ0ewPq5ulPNo9p4gpHGNfXPcDuPfLMfHL-z7rUoReN8zeONDGc6QPOC6HCBCgalrEhDGHE9yhNnDYRDLP66wZVq66pln3LvdGNlyV/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+151.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the ceiling of a room in the Vatican Museum, the second largest museum in the world (behind the Museum of Donald Trump's Hairpieces). This museum contains eight miles of corridors according to the tour guide (he did seem a little shifty however; his name as P. Francis or something like that, wore a red hat.) While people are busy looking up at the ornate ceilings pickpockets are busy lifting wallets. Pro Tip: Don't look at anything in Rome, just cling tightly to your wallet. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iWuf-D3-tpoEV7talguvOrdzUP7G6UELiU9OMKsv_zfZ7_0EmoK81HUKhDaqH6ElJ0KhSBV6ZKwAmivSKqOp4WTN00E3A0BV00kTAnUVhXkadcuJoWIrxrWWhm4vRBGKWNhfZfYj37cD/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iWuf-D3-tpoEV7talguvOrdzUP7G6UELiU9OMKsv_zfZ7_0EmoK81HUKhDaqH6ElJ0KhSBV6ZKwAmivSKqOp4WTN00E3A0BV00kTAnUVhXkadcuJoWIrxrWWhm4vRBGKWNhfZfYj37cD/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+164.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is one of the pools on the cruise ship on which LG and The Wife and six friends sailed. Because it departed from Italy, only about 15% of the passengers spoke English. The other 85% of the passengers found what LG had to say to be very interesting!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEDfRtgrzpujPXMCzWywf1nqMlESedIxl1iFBM0K76xyaHlybJQZw3mnS4Yp25ZQCEhmcxJ-hvPUKrhJcV-OLZnt03slQlKgDwDMb4lju_ydH6lLHIdi_q6hsYdq-4gbeygn1d00dFPZP/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEDfRtgrzpujPXMCzWywf1nqMlESedIxl1iFBM0K76xyaHlybJQZw3mnS4Yp25ZQCEhmcxJ-hvPUKrhJcV-OLZnt03slQlKgDwDMb4lju_ydH6lLHIdi_q6hsYdq-4gbeygn1d00dFPZP/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+008.jpg" width="452" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is not LG (sorry ladies) but this is the model of bathing suit that LG wore on the cruise. However, LG's agent prevents the posting of those photos. GQ gets the first rights. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47bnAIHUeoG91S6IWvlLBelNT54VwTK-tSxd0gM2ziYl2cOTJVv6OhAkptcuYutGGsSRYf53Hq4TA1FiJ0-Efavf7dkoBDMepKGPaV6OpRS6Ezb84gxLOf2PLXWGUBh5dJLy_hGRYENfT/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47bnAIHUeoG91S6IWvlLBelNT54VwTK-tSxd0gM2ziYl2cOTJVv6OhAkptcuYutGGsSRYf53Hq4TA1FiJ0-Efavf7dkoBDMepKGPaV6OpRS6Ezb84gxLOf2PLXWGUBh5dJLy_hGRYENfT/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+165.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is LG posing right before the cruise ship's "World's Sexiest Man" competition. No need to say who won, it's pretty obvious. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNn0q5-gUrjCK6JgLycrus2-DLyNGvz-1EebtFZSd6oaBs5RGjotyFORPWTK6pzZAhhPdD1swl2mQc6uOE1pxWqweatVba8-dbvVi86J8naWahXr4bZKvBBkfIylk6ZMAw1nvWeMj7vpD/s1600/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNn0q5-gUrjCK6JgLycrus2-DLyNGvz-1EebtFZSd6oaBs5RGjotyFORPWTK6pzZAhhPdD1swl2mQc6uOE1pxWqweatVba8-dbvVi86J8naWahXr4bZKvBBkfIylk6ZMAw1nvWeMj7vpD/s640/Photos+from+Vacation+Sept+2015+068.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is Sophie. She wasn't on the vacation but her contract calls for her to be on every LG Report post. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a view of Santorini, Greece from the harbor. The guy who owns the white paint franchise on Santorini is doing pretty well for himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here's another view of Santorini. LG dove off that church dome into the Aegean 500 feet below. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here's LG with Mike Milbury. This photo wasn't from the vacation, it was from a wedding in Boston earlier this summer. LG just wanted to post it. If you don't know who Mike Milbury is, you can YouTube him along with "shoe beating." He was a Boston Bruin great who once went into the stands at Madison Square Garden and wielded a shoe as a weapon even more effectively than LG's Greek grandmother. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mykonos island's capital city has a maze of narrow white streets designed to confuse invading pirates and tourists. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a typically overcrowded bus in Greece. LG tried to ask the driver if the large number of passengers complied with U.S. highway safety laws but he was inexplicably ignored. The ticket taker, after having apparently told a passenger "one thousand times" (by his own declaration) that she couldn't eat on the bus, grabbed her bag of peanuts and threw it out the open window, narrowly missing people waiting at the next bus stop. If that had occurred in the U.S., a federal lawsuit would've been filed before the next stop and TMZ would've been on site. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> This is a statue in a museum in Olympia, Greece, site of the first Olympics (in about 700 B.C. maybe? LG forgets the exact date, it was long ago...) LG almost got thrown out of the museum (true story) for innocently posing behind a headless statue with his head in place of the missing noggin. The security guard dropped her Greek Edition People Magazine and raced over to admonish LG before making sure that he deleted said photo. Another treasure lost for the ages. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Meanwhile, back on the cruise ship, Royal Caribbean (cha ching, another $1,000) awarded LG a medal for being "The Most Outstanding Cruise Passenger Ever," or something like that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the cruise, LG and The Wife went to Venice. This is one of the canals. The people on the left are wanted to art theft in France (LG had to say something to spice up this photo). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">LG took The Wife on a gondola ride (about $140 for 40 minutes if you really must know). That is the "Bridge of Sighs" in the background (or is that considered the foreground?) So named because prisoners would supposedly cross it on their way to prison and would sigh at their last sight of the beauty of Venice before their incarceration. Probably a B.S. story but that's what they tell tourists. Don't be a killjoy by Googling it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here a man is practicing the age-old art of glass blowing on the island of Murano, just off Venice (all glass blowing was segregated on a separate island after a large fire in Venice long ago; again, possibly total tourist B.S. but that's what they told us....) There is also a Domino's extra pepperoni pizza being cooked in there if you look closely. After the brief "tour" (consisting of standing in one spot and watching this guy for ten minutes while faced with a discretely placed "Tips" jar), a personal guide will bring you through eight showrooms of glass products, featuring such low-cost items as $50,000 chandeliers and $100,000 glass sculptures of clowns and horses. Key chains were $80. And the kicker is that they supposedly won't sell to anyone on-line unless you've personally been to the factory. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This shirt was displayed in a storefront in Venice. LG is always amazed by the nonsensical t-shirts sold in Europe as U.S. originals. Of course, everyone in the U.S. wears athletic t-shirts identifying themselves as a "player." Among other shirts that LG saw were those touting (absolutely true): "Downtown Los Angeles, U.S. Cup Champions," and "National University, East Coast Division, Champions." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The sun setting as seen from Santorini will bring this post to a close. LG hopes you've enjoyed some snaps from his vacation. Feel free to leave laudatory comments at your leisure....and don't forget to root for Downtown Los Angeles in this year's U.S. Cup! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yasou! </span></div>
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-67593631963097806342015-09-11T07:01:00.002-04:002015-09-11T07:01:35.094-04:00Observations from Ground Zero on September 15, 2001 <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Here's a copy of an email that I sent from my home in NYC to a number of friends less than a week after September 11, 2001. We will, of course, never forget. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>May all those innocent victims who perished rest in peace. </b></span></div>
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<b>From:</b> LG727@aol.com<br />
<b>Sent:</b> Saturday, September 15, 2001 8:49 PM<br />
<b>To:</b> LG727@aol.com<br />
<b>Subject:</b> Observations from Ground Zero - 9/15/01<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Some of you asked me to keep you updated on what's going on in NYC during this difficult time. I actually find it cathartic to write about it; the whole things is just so overwhelming, so all-encompassing, so horrific. Standing by and watching the largest structure you've ever seen in your life collapse, taking thousands of lives with it in one instant, is an experience which defies description, no matter how large and precise your vocabulary is. It was an emotion like none I've ever felt and I hope to never feel again.<br /><br />I, and, I'm sure, all of my fellow New Yorkers and others affected by this great tragedy, appreciate the concern on the part of everyone who has called and E-mailed, it is really overwhelming, heartwarming and life-affirming. <br /><br />I personally have heard from people in every part of the United States and from overseas as well. Both people that I love and hear from frequently and those who I haven't spoken to in a while have checked in to offer support (offering sentiments such as "Come visit us if you'd like to get out of the city," and "Call if you need anything;") It's really touching and heartwarming and a stark contrast to the evil that has brought all this devastation to bear. <br /><br />It's unfortunate that it takes a grotesque tragedy like this to draw us together as a nation and as human beings, but I guess that's a slight silver lining in an otherwise very dark cloud.<br /><br />Today, Saturday, I called Hertz to rent a car in NYC (on Wednesday when I walked to the Hertz office by my apartment there was a sign in the window: "No Reservation, No Car") and the lady on the other end, with a very distinctive Texas accent, said to me when we were done transacting business, "How are you doing in NYC?" I said: "I'm OK, hanging in there." She replied: "Well that's good. I want you to know that this has affected the entire country and we're all taking it hard and our thoughts and prayers are with you all." That almost made me cry. The nameless, faceless Hertz lady at some unknown customer service location was reaching out in a heartfelt and genuine way to a stranger in NYC who was trying to rent a car in Manhattan. If there's anything that illustrates more clearly how our nation has been drawn together by this tragedy, I don't know what it is.<br /><br />Today Mayor Giuliani declared downtown Manhattan (where my office is) open to pedestrians, more an act of defiance to the terrorists who would keep it closed, I think, than an act of practicality. My friend Fr. Dennis called me this morning and asked if I wanted to walk downtown with him, which I did, but before I tell you what we found, I want to relate a few stories from the last few days (if you're willing to read on).<br /><br />I know that people in New York, Washington, Pennsylvania and Boston don't hold a monopoly on the sadness and misfortune which has resulted from this tragedy; it has affected every person in every state in our nation (as well as people in other nations). Friends of mine with young children have told me how their kids have asked questions such as "How can two men kill 10,000 people?" and "Daddy, what if a pilot wants to fly his plane into our house on purpose?" <br /><br />Little kids are having nightmares about this (not to mention big kids like me). Every person, every generation, of our country has been affected by these heinous acts.<br /><br />I'm sure you've all heard stories, some exaggerated and some true, about different aspects of the events of 9/11/01. Here are just a couple that I want to pass on. <br /><br />First, if you read my previous e-mail on Tuesday about this experience, you know that my company does a lot of business with AON, an insurance brokerage on the top floors (102 and above I believe) of the 2nd tower that was hit. One guy I know there, who I had dinner with last Tuesday night, was a designated "fire warden" for his company. I was once a fire warden for my company. Basically, no matter what building in America you are in, they always tell you the same thing: "In case of fire, always take the stairs, never use the elevator." Well, to make a long story short, this particular person, a very upstanding guy, acquitted himself perfectly and led the 40 people in his care into the stairway. He held the door as they all entered. Once the last person got in and he was about to enter himself (again, following all the rules) someone yanked him into an elevator and said "Come with us." <br /><br />The elevator zoomed to the ground floor and everyone ran out of the building (WTC 2), including this guy, about one minute before it collapsed. Now he feels that he's responsible for the deaths of 40 people because he led them into the stairwell and then he took the elevator which made it to the ground floor well ahead of the people taking the stairs. <br /><br />That's crazy and unrealistic (the elevator could have just as easily crashed and he would have died); as could have the entire building gone down, who knew the odds of either possibility at the time? But that's how he feels, as if he's responsible for those 40 people dying. That's a residual effect of this tragedy that doesn't show up in the statistics. I know of other people who feel guilty that they survived, and, I'm sure, there are many more.<br /><br />My friend Fr. Dennis has a friend who's an auxiliary chaplain for the NYC Fire Department who was called to the scene. The main chaplain for the NYC Fire Department (Fr. Judge) was killed when someone who was jumping out of one of the towers (to avoid being melted to death, nice choice: melt or jump) landed on him. This auxiliary chaplain said that the reason that you only saw replays of the planes hitting and other non-ground scenes for the first ten hours or so was because there were human heads, literally, rolling around on the streets and body parts everywhere. It was akin to the worst war scene that you could imagine (and, again, it probably did signal the beginning of a war). <br /><br />He said that he could not even begin to count the number of body parts that he saw on the ground. That's gross and I'm sorry if it's distasteful for you to read but it's the truth. Apparently, all of the TV stations agreed not to show the ground scenes until the cleanup got most of the body parts out of the way.<br /><br />So, anyway, back to today. Fr. Dennis and I walked downtown. Below Canal Street no cars were allowed. There were police and national guardsmen (who dress like regular soldiers while on duty in case you've never seen them in action, which I hope you haven't) all over the place. We walked down to my office building at 175 Water Street (I was hoping to get up there to get some things I need for work on Monday when I'm reporting to another AIG office in Berkeley Heights, NJ) but there was no electricity on and nobody was allowed into the building. There was a layer of mud-like soot/dust on the building and all over the street. We eventually walked up Wall Street (after the National Guardsman let us through because I was with Fr. Dennis and this particular Guardsman said "I think a Man of the Clothe should be allowed to walk anywhere he wants.") and found more soot/dust/dirt and a foul stench. I still can't imagine how Downtown NYC will be open on Monday, unless it's just the NY Stock Exchange. We caught a few glimpses of the facade of the lower floors of 2 WTC, which was still standing. To us, One Liberty Plaza (across the street from the WTC) looked bowed and bloodied and in need of structural help or demolition. It is hard to believe how many buildings have come down since the two planes crashed.<br /><br />There is still a smell of burning rubber in Manhattan. About 1/3 of the people on the street are walking around with surgical masks on, ostensibly to filter out asbestos and other harmful airborne particles. Possibly the worst reminder of what happened is that on every street corner there are flyers with pictures (some in color, some of very poor quality) of people who are missing and asking anyone with information on these people to call their relatives. One of the hardest hit firms, if not <u>the</u> hardest hit, was Cantor Fitzgerald, a major bond trading firm. From what I understand, of the 700 employees who were in the building at the time of the first plane crash, not one has survived. Their CEO was late for work that morning because he was bringing his 5-year old son to kindergarten. He was interviewed by Connie Chung the other night and he was in tears for most of the interview. He lost his brother as well as 700 coworkers. He appeared very genuine and it was hard not to cry just watching the interview. My subsidiary of AIG insures Cantor Fitzgerald and last year I had three meeting in their offices on the 104th floor of WTC One. I have an array of business cards from all the people I met there. As of this writing, my best guess is that those people are all dead.<br /><br />Today I received word that the body of one of the guys that I know/knew at Marsh has been positively identified. He had two young children. There are still about 500 Marsh people who have not been found or identified. More than 5,000 overall. Most had kids and/or spouses. There are no words to describe the sadness. I'm sure my pathetic e-mail doesn't do it justice, but it's an attempt.<br /><br />My friend Lou Campanile volunteered yesterday at Ground Zero to cut steel and load barges (he's an expert welder/metal worker/engineer). I asked him what it was like. In describing the scene he invoked a few lines from the movie "Armageddon." <br /><br />In the movie, one character asks "What can we expect when we land?" The reply: "It will be almost 1,000 degrees in the sun and 260 degrees below zero in the shade. You'll encounter valleys of razor-sharp rocks." The other guys says, "All you had to say was "The worst possible environment you can imagine." Lou said that was what it was like, the worst possible scenario you could imagine.<br /><br />I have to sign off now. The sadness in my heart and the hearts of many is heavy and constant and pervasive, both here and all over America and all over the world. Tony Blair, the Prime Minister of England, made a very poignant statement earlier this week. When speaking of the havoc and destruction and loss of life these terrorists had wrought upon our nation he said, in a show of international unity: "Today, we are all Americans." <br /><br />My father came to this country in the 1950's from Greece seeking a better way of life. My mother's parents came here in the 1930's from Ireland, also seeking a better way of life. I speak almost fluent Greek and I have visited relatives in both Greece and Ireland and take pride in my heritage. However, I grew up in America, played Little League Baseball, went to grammar school, high school, college and law school in this country and did everything an American does growing up in this great land. My first allegiance is and always will be to this great nation. I'm sure all of you feel the same way.<br /><br />I know that as a country we are unified and strong and we will prevail, I have no doubt about that. In the meantime, we have funerals to attend, lives to mend, healing to occur. These terrorists will not defeat us. We shall prevail. </span></div>
Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-23759797585036969302014-09-11T00:36:00.002-04:002014-09-11T00:52:09.433-04:00September 11, 2001 <div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Memories of September 11, 2001</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">It's hard to believe that 13 years have passed since that horrific day in September of 2001. Thirteen years. In a way, it seems like it occurred a lifetime ago, but in another way, it feels like it was yesterday. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">I was in my office in downtown Manhattan on the morning of September 11, 2001, about five blocks away from the World Trade Center. Shortly before the first anniversary, I sat at my computer and wrote 21 pages of stories and remembrances about things that occurred on that day and in the year that followed. I had rejected all offers of grief counseling, preferring instead to cry, by myself, periodically. My stubbornness may have been a mistake at the time, but I'm the son of a native of "the old country," Greece, who only went to the doctor when he had an appendage to present for re-attachment. Actually, I don't think he would've gone even then. So writing about what I'd experienced was, I believe, my therapy. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">I had a feeling, as I was memorializing those stories, that one day they'd appear in a book. Six years later, I published a volume on the professional lines insurance industry, and those stories comprised the bulk of the chapter on September 11th. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">A large number of people employed in the commercial insurance industry perished on that day, including friends and former colleagues of mine. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXOG7QMAe2hX4ZzPzVwL2k9pNLtcdnt0hP-PWMiAQuidb9PDZfrNAIbNyZnAOR_eQADfW5ihpHipHVRgNKfR5GcaIs5VSU56C-PT8Fpdms9XQNtNMkoHRvww6498-_iHbgDV3A7y8KUj4/s1600/ground_zero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #cc66cc; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXOG7QMAe2hX4ZzPzVwL2k9pNLtcdnt0hP-PWMiAQuidb9PDZfrNAIbNyZnAOR_eQADfW5ihpHipHVRgNKfR5GcaIs5VSU56C-PT8Fpdms9XQNtNMkoHRvww6498-_iHbgDV3A7y8KUj4/s320/ground_zero.jpg" ox="true" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">There are many memories that I didn't record in those 21 pages; maybe someday I'll reduce those to writing as well. It was a very surreal time in the lives of most Americans. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">The first event which made me realize how screwed up things had become was when, on September 12th, I saw a Michigan State Police car cruising along Third Avenue in Gramercy Park, half a block from where I lived. Did New York City really need help from the Michigan State Police? I'll also never forget emerging from my normal downtown subway stop on the way to work in the weeks after 9-11 and seeing the remaining shell of the World Trade Center Towers smoldering. The entire Ground Zero site emitted an odor of burnt wire and rubber. During the first couple of days, I had to show my business card to heavily-armed National Guard troops in order to be allowed into the area where my office was. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">One of the more emotional moments, at a time when they came almost non-stop, washed over me as I spoke on the phone with a Hertz representative while trying to rent a car. It was a couple of days after September 11th and I wanted to drive from Manhattan to my sister's house at the Jersey Shore. When the Oklahoma-based rental agent realized that I was calling from Manhattan and had been living through the 9-11 tragedy and its aftermath, she suddenly dropped her businesslike tone. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">"</span><em style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">What's it like up there? Are you OK? Can we do anything else to help you</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">?" </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4s5Z54pibEUiYdziqqRMe1CLIAuOktFj6qN-So5630KT48ARFuv9d3dweVYxy9uDsy5AbB8RXzTsMAB_xbP4RsulrSuoTHeydlriSdcw5AEwFiu87oRO6x6Ie-U8VByUar8zDHbL-l4/s1600/iwo-9-11-final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #cc66cc; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4s5Z54pibEUiYdziqqRMe1CLIAuOktFj6qN-So5630KT48ARFuv9d3dweVYxy9uDsy5AbB8RXzTsMAB_xbP4RsulrSuoTHeydlriSdcw5AEwFiu87oRO6x6Ie-U8VByUar8zDHbL-l4/s320/iwo-9-11-final.jpg" ox="true" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">Her genuine concern and kindness struck a chord deep within me. It was at that moment that I took a break from thinking about the craziness of Manhattan to realize that September 11th was not a New York catastrophe, or a Pennsylvania or Pentagon catastrophe, but truly a national catastrophe that affected every single American in a profound way. Those who were close to the events of that terrible day have no special ownership of the 9-11 tragedy or an enhanced right to receive sympathy. All of our lives were changed immeasurably by those events. Some of us, I believe, have a duty to report what we experienced so that other Americans, current and future, may have a better idea of what transpired on that fateful day which is fading further into our figurative rearview mirrors. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">With that in mind, below is the entire September 11th chapter of my book, reprinted on <b>The LG Report</b> in September 2014 for the first time in its entirety. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">________________________________________ </span><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">May your strength give us
strength<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">May your faith give us faith<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">May your hope give us hope<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">May your love give us love<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>– </i>Bruce Springsteen “<i>Into the Fire</i>”</span><i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><a href="file:///C:/Users/Paul/Documents/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported%20-2/ClaimsMade&ReportedFINAL-FINAL(x9)-FORMATTEDAug292008.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">[1]</span></span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">VIII. <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">September 11, 2001</st1:date><sup> </sup> <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">[Note: This chapter is a revision of a piece that I
wrote just prior to the first anniversary of <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">September 11, 2001</st1:date>, well before I knew that I
would be writing this book. I attempted
to memorialize many of the events that I had seen and heard about on September
11<sup>th</sup> and during the year following that unfathomable tragedy. Given
that so many commercial insurance people died on that dreadful day, I thought
it appropriate to include those writings in this book. One-quarter of this book’s net proceeds will
be donated to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The
morning of <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">September 11,
2001</st1:date> began like most other mornings for me at the time. I woke at <st1:time hour="6" minute="30" w:st="on">6:30 am</st1:time> and spent 32 minutes riding my exercise bicycle in
my living room on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">East 18<sup>th</sup>
Street</st1:address></st1:street> in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>
while watching TV. I then showered and
got ready for work at AIG’s downtown offices.
Every morning, just before leaving my apartment, I’d rip a page off my
horoscope-of-the-day calendar to see what the stars were predicting for
me. This routine was attributable to my
mother, who passed away in 1993. She
used to put a horoscope-of-the-day calendar into my Christmas stocking every
year starting in about 1980. After my
mother died, my sister Maria continued the tradition. My guess is that I had read my daily
horoscope almost every morning for 21 consecutive years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That
day, something very strange happened even before I left my apartment. I was about to rip off September 10th’s page
to read the new day’s prediction when I said to myself, for no discernible
reason, “The world is different now, I’m not going to read horoscopes anymore,
I don’t believe in them.” With that
thought, I unceremoniously threw the entire calendar into the garbage. This was the first time in 21 years that I
knowingly refused to read my daily horoscope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Outside
on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Third Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>
I flagged a cab and headed south to my office at AIG in the financial district,
in keeping with my routine. I want to
emphasize here that I don’t claim to have ESP or any special ability to see the
future, but there was an unusual aspect to my commute. Riding down Third Avenue (which turns into
Bowery Street in lower Manhattan), there was a point in Chinatown, called
Chatham Square, where the Twin Towers would become visible from the cab after
being obscured earlier by buildings. In
my mind’s eye, I would regularly imagine the Towers exploding from a high floor
just as I entered <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Chatham Square</st1:address></st1:street>. I didn’t know what would cause an explosion
and I certainly never thought that a plane would be responsible. Nonetheless, I was envisioning a large
eruption of gray and black smoke. This
vision was the only reason that I knew the name of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Chatham Square</st1:address></st1:street> (whose sign was rather
obscured): I felt strongly that someday it would be an important detail and I
took special note of it. Over the
previous three years, whenever I’d arrive in <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Chatham Square</st1:address></st1:street> to see the Towers unharmed
I would literally breathe a sigh of relief.
Even on <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">September 11,
2001</st1:date> I had that (false) sense of security upon seeing them
intact. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My
next significant memory of that morning occurred shortly before <st1:time hour="9" minute="0" w:st="on">9 am</st1:time>.
My home phone service had inexplicably been malfunctioning for a few
days and I finally got around to calling Verizon. I was dialing customer service when a
colleague, Jason Brown, entered my office to tell me that he heard on the radio
that a plane had hit one of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I looked out my office window and saw dense clouds
of paper fluttering high across the sky towards <st1:place w:st="on">Brooklyn</st1:place>. It reminded me of the many ticker tape
parades that I had seen along lower Broadway after a championship season or
during a world dignitary’s visit. But I
knew there was no parade that day.
Something was wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A
bunch of us went downstairs to get a better look. Standing on the sidewalk in front of 175
Water Street with an ever-growing crowd of upward-looking gawkers (much like
the throngs in a 1950s science fiction film watching descending UFOs on a city
street), I remember thinking, or perhaps hoping, that helicopters with fire
hoses would show up…of course, they didn’t.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mesmerized,
a colleague, John Feniello, shook his head and said, “That fire is going to
burn for days.” Of course, he had no
idea, nor did I, that the fire would burn not for mere days but for months –
but not high in the sky, rather much lower, among the ruins of the Towers. But it seemed logical at the time; it was the
only thing that we could believe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When
the second plane hit the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>, any doubts I had
that this was a terrorist attack were immediately erased. We knew the country was under attack. Shrill screams could be heard and genuine
panic started to set in, even though the worst was yet to come. Security guards announced that our building
was closing for the day and told everyone to leave the area immediately. Much of the crowd started heading toward the
ferries that were gathering at the foot of Wall Street. Others started walking uptown toward subways
or buses that might, or might not, be in service. People also began walking across several
bridges to escape the city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It
was a horror movie coming to life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But
I couldn’t leave, not at first anyway. I
wanted to watch the firefighters battling the blazes. There’s no rational explanation, but I didn’t
want to move until I knew that the situation was under control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After
a while of just staring up at the Towers, I heard a deep rumbling, like
gigantic concrete bowling pins colliding.
The noise didn’t last long, maybe five seconds at most. Before I knew what was happening, the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
slipped down out of my sight. It just
disappeared…like a high-rise house of cards, its base kicked out from under it
by an angry child. Moments later, the
three-story building in front of us stood taller than the 110-story tower in
the distance that had just been compressed back into its foundation. It was the sickest feeling, one that I don’t
think I can quite explain. I saw it and
I heard it and I felt it but I still can’t believe it. The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Twin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place>
seemed like the 100-year-old oak trees in your front yard: they couldn’t be
moved or bent. If anything<b>, <i>they</i></b>
held up the sky. They anchored lower <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> and provided a
sense of direction for every New Yorker who’d ever lost his bearings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The
collapse and disintegration of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> seared my
brain. I sincerely hope that I never see
anything as stomach-churning again.
People around me started screaming and crying. Everyone on the sidewalk knew someone who was
in the Towers – a relative, a friend or a business acquaintance. Some people threw
down briefcases and started running. I
kept staring in shock. At that instant,
I think everyone on the sidewalk knew that we had just witnessed the death of
an unimaginable number of people. It
occurred to me almost instantly that even the most battle-hardened soldiers
never see so many people killed in a single instant. The aircrews who dropped the atomic bombs in
World War II were not five blocks away at ground level when their payloads did
their dirty work. And five blocks was
relatively far in a sense; hundreds of firefighters, police officers, emergency
medical technicians and other heroes were right on site. One firefighter later described the scene in
this way: “Everything was on fire, everything you saw was burning. It was what I imagine Hell to be like.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Quickly,
certainly more quickly than I’d have imagined, a thick white cloud of smoke
came rolling at us. It was a
five-story-tall fog and it was moving fast.
For a few seconds I froze. The
bright September sky was being obscured.
Then a guy not ten feet away from me breathlessly shouted “Run…ground
smoke…it could kill us!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I
suddenly realized that there might have been deadly chemicals in the
plane. There was no rational basis for
this belief; but then again, nobody knew anything for sure at that point. The frenzy spread instantly: people dropped
briefcases and bags and started running, screaming, just trying to get away
from the smoke as quickly as possible. I
remember thinking, “Those bastards, they might get me too, this could be how I
die…” The fear of death was real and it was everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">About
two or three hundred of us ran straight toward the <st1:place w:st="on">East
River</st1:place>, only a block away, and then north past the South Street
Seaport. I’ve since heard that some
people actually jumped into the river to avoid the smoke but I didn’t see
that. As we ran up the closed FDR
Expressway the dense white fallout followed us.
We formed a seemingly endless herd of stampeding business suits. Burning smells and the piercing screams of
emergency vehicles joined to assault our senses. It was a war zone, although until that moment
I don’t think that I had ever actually thought to imagine one. The word that describes it best and one which
I’ve never truly experienced before: Bedlam.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">I
was alternately running and walking with four coworkers as we headed to my
apartment about two miles away on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">18<sup>th</sup>
Street</st1:address></st1:street>. A
friend from San Francisco who was in town on business, in the lobby of the
North Tower when the first plane hit, had – by some unbelievable stroke of good
luck – noticed me amidst all the confusion and joined our group.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Paul/Documents/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported%20-2/ClaimsMade&ReportedFINAL-FINAL(x9)-FORMATTEDAug292008.doc#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> When we were about halfway up the FDR, a guy
who had been listening to a hand-held radio via earphone yelled out “The second
tower just fell.” People gasped but we
all just kept running. A few looked
back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When
we got to my apartment, I wanted to tell the outside world the names of those
who were safe. However, I still had a
dead home phone and cell phone service was, at best, sporadic. Fortunately, my computer’s internet connection
was working so I sat down and composed a message to everyone in my e-mail
address book. To this day, many years
later, I have not re-read that e-mail because I know that it will bring back
many painful memories. But, I later
learned, it was forwarded around the globe to those interested in first-hand
accounts of the events in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York
City</st1:place></st1:city> on that dark day.
My friend’s wife, who is an elementary school teacher, said that she
used it in her classes as an example of a first-person account of September
11th. Here is that note: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"> ___________________________________________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>From:</i></b><i> LG727@aol.com<br />
<b>Sent:</b> <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">Tuesday,
September 11, 2001</st1:date> <st1:time hour="12" minute="58" w:st="on">12:58
PM</st1:time><br />
<b>To:</b> <a href="mailto:Larry.Goanos@aig.com">Larry.Goanos@aig.com</a><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Bcc: </i></b><i>Everyone in my address book<br />
<b>Subject:</b> The Surreal Events of Today<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">I am shaking
like a leaf in a windstorm as I type this. I cannot believe the events of
today, as I'm sure you can't. I was in my office at <st1:time hour="8" minute="50" w:st="on">8:50</st1:time> this morning when a colleague came in and
said <br />
that a plane had just crashed into the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> and papers were
flying everywhere. I looked out the window of my office and saw a ticker-tape-parade
type stream of papers flittering across the sky. After a few short
minutes and various reports, some erroneous, a group of us descended in the
elevator to the ground floor of our building, where we exited and looked to the
left a bit where we saw Two World Trade Center, five blocks away, ablaze from
the top third of the building. It was unreal. The black smoke and
red flames framed against a clear blue sky. <br />
<br />
The crowd on the sidewalk grew exponentially until we were standing
shoulder-to-shoulder, at least 300 people staring upwards. One of my colleagues
had just been in the lobby of One World Trade when the plane hit. He said smoke
immediately came shooting down the elevator shafts and filled the lobby as
people exited in terror. Pandemonium. He ran back to our <br />
building, covered with soot, where he stood with us to watch in horror. We
all stood around gaping at the flames, not aware of any possible danger to us.
I sat and thought about how many people I know in those two towers who have
no doubt perished. I'm aware of at least seven people from my subsidiary
of AIG who were in one tower on a high floor. We do a lot of <br />
business with Aon, an insurance broker on the top three or four floors of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Two</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
As I type this, emergency vehicles are swirling by on the street outside
my apartment on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">18th Street</st1:address></st1:street>.
The massive cloud where the WTC used to stand is visible out my living
room window. <br />
<br />
As we watched the flames, after about twenty minutes, all of a sudden <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
One, which we could only see above the 40th floor or so ,collapsed before our
eyes. It was the sickest, most surreal, most stomach-churning thing that
I have ever seen in my life. My nerves became electrified, in a bad way,
and I felt almost like I would collapse as well. Other people did. People
started crying and getting hysterical, obviously because they knew people in
WTC One and/or know any of the many, many police and firemen and rescue workers
who were in and around the building trying to extinguish the fire and save
lives. I just heard the mayor on the radio and he said he can't even get
a rough estimate of how many firemen and police and EMTs died in the two WTC
Tower collapses, he just said the number would be very large, staggering. <br />
<br />
This whole day is unfathomable. <br />
<br />
As I type this I continue to shake. I think about all the people who I
know in those two towers and I can feel tears well up. There will be far too
many funerals to attend. Many bodies, I'm sure, will never be identified.
It is unbelievable. At least 50 to 100 people I know died today.
Can you imagine that? Unless you're in a war, which I think we will
be soon, that doesn't <br />
happen. Many of you too, if not all, are in a similar situation, maybe
you know even more who passed. Hopefully many of our friends and
acquaintances were away on business or vacation, or running late. Our
lives are changed forever and I don't think I'm being dramatic in saying that. <br />
<br />
A few seconds after WTC One collapsed, a large, probably 20 story high plume of
white smoke erupted, far denser than any fog I'd seen living in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>. All
of a sudden, someone yelled "ground smoke, run, it can kill us!" and
people began panicking, although, I must say it was a controlled panic if there
can be such a thing. Hundreds of people began running, although not
trampling each other, actually helping each other to some <br />
extent. Although one friend of mine asked a car service to give him a
ride to <st1:place w:st="on">Westchester</st1:place> (the car was empty but for
the driver) and he said, "Sure, $2,000." I'll let that
statement stand as its own condemnation of mankind, or at least one (hopefully
small) segment of mankind. <br />
<br />
As we walked/ran up the <st1:place w:st="on">East Side</st1:place> under the
FDR, past the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">South Street</st1:address></st1:street>
Seaport, the white cloud of deep dust/soot/whatever, followed us intently. It was moving at a good pace and, I must say,
I feared for my life briefly, either from dying of smoke inhalation or being
trampled. I don't think I was <br />
alone in that feeling, it was very, very scary, and my words don't do it
justice. We continued running and walking up the <st1:place w:st="on">East
Side</st1:place>, myself and four co-workers. All of a sudden I heard
someone say "Larry Goanos!" I looked and it was Fran Higgins, a
friend from San Fransisco who's brother-in-law, John Doyle, works with me at
AIG. He was scheduled to be in a meeting at Two WTC at <st1:time hour="9" minute="0" w:st="on">9 am</st1:time> and was running late, it took him an extra
hour to get in from his sister's house in <st1:place w:st="on">Westchester</st1:place>
and he was in the lobby when the first plane hit. He ran outside and saw
debris falling and three people actually jumping off high floors in order to
kill themselves via the impact rather than await being burned by the intense
flames. Reports are that many other <br />
people jumped as well. Fran didn't know where to go so I invited him to
join me in the trek to my apartment about two miles north. He had two
heavy bags but lumbered on. His father narrowly missed the bombing at WTC
in 1992. Two bullets dodged by his family at the WTC. <br />
<br />
Cell phones weren't working. People were screaming out names. It was sick
(to re-use a phrase again and again; it is, sadly, the most appropriate.) The
FDR expressway was closed. People were running everywhere, keeping an eye
on the large cloud following us. Some were ready to jump into the <st1:place w:st="on">East <br />
River</st1:place> to escape the smoke if need be. As we got about six or
eight blocks up the FDR someone who had an earphone of a radio in their ear
reported that WTC 2 had just collapsed as well. The whole thing was the
sickest, most twisted, surreal, screwed up thing that I had ever heard or
imagined. <br />
<br />
Eventually we made our way to my friend Jim Riely's place on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">East 22nd Street</st1:address></st1:street>. As fate would have it,
my phone had gone out of service last night and I was going to call Verizon to
fix it this morning. My cell was working only in spots because of the
great strain on the system. At Jim's we found Jim, Dan O'Connell, Colleen
Dempsey (Doreen, Jim's wife, works uptown and, <br />
I'm sure, is safe) and Chris Doyle, Jim's partner. Because a lot of you
know a lot of these people, here are the names of people who I know are safe beside
those above (a lot of phones are down but my internet cable connection is
working, at least for now): Dennis Gustafson, Rose Mosca, Peter Wessel, John
Feniello, Sandy Nalewajk, Kirk Raslowsky and Jennifer Raslowsky and their young
daughter Alexandra (who they were just about to drop off in day care at the WTC
when the first plane hit; they made it our office in tears, clothes askew, Kirk
had just thrown down his briefcase, grabbed his wife and daughter, and ran)
John Iannotti, Ray DeCarlo, Greg Flood, Mike <br />
Mitrovic, Kris Moor, John Doyle, Susan Eagan, Gail Mazarolle, Dawn Paolino.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> <br />
If you know any of their families and don't know if they've been contacted,
please call them if your phone works. <br />
<br />
Many more are safe, I'm sure, it was just hard to get a gauge with all the smoke
and pandemonium. There are now six of us in my apartment watching CNN.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br />
I stopped and picked up more bottled water on the way here because people were
saying there are rumors of chemical warfare and possible contamination in the
water (probably not true but why take a chance.) Things seem to be calming
down a bit now (I've been taking a break between typing to let others <br />
send e-mails) but I'm sure our lives will never be the same. The
tranquility of life in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>
has been shattered, we have been dragged into the trenches with the rest of the
world. Our soil is no longer sacred, protected ground. Anyway, the people who I've mentioned are all
safe, as am I. God bless <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and God bless us all. <br />
<br />
</i><i><span style="color: #004000;">___________________________________________________</span></i><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">My
friend Dennis and I met twenty five years ago, when we were both in
college. He came to live for a summer
with the Campaniles, close family friends of ours who live down the block from
my childhood home at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jersey</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Shore</st1:placetype></st1:place>. A <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Virginia</st1:place></st1:state>
native, Dennis was interning for the summer with Kidder, Peabody on Wall
Street. He is now Father Dennis, a
Catholic priest in the New York Archdiocese.
One of Father Dennis’s good friends, Father George, was an auxiliary
chaplain with the New York City Fire Department in September of 2001. He was summoned to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> shortly after the
first plane hit on the morning of September 11th. That day, I was told, marked the first time
in the history of the New York City Fire Department that all 30 auxiliary
chaplains were summoned to a single fire.
They gathered at St. Peter’s Church on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Barclay Street</st1:address></st1:street>, about two blocks north of
the burning towers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Father
George said that virtually every fire truck racing to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> stopped at St.
Peter’s so that the crews could confess their sins (the majority of NYC
firefighters are Roman Catholic) before charging into the flaming
buildings. The commanders admonished
their subordinates to skip confession because of the magnitude and urgency of
the situation, but the rank-and-file firefighters paid no heed. These men forced almost every truck to stop
at the St. Peter’s on what would be the final fire call for most of them. Father George sensed that these brave men did
not necessarily foresee the Twin Towers collapsing, but they knew that they
would very likely lose their lives saving others and they wanted to square up
with God first. So many firefighters
stopped for this final holy sacrament – despite the unprecedented importance of
their mission – that the priests had to absolve them of their sins <i>en masse</i> as they jumped off the
trucks. There was no time for individual
confessions. These courageous public
servants knew that they were going to die, and yet they pressed onward to discharge
their duties. In the face of the
fiercest fires anyone had ever seen, they had no thoughts of their own safety,
only of saving others. Ironically, St.
Peter is believed to usher the deceased through the Gates of Heaven. Perhaps on <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">September 11, 2001</st1:date> his work began for 343
firefighters at a church bearing his name.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">I
have not seen the story above – every word of which I believe true – anywhere
in the media. Despite that, I think it’s
an important account to record. The same
holds true for most of the other entries in this chapter, collected during that
fateful day and in the year that limped along behind it. In most cases I have not changed the temporal
references so that it’s clear these were the thoughts of someone writing just a
year after <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">September 11,
2001</st1:date>. Every New Yorker, and
every American, has vivid recollections of personal experiences connected to
those attacks on our nation. As we all
know, it was not merely a <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>
tragedy or a <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">DC</st1:state></st1:place> tragedy or a <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Pennsylvania</st1:place></st1:state> tragedy; it was an American
tragedy which left no citizen untouched.
This chapter is one New Yorker’s attempt at documenting some of the
events of that horrific day and its aftermath in the following year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Life in This City<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
twin towers of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>
collapsed nearly a year ago, yet the events of that day still seem surreal, as
if they did not occur in this world but rather in some staggering
nightmare. Memories of that day return
to me in slow-moving waves, much as, I would imagine, a passenger might
remember the final seconds of a car crash that left him unconscious. I still cannot fathom that nearly 3,000
people died in <st1:place w:st="on">Lower Manhattan</st1:place>. And, of course, many others perished at the
Pentagon and in a plane forced down by the hand of American bravery in a <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Pennsylvania</st1:place></st1:state> field.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">No
matter where you live in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United
States</st1:place></st1:country-region> (and even in many places around the
world), chances are you were affected by 9/11 for quite some time – possibly
even to this day. But living in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> no doubt
imbued the events with a special significance.
New Yorkers moved among the acrid smell of burning wire and rubber and a
host of unidentified substances until at least November and, depending upon how
close you were to Ground Zero and the sensitivity of your olfactory senses,
even longer. New Yorkers personally knew
and loved more 9-11 victims than the inhabitants of any other community. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">If
you lived in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>
in the autumn of 2001 you saw close-up the faces of thousands of missing <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> victims on flyers
posted by desperate relatives hoping that their loved ones had somehow survived
and were either wandering around dazed or were lying unconscious in a
hospital. There were pictures of people
at backyard barbecues wielding oversized utensils and flashing grins as big as
the hot dogs on the grill…people on boats proudly holding a fish aloft in one
hand and a sweating beer in the other…people in wedding garb enjoying their new
matrimonial status that, to them, probably seemed like it would have no
end...people hoisting up their young children proudly for the camera or simply
hugging their older ones. Some of the
victims’ posters were so pervasive, hung in every available spot by desperate
relatives, that you couldn’t help but feel you knew the person when his or her
obituary finally hit the newspaper and internet. Tens of thousands of people throughout the
New York Metropolitan Area – perhaps hundreds of thousands – attended memorial
services that overflowed with mourners wilting under the heavy sorrow of each
successive gathering. The decedent’s young children, frequently squirming and
jumping in the front row of the house of worship, almost always appeared
oblivious to their loss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Many
of my friends and colleagues went to grief counseling in the aftermath of the
tragedy. During the three or four months
immediately following September 11<sup>th</sup> I would occasionally break into
spontaneous fits of crying, more often than not when I was alone with my
thoughts at home. I grieved for the
friends I had lost and for the even greater loss of many others. I also grieved for our pre-9/11 way of life,
which I knew had been lost forever. I
had intended to drop in for one of the many grief counseling sessions that were
being offered at work and around the city but somehow I never quite got around
to it. Perhaps as a substitute for
therapy, I chose to record, from my perspective, some of the stories associated
with that horrible day. I’ve experienced
a few of these firsthand and others I’ve learned about through trusted sources. In no particular order, here they are. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h1>
<span style="font-size: large;">Impact<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pete
Sullivan used to work with me at AIG, a large insurance company headquartered
in downtown <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>.
He left about a year ago to join another insurance carrier and had recently
taken a new job at Aon, an insurance brokerage with offices high in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I had been in those offices many times and
can distinctly remember feeling the building swaying in high winds and being
told that it was actually designed to sway.
It also creaked a bit, like an old pirate ship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">One
of my first thoughts as I stood on the sidewalk looking up at the two burning
Towers was of Pete. Then I thought of
his wife and young triplets. “I hope and
pray he got out of there,” I remember thinking to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I
knew probably 100 people working in the Towers and for no particular reason, I
thought of Pete first. A few minutes
later, I looked about 30 feet away from me, and through the thickening crowd I
saw Pete standing on the curb in front of our building, wearing casual
clothes. Aon permitted casual business
dress every day but that thought hadn’t occurred to me. I was very happy that he was safe, although I
was confused about his casual attire and thought I might be hallucinating in
the turmoil. I looked at Pete three times to make sure it was him because I
couldn’t believe that I had been thinking of him and then he appeared,
miraculously, 30 feet away, minutes later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I
never got to speak to Pete that day in all the commotion. I did, however, see him about three weeks
later at the wedding of a mutual friend.
When I first saw him at the reception, I hugged him and told him that I
had seen him on the morning of September 11th and was very glad that he was
safe. He recounted his ordeal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I
was late for work that morning,” he said, “I stayed home to help my wife with
the babies a little longer than usual. I
was just arriving at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>
plaza when the first plane hit. I heard
a loud noise and looked up and saw the debris starting to fall. So I ran across the street in front of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">One</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Liberty</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Plaza</st1:placetype></st1:place> to get my bearings
and to figure out what was going on.
Before long I saw people jumping out of windows. I have some friends who are firemen and cops
and they tell me that when someone commits suicide by jumping from six or eight
stories up, the bodies hit the pavement and bounce. These bodies, coming from 80 or more stories
up, were hitting the pavement and disappearing.
The impact was so great that all that was left was pink foam on the
concrete. No heads, no arms, no bodies.
Nothing was left. That was three
weeks ago. Every night since then when I
close my eyes to go to sleep all I see is those bodies hitting the pavement.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<h1>
<span style="font-size: large;">My
Last Visit<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">During
the last weekend of August 2001 my sister Maria’s friend Patty came to visit <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Gainesville</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Georgia</st1:country-region></st1:place>. Patty brought along a friend and colleague
who worked with her as a nurse at a hospital in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Gainesville</st1:place></st1:city>.
Patty had moved from the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jersey</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Shore</st1:placetype></st1:place> to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place></st1:country-region> to take
advantage of the low-cost college education for in-state residents. Patty’s friend had never been to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maria
had asked me to show them around <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New
York</st1:place></st1:state>. I met
the women at Penn Station and took them sightseeing. It was a sunny day. We wandered from <st1:place w:st="on">Times
Square</st1:place> to the <st1:place w:st="on">Upper West Side</st1:place>
then over to <st1:place w:st="on">Central Park</st1:place>. After that we took a subway downtown, where
we found ourselves at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>. It was a typical quiet Sunday downtown in the
financial district. Not many people were
on the streets. The three of us walked
through the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Plaza</st1:placetype></st1:place>, looking up at the
Towers. I asked them if they wanted to
go to the observation deck in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>. They said that they did. We entered and walked toward an admissions
booth. A sign announced that there was
an $8.00 fee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
women didn’t think it would be worth $8.00 so we turned away. I had gone up only once, many years earlier,
but I figured it was no big deal because I would undoubtedly have many more
chances. We headed off toward my office
at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">175 Water Street</st1:address></st1:street>,
from which the visitors could take in a free view of the <st1:place w:st="on">East
River</st1:place>, the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Brooklyn</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and other sights
of the city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Late
on the morning of September 11<sup>th</sup> Patty called my sister from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
concerned for my safety. Maria, when I
finally got through to her on my cell phone in the early afternoon, sternly
informed me that I would be moving back to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jersey</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Shore</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
where I would open a small law practice.
It hasn’t yet happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Two of the Fortunate<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">If
you worked for the bond-trading firm of Cantor Fitzgerald at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> and were in the
office at <st1:time hour="8" minute="43" w:st="on">8:43</st1:time> that
horrific morning, you didn’t survive. Cantor was in the first building
hit. It was located on floors above the
plane’s point of impact. Nearly 700
Cantor employees died. My group at AIG
insured Cantor Fitzgerald for professional liability losses. I had
been to Cantor’s offices for a series of meetings about a year or so
earlier to discuss their professional liability insurance program. When we were allowed back into our office
building a week after the attacks, I pulled out the business cards of my Cantor
contacts and spread them on my desk. I
realized that most, if not all of these people, were dead. I have not crosschecked those cards with the
list of casualties for particular names.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Recently,
however, I did hear about two very fortunate employees of Cantor. One had been called to an unscheduled meeting
at Goldman, Sachs about a half hour before the first plane hit. The other had a client arrive in the WTC
lobby without a driver’s license or any other ID. As a result, WTC Security procedures required
a tenant of the building to come to the lobby to vouch for the visitor. The Cantor executive was going to send his
secretary down, but since she was pregnant at the time, he decided to fetch his
visitor himself. He was in the lobby
signing in the visitor when the first plane hit. The forgotten ID had saved two lives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Fatal Meeting<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
two largest commercial insurance brokerage firms, and the ones that I have the
most dealings with in my job, are Marsh and Aon. Both of these firms lost many people in the
attacks. The first plane hit directly
into the Marsh offices in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> (the company’s
worldwide headquarters is in midtown but it had approximately 1,800 employees
in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>.) Someone told me that a friend came out of his
office on Wall Street immediately after the first plane hit and noticed that
all the stationery raining down displayed the Marsh letterhead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Marsh
lost 296 employees that day; 295 in their offices and one colleague on the
American Airlines flight jet that was the first to hit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Aon,
located in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>, lost nearly 200
people. Most of these either didn’t
evacuate after the first plane hit the North Tower or they had started down and
went back to their offices after hearing an announcement, supposedly, over the
building’s PA system that said it was safe to return to offices in the South
Tower because the fire was contained in the other building. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">My
employer at the time, AIG, lost “only” two of thousands of its employees in <st1:place w:st="on">Lower Manhattan</st1:place> on September 11th. Both men were in Aon’s offices at a meeting
to discuss the property insurance renewal for Pfizer, the large pharmaceutical
company. Everyone in the conference room
for that meeting had begun to evacuate after the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
was hit but, apparently, headed back after hearing the “All is safe”
announcement. Word is that the meeting
had been postponed a number of times because of scheduling conflicts and the participants
felt that they had to press forward to complete it while they had the
opportunity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Call<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">My
friend John works at Marsh’s world headquarters in midtown at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Sixth Avenue</st1:address></st1:street> and <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">45<sup>th</sup> Street</st1:address></st1:street>. On the morning of September 11<sup>th</sup>
he and his colleagues heard the reports of a plane crash and looked out their
midtown windows to see the flames and smoke consuming the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">WTC</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> that housed additional Marsh
offices. Frantic calls to coworkers in
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>
went unanswered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">By
early afternoon Marsh management decided to survey their <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> employees’
families to determine who was accounted for and who wasn’t. They asked for volunteers to call employees’
homes to see if they had checked in with their families. John, wanting to help out in some way,
volunteered. He was given a list of
names and phone numbers. He called the
first few numbers and got only answering machines. Then a woman finally answered at one
residence. “Hi, this is John, I work for Marsh,” he began, “I’m calling to see
if your husband has contacted you to say he’s OK.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
woman who answered the phone began crying.
“I thought you were him,” she said through her tears. She hadn’t yet
heard from her husband. John gave the
woman two Marsh hotline numbers. His
stomach twisted into a knot as he hung up the phone. John dialed another couple of numbers but
then turned in his list, unable to make any more calls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Remains<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">One
evening in late September 2001 my friends John and Coco Rudolf invited me to a
party at their friends’ loft apartment in <st1:place w:st="on">SoHo</st1:place>. It was a spectacular apartment, roomy with a
large roof deck and well decorated with the proceeds of a high-tech IPO. We were on the roof deck with about eight
other people, sipping wine and chatting, when someone mentioned that the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Twin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place>
used to be clearly visible from that spot.
Nobody said a word for what seemed like ten minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Later,
back inside, I spoke with a woman who was a physician’s assistant at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bellevue</st1:place></st1:city> hospital. She said that after the Towers collapsed a
call went out for all available medical personnel in the area to report to the
disaster site. She arrived at the scene
shortly thereafter and was given body bags and told to help gather up human
remains as quickly as she could. “After
three hours,” she said, “I was physically tired from putting human heads into
body bags. They were everywhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Morgue<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">My
friend Fr. Dennis answered the Archdiocese’s call for priests to volunteer at
the makeshift morgue that had been set up at Ground Zero. The list of volunteers was so long that it
was almost a month before his turn finally came. At <st1:time hour="5" minute="0" w:st="on">5
a.m.</st1:time> on a Tuesday morning a fire truck arrived at his rectory to
drive him to Ground Zero. Firemen and
police from all over had been pouring into <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> to help out and, as fate would have
it, the truck that gave Fr. Dennis his ride was from his home state of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Virginia</st1:place></st1:state>. Fr. Dennis had grown up in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Richmond</st1:place></st1:city> and this truck and its crewmen were
from that vicinity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
on-site morgue had two priests on duty at all times (rotating shifts among the
legion of volunteers) who would confer a blessing on the deceased bodies
(actually, body parts in the vast majority of cases) while a third priest would
roam the grounds counseling rescue workers as they went about their grim labor.
The great majority of New York City Firefighters are Catholic and, as such,
Fire Department commanders only permitted Catholic priests to man the morgue
that would oversee the remains of their fallen brothers. Apparently, there was no place for political
correctness among the ruins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Fr.
Dennis told me that during the eight hours that he was on site he blessed no
entire bodies in tact. Parts of bodies
were all that he saw. Firemen would
appear at the door of the morgue with a handful of internal organs seeking a
blessing for the disembodied human remains.
If the firefighters digging through the rubble believed that they found
the remains of a fellow firefighter or a police officer, a priest would be summoned
from the morgue to confer the blessing at the site where the remains were
found. This special ritual was a sign of
respect for the uniformed heroes and Fr. Dennis was expected to offer up
something more than the normal blessing that would be conferred on a
civilian. One such blessing was done on
what appeared to Fr. Dennis to be the remains of a person’s shoulder and part
of an arm. Somehow the firemen were able
to discern that this was one of their own, although Fr. Dennis couldn’t figure
out how. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">All
of the workers at Ground Zero at that time, including the priests, were
instructed to wear gas masks to protect themselves against the potentially
harmful fumes. The burning odor was
still quite pungent and palpable. Fr.
Dennis took off his gas mask each time he invoked a blessing in order to
preserve the dignity of the religious act and to show respect for the victim
whose remains he was blessing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Yankees Tickets<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">In
the autumn of 2001 the New York Yankees were in the hunt for their 27<sup>th</sup>
World Series Championship. I was also in
a hunt – to refinance the mortgage on for my two-bedroom coop to a lower
rate. The government was attempting to
stimulate the post-September 11<sup>th</sup> economy by, among other things,
dropping interest rates steadily. My
mortgage broker, Tom, came down from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Westchester</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place> to have me sign
some papers in preparation for the closing of the loan. Tom had previously told me that one of his
cousins, a senior executive at Cantor Fitzgerald who earned about $5 million a
year, had died in the terrorist attacks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">After
I signed all of the papers in my <st1:place w:st="on">Lower Manhattan</st1:place>
office, Tom and I went to lunch at The Swan, a bar/grill near the AIG office.
“Lar,” he said, “Do you know where there’s a firehouse near here?” I told him I did. “I have season tickets for the Yankees and I
have two tickets here for Sunday night’s playoff game against the A’s and I
don’t really feel like going, I’m not in the mood. I’d like to walk over and give them to two of
the firemen.” I offered to accompany
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">We
walked over to a firehouse just off <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Fulton
Street</st1:address></st1:street>, about four blocks from Ground Zero. As we approached, we saw the black and purple
bunting draped above the garage door and a hand made poster displaying the
photos of men, about eight, who were lost on 9/11 from this particular
firehouse. Tom approached a firefighter
who was standing in the doorway and asked to see the captain. A few minutes later, a guy in his mid-forties
with a medium build came walking down the stairs to talk to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Tom
introduced himself, and me, and told the Captain that he had two tickets to
Sunday night’s Yankees playoff game that he couldn’t use and that he’d like to
give them to two firefighters who might appreciate them. The captain stared at the tickets in disbelief. “These are for the playoffs…in Yankee
Stadium,” he said. “This is a big
game.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah,
well, please give them to a couple of the guys, guys who’ll appreciate them,”
Tom replied. The captain’s face took on
a look of equal parts disbelief and appreciation as he accepted the
tickets. He then told us about
neighborhood residents who had been bringing food and other gifts to the
firehouse since September 11. “Everyone
has been great, really great,” he said.
He then shook our hands firmly, flashed a smile and simply said “Thank
you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Elevator Roulette<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Representatives
from Marsh offices around the country were at a meeting on the 93<sup>rd</sup>
floor of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> on the morning of <st1:date day="11" month="9" w:st="on" year="2001">September 11, 2001</st1:date>. Marsh had instituted a company-wide initiative
to increase efficiency and customer satisfaction. It was called “Marsh Excellence” (or
something similar.) An employee of
Marsh’s <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>
office was running a few minutes late for the meeting when he stepped into the
elevator on the 78<sup>th</sup> floor (the “Sky Lobby” as it was called) and
pressed the 93<sup>rd</sup> floor button.
A woman entered the elevator seconds before the door closed and selected
the 92<sup>nd</sup> floor. The Bostonian
was, no doubt, a bit irritated by the inconvenience of an extra stop given that
he was already late.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
elevator stopped at the 92<sup>nd</sup> floor and the doors opened just as the
first plane hit. The force of the impact
threw the man out of the elevator and onto the elevator lobby floor. He turned back and saw his elevator car
plummet out of sight. The woman who
pushed 92 had inadvertently saved his life.
The man was partially burned but he managed to get to the stairway and
walk down 92 flights, exiting the building shortly before it collapsed. He walked north through <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>, dazed and somewhat disoriented but
able-minded enough to head for Marsh’s world headquarters in midtown. He later said that he didn’t know where else
to go. Jeff Greenberg, Marsh’s CEO, upon
learning that the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>
executive had managed to make it out of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and to the headquarters, summoned the man to his office so that he could
provide his account of what had happened.
Needless to say, it was not comforting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Glass Door<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">AIG
bought a small managing general agency in Mid-August of 2001. The principals of the company were three
former AIG executives who had left to start their own business about 18 months
earlier. They had moved their offices to
the 89<sup>th</sup> floor of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> in the summer of
2001, shortly before being purchased by AIG.
By September 11<sup>th</sup> most of their files and other business
materials had been transferred to AIG’s offices five blocks away. However, seven individuals, a mix of the
brokerage’s employees and reinsurers, were in the offices that morning
reviewing some files and wrapping up unfinished business in a north-facing
conference room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">At
almost a <st1:time hour="8" minute="45" w:st="on">quarter to nine</st1:time>
someone noticed a plane heading towards the building. The seven men watched as the jetliner drew
closer. They later reported that they
could actually see the faces of the people in the cockpit seconds before the
crash. The plane veered upward on its
approach, crashing about four floors above the brokerage’s offices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Immediately
the lights went out. The seven men said
that within minutes burning jet fuel was dripping through the ceiling and then
continuing through to the floor beneath them.
Smoke was filling the 89th floor and the men, still unfamiliar with the
new office space, didn’t know where to find the emergency stairs. They huddled on the floor to avoid the smoke
and frantically called for help on their cell phones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">From
what I’ve been told by a person involved, when a tenant rented space in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> they would
normally receive a wooden door to separate their offices from the elevator
lobby. This insurance brokerage,
however, requested a glass door so that the receptionist could see people
coming out of the elevators. As the seven men huddled on the floor awaiting
help, they saw a flashlight beam shine through the glass door and onto the
floor. A fireman had exited the
stairwell onto the 89<sup>th</sup> floor and was looking for people needing
help. The men followed the beam to its
origin. At the other end was a
firefighter who showed them to the stairwell and told the men to walk down
quickly. They made it down the stairs
and exited the building a short while before it collapsed. If the original wooden door had never been
replaced the men would have never seen the flashlight shining into the offices.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">These
survivors say that they’ll never forget the face of the firefighter who rescued
them. Almost surely he didn’t make it
out alive. They also saw the faces of many firefighters who were lugging heavy
equipment up the stairways as thousands of people were fleeing to safety. They say those images will also stay with them
forever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Benefits<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">At
some point following every great tragedy the survivors’ thoughts turn towards
pressing onward to meet the demands of everyday life. The collapse of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> was no
different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Marsh
offers all of its employees an option to select a death benefit of up to six
times their annual salary to be paid to their survivors should the person die
while employed at Marsh. Depending upon
which multiple the employee chose, a fixed amount would be deducted from each
paycheck to cover the death benefit’s premium.
Following the WTC disaster Marsh decided to pay every deceased
employee’s beneficiary the maximum death benefit no matter which option the
employee had chosen and paid for. I
heard from someone who works at Marsh that during the payment process the
company learned that two of its 295 deceased employees were each legally
married to two women (all four of whom claimed benefits) and one man had
mistakenly allowed his ex-wife, after a bitter divorce, to remain as his
beneficiary despite the fact that he had later gotten remarried. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">As
late as February of 2002 some survivors had not stepped forward to claim their
deceased relative’s death benefits because, it’s been said, they could still
not admit to themselves that their loved ones were not coming home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Expectant Mother<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">A
guy I worked with at AIG lost his wife in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>. She worked at Aon. They had three small children and she was
pregnant with their fourth on September 11<sup>th</sup>. He took about ten days off from work after
the 11<sup>th</sup> to tend to family matters.
He came back to work to try to get his mind off of the grief and
suffering wrought by his family’s great loss.
The first day back he got called shortly after <st1:time hour="12" minute="0" w:st="on">midday</st1:time> to pick up his seven-year old daughter
at school. She was sobbing
uncontrollably and was having a child’s equivalent of a nervous breakdown in
school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Crying From a Distance<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">My
college roommate, Mike Healey, is one of my best friends. He’s divorced and has half-time custody of
his seven-year-old daughter and five-year-old son. On September 11<sup>th</sup> his children
were in school in suburban <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Philadelphia</st1:place></st1:city>. Most of the kids in their school were getting
pulled out of class early by their parents but Mike decided to wait until
almost the end of the day. The school
administration had made a conscious decision to not break the news of what had
happened to the children. When Mike
picked up his kids they knew something was wrong because of the way classmates
had been trickling out for home during the day.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">In
the car Mike tried to delicately explain to them what had happened. When they got home he turned on the
television. They saw the replays of the
two Towers falling. The kids had been
with Mike to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>
to visit me a number of times and they knew that I lived and worked in the
city. Mike knew that my office was
downtown but wasn’t sure of the building. He also knew that I fly to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state> occasionally
on business and, if I wasn’t in one of the buildings, he knew that I could have
been on one of the flights. The kids
asked Mike if he knew exactly which building I worked in and he could only
reply “No.” Mike said that at roughly
the same moment all three of them began crying. It was the first time that the
children had ever seen their father cry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">American Express Saves a Life<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">As
mentioned previously, the first plane slammed right into the offices of
Marsh. That morning a group of about
eight Marsh executives from different offices around the country had breakfast
together in the restaurant at the Millennium Hotel across the street from the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>. They were all scheduled to be at an 8:30 a.m.
meeting on the 93<sup>rd</sup> floor of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>. When the check arrived one Marsh executive
offered to pick up the tab for the entire group. He gave the waiter his American Express
corporate card. A few minutes later the
waiter returned, saying that there was a problem and that American Express was
not accepting the charge. Not wanting to
delay everyone, the executive told the rest of the group to proceed to the
meeting and that he’d catch up after dealing with Amex via telephone. The group left, making it to the meeting
shortly before the plane hit the building and killed every Marsh employee who
was in those offices at the time. The
executive who was delayed by the credit card rejection was the only one of the
group to survive. <b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Services<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
three victims that I knew best were all Marsh employees. I know it will sound like an incredible
cliché but all three were among the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet. Whether you first met John Tobin, Sal Tieri
or Mike Cahill in the business world, at religious services or down at the
Little League field (where they’d no doubt cheer on your kid just as heartily
as their own), you knew instantly that you were with a really “good guy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>John Tobin:</i></b><b> </b>John Tobin was the chief
financial officer for a division of Marsh known as FINPRO. He was the kind of guy who would spot you at
the other end of the hallway and he’d make a point to shout out your name and a
big “Hello” punctuated with a wave and a smile.
In fact, this very scenario happened to me less than a month before September
11<sup>th</sup> and it will remain for me an enduring – almost haunting –
image.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">John’s
friend Eileen Johnson has many fond memories.
They met when John’s employer, Marsh, merged with Johnson & Higgins,
where Eileen held a position similar to John’s.
She recalls her initial frustration in not being able to get direct
answers from John. She originally
perceived this as his attempts to withhold information from a workplace
rival. Soon she realized that John’s
verbal meandering was just his way of being friendly and was a basic (and
endearing) part of his personality.
“You’d go to John with a question and he’d tell you what was going on in
sports, how his wife and children (whom he adored) were doing, the details of a
softball game that he played in 10 years earlier, what his neighbors were up to
and just generally touch on a bunch of unrelated topics. You came out of his office not even
remembering why you went there in the first place!” This trait shouldn’t be confused, however,
with intellectual weakness. “John had an
amazing mind,” Eileen says, “He hated computers and would do even the most
complicated calculations all by hand. He
wrote out long spreadsheets that had to be taped together to be understood but
he was always 100% correct. It was
incredible.” She also remembers that
John took a special interest in the young people at work and served as a mentor
to a group of high school student interns one summer, even going so far as to
help them choose colleges and fill out applications. “I have truly become a
better person from knowing John, he taught me a great deal not only regarding
work, but also about life and I will always cherish that,” Eileen says. “I still, to this day, when faced with a
difficult task, ask myself what John would say about it and I try to follow his
lead.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">John’s
body was one of the first recovered, within a week or so of September 11th,
which was miraculous considering that he was at the exact point of the first
plane’s impact. His wake was also one of
the first to be held and nobody knew exactly what to expect. It was a grim event, but also moving, and the
love of his family and friends was evident and uplifting. It was the most you could hope for under the
circumstances.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Salvatore Tieri:</i></b><b> </b>The second service I attended, a couple of weeks
later, was for Sal Tieri. Sal was a
salt-of-the-earth, never-had-an-enemy type of guy who you liked even when you
were on the opposite side of a negotiating table from him, which I was on
occasion. Sal was a young 40-year old
with two small children and a great wife, Maureen. He had recently transferred
from Marsh’s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Morristown</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">NJ</st1:state></st1:place> office to the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> headquarters and life was good and
getting better. Sal’s career was fast
tracking and his personal life was, no doubt, even more fulfilling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">On
the evening of Monday, September 10<sup>th</sup>, Sal wrapped up a long day at
the office working on a particular vexing project with his colleague Jim
Loughlin. Jim recalls: “As I was leaving
Sal said to me ‘Well tomorrow is another day and it can’t be as bad as this
one.’“ Those were the last words Jim
ever heard Sal say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sal,
like so many others, wasn’t originally supposed to be at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> on September 11<sup>th</sup>. He went to a meeting as a stand-in for a
colleague who was asked to attend another meeting at the same time in the Marsh
midtown offices. Nobody foresaw, of
course, the fate that awaited Sal and thousands of others at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> that morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sal’s
remains had not yet been discovered when his memorial service was held. Maureen decided to conduct it at the family’s
beach club in Sea Bright, NJ where Sal loved to take his children. The club had erected a flagpole to honor the
victims of 9/11 and Maureen felt that their kids would be well served to think of
their father every time they saw the pole standing at their favorite place on
the edge of the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic Ocean</st1:place>. <b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">I
drove to Sal’s service from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>
with two colleagues from AIG, Doug Worman and John Benedetto, and another
friend from Marsh, John Kerns, who worked closely with Sal. This was still in raw days immediately after
9/11 when <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city>
was heavy with the smell of burning wire and rubber and who-knew-what
else. People walked around the city
wearing surgical masks over their noses and mouths. The Holland Tunnel, not far from the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> site, was closed
to traffic to-and-from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:place></st1:state>. The roadways in and around <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> were generally a morass of
delays, back-ups and detours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">As
a result, the four of us were late getting to Sal’s memorial service at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Jersey</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Shore</st1:placetype></st1:place>. A trip that normally would have taken an hour
and fifteen minutes in pre-terrorist days required us to lurch-and-grind along
for almost three hours. We debated at
times whether we were so hopelessly late that we should just turn back. However, we plowed ahead (reversing
course seemed to us like it would be
another terrorist victory), arriving just in time to hear the piercing strains
of a bagpiper ushering the crowd back indoors to the reception area at the
conclusion of the seaside service. My
first thought, I remember clearly, was that the bastards who had brought down
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> and killed Sal had also made us
late for his memorial service by causing the closing of the Holland Tunnel and
the consequent overcrowding of other roadways.
There seemed to be no end to the evil they had wrought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">The
crowd that day, too big for me to estimate, was a testament to Sal and the many
lives he touched. On hand were
relatives, colleagues, friends, business partners and, most poignantly, competitors. People flew in from all over the
country. The lines of demarcation among
various companies within the insurance industry, which prides itself on
black-and-white clarity, were blurred that day as we all gathered to say
goodbye to one of our own. In a way, my
three friends and I were lucky to have arrived too late to fully gather in all
the sadness and finality of the proceedings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Michael Cahill: </i></b>Mike was the one I knew the best out of the three
Marsh FINPRO victims whose memorials I attended. When I worked at Marsh for two
years in the mid-1990s I had called Mike often for his advice on fidelity
insurance matters (about which I knew nothing and he was an expert.) When I returned to working for AIG, I dealt
with Mike from the other side of the table.
The universal opinion on Mike was that he was a great guy who was always
willing to help out and had as much integrity as anyone in the business. He was the kind of guy who you knew would be
an exemplary brother or teammate; Mike was always there for you when you needed
him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike’s
memorial service was held at St. Aidan’s Church in <st1:place w:st="on">East
Williston</st1:place>, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>
(<st1:place w:st="on">Long Island</st1:place>) on a morning in early October of
2001. The place was already jammed 20
minutes before the start. In retrospect
I recall a rainy and gloomy day but I’m not sure if my memory is accurate or
simply clouded by the general nature of the proceedings. Like hundreds of others in the packed church,
I filed in quietly and found a seat.
What transpired over the next hour I won’t recount in detail, although I
can tell you that the first three to speak at the ceremony (Mike’s parish
priest, his brother and his boss at Marsh, Tom Vietor) all rose to the occasion
and did an admirable job under staggeringly sad conditions. The last eulogist however, Mike’s wife
Colleen, left to rear their two beautiful young children herself, took it to
another level. She spoke with
unparalleled eloquence, passion and composure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">I
don’t think I’ll ever truly understand from where Colleen drew her strength
(the inspiring memories of Mike, no doubt, had much to do with it), but I have
never witnessed such a display of courage and composure in the face of a
tragedy of this magnitude. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Her
eulogy was funny, endearing and engaging.
It was simultaneously heartwarming <u>and</u> heartbreaking. It captured the essence of Mike perfectly, at
least as I knew him, which only magnified our sense of loss. She recounted, among other things, that the
story of who-pursued-who in the relationship differed depending upon whose
version you heard, Mike’s or Colleen’s.
They had met as summer-share housemates in the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hamptons</st1:place></st1:city>.
According to Mike’s version, Colleen sat by the pool reading a paperback
with eyeholes cut right through the book so that she could follow his every
move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: large;">Colleen’s
eyes, amazingly, remained dry throughout the eulogy. Both her words and their deliverance were
truly inspirational. The final piece to
Colleen’s tribute was an REM song, one of Mike’s favorites. St. Aidan’s graciously allowed the family to
play the recording over the church’s loudspeakers as the memorial concluded and
people filed out even though, strictly speaking, it was against church
policy. I don’t recall the title, but it
was about a guy who, smitten with a woman, calls to ask her out but gets her
answering machine. It mirrored in a way
Mike’s own courting of Colleen. As the
song played my eyes were drawn to the couple’s innocent children fidgeting in
the front pew of the church. It was a
sledgehammer of sadness and it found its mark in most of us. As Colleen walked up the center isle to exit,
the previously-muted sobs of the crowd began to rise in unison, unabated. All
but those few souls who had already cried themselves out were in tears as the
church emptied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Danielle Kousoulis<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On
the smoky and seismic afternoon of September 11<sup>th</sup> I was surfing
channels looking for the latest news of the attacks when I came across a
heart-rending interview with a young man named Chris Mills. His girlfriend, Danielle Kousoulis (I didn’t take
particular note of either name at the time), worked for Cantor Fitzgerald in
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
He recounted being in his midtown office when she called to say that a
plane had struck the building and that she was scared. He immediately left work and started making
his way downtown to try to help her in some way, talking to her on his cell
phone as he progressed. From what I recall of the interview, he said that
Danielle knew that the situation was grave.
They exchanged some intimate thoughts about their love for each
other. The interviewer asked what
Danielle said when the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> fell and Chris
replied that it was clear that she knew it had happened but they avoided
discussing it. When the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
collapsed their connection died. At the
time of the interview he had been wandering around trying to find her, hoping
that somehow she had managed to emerge from the building before it
collapsed. Unfortunately, she had not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The
images of that sad interview, for some reason, were burned into my mind, more
so than many of the other horrors that I’d witnessed that day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two
years later I was working at ACE USA when a colleague, Steve Carabases, asked
me if I’d be interested in playing in a golf tournament to raise money for a
scholarship fund in memory of one of the September 11<sup>th</sup>
victims. That person turned out to be a
family friend of Steve’s from childhood, Danielle Kousoulis, who, like me (and
Steve), was of Greek ancestry. She and I also shared an alma mater, Villanova. Small world, I thought. I gladly agreed to participate in the
tournament. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now
here’s the even stranger thing. I’m not
a great golfer (although you wouldn’t know it from the way I talk up my
game.) I’d say I’m in the general range
of “average” (defining the term rather liberally; we’re all friends here...)
I’ve played in Danielle’s tournament twice.
The first time I shot an eagle (two under par for a hole), one of only
two that I’ve had in my lifetime. On the
other occasion, I won the “Closest to the Pin” competition, the only such
victory for me in many years of golfing.
I don’t pretend to know the significance of these two occurrences,
possibly they’re just pure luck or coincidence, but, on another level, I like
to attribute them to Danielle’s way of doing something nice for another person. I never knew her in this life, but I’m sure
from speaking to people who did, that Danielle was a very special person and
brightening my day with two rare golf feats is just the kind of thoughtful
thing that she’d do if she had any say in the matter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Paul/Documents/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported%20-2/ClaimsMade&ReportedFINAL-FINAL(x9)-FORMATTEDAug292008.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> “Into
the Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2002 Bruce Springsteen
(ASCAP.) Reprinted by permission.
International copyright secured. All
rights reserved. [Bruce kindly granted me permission to use this quote. If you’ve never seen one of his inspiring,
motivating and captivating concerts, I strongly urge you to do so.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Paul/Documents/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported/Claims%20Made%20&%20Reported%20-2/ClaimsMade&ReportedFINAL-FINAL(x9)-FORMATTEDAug292008.doc#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Fortunately, he (Fran Higgins) had been an hour late – due to bus delays – for
a meeting at his company’s offices on a high floor where a significant number
of people perished. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-22305836889574366162013-12-11T00:04:00.004-05:002014-02-17T19:54:34.933-05:00Our Next City: Lucerne, SwitzerlandWe've arrived at <b>The LG Report's</b> next stop in LG's and Mrs. LG's recent European vacation, Lucerne, Switzerland. <br />
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Lucerne is in the north-central part of Switzerland in a predominantly German-speaking area of the country [Since most of you don't know much about Lucerne, LG is going to take some literary license here.]<br />
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Strangely, the residents of Lucerne can all fly under their own power, like birds, and can read minds. The can also do perfect Al Pacino impersonations. Each home in Switzerland is required by law to be outfitted with a "Cone of Silence" like the one in "<i>Get Smart</i>" in case the country is invaded and residents need to make secret plans. All Swiss share the birth date of August 15th and, thus, birthday cards are difficult to find for purchase in July . <br />
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Now that we have that out of the way, here are some photos:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LJjP0wGUS9QSkNMwfSLcPMO-_06BaqBVqDACd2Ck7xfnl2kq0w-G9fQ1EXlM7rNgtvYmVe8snJ6_OK3ZcItMTYXUA2N_BIyoDI6_uDX5KUUAlOBkmifFHU4PrZ2SL-eGbzKFBJpTIQVP/s1600/Lucerne+Barn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LJjP0wGUS9QSkNMwfSLcPMO-_06BaqBVqDACd2Ck7xfnl2kq0w-G9fQ1EXlM7rNgtvYmVe8snJ6_OK3ZcItMTYXUA2N_BIyoDI6_uDX5KUUAlOBkmifFHU4PrZ2SL-eGbzKFBJpTIQVP/s640/Lucerne+Barn.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is a barn in the Swiss countryside. LG figured that he'd post a relatively boring photo to start things off so that the subsequent photos will look that much better. This plan should work unless, of course, you're Amish and/or a barn aficionado, in which case this is an exciting picture so enjoy! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCb0XER-yRuw3Fxxgf4KCXix_v2FXYduC-_tpAgz_ZR9wn4yRopFMC750BAkQKMpQ6vzG-4iQeRLSZ-cJCxv_6azrJvy82Fn30TY_nkf19K3IKOMDPiw_6F-GzudtCDJnhTdV1-Vop0XSE/s1600/Lucerne+-+Town+On+Way.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCb0XER-yRuw3Fxxgf4KCXix_v2FXYduC-_tpAgz_ZR9wn4yRopFMC750BAkQKMpQ6vzG-4iQeRLSZ-cJCxv_6azrJvy82Fn30TY_nkf19K3IKOMDPiw_6F-GzudtCDJnhTdV1-Vop0XSE/s640/Lucerne+-+Town+On+Way.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a>This waterfall is in a town on the way from Heidelberg to Lucerne. LG didn't catch the name of the town (if, indeed, anyone even bothered to throw it) so we'll just refer to it as Niagra Falls East. LG surfed over these falls using a tray from the rest stop cafeteria. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdIrEGljLjcwmoKzOXBRk2ezMoHySFND0C86aBrVSDZMqgK0YzJ1nt0KBMnKrJQponIyuZa0c3v6gbpQ7yxI72yWEOUVhOWIGlErZZp_pyDeS8D7WE8OG-uZABobF7WUhCfhOtN0bG5Sx/s1600/Lucerne+-+Pilatus+Train+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdIrEGljLjcwmoKzOXBRk2ezMoHySFND0C86aBrVSDZMqgK0YzJ1nt0KBMnKrJQponIyuZa0c3v6gbpQ7yxI72yWEOUVhOWIGlErZZp_pyDeS8D7WE8OG-uZABobF7WUhCfhOtN0bG5Sx/s640/Lucerne+-+Pilatus+Train+2.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
Just outside of Lucerne is Mt. Pilatus. Ladies: It's where Pilates was invented! (Not really, sounds good though...) This is the view from a train that goes to the top of the mountain. This train runs on the steepest incline of any train in the world according to the very authoritative tourist brochure that they hand you. It takes about 30 minutes to get to the top of the mountain at a low rate of speed. That's a long time to be staring at the old Floridian with protruding ear hair sitting opposite you. <br />
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This is the view from the top of Mt. Pilatus. LG will shut up now and let you enjoy it...<br />
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This is a church on the side of Mt. Pilatus. There doesn't appear to be much parking. </div>
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This is a cable car that runs to the top of Mt. Pilatus. It was empty this day because there was a special promotion, a free ride to the top of the mountain for people who don't enjoy reading <b>The LG Report</b>. As you can see, nobody took them up on the offer! </div>
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Another view from the top of Mt. Pilatus. That's Lake Lucerne (you were expecting maybe Lake Michigan?) LG ran into Diana Ross on the mountaintop and asked her if she would like to throw her ex-husband off after their bitter divorce. She said "<i>Ain't no mountain high enough</i>." <br />
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This is the last photo of Mt. Pilatus (LG promises.) There is a hotel at the top of the mountain. It seems like a stupid place to stay, you're pretty much isolated with nothing to do but stare at the views and hope to be photographed for <b>The LG Report</b>. <br />
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This was a castle on the way to Lucerne. This photo is out of order chronological but you wouldn't know that had LG not just confessed. It's owned by a guy who made a fortune from selling the surplus cheese that is carved out of the holes in Swiss cheese. </div>
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This is part of the town of Lucerne itself, which was built on the shores of Lake Lucerne. It's just a pure coincidence that that town and lake both share the name "Lucerne." <br />
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This is a more modern area of Lucerne. People tend to scratch their ears a lot in this section of town. This is not a great photo. LG didn't want you to become spoiled with only great photos. This is the lima beans of photos, you have to consume it before getting to the cake. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeZZuMK51KWd3XlonFC7GvSRxkEvItz-gtK9eaF9nZH5NAhZ2sfhDuRoD4LORQBZj6ldLyyAqyTr22cWk1WWC8nwxjCpbfMv5s5DJ7n7Vgw0d4b9Ma_HRGQiCokFCXUR7AIzpDO5rcrRr/s1600/Lucerne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeeZZuMK51KWd3XlonFC7GvSRxkEvItz-gtK9eaF9nZH5NAhZ2sfhDuRoD4LORQBZj6ldLyyAqyTr22cWk1WWC8nwxjCpbfMv5s5DJ7n7Vgw0d4b9Ma_HRGQiCokFCXUR7AIzpDO5rcrRr/s640/Lucerne.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is a view from the upper part of Lucerne, where all of the wealthy people live. They don't like people like you (or LG) driving through their neighborhood. And they certainly don't like them taking photos. Pretend you didn't see this. Interesting fact: Simon Cowell periodically appears on TV in the house in the foreground.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UA5qfcdvIMDCh34KumWsw-X_Pn2iBIujU0617c9oK2WnsKR9NGcZnV5ia0SXarRyS56XopZMwj5CJ7k8KHAT4XCuPWNUBH5LpLlRABCRV7SZmx_HG-bMJRKLf9eXV1sejqiFRtdb7H5i/s1600/Lucerne+Fritschi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UA5qfcdvIMDCh34KumWsw-X_Pn2iBIujU0617c9oK2WnsKR9NGcZnV5ia0SXarRyS56XopZMwj5CJ7k8KHAT4XCuPWNUBH5LpLlRABCRV7SZmx_HG-bMJRKLf9eXV1sejqiFRtdb7H5i/s640/Lucerne+Fritschi.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
This is a landmark restaurant in Lucerne, owned by Lionel Fritschi, former lead singer of The Swiss Commodores. The Gorton's Of Glouster fisherman was visiting (that's him on the right), trying to sell his fishcakes to local restaurants. On this trip LG started a hobby of taking photos of tourists taking photos. This is one of many such shots. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KZCiiB1JPhS44_VTbrO7WE5yV3XcFaP1JDcObxSg_f_FOi_XPkORA7y76d63u60eNxsFnCocpluwvQwP-KIDqGaL2zuNlt6Kkvq3aV8LklsgwUPrX8R-IIA_uLLM_TL3-2s3zwVwb8T4/s1600/Lucerne+Tourist+Photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KZCiiB1JPhS44_VTbrO7WE5yV3XcFaP1JDcObxSg_f_FOi_XPkORA7y76d63u60eNxsFnCocpluwvQwP-KIDqGaL2zuNlt6Kkvq3aV8LklsgwUPrX8R-IIA_uLLM_TL3-2s3zwVwb8T4/s640/Lucerne+Tourist+Photo+1.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
LG finds something strangely amusing about taking photos of people taking photos. He told that lady with the blue umbrella to take one more step back to maximize the photo's entertainment value and she responded with a string of what LG believed to be Japanese profanity. LG knows profane words in almost every language. He took "Rosetta Stone for Juvenile Troublemakers." <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMe9qlRIiszqAWjwhi_yUnKjlOZ78q2Veyc-qLXx239HJKQaKET7PvO9GkDy2r4uTtxhXFw_KTnJc8V8KUkQ22Z75b6zgWozfOsHhrZzOJH_RWZ0dkN1-Wv0YrEfz_C4UeO12rrYMS51d/s1600/SAM_0169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMe9qlRIiszqAWjwhi_yUnKjlOZ78q2Veyc-qLXx239HJKQaKET7PvO9GkDy2r4uTtxhXFw_KTnJc8V8KUkQ22Z75b6zgWozfOsHhrZzOJH_RWZ0dkN1-Wv0YrEfz_C4UeO12rrYMS51d/s640/SAM_0169.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
This is supposedly the most-photographed spot in Lucerne. It's a very famous covered bridge. LG suggested to the mayor that they knock it down and erect a floating Starbucks. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3ppk8jfJa8YwlNGzerTvOA3HF6VTMveARhW6DrI_dZe33P985lyFEZ8PWh5k7wh-tk8UNvRe2SNh3WBtpr0Nfl4PYs53u8cce4pAU7Tarmih1zVBNmdE-8z-F56Tibr3rSglSZaAfd2k/s1600/SAM_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3ppk8jfJa8YwlNGzerTvOA3HF6VTMveARhW6DrI_dZe33P985lyFEZ8PWh5k7wh-tk8UNvRe2SNh3WBtpr0Nfl4PYs53u8cce4pAU7Tarmih1zVBNmdE-8z-F56Tibr3rSglSZaAfd2k/s640/SAM_0152.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
This is supposedly the second-most photographed spot in Lucerne. It's a sculpting of a lion, the symbol of Switzerland, carved into the side of a large rock/cliff/whatever-you-want-to-call-this-big-ass-stone-formation. The lion is said to be crying because his internet access was cut off and he couldn't read that day's <b>LG Report</b> about Lucerne. Just speculation. There's actually a good story behind this sculpting but LG isn't going to tell you. See Mr. Google. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnCkqcBbkqb-gUrMTNOWsNYveud9YNN3n5mJ68pfWPl_BF5dn9XrHuoXy5vHwyz5EsT53x66cPxlOcMIAWRohw3hb2bsvy0tTIhc6Ji_rPuX59WVIoWIzdlMp4vw4gx_Dj0omWNdf2OOG/s1600/Lucerne+Umbrella.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnCkqcBbkqb-gUrMTNOWsNYveud9YNN3n5mJ68pfWPl_BF5dn9XrHuoXy5vHwyz5EsT53x66cPxlOcMIAWRohw3hb2bsvy0tTIhc6Ji_rPuX59WVIoWIzdlMp4vw4gx_Dj0omWNdf2OOG/s640/Lucerne+Umbrella.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a><br />
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LG took this photo at the entrance to a department store in Lucerne because it fascinated him that people simply left their umbrellas at the door and trusted that nobody would steal them. In order to teach the Swiss what America is like, LG stole these umbrellas. They're now for sale in <b>The LG Report</b> Store. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincP9vow6Ah_4HT4hRf5d87bVEw0jhTTQ0SpAPQi-2Lcfj1p7kAET9I5wj38PatQf5d0_b5Me2wv3Qab15PbUnb5qesa2ODPypFyUANQiRFOVwxdIMnycfEWGlW5pApPv1EymKJtHWfKGR/s1600/SAM_0171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincP9vow6Ah_4HT4hRf5d87bVEw0jhTTQ0SpAPQi-2Lcfj1p7kAET9I5wj38PatQf5d0_b5Me2wv3Qab15PbUnb5qesa2ODPypFyUANQiRFOVwxdIMnycfEWGlW5pApPv1EymKJtHWfKGR/s640/SAM_0171.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a> <br />
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Here's another photo of tourists taking photos, this time off that famous bridge. These poor people didn't realize how BUSTED they were by <b>The LG Report</b>. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5iRJ1dH-SMlVk8GlcBrHGY1YlCY8jszkNITFBqxjDz8AFM_kvQR0lv8VtV-xmyxowxNYFEps-VjUalzPsAFchnq83BwUbg5vAWga5BN29VcFZlfg6fyXhshNgF_j6v1L9LPaHvCHOkCVV/s1600/SAM_0175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5iRJ1dH-SMlVk8GlcBrHGY1YlCY8jszkNITFBqxjDz8AFM_kvQR0lv8VtV-xmyxowxNYFEps-VjUalzPsAFchnq83BwUbg5vAWga5BN29VcFZlfg6fyXhshNgF_j6v1L9LPaHvCHOkCVV/s640/SAM_0175.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a><br />
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Switzerland is known for chocolate - and for good reason. The Swiss make a tasty chocolate which is palpably different from its American counterpart. Here's a look at some sweet delicacies available at a confectionery shop in Lucerne. The only thing sweeter on this trip was Mrs. LG (LG is in need of some brownie points, pun intended, at the moment.) </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscKkxrg0Tv9wI56uBPY99CVRWt6paGJLt8juTt0h5Os8CQ7ENRPwv9Rf5JkHCi2NURGMqiurJnK6JMnAyl4gbJoMriQuAl16BPZKDJivvZZFLvAfPpGp5S4pedOVUeGKt5ntyW9mKDVEs/s1600/SAM_0170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscKkxrg0Tv9wI56uBPY99CVRWt6paGJLt8juTt0h5Os8CQ7ENRPwv9Rf5JkHCi2NURGMqiurJnK6JMnAyl4gbJoMriQuAl16BPZKDJivvZZFLvAfPpGp5S4pedOVUeGKt5ntyW9mKDVEs/s640/SAM_0170.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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This is another street scene in Lucerne, as you can discern. Observe and learn. You keep what you earn, said Laura Dern. Is that tree a fern? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R2I9mugQ9SiB4E_A1xw4zR4bz1lTbcMGmNa8M4GJuCC9a1c29x-Fjgc_6xT-mrj56bE4PIJFbmMuv8Bgdecve3xEuWCmsCvYeZ1aqp95_GTN3CgkuGHS4Es9-gXLVmQHqsX9GKwwiO42/s1600/SAM_0145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R2I9mugQ9SiB4E_A1xw4zR4bz1lTbcMGmNa8M4GJuCC9a1c29x-Fjgc_6xT-mrj56bE4PIJFbmMuv8Bgdecve3xEuWCmsCvYeZ1aqp95_GTN3CgkuGHS4Es9-gXLVmQHqsX9GKwwiO42/s640/SAM_0145.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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And, finally, we leave you with this aerial view from the top of Mt. Pilatus. We hope you enjoyed this pictorial tour of Lucerne as presented by <b>The LG Report.</b> The last stop in LG's and Mrs. LG's recent European vacation, the City of Lights, Paris, will be coming soon.<br />
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Thanks for stopping by! <br />
<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-50986457382913944352013-11-24T19:07:00.001-05:002013-11-24T19:10:27.229-05:00European City #3 - Heidelberg, Germany We're on to the next city in <b>The LG Report's</b> photo essay series chronicling LG's and Mrs. LG's recent European vacation. This stop: Heidelberg, Germany.<br />
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Mrs. LG is 100% German. Both of her parents were born and raised there and then met in the United States as young adults. Mrs. LG's first language as a child was German. By LG's estimate (although not by Mrs. LG's estimate, she's much too modest), Mrs. LG is about 58% fluent in German. More on that shortly.<br />
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So sit back, grab a stein of Becks and a plate of bratwurst and take a gander at some pix from Deutschland.<br />
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This photo was taken at a rest area on the autobahn (which is German for "Watch out mofos, here I come!") between Amsterdam and Heidelberg. As you can see, they sell hard liquor ("Liquor? Hardly knew her...") right at the cash register so that you can booze up before heading out to your car to drive 125 mph (or whatever the equivalent speed would be in kilometers; feel free to Google it). <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7y5mloNttpWNI4aAuLlWIeqvkjlEyulQsVY-kgtMd9A2GULBfs5erjm54nf2DfyjhKMh1UJK2QjzrIlVwbvV5ndhtFuC4yjLY_8SuF2fPti9qcr41p-GRlTvmM5rIsAMdN0By-OL29MM/s1600/Burger+King+-+Rest+Stop.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7y5mloNttpWNI4aAuLlWIeqvkjlEyulQsVY-kgtMd9A2GULBfs5erjm54nf2DfyjhKMh1UJK2QjzrIlVwbvV5ndhtFuC4yjLY_8SuF2fPti9qcr41p-GRlTvmM5rIsAMdN0By-OL29MM/s640/Burger+King+-+Rest+Stop.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Here we see Mrs. LG at that same rest stop about to sample some of the local German food. It's always good to indulge in the regional cuisine when in foreign countries.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6b3Ks7oGjNNdb_0HzMPiypLHdeRh3RVy2kXF1dfnCUd2mvPeLE54DuxvcvMWa1p5hQvtxOklxuo-62BpgzxKt3z8GYRUNHlYVFHFW1km4WMO2upKOrIecn0b07syWpmx2Qy0bImIrIte/s1600/German+Rest+Area3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6b3Ks7oGjNNdb_0HzMPiypLHdeRh3RVy2kXF1dfnCUd2mvPeLE54DuxvcvMWa1p5hQvtxOklxuo-62BpgzxKt3z8GYRUNHlYVFHFW1km4WMO2upKOrIecn0b07syWpmx2Qy0bImIrIte/s640/German+Rest+Area3.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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A close-up look at some local German delicacies, also known as "Delight Kings." <br />
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These souvenir license plates were available at the rest stop. "BABY AN BOARD" proves that the Nigerian inheritance email writers have a part-time job in Germany. <br />
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We stopped at a clockmaker's house/store/factory for lunch on our way to Heidelberg. It's located in the Black Forest. We also had some Black Forest Cake there. It was sort of like stopping in Alaska to have baked Alaska. That's a complicated analogy but it rings true, just like a Black Forest coo coo clock. <br />
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This is the master woodcarver/clockmaker who owns the store/factory. His name is, ironically (this is not BS) Adolf Herr. Thus, in German he would be known as Herr Herr (Google the "House of Black Forest Clocks" if you don't believe LG). We hear he's a big fan of the rock group Mister Mister. That's cherry brandy that he's trying to pawn off on tourists to get them so bombed that they'll spend $1,000 on one of his coo coo clocks. </div>
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This is a castle overlooking the autobahn. It's not uncommon to see castles like this perched on hills above the highway in Germany. Many of these castles served as fortresses to protect villages hundreds of years ago when they were built. Today many have been converted to screening rooms for David Hasselhof videos. An important rule to remember when in Germany: Don't hassle the Hof! <br />
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This is the town hall of a small village. The German word for the local government building (e.g. city hall) is "Rathaus," which translates into "Rat House" in English. The Germans have a strong truth-in-naming law when it comes to government buildings. In the U.S. our Rat House is called "the Captitol Building." <br />
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This was a group of us on the deck of a tour boat making its way down the Rhine River. George Clooney happened to be on the boat (pictured at left). </div>
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A town along the Rhine as seen from the tour boat. Someone in that town has a picture of the tour boat as see from the town. <br />
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Another town along the Rhine. This one has the distinction of bearing the longest town name in all of Germany: Weltschungwanterviessendamenladenberg. Ah, not really; LG just made that up. But you believed it for a few seconds, admit it. <br />
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Here's some land awaiting development into a mall. It will have two Starbucks. </div>
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This is David Hasselhof's guest house. The main house that occupies while performing in Germany is much larger, but German law prohibits anyone, including Google Maps, from photographing it. Again, don't hassle the Hof. <br />
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This is a nuclear missile silo disguised as an old building. LG was too smart to be fooled by the camouflage job. <br />
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This is one of the main town squares in Heidelberg. As mentioned above, Mrs. LG's is supposed to be fluent-ish in German. In a little grocery store just out of view of this photo, LG was putting his purchases into a bag when he realized he needed another. He asked Mrs. LG to inquire of the cashier if she could provide another bag. Mrs. LG looked at the cashier and said "<i>Can we have another bag</i>?" The cashier replied "<i>Sure</i>." Apparently she spoke English. LG felt ripped off. </div>
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This is another square in Heidelberg. Nobody was around at the time this photo was snapped because "Baywatch" reruns were being aired. That sculpture is an artist's rendition of what she imagines David Hasselhof's aorta to look like. </div>
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Thanks for joining <b>The LG Report </b>on this armchair tour of Heidelberg. Our next installment, coming soon, will feature Lucerne, Switzerland. We hope to see you back here! <b> </b></div>
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<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-30563501395704640212013-11-20T12:33:00.000-05:002013-11-20T13:29:21.962-05:00European City #2 - Amsterdam <b><span style="background-color: yellow;">EDITOR'S NOTE</span>: </b> <b>THE LG REPORT </b>is normally a family-friendly blog. We know that many of you read it aloud to your children as a bedtime story. And while this is certainly encouraged and wholly appropriate in most instances, today's post contains some adult material from another culture (The Netherlands), so we ask that you exercise appropriate parental discretion (e.g. tell your rugrats to go play <b><i>X-Box Call of Duty: Kill Everyone in Sight</i></b> and eat a box of chocolate Pop Tarts while you relax and get your European culture on. Our nation thanks you. <br />
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Today <b>The LG Report</b> takes you to Amsterdam, the second stop on LG's and Mrs. LG's recent European vacation.<br />
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Amsterdam, the Netherlands' largest city, is a very liberal enclave. It's legal to smoke pot and hash in "coffee shops," which are actually low-level drug dens (most don't serve any coffee at all). But customers are surprisingly well-behaved from what LG hears; of course he didn't go into one...as far as you know. <br />
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Prostitution is also legal in Amsterdam. In the city's Red Light District girls stand in small, neon-lit storefronts visually advertising their wares to potential customers. However, it's considered rude for tourists, or anyone else for that matter, to snap photos of these women, so LG complied with decorum -- even though certain readers of <b>The LG Report</b> (yes, you...) probably would've preferred a glimpse or two.<br />
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Here for your viewing pleasure is a sampling of LG's photos from Amsterdam:<br />
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This is the luxury motorcoach that carried LG and Mrs. LG through five countries (of course, it was only the equivalent of going from Washington D.C. to Cleveland or thereabouts). There was a bathroom on board but, as Mareka our tour guide said, "Only to be used in emergencies." Some of the male riders (not LG) had post-lunch beer emergencies along the way. None of the people pictured had any idea that they'd be featured on an internationally-prominent blog. The empty seats represent people who were still getting stoned in the coffee shops at breakfast. <br />
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This, believe it or not, is a food vendor at a rest area on the highway between Brussels and Amsterdam. Note the wide variety of fresh ingredients and the distinctive lack of pre-made fried meals. Not a Happy Meal in sight. And you couldn't supersize your lunch here even if you wanted to. Disturbing, no? <br />
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The Dutch, like most Europeans, favor the eco-friendly and efficient transportation provided by bicycles. This is just one of many bike parking areas in Amsterdam. What you might not realize is that the owners of these bikes got too high in the coffee shops and couldn't remember where they parked their bikes. Amsterdam locals generally just buy a new bike each week. LG would like to own the Schwinn and Fritos distributorships in Amsterdam. <br />
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This is a building in the Amsterdam's harbor (LG didn't bother learning the actual name of the body of water so let's just go with Amsterdam Harbor and if anyone Googles it to correct him, so be it) . It was built to look like a ship. Contrast this with boats on Amsterdam's canals built to look like houses. LG guesses that the architects and design professionals visit the coffee shops a lot while working. <br />
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This is a famous bridge in Amsterdam. Again, LG didn't bother learning the actual name (there's an art to being an Ugly Amerian Tourist) so let's just call it the George Washington Bridge. That's probably close to accurate. <br />
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This is another building in Amsterdam Harbor. It was designed to look like a cross between a flying saucer, a can opener and a seagull. It might house an art museum but LG isn't certain. Hey, what do you expect from a free travelogue on <b>The LG Report</b>, accuracy?! <br />
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Here you see a canal-side street in Amsterdam. The Anne Frank House is along one of these streets but LG did not take a tour (you apparently have to purchase tickets months in advance unless you're Justin Bieber). People sometimes drive their bikes or cars into the canal after a long night at the coffee shop, hence the mostly-decorative protective railing. US insurance companies would insist on higher and stronger railings. Just an observation. <br />
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That's Jim in the foreground. He's a very nice guy from Upstate New York which, coincidentally, has a town named Amsterdam. It must be karma. Jim was hoping to be featured on <b>The LG Report</b>, it's a dream come true for him, although he's playing it very cool. You can't see it, but the guy on the right is reading a brochure for Rogaine Foam. These are typical canal tour boats but not typical canal tourguide comments.<br />
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This is a ship that looks suspiciously like Old Ironsides in Charlestown, Massachusetts. Since LG didn't bother learning the ship's real name (continuing theme), let's just call it Old Ironsides. See, U.S. culture does have a big impact around the world! </div>
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This is another city street. The people on those benches are probably high out of their minds. They most likely just finished shoplifting some Yodels. But the houses are nice in the background. Those people will probably break into them later in search of drug money.<br />
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This is a tower in Amsterdam. The blue ball on top was a gift from the people of Elkhart, Indiana to symbolize the importance of the Indiana state high school basketball tournament and how parents like to get high and drink Crown Royal in the parking lot before big games. No, wait, LG just made that up, you're busted!. But the tower is, in fact, located in Amsterdam. You can figure out the rest of its significance on your own. That's what Google is for people. Leave LG alone. <br />
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This is Amsterdam's version of the London Eye. It's erected twice a year as part of some fair that LG couldn't hear the tour guide describe because LG was too far in back of the tour group busily looking around for the Red Light District. For cultural reasons, of course. <br />
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You probably haven't seen or referred to a "headshop" since you were 17. Amsterdam may bring back some memories (or lack thereof) for you. <br />
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Amsterdam is a polite city. Bar owners would like to gently remind you not to grope women's breasts in their bars. Or, possibly, this sign is reminding people not to wave hello to breasts in the bar. Or maybe it's asking patrons to refrain from high-fiving breasts. Better safe than sorry; just avoid doing any of the three. </div>
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This is a condom shop. The picture pretty much speaks for itself, you didn't need this explanation, did you? What are you doing still reading down here, you should be examining the hanging condoms and thinking how disgusting (or amusing) they are. Hey, it's all part of the culture, open your mind! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVTUt8sLuRL8x5-pji5y4oXwNAXM9faS5BP5m07myikelgvf1i6yyMrQOFl_AGGLpn3ENXc_Mji-B2NCr6JOcYzDpx8Yrlqs74r5fLpaWXqWyBuZuhsjwKRPRIF_UaR6x52X1GTZoX-1c/s1600/Amsterdam+Condom+Store+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVTUt8sLuRL8x5-pji5y4oXwNAXM9faS5BP5m07myikelgvf1i6yyMrQOFl_AGGLpn3ENXc_Mji-B2NCr6JOcYzDpx8Yrlqs74r5fLpaWXqWyBuZuhsjwKRPRIF_UaR6x52X1GTZoX-1c/s640/Amsterdam+Condom+Store+2.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Same condom shop but with an artsy-looking (and therefor respectable) mannequin. And we do mean MANnequin. Ah, and look in the lower left, everyone's favorite comic book superhero, Condoman, providing protection for everyone! We hear that Charlie Sheen is starring in the movie version. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG6hMPrtNK3mMeEN5RJ4Ob7eVKkDPfV645PpcIFSiojv_pYRB7csB0W2cdKqM5SKPLfWOKeGPfycZDOsMbFPiIJaLPmkEQN6fy9nh5m1hjYw2ixFBNR02U1R4STPEbZS6bauzUXCcS7EUe/s1600/Amsterdam+Bus+Out+Of.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG6hMPrtNK3mMeEN5RJ4Ob7eVKkDPfV645PpcIFSiojv_pYRB7csB0W2cdKqM5SKPLfWOKeGPfycZDOsMbFPiIJaLPmkEQN6fy9nh5m1hjYw2ixFBNR02U1R4STPEbZS6bauzUXCcS7EUe/s640/Amsterdam+Bus+Out+Of.JPG" width="640" /></a> This was the view from the third row of the bus on the way out of Amsterdam at 6:30 am. Roads were already jammed. Next stop Heidelberg, Germany. Check back soon for pictures from that fine city! <br />
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PS And if you're not a follower of <b>The LG Report,</b> please consider becoming one. <b>The LG Report </b>is trying to pass the 200 follower mark and is tantalizingly close. You could be the one to push us over the line...<br />
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<b>Thanks for stopping by! </b><br />
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<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-41392007604188287162013-11-11T22:06:00.005-05:002013-11-12T13:00:32.910-05:00European Vacation - Part 1 - London <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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LG and Mrs. LG went on a European vacation last month, covering five cities: London, Amsterdam, Heidelberg, Lucerne and Paris. LG is going to post photos from each city in a multi-part pictorial on this venerable blog. This first installment will focus on London. That big Ferris wheel you see in the photo above is known as the "London Eye." It's basically the same size as the Ferris wheel (I don't know why Blogger.com insists on capitalizing the word "Ferris" but it does) that you'd see down at the local Fireman's Fair in Asbury Park or Springfield or Decatur. LG knows it doesn't look that way but it is, trust him bloke. However, because it's located in a smaller country than the U.S. (that being England) it appears larger. Just go with it. And pay your 19 Euro ($25.46 in U.S. dollars) for a ride. <br />
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This is Mrs. LG on the plane over to Europe. She's not a big fan of photos to be posted on the internet, as you may have guessed. This move is also called a "moutza" in Greece. Don't look it up if you don't know what it is. She didn't mean it for you. <br />
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This is a London taxi cab as seen from the rear passenger's seat. These cabs are more spacious and, overall, better than NYC cabs by about 1.000%. The drivers actually know where they're going. But this particular cab only takes "cash." By "cash," he doesn't mean "cash money American," but still, it was a good ride. Notice that our luggage is enjoying the comfortable seating.<br />
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This is Big Ben. LG thinks that he may have been the first tourist to take a photo of Big Ben. It's a rather large clock. Rumor has it that the British government will soon be knocking down Big Ben and replacing it with a large smartphone that also tells the current time. Just a rumour (as they spell it in Britain.) </div>
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This is the American "Big Ben." Doesn't look anything like his London counterpart, does he? </div>
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This is the view out of Mr. and Mrs. LG's hotel room window in London. The hotel was called St. Ermin's. Who knew that there was a St. Ermin? Not to be confused with that holy rat, St. Vermin. That bloke walking in the courtyard had no idea that he'd be featured on an internationally famous blog. There was a quaint little local coffee shop just around the corner named Starbucks. </div>
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This was some official-looking bloke on a tricked-out horse carriage. We didn't know what was going on but it seemed like a good picture. It may have been a scene from the British version of "Duck Dynasty." Sorry, we have no explanation. <br />
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This is the outside of the Lloyd's of London building. LG has a number of friends who work here. Some architectural critics say this building is ugly. LG says that those critics should look in the mirror. <br />
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This is called "Tower Bridge." Some dumb American tourists think that this is the "London Bridge," but that bridge is in the Arizona desert. Tower Bridge is older than your oldest piece of clothing (including that favorite pair of sneakers you have way back in the closet.) LG has nothing funny to say about this. <br />
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This is Royal Fat Albert Hall, funded by a donation from Bill Cosby. A lot of very famous musicians have played here, including Biggie Smalls and the Monkees. </div>
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This is a photo that LG took from the front seat of the tour bus. This girl, whose car was in front of LG's tour bus in London, vomited shortly after this picture was taken. It was early on a Saturday morning. You can see her sort of leaning into the vomit now (perhaps she read Sheryl Sandberg's book "Lean In.") Not really an ideal London tourist photo but LG posted it for you anyway. You're welcome. <br />
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As you can see, military officers in England need raincoats that fit better. This one is a little loose on the guy. Perhaps he recently lost a lot of weight in his hind quarters. <br />
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While we happened to be standing outside of Buckingham Palace, the English Royal Guard decided to re-enact the parade scene from "Animal House." We assume that they did this because they knew that Americans were watching. You gotta love those Brits, they are so accommodating to their tourist guests! PS The Dean Wormer look-alike was spot-on. <br />
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This is Buckingham Palace. We caught Princess Kate running out in her nightie to get the morning paper (the New York Post.) BUSTED Kate! <br />
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This is a new skyscraper in London called "The Shard." It's tall. Perhaps the tallest building in Europe. LG scaled the outside of it and then BASE jumped off, but it was all in a day's work for an adventurer like LG. Stay tuned for future posts about the rest of LG's and Mrs. LG's European Vacation 2013....<br />
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<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-46964641799765451172013-09-11T10:42:00.000-04:002013-09-11T10:42:36.431-04:00September 11, 2001 - 12 Years Later <span style="font-size: large;">Here's a partial summary of my account of the morning of September 11, 2001, including an email that I sent from my Manhattan apartment that afternoon. I post this, or an expanded version of it, every year on this date. </span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
morning of September 11, 2001 began like most other mornings for me at the
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I woke at 6:30 am and spent 32
minutes riding my exercise bicycle in my living room on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">East 18<sup>th</sup> Street</st1:address></st1:street> in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> while watching
TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then showered and got ready for
work at AIG’s downtown offices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every
morning, just before leaving my apartment, I’d rip a page off my
horoscope-of-the-day calendar to see what the stars were predicting for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This routine was attributable to my
mother, who passed away in 1993.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
used to put a horoscope-of-the-day calendar into my Christmas stocking every
year starting in about 1980.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my
mother died, my sister Maria continued the tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My guess is that I had read my daily
horoscope almost every morning for 21 consecutive years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">That
day, something very strange happened even before I left my apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was about to rip off September 10th’s page
to read the new day’s prediction when I said to myself, for no discernible
reason, “The world is different now, I’m not going to read horoscopes anymore,
I don’t believe in them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With that
thought, I unceremoniously threw the entire calendar into the garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the first time in 21 years that I
knowingly refused to read my daily horoscope. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Outside
on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Third Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>
I flagged a cab and headed south to my office at AIG in the financial district,
in keeping with my routine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to
emphasize here that I don’t claim to have ESP or any special ability to see the
future, but there was an unusual aspect to my commute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riding down Third Avenue (which turns into
Bowery Street in lower Manhattan), there was a point in Chinatown, called
Chatham Square, where the Twin Towers would become visible from the cab after
being obscured earlier by buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
my mind’s eye, I would regularly imagine the Towers exploding from a high floor
just as I entered <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Chatham Square</st1:address></st1:street>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know what would cause an explosion
and I certainly never thought that a plane would be responsible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nonetheless, I was envisioning a large
eruption of gray and black smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
vision was the only reason that I knew the name of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Chatham Square</st1:address></st1:street> (whose sign was rather
obscured): I felt strongly that someday it would be an important detail and I
took special note of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the
previous three years, whenever I’d arrive in <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Chatham Square</st1:address></st1:street> to see the Towers unharmed
I would literally breathe a sigh of relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even on September 11, 2001 I had that (false) sense of security upon
seeing them intact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">My
next significant memory of that morning occurred shortly before 9 am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My home phone service had inexplicably been
malfunctioning for a few days and I finally got around to calling Verizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was dialing customer service when a
colleague, Jason Brown, entered my office to tell me that he heard on the radio
that a plane had hit one of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I looked out my office window and saw dense clouds
of paper fluttering high across the sky towards <st1:place w:st="on">Brooklyn</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reminded me of the many ticker tape
parades that I had seen along lower Broadway after a championship season or
during a world dignitary’s visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
knew there was no parade that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something was wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">A
bunch of us went downstairs to get a better look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Standing on the sidewalk in front of 175
Water Street with an ever-growing crowd of upward-looking gawkers (much like
the throngs in a 1950s science fiction film watching descending UFOs on a city
street), I remember thinking, or perhaps hoping, that helicopters with fire
hoses would show up…of course, they didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mesmerized,
a colleague, John Feniello, shook his head and said, “That fire is going to
burn for days.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, he had no
idea, nor did I, that the fire would burn not for mere days but for months –
but not high in the sky, rather much lower, among the ruins of the Towers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it seemed logical at the time; it was the
only thing that we could believe. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">When
the second plane hit the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>, any doubts I had
that this was a terrorist attack were immediately erased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We knew the country was under attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shrill screams could be heard and genuine
panic started to set in, even though the worst was yet to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Security guards announced that our building
was closing for the day and told everyone to leave the area immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of the crowd started heading toward the
ferries that were gathering at the foot of Wall Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others started walking uptown toward subways
or buses that might, or might not, be in service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People also began walking across several
bridges to escape the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">It
was a horror movie coming to life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">But
I couldn’t leave, not at first anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wanted to watch the firefighters battling the blazes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s no rational explanation, but I didn’t
want to move until I knew that the situation was under control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">After
a while of just staring up at the Towers, I heard a deep rumbling, like
gigantic concrete bowling pins colliding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The noise didn’t last long, maybe five seconds at most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I knew what was happening, the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
slipped down out of my sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It just
disappeared…like a high-rise house of cards, its base kicked out from under it
by an angry child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moments later, the
three-story building in front of us stood taller than the 110-story tower in
the distance that had just been compressed back into its foundation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the sickest feeling, one that I don’t
think I can quite explain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw it and
I heard it and I felt it but I still can’t believe it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Twin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place>
seemed like the 100-year-old oak trees in your front yard: they couldn’t be
moved or bent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If anything<b>, <i>they</i></b>
held up the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They anchored lower <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> and provided a
sense of direction for every New Yorker who’d ever lost his bearings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
collapse and disintegration of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> seared my
brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sincerely hope that I never see
anything as stomach-churning again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>People around me started screaming and crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone on the sidewalk knew someone who was
in the Towers – a relative, a friend or a business acquaintance. Some people
threw down briefcases and started running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I kept staring in shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that
instant, I think everyone on the sidewalk knew that we had just witnessed the
death of an unimaginable number of people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It occurred to me almost instantly that even the most battle-hardened
soldiers never see so many people killed in a single instant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The aircrews who dropped the atomic bombs in
World War II were not five blocks away at ground level when their payloads did
their dirty work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And five blocks was
relatively far in a sense; hundreds of firefighters, police officers, emergency
medical technicians and other heroes were right on site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One firefighter later described the scene in
this way: “Everything was on fire, everything you saw was burning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was what I imagine Hell to be like.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Quickly,
certainly more quickly than I’d have imagined, a thick white cloud of smoke
came rolling at us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a five-story-tall
fog and it was moving fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a few
seconds I froze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bright September
sky was being obscured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then a guy not
ten feet away from me breathlessly shouted “Run…ground smoke…it could kill us!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
suddenly realized that there might have been deadly chemicals in the
plane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no rational basis for
this belief; but then again, nobody knew anything for sure at that point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The frenzy spread instantly: people dropped
briefcases and bags and started running, screaming, just trying to get away
from the smoke as quickly as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
remember thinking, “Those bastards, they might get me too, this could be how I
die…” The fear of death was real and it was everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">About
two or three hundred of us ran straight toward the <st1:place w:st="on">East
River</st1:place>, only a block away, and then north past the South Street
Seaport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve since heard that some
people actually jumped into the river to avoid the smoke but I didn’t see
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we ran up the closed FDR
Expressway the dense white fallout followed us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We formed a seemingly endless herd of stampeding business suits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Burning smells and the piercing screams of
emergency vehicles joined to assault our senses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a war zone, although until that moment
I don’t think that I had ever actually thought to imagine one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The word that describes it best and one which
I’ve never truly experienced before: Bedlam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
was alternately running and walking with four coworkers as we headed to my
apartment about two miles away on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">18<sup>th</sup>
Street</st1:address></st1:street>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
friend from San Francisco who was in town on business, in the lobby of the
North Tower when the first plane hit, had – by some unbelievable stroke of good
luck – noticed me amidst all the confusion and joined our group.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we were about halfway up the FDR, a guy
who had been listening to a hand-held radio via earphone yelled out “The second
tower just fell.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People gasped but we
all just kept running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few looked
back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">When
we got to my apartment, I wanted to tell the outside world the names of those
who were safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I still had a
dead home phone and cell phone service was, at best, sporadic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, my computer’s internet
connection was working so I sat down and composed a message to everyone in my
e-mail address book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To this day, many
years later, I have not re-read that e-mail because I know that it will bring
back many painful memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I later
learned, it was forwarded around the globe to those interested in first-hand
accounts of the events in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York
City</st1:place></st1:city> on that dark day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My friend’s wife, who is an elementary school teacher, said that she
used it in her classes as an example of a first-person account of September
11th.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is that note: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> ______________________</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">From:</span></span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"> LG727@aol.com<br />
<b>Sent:</b> Tuesday, September 11, 2001 12:58 PM<br />
<b>To:</b> </span><a href="mailto:Larry.Goanos@aig.com"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Larry.Goanos@aig.com</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bcc: </span></span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone in my address book<br />
<b>Subject:</b> The Surreal Events of Today<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am shaking like
a leaf in a windstorm as I type this. I cannot believe the events of
today, as I'm sure you can't. I was in my office at 8:50 this morning when a
colleague came in and said <br />
that a plane had just crashed into the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> and papers were
flying everywhere. I looked out the window of my office and saw a ticker-tape-parade
type stream of papers flittering across the sky. After a few short
minutes and various reports, some erroneous, a group of us descended in the
elevator to the ground floor of our building, where we exited and looked to the
left a bit where we saw Two World Trade Center, five blocks away, ablaze from
the top third of the building. It was unreal. The black smoke and
red flames framed against a clear blue sky. <br />
<br />
The crowd on the sidewalk grew exponentially until we were standing
shoulder-to-shoulder, at least 300 people staring upwards. One of my colleagues
had just been in the lobby of One World Trade when the plane hit. He said smoke
immediately came shooting down the elevator shafts and filled the lobby as
people exited in terror. Pandemonium. He ran back to our <br />
building, covered with soot, where he stood with us to watch in horror. We
all stood around gaping at the flames, not aware of any possible danger to us.
I sat and thought about how many people I know in those two towers who have
no doubt perished. I'm aware of at least seven people from my subsidiary
of AIG who were in one tower on a high floor. We do a lot of <br />
business with Aon, an insurance broker on the top three or four floors of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Two</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
As I type this, emergency vehicles are swirling by on the street outside
my apartment on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">18th Street</st1:address></st1:street>.
The massive cloud where the WTC used to stand is visible out my living
room window. <br />
<br />
As we watched the flames, after about twenty minutes, all of a sudden <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
One, which we could only see above the 40th floor or so ,collapsed before our
eyes. It was the sickest, most surreal, most stomach-churning thing that
I have ever seen in my life. My nerves became electrified, in a bad way,
and I felt almost like I would collapse as well. Other people did. People
started crying and getting hysterical, obviously because they knew people in
WTC One and/or know any of the many, many police and firemen and rescue workers
who were in and around the building trying to extinguish the fire and save
lives. I just heard the mayor on the radio and he said he can't even get
a rough estimate of how many firemen and police and EMTs died in the two WTC
Tower collapses, he just said the number would be very large, staggering. <br />
<br />
This whole day is unfathomable. <br />
<br />
As I type this I continue to shake. I think about all the people who I
know in those two towers and I can feel tears well up. There will be far too
many funerals to attend. Many bodies, I'm sure, will never be identified.
It is unbelievable. At least 50 to 100 people I know died today.
Can you imagine that? Unless you're in a war, which I think we will
be soon, that doesn't <br />
happen. Many of you too, if not all, are in a similar situation, maybe
you know even more who passed. Hopefully many of our friends and
acquaintances were away on business or vacation, or running late. Our
lives are changed forever and I don't think I'm being dramatic in saying that. <br />
<br />
A few seconds after WTC One collapsed, a large, probably five-story high plume of
white smoke erupted, far denser than any fog I'd seen living in San Francisco.
All of a sudden, someone yelled "ground smoke, run, it can kill us!"
and people began panicking, although, I must say it was a controlled panic if
there can be such a thing. Hundreds of people began running, although not
trampling each other, actually helping each other to some extent.
Although one friend of mine asked a car service to give him a ride to <st1:place w:st="on">Westchester</st1:place> (the car was empty but for the driver) and he
said, "Sure, $2,000." I'll let that statement stand as its own
condemnation of mankind, or at least one (hopefully small) segment of mankind. <br />
<br />
As we walked/ran up the <st1:place w:st="on">East Side</st1:place> under the
FDR, past the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">South Street</st1:address></st1:street>
Seaport, the white cloud of deep dust/soot/whatever, followed us intently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was moving at a good pace and, I must say,
I feared for my life briefly, either from dying of smoke inhalation or being
trampled. I don't think I was <br />
alone in that feeling, it was very, very scary, and my words don't do it
justice. We continued running and walking up the <st1:place w:st="on">East
Side</st1:place>, myself and four co-workers. All of a sudden I heard
someone say "Larry Goanos!" I looked and it was Fran Higgins, a
friend from San Fransisco who's brother-in-law, John Doyle, works with me at
AIG. He was scheduled to be in a meeting at Two WTC at 9 am and was
running late, it took him an extra hour to get in from his sister's house in <st1:place w:st="on">Westchester</st1:place> and he was in the lobby when the first plane
hit. He ran outside and saw debris falling and three people actually jumping
off high floors in order to kill themselves via the impact rather than await
being burned by the intense flames. Reports are that many other people
jumped as well. Fran didn't know where to go so I invited him to join me
in the trek to my apartment about two miles north. He had two heavy bags but
lumbered on. His father narrowly missed the bombing at WTC in 1992. Two
bullets dodged by his family at the WTC. <br />
<br />
Cell phones weren't working. People were screaming out names. It was sick
(to re-use a phrase again and again; it is, sadly, the most appropriate.) The
FDR expressway was closed. People were running everywhere, keeping an eye
on the large cloud following us. Some were ready to jump into the <st1:place w:st="on">East River</st1:place> to escape the smoke if need be. As we
got about six or eight blocks up the FDR someone who had an earphone of a radio
in their ear reported that WTC 2 had just collapsed as well. The whole
thing was the sickest, most twisted, surreal, screwed up thing that I had ever
heard or imagined. <br />
<br />
Eventually we made our way to my friend Jim Riely's place on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">East 22nd Street</st1:address></st1:street>. As fate would have it,
my phone had gone out of service last night and I was going to call Verizon to
fix it this morning. My cell was working only in spots because of the
great strain on the system. At Jim's we found Jim, Dan O'Connell, Colleen
Dempsey (Doreen, Jim's wife, works uptown and ,I'm sure, is safe) and Chris
Doyle, Jim's partner. Because a lot of you know a lot of these people,
here are the names of people who I know are safe beside those above (a lot of
phones are down but my internet cable connection is working, at least for now):
Dennis Gustafson, Rose Mosca, Peter Wessel, John Feniello, Sandy Nalewajk, Kirk
Raslowsky and Jennifer Raslowsky and their young daughter Alexandra (who they
were just about to drop off in day care at the WTC when the first plane hit;
they made it our office in tears, clothes askew, Kirk had just thrown down his
briefcase, grabbed his wife and daughter, and ran) John Iannotti, Ray DeCarlo,
Greg Flood, Mike <br />
Mitrovic, Kris Moor, John Doyle, Susan Eagan, Gail Mazarolle, Dawn Paolino.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> <br />
If you know any of their families and don't know if they've been contacted,
please call them if your phone works. <br />
<br />
Many more are safe, I'm sure, it was just hard to get a gauge with all the smoke
and pandemonium. There are now six of us in my apartment watching CNN.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
I stopped and picked up more bottled water on the way here because people were
saying there are rumors of chemical warfare and possible contamination in the
water (probably not true but why take a chance.) Things seem to be calming
down a bit now (I've been taking a break between typing to let others send
e-mails) but I'm sure our lives will never be the same. The tranquility
of life in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>
has been shattered, we have been dragged into the trenches with the rest of the
world. Our soil is no longer sacred, protected ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, the people who I've mentioned are all
safe, as am I. God bless <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and God bless us all. <br />
</span></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"> _____________________<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Excerpted from "Claims Made and Reported: A Journey Through D&O, E&O and Other Professional Lines of Insurance," 2008; Soho Publishing, New York 376 Pages (<a href="http://www.sixthandspringbooks.com/">www.sixthandspringbooks.com</a>)</div>
Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-82747926889714159872013-06-16T17:39:00.001-04:002013-06-16T17:39:09.269-04:00It Comes in a Tube <div class="post-header">
</div>
[<b>Editor's Note</b>: This is mostly a re-post from January of 2010 with some minor changes to the original. This is a tribute to all fathers, and their unique quirks, which make them the special people that they are, on Father's Day 2013. Feel free to leave a comment about your dad's unique characteristics below.]<br />
<br />
___________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcMEaboTX5NCPqzFhQtRkD9KCEXydXqk0LftuHAgE5th6i-uQMVVBPF8zh_ocqGfMg_HHTzRn63rJAiMgi4dfOAU3l20CSqXZwAoopoJebwDI4JkQU9X5f7uXRy3MuzetSKyoCWPR74HD/s1600/Pop+in+Diner+Kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcMEaboTX5NCPqzFhQtRkD9KCEXydXqk0LftuHAgE5th6i-uQMVVBPF8zh_ocqGfMg_HHTzRn63rJAiMgi4dfOAU3l20CSqXZwAoopoJebwDI4JkQU9X5f7uXRy3MuzetSKyoCWPR74HD/s320/Pop+in+Diner+Kitchen.jpg" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LG's dad is on the right, circa 1958.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
LG's father emigrated to the United States from Greece in the 1950s. His first job was working for his uncle, also a Greek immigrant, who owned a diner/coffee shop on Lexington Avenue in Manhattan. LG's dad started out washing dishes but, over time, he learned the diner business inside-out and went on to own at least seven diners of his own (LG may have missed one or two in his count.) <br />
<br />
Being a blue collar worker, you'd think LG's dad was pretty handy with tools. <br />
<br />
He wasn't. Not in the least. <br />
<br />
He was, however, very talented at running diners. He had all the requisite skills. He picked good locations. He knew shrewd strategies for negotiating with suppliers, hiring and retaining help, and hiding cash income from the IRS. In short, he had a special aptitude for the diner business. LG's father could also cook up a storm. But, for all of his blue collar-ness, LG's dad wasn't handy. Whenever he assembled something pursuant to a set of directions, vital parts would, without fail, be left over. <br />
<br />
Who really needs handlebars and a second wheel on a bike anyway? It's now a unicycle, enjoy! <br />
<br />
LG's father's lack of handyman skills must've been especially vexing to him in light of the fact that his younger brother, LG's Uncle Leo, became a highly-skilled carpenter after arriving in America. Uncle Leo owned a successful contracting business in the United States for about 40 years. He was a perfectionist and everything he built reflected that.<br />
<br />
Now, switching gears for just a second, here are some everyday products that come in tubes: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdD964vilrO5fCTeVCSaLClXLiuouvyNbEx-Zqu0yVTxTcFQFaw7uCzRW-9X-eYtM4gqG69bbWcPK7pVfZqENMv9n2XjfiCaoCBrI3ieVnPcBQQIap4uYA8c8hkVFlNCudaDsAN3LIHI/s1600-h/Tubes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdD964vilrO5fCTeVCSaLClXLiuouvyNbEx-Zqu0yVTxTcFQFaw7uCzRW-9X-eYtM4gqG69bbWcPK7pVfZqENMv9n2XjfiCaoCBrI3ieVnPcBQQIap4uYA8c8hkVFlNCudaDsAN3LIHI/s640/Tubes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Whenever LG's father came to an impasse during a repair or assembly project around the house, usually caused by his lack of expertise, his fallback remedy was to send LG to the hardware store for some magical, yet-to-be-invented item that, invariably, "<i>Comes in a tube</i>" according to what he'd tell LG. <br />
<br />
If you saw the movie "<i>My Big Fat Greek Wedding</i>," you know that Nia Vardalos's dad used Windex as a panacea for all the world's ills. <b>LG wishes it was that simple with his father</b>. Keeping an ample supply of Windex on hand would've been easy. But, no, that's not how it was in LG's house.<br />
<br />
Here are some examples of how LG's father would invoke the <b><i>Miracle of the Magic Tube</i></b>. The heavy Greek accent is hard to replicate in writing, so you'll have to use your imagination:<br />
<br />
"<i>Boy! Boy</i>! [He usually called LG "<i>Boy</i>!" reserving his real name, Lazarus, for times of anger.] <br />
<br />
<i>Boy! Gee Gee Christ, this window won't open. Go to de hardware store, they have a new thing to loosen windows, it comes in a tube</i>." <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuvpJmLo0taDpGFslhAO_lWnOG54WuV-zIQ5wXv3i-28bQiQ0_aIrPsgSZGTLEFXSC255wD45o6sHqOe_pFqD78u4nWiwEfsiIP3rHkInnTaT7hBU556o-FBSbC8hI6kd4zZoPkAn0og/s1600-h/window3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="548" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuvpJmLo0taDpGFslhAO_lWnOG54WuV-zIQ5wXv3i-28bQiQ0_aIrPsgSZGTLEFXSC255wD45o6sHqOe_pFqD78u4nWiwEfsiIP3rHkInnTaT7hBU556o-FBSbC8hI6kd4zZoPkAn0og/s640/window3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
So, off LG would go, in search of the <b>Magic Tube</b>. <br />
<br />
Believe it or not, the hardware store never specifically had "Window Loosener" in a tube, but they did have some type of oil. But that was an easy one, LG is just warming up. Moving on to the next level....<br />
<br />
"<i>Boy! Boy! The boat won't start. Go to de hardware store, they have boat starter. It comes in a tube.</i>" <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXwlj9WVkyK5i4XKHNNP9S182EqAU70F-0LdbGg_tpscEe-8ErXG2u0n8VFxsxnY8V5t4KuiSzlRmFYt7dPjhBL6vw3ONKB48JRJBy4X-TPCYuhsAm5k99OY_wIfyI4e-pBB-QS67xzo/s1600-h/boat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXwlj9WVkyK5i4XKHNNP9S182EqAU70F-0LdbGg_tpscEe-8ErXG2u0n8VFxsxnY8V5t4KuiSzlRmFYt7dPjhBL6vw3ONKB48JRJBy4X-TPCYuhsAm5k99OY_wIfyI4e-pBB-QS67xzo/s640/boat.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
That's not actually a picture of one of LG's father's boats, but it's not too far off. His last boat was bigger than this, but, of course, that only meant it caused bigger headaches. And, if you're wondering, there is no such thing as "Boat Starter" in a tube. LG could write an entire book on his father and boating, but that will have to wait [If you're interested, you can read a tale about LG's father and boating by clicking <a href="http://lgreport.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-old-man-and-sea.html">HERE</a>] <br />
<br />
It was, of course, embarrassing to ask for these tubes of crazy products that LG knew didn't exist, but he had little choice. His father had sent him on a mission. LG eventually developed a method of asking the clerk for these items that furtively included a denial in the question.<br />
<br />
"<i>You don't carry a tube of anything that will repair a broken lawn mower engine, do you? No? I didn't think so, I was just checking, thanks</i>..." <br />
<br />
LG's father's cure-all Tube Mania seemed to grow stronger as time went on. He was never discouraged by the fact that there was never a product "<i><b>In a tube</b></i>" to fix his latest repair problem. He persevered because he always believed in his heart of hearts that there was "<b><i>A</i> N<i>ew Thing In A Tube</i></b>" to handle the latest task at hand. What perplexed LG most, in that pre-internet era, was where his father was reading about these supposedly new miracle products<b> <i>In A Tube</i></b>. LG was pretty sure that advances in technology weren't discussed in the only periodical that his father regularly read, <u><i>The</i> <i>Daily Racing Form</i></u>. <br />
<br />
Eventually, LG's father was sending him to pick up Miracle Tubes that could repair home appliances, fix transistor radios, fill driveway potholes, replace leaky plumbing and, even, regenerate limbs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmPk5FOHTANsiiU5_GRt17xJ_DEbK_Suq5Iqpdaqbemx8U5VytaO2zfVUY8FA-oS22fMUV7S4q6BlNp6fcR4YW4CdJLXnGKoeso8Q1qHmIf-UryRC1OLUm3RvBFwrv2ruJpqU6dmwGRY/s1600-h/arm.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmPk5FOHTANsiiU5_GRt17xJ_DEbK_Suq5Iqpdaqbemx8U5VytaO2zfVUY8FA-oS22fMUV7S4q6BlNp6fcR4YW4CdJLXnGKoeso8Q1qHmIf-UryRC1OLUm3RvBFwrv2ruJpqU6dmwGRY/s400/arm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The mechanical arm pictured here, LG believes, came from a tube. Or, rather, it would have if his father had his way. In a perfect world, LG's father would've worked for General Electric. or NASA in the Innovation Department. <br />
<br />
<br />
Whenever LG would return from the hardware store empty handed -- his father never went himself, as you've probably gathered -- the failure would be attributed to LG's poor search skills. It never occurred to LG's father that this product didn't actually exist. And, of course, the lazy American stock clerk's own incompetence was a contributing factor. <br />
<br />
That's the abbreviated story of LG's father and the <b>Magic Tubes</b>. All of this bending over the keyboard has stiffened LG's back quite a bit. He's going out to buy some Ben Gay for his muscles. <br />
<br />
LG thinks it comes in a tube.Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-38112509352045581572013-06-06T22:47:00.001-04:002013-06-07T10:50:23.055-04:00Helpful Tips for Internet Scammers <span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRHHkccHw4MF45rnyscFeUAWH-ntZyEbkApXhY0LKSR6qknSXnSUZ8NWGFlmV0XELdndrhkhfZflJu0zvqXgYelI1w5OjvM7RsYWMPmIeb3U7MtK4eb0tdDYd2l4525erSMxjzlY_eQz8/s1600/Scam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRHHkccHw4MF45rnyscFeUAWH-ntZyEbkApXhY0LKSR6qknSXnSUZ8NWGFlmV0XELdndrhkhfZflJu0zvqXgYelI1w5OjvM7RsYWMPmIeb3U7MtK4eb0tdDYd2l4525erSMxjzlY_eQz8/s200/Scam.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Let's face it, we've all been the recipients of the occassional internet email scam. Not often, certainly, only three or four times a day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But we're all honourable (spelled the British way, of course) people and the overseas scammers know that. It's easy to find most of our names and contact info in the <em><strong>International Directory of Honourable People Who You Could Trust With Large Sums of Money</strong></em>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But what internet scammers don't know is much about the English language. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Or common sense. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So LG is here to critique some of the recent scam attempts he's received in the hopes of helping scammers step up their game a bit. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Consider this just another U.S. foreign aid package to the less fortunate (and, believe it or not, all scams below are actual emails copied word-for-word from the original). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There's no fun, or challenge, to a scam when someone tells you that you are "<em>a honorable personage with greate reputashun in my countree</em>." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh please international scammer community, you can do better than that. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So scammers, pull up an upside down Home Depot bucket (or whatever else you use for a chair in your scam laboratory) (scamatory?) and take note of these constructive criticisms: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Scam #1:</strong> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Attn Package Beneficiary:<br />
<br />
Please send the diplomat who is stranded at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Georgia</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">International</st1:placename> <br />
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place> with your
Consignment Box. your<br />
address that will help him for smooth delivery. The <br />
bellow is
his contact. Don't let him know the content because it contains 7.5 million <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
A
Dollars.<br />
<br />
Email:(agentfredugo_6001@rocketmail.com)<br />
Your full name_________<br />
Your Address____________<br />
Your phone numbers_________<br />
<br />
SINCERELY<br />
REV.DR. DOUGLAS MORRISON.<br />
DHL DIRECTOR<br />
cell +229-9831-0676<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><u>The Critique</u></strong>: Ok, this person must be a crayon eater. He misses the mark in so many ways. </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">First, what legitmate delivery service ever addresses their customers as "<em>Package Beneficiary</em>?" Maybe Johnny Holmes called his girlfriends that. </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">And even the least-traveled among us know that one of America's busiest airports is not called "Atlanta Georgia International Airport." Although, next time I'm there, I'll certainly get myself a "Consignment box," since those things are all over every major American airport. Not. </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p>And why are we being told not to tell this "diplomat" what's in our precious consignment box? Is he untrustworthy? LG will have to check to see if he's listed in the <strong><em>International Directory of Honourable People</em></strong>.</o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><o:p>Curiously, the note says that "The bellow is his contact." Does that mean that all LG has to do is bellow for the guy and he'll contact me? </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Also, we all call our money "USA Dollars." Sure we do. </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">But who couldn't trust a package delivery executive who is both a "reverend" and a "doctor." Bravo! This scam gets an "F" for content but an "A" for ambition. However, LG is going to consign it to the junk bin for today. No USA dollars for this guy. </span> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Scam #2:</strong> </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">From: Mrs.Rebecca Lemonde<br />
<br />
Greetings to you and sorry if this message came to you as a surprise. My name
is Mrs.Rebecca Lemonde widow, I found your email address through my husband
internet dater late Mr.Lemonde<br />
<br />
I am presently admitted at the hospital suffering from a blood cancer and
Parkinson diseases. I have some funds at bank inherited from my late husband
account the amount of $5,500.000. I wish to know if I can trust you to use the
funds for charity project and %10 will go to you as compensation. Kindle get
back to me so that I will give you more details.<br />
<br />
Yours in Christ,<br />
<br />
Mrs.Rebecca Lemonde<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><u>The Critique</u></strong>: Phew, LG had to catch his breath for a moment there, this email came as a surprise. Mrs. Lemonde should warn people before sending an email like that. </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">As an initial consideration, you have to trust a widow, and, on top of that, poor Mrs. Rebecca Lemonde is suffering from the double whammy of "blood cancer" and "Parkinson <u>diseases</u>" (who know there was more than one?) </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Of course, why should she mourn the cad since he was an "internet dater." He was probably all over Match.com while poor Mrs. Lemonde was in the hospital dealing with her maladies. </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">She's offering LG <strong><u>%10</u></strong> of the $5.5 million USA dollars that her husband left her. LG is not sure if that means ten percent or .10% or something else. Only if she were a reverend doctor, then she'd have a stronger command of the English language and, no doubt, would be more trustworthy. </span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">However, Mrs. Lemonde seems to be a sophisticated lady since she says "Kindle get back to me." LG assumes she's figured out a way to email through the use of her Kindle. </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">And, of course, she's ours "in Christ" so she must be an honest woman. Had she said "yours in Satan" LG would've suspected a scam. LG is going to give her the full contents of his consignment box at Atlanta Georgia International Airport.</span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Scam #3:</strong></span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">The next rocket scientist sent this one: </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">From: </span></o:p></span><a href="mailto:support_id803@apostille123.com" title="mailto:support_id803@apostille123.com"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">support_id803@apostille123.com</span></a><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #4d148c; font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 24pt; letter-spacing: -3.75pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Fed</span></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 24pt; letter-spacing: -3.75pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span></b><b><span style="color: #aaaaaa; font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 24pt; letter-spacing: -3.75pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ex</span></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 24pt; letter-spacing: -3.75pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<td colspan="6" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0.75pt; width: 4in;" width="384"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Dear Client, </span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Your parcel has arrived at May 25. Courier was unable to deliver
the parcel to you. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">To receive your parcel, print this label and go to the nearest
office. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://adeptpros.com/img/get.php?d_info=891_586108415" title="http://adeptpros.com/img/get.php?d_info=891_586108415"><span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Print Shipment Label </span></a></span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">FedEx Customer Service Team. </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #aaaaaa; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.5pt;">FedEx
1995-2013</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><u>The Critique</u></strong>: This is an interesting one. </span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">First, you'd have to have rocks in your head to think that Federal Express sends emails from a domain designated as "apostille123.com." Yeah, sure. </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p> </div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Second, this email arrived only 12 days after the date that the package had supposedly arrived. Everyone knows that Fedex waits 12 days to notify you of a package delivery. Not. </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p> </div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">LG is not sure what the scam is however, since going to a Fedex office with a phony "shipment label" gets you nothing but laughed at. </span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe by clicking on the link, your bank account gets emptied through the use of spyware (that's an actual scam going around on Facebook.) LG wouldn't know, however, since he didn't click. Plus, all of his money is in a Consignment Box at Atlanta Georgia International Airport. </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p> </div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">That's all for today folks. May you all have a happy and healthy day and swim in the arrival of USA dollars. Go in peace! </span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;">- The Honourable Reverend Doctor President General LG</span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p> </div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></o:p> </div>
Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-27476027012054074172013-04-01T20:17:00.002-04:002013-04-01T20:21:42.908-04:00Ping Pong Apocalypse in Pictures <br />
Some of you may remember Geo from previous <strong>LG Reports</strong>. If you don't, you can click <a href="http://www.lgreport.blogspot.com/2010/02/lg-report-profile-geo.html"><span style="color: red;">HERE </span></a> for a quick refresher course in the Internet phenomenon/oddity that is Geo. <br />
<br />
This past weekend, on Saturday night, LG and his lovely bride visited Geo's weekend house at the Jersey Shore. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkMuKIXoYM_KoSuLw2ljqii0jHKvdu8JaNmupGsMs4O-xSgiwP5j97TQu-l2zntVgUAG5cYjtp_U9VbDlcQVSBAkjw6CoUwSpCFh6zSzAXvoIxEpbuxqUd2ICTLlV4H5h5JcX-v0UoFhj/s1600/shack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkMuKIXoYM_KoSuLw2ljqii0jHKvdu8JaNmupGsMs4O-xSgiwP5j97TQu-l2zntVgUAG5cYjtp_U9VbDlcQVSBAkjw6CoUwSpCFh6zSzAXvoIxEpbuxqUd2ICTLlV4H5h5JcX-v0UoFhj/s400/shack.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
In case you forget what Geo looks like, here's a recent photo: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEUrOm6Q-E9qeErjB9buc35VvntSAcZMtFV7HlMWCQMBhpDJajj7SY9Wi9RLscN47cm0dKrYf_CXJaDxN9ih7iOGqtRLseUQ_OKKWiD3-kQJWlER6Dk4aye1oLfZiY3PUNuLqMu4-o4oyi/s1600/Geo+HS+Yearbook+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEUrOm6Q-E9qeErjB9buc35VvntSAcZMtFV7HlMWCQMBhpDJajj7SY9Wi9RLscN47cm0dKrYf_CXJaDxN9ih7iOGqtRLseUQ_OKKWiD3-kQJWlER6Dk4aye1oLfZiY3PUNuLqMu4-o4oyi/s400/Geo+HS+Yearbook+%25282%2529.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
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Out of the blue, Geo challenged LG to a ping pong match. LG had no choice but to defend his family honor by picking up the gauntlet that Geo had thrown down. In case you forgot, LG looks like this: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIhvyWnwdRt6HmOEQDbOVlf5M92-b1oBCaGhCjFK9Lew0vvNQhpMyCtVM2w8DmOW7aqL0K1ijcWzii2fl4ySGZEiu2pdhtdtBdIu7vFwO85DMh4V63oVkDzyoM19S1pcw46wfyAQDPzTs/s1600/LG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIhvyWnwdRt6HmOEQDbOVlf5M92-b1oBCaGhCjFK9Lew0vvNQhpMyCtVM2w8DmOW7aqL0K1ijcWzii2fl4ySGZEiu2pdhtdtBdIu7vFwO85DMh4V63oVkDzyoM19S1pcw46wfyAQDPzTs/s400/LG.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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LG and Geo played a few warm-up games of no consequence. LG can't even remember the scores of those games. <br />
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When Geo is engaged in a competitive endeavor, he can get ugly. On Saturday night, Geo looked like a cross between these two fellows:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg6XpmxRtVQ65KmHqzj77IoA5zn4moRhHtdr_lMHet0q1azVdjc_qgXXEWGNgrwxycBWWl10c2r8aYQjJh8rlFZW7d_dc8Ut32qV6UfaKlF9z_MHUok9PmyXsRjyooEDiKvEfNMv7Y7qu-/s1600/osama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg6XpmxRtVQ65KmHqzj77IoA5zn4moRhHtdr_lMHet0q1azVdjc_qgXXEWGNgrwxycBWWl10c2r8aYQjJh8rlFZW7d_dc8Ut32qV6UfaKlF9z_MHUok9PmyXsRjyooEDiKvEfNMv7Y7qu-/s320/osama.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Geo Bin Laden </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqseocm8nipr_U_oR2hufKSqFQwq4iRB-lH82ogvyo-nH9NNWMD3N2sZPeSUS3JTu43pWBbFmGGMdRQEP8OsNhl3dpVfcKfAmE5rUPIPwp3kN5OJNCfJ8cKMU-kAm0nipxt3FM5h30N3Te/s1600/Mussolini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqseocm8nipr_U_oR2hufKSqFQwq4iRB-lH82ogvyo-nH9NNWMD3N2sZPeSUS3JTu43pWBbFmGGMdRQEP8OsNhl3dpVfcKfAmE5rUPIPwp3kN5OJNCfJ8cKMU-kAm0nipxt3FM5h30N3Te/s320/Mussolini.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BenitoGeo Mussolini </td></tr>
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LG didn't care, he was out to enjoy a friendly game of ping pong, just a relaxing, leisurely match. <br />
<br />
But no, Geo wouldn't hear of it. He has to turn every lighthearted game into a fight to the death. This is one of many reasons that he has no friends. <br />
<br />
Geo broke out to a fast lead in the initial match to 11. As everyone knows, all legitimate championship matches are played to 11 with the winner having to win by at least 2 points. <br />
<strong><u>But LG fought back!</u></strong> <br />
<br />
He displayed his patented Eastern Asian form, honed during many years of living in monasteries in Japan and China and studying ping pong at the feet of the masters. Here's a picture of LG in action, about to slam a return into Geo's ugly kisser: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh33n9af5sX0QL0XOIXPR_hyphenhyphenHKctIZ5kW-eewpiCKOBE7QDrt5I_mRp7vChAfm_WnafGunFpEp4He2gIH0U-CjRqNJZYAaNwYtPoCsqWx7eWupxrpol5AiF7YmLxUFeeazLE9Cf5a-bWu1/s1600/pingpong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh33n9af5sX0QL0XOIXPR_hyphenhyphenHKctIZ5kW-eewpiCKOBE7QDrt5I_mRp7vChAfm_WnafGunFpEp4He2gIH0U-CjRqNJZYAaNwYtPoCsqWx7eWupxrpol5AiF7YmLxUFeeazLE9Cf5a-bWu1/s640/pingpong.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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LG was getting fired up. He yelled to Geo: <strong> 我是最伟大的!</strong><br />
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The first game finished at 11 - 8 with the good guy (LG) being victorious. The Navy Seal Team Six of ping pong was rolling along. <br />
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The second game posed another tough challenge. <br />
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Geo cheated again, as usual, by, among other things, using a full-sized tennis racquet and slathering olive oil all over the floor on LG's side of the table. <br />
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Geo jumped out to a 6 - 2 lead. But the crowd was on its feet and getting louder in its support of LG. <br />
<br />
"<em><strong>Lazarus, Lazarus!</strong></em>" they chanted as LG closed the gap with diving saves and impossibly twisting returns. <br />
<br />
It was a vicious, hard-fought battle, but finally, down the homestretch, LG unleashed a furious attack on Geo. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZ11i5OvxrtqJ9obK-5h99OwegVaQWQZuvOcJoETQViWOlJ2OEZtNb0gqFPXmPcGV3Sm9vFXbzkVfX2lgT4yJJcFMy0Be-0cNQKtCS985_dEkI6HAJ7sM03PyKIYlqZu6u1chjv6_AJtc/s1600/mushroom+cloud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZ11i5OvxrtqJ9obK-5h99OwegVaQWQZuvOcJoETQViWOlJ2OEZtNb0gqFPXmPcGV3Sm9vFXbzkVfX2lgT4yJJcFMy0Be-0cNQKtCS985_dEkI6HAJ7sM03PyKIYlqZu6u1chjv6_AJtc/s400/mushroom+cloud.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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To make a long-and-interesting story short-but-still-very-interesting, LG came back to claim an 11-7 victory and complete the two-match sweep in the <span style="color: red;"><strong><u>Ping Pong Championship of the Galaxy</u></strong></span> <br />
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The frenzied crowd of onlookers chanted "<strong><em>Lazarus has risen, Lazarus has risen!</em></strong>" as they carried the champ away on their shoulders. <br />
<br />
Geo was a broken man: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-__atFOM_kWCx9TBTVoNxKQP3m0Y5scs7a_fC7qQUvfj9bNBERQQ829vxEq-Fxs3gUmHBDEXkFpySvkNr0aeMA-pfKFBiUHG6HFluYmFbxX-trJgPEpgRtueHTpz-nIEwlCcVzCWD4jBt/s1600/Normandy-Defeat-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-__atFOM_kWCx9TBTVoNxKQP3m0Y5scs7a_fC7qQUvfj9bNBERQQ829vxEq-Fxs3gUmHBDEXkFpySvkNr0aeMA-pfKFBiUHG6HFluYmFbxX-trJgPEpgRtueHTpz-nIEwlCcVzCWD4jBt/s640/Normandy-Defeat-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The moral of the story: There is no moral. We hope you don't come to <strong>The LG Report</strong> looking for morals; if so, you're in the wrong place! <br />
<br />
See you next time for another interesting adventure.... <br />
<br />
<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-2432357943805551302013-01-28T22:50:00.001-05:002013-01-28T22:50:18.236-05:00The LG Interview Series Continues...
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG </b>recently
decided to cut through all the hype surrounding various controversial
celebrities by sitting down to interview them himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG</b>
asks the hard-hitting questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
drills down to the unadulterated truth as only <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG </b>can do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's a no-nonsense,
tell-it-straight, former Mr. Universe (2005 thru 2009), amateur FBI Profiler,
volunteer Navy Seal, almost Heisman Trophy Winner and Raspberry Beret. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, of course, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG</b> doesn't like to brag. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here's an excerpt for readers of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The LG Report</b> from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG's</b>
exclusive interview with Lance Armstrong, Manti Te'o and North Korean leader
Kim Jong Un.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoVkU-53ElxqgupfDRYI1ao_5T5dqwfDJ-9Q_fhqne4bb8R2uKuaytSkdzrs0EradGNPYRrcOceCBbv96q-WgoT6vxxoS3bJU06acq5u0AF6T4HC6s0xZiAA1t4bzDucluY5Sxe1V1_z8/s1600/Lance+Armstrong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoVkU-53ElxqgupfDRYI1ao_5T5dqwfDJ-9Q_fhqne4bb8R2uKuaytSkdzrs0EradGNPYRrcOceCBbv96q-WgoT6vxxoS3bJU06acq5u0AF6T4HC6s0xZiAA1t4bzDucluY5Sxe1V1_z8/s400/Lance+Armstrong.jpg" width="333" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>We'll start with you Lance, you lying
bastard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did you choose Oprah to
interview you for the big revelations?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lance Armstrong</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I was hoping to get interviewed by
skinny Oprah so that she'd look all emaciated from taking diet drugs and maybe
I'd look better in comparison, but I got fat Oprah instead and so I just looked
like an idiot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can't choose which
Oprah you're going to get when you sign up, just depends on whether she's been
hitting the snack food aisle or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG: </b>Did you
really date Cheryl Crow or was that just a figment of your imagination? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lance Armstrong</b>:
Hey, that's not me with the imaginary girlfriend, it's this other w'acko over
here, Te'o.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really dated Cheryl Crow,
that is until she got cancer and then I dumped her immediately so that I could
devote more time to Livestrong and fighting cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And dating other, healthier chicks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Oprah</b>: Lance, I
have a question for you as soon as I finish this Yodel from my private stash,
stored away in case of Hostess's bankruptcy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have three million of 'em.</span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whoa, whoa, not so fast Oprah, you already
had your shot at him, this is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG's</b>
interview, back off bee-atch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lance Armstrong:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I used to inject steroids into Yodels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tastes great and gives you enough energy to
stay up all night eating more of 'em. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Speaking of food, Kim Jong Un, what's
that you're eating if you don't mind me asking?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kim Jong Un</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dog sandwich.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG: </b>What?!!!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kim Jong Un</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cocker Spaniel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mmm...pretty good too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ow, I just bit into a piece of collar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh no, wait, it's a metal I.D. tag shaped
like a bone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We eat dogs all the time in
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">North Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We get it at a place called
"McDonalds."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Cs9u5sQXiMrCX0xyr8fqBQv9ayrUgJJdyGYB0Nr5GEHVhJMpS3_ckI287myEbgfdD5TZchigkiMbFrHi7MgTvW8sre2XgnxMroqt2ZxF-opQOAuNmQbqv00Z0LKIlHDfgNv-im1OzGZE/s1600/Kim+Jong+Un.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Cs9u5sQXiMrCX0xyr8fqBQv9ayrUgJJdyGYB0Nr5GEHVhJMpS3_ckI287myEbgfdD5TZchigkiMbFrHi7MgTvW8sre2XgnxMroqt2ZxF-opQOAuNmQbqv00Z0LKIlHDfgNv-im1OzGZE/s400/Kim+Jong+Un.jpg" width="311" /></a><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG</b>: What's with
the long-range nuclear missile you guys are developing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
have the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region>
government quite concerned. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kim Jong Un</b>: Ah,
it's nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don't have enough food
for our citizens but we like to spend government money experimenting with
costly rockets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
have any dog seasoning around here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Manti, when did you first realize that
your girlfriend was illusory?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Manti Te'o</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far too late, I admit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should've figured that she was imaginary
when she said that we had a chance at beating <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alabama</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGSL561VpBdZ0fi-nCeeVciAZSBzHYQ5rT9nSjr6pSFPRDB-Zo0QT3eDOyVVUj1nHj70_B4ZxuhoXkVFPPK8hRho7KLWTp5-XkBOYS0oDfXTBSFntkI7oLvdGTbQ9wRI4oqvgswsvR3ZX/s1600/Te'o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGSL561VpBdZ0fi-nCeeVciAZSBzHYQ5rT9nSjr6pSFPRDB-Zo0QT3eDOyVVUj1nHj70_B4ZxuhoXkVFPPK8hRho7KLWTp5-XkBOYS0oDfXTBSFntkI7oLvdGTbQ9wRI4oqvgswsvR3ZX/s320/Te'o.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Well, I can understand that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed like Notre Dame was playing with an
imaginary defense in the national title game.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>So why did you choose to do your first interview after the scandal
broke with Katie Couric?<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Manti Te'o</b>: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I have a thing for imaginary women who
don't exist and I figured she must be one because nobody I know ever saw her
anchor the CBS Evening News.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What's with the apostrophe in your last
name?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Manti Te'o</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I' don't rea'lly kno'w wha't you're takin'
abou't.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's th'e wa'y we' spea'k an'd
spe'll i'n <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hawai'i</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LG:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>O'K.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think that about wraps up today's interview session, you're all free
to go see Dr. Phil now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-19940786477549449112012-12-30T21:04:00.000-05:002012-12-30T21:04:41.072-05:00Christmas in New YorkLG used to live in New York City, as many of you know. <br />
<br />
Three different stints, totaling 20 years. <br />
<br />
Now LG lives in the sticks of Pennsylvania farm country. The <strong>S-T-I-C-K-S</strong>. [LG doesn't know why he wrote "sticks" like that, it just seemed to give it a more stick-y feeling.] <br />
<br />
More people lived in LG's former NYC residential building than in his whole town in Pennsylvania. But there's more deer poo in his town in Pennsylvania than people in his building in NYC (that is, if you could figure out a way to equate people with deer poo for census purposes.) <br />
<br />
You've probably seen the humongous Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. LG used to see it every year. He'd marvel at how big it was and would wonder from what God-forsaken corner of the universe such a big tree would've come. LG now lives in that God-forsaken corner. <br />
<br />
This year's tree probably came from LG's town. Come to think of it, LG has noticed a big tree missing from the town square...<br />
<br />
Actually it's not that bad here in Pennsylvania [<strong>Note to authorities</strong>: The Wife just slapped LG after reading the previous paragraphs over his shoulder. Send help!]<br />
<br />
LG still visits New York City about two or three times a month <strike>when he's on parole</strike> for work. <br />
<br />
LG was there recently and took a few photos at Rockefeller Center for the viewing pleasure of readers of <strong>The LG Report</strong> who couldn't visit in person this year. Please enjoy responsibly. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEltTy77alszF_Y9uf3A7-4vLMcZris0gQbvtj9roSe57r-Ro4jrSP68MJie-OobIhACd6xkzVdlTUSDCgf2m5JkqHpPLG9Ec1PFxWrgXQmi6uFPU-LPtsb5DfpQOlAkaXNaOi90ftI5u/s1600/Tree3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEltTy77alszF_Y9uf3A7-4vLMcZris0gQbvtj9roSe57r-Ro4jrSP68MJie-OobIhACd6xkzVdlTUSDCgf2m5JkqHpPLG9Ec1PFxWrgXQmi6uFPU-LPtsb5DfpQOlAkaXNaOi90ftI5u/s640/Tree3.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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This is a view of the tree from the north side. It's a big mofo. While LG was taking this picture, his wallet was pickpocketed. Luckily, he made up for that loss by offering to take a photo of the couple in the foreground who were taking their own self-portrait. They handed LG their camera and he ran off with it. LG got $200 for it at a pawn shop. What goes around comes around...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mmVJnnegDni2xLF2xISMgu6suT-LtO5O4jeiTmOC51jN6NGVclPLdrQElQCFWc5HckXgsC2VIRWHONb6tHBwXR_Pk21sLxqhL8jdNjYGjddlOzKVfUANBH_Ygkfme_gYV1f34SPhyphenhyphengcx/s1600/Lego1-Revised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mmVJnnegDni2xLF2xISMgu6suT-LtO5O4jeiTmOC51jN6NGVclPLdrQElQCFWc5HckXgsC2VIRWHONb6tHBwXR_Pk21sLxqhL8jdNjYGjddlOzKVfUANBH_Ygkfme_gYV1f34SPhyphenhyphengcx/s640/Lego1-Revised.jpg" width="502" /></a></div>
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Here's an aerial view of Rockefeller Center from a helicopter that LG hired just for the ocassion (billing the cost back to <strong>The LG Report</strong>, of course.) No, that's not a Lego structure and those aren't children in the foreground. Those are mutant zombies that LG had to fight off in order to get this picture. You're welcome. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCEw0W8eqmfXjTooa7SOgPPjqVb1lQY-XBvGdp1m4PugCskoxEkhmI2Pegp22dnwSaoz_EBR2Jj43gl1pa6VDUHwU0KgXv9PLP2dusb5NySppxqhspHqYawWQFxmOUdHNvpS1v4QS7sLt/s1600/Lego2-Revised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCEw0W8eqmfXjTooa7SOgPPjqVb1lQY-XBvGdp1m4PugCskoxEkhmI2Pegp22dnwSaoz_EBR2Jj43gl1pa6VDUHwU0KgXv9PLP2dusb5NySppxqhspHqYawWQFxmOUdHNvpS1v4QS7sLt/s640/Lego2-Revised.jpg" width="422" /></a></div>
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Ditto here. Scary mutant zombies in foreground. Zowie! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz4E0xE8SqcZTib_XeJogYnyBpXvXu1swl5L_L8bH6P_xA6h_PW0STNszgO0_chtkf1TnVzRzH_HilZPKsxxxQ-G6qpm5J9sXbY-sfbXp7VIrPc7CsUYnDhe6HKrjDpiGFhr3LmsOhs6Nn/s1600/Flags2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz4E0xE8SqcZTib_XeJogYnyBpXvXu1swl5L_L8bH6P_xA6h_PW0STNszgO0_chtkf1TnVzRzH_HilZPKsxxxQ-G6qpm5J9sXbY-sfbXp7VIrPc7CsUYnDhe6HKrjDpiGFhr3LmsOhs6Nn/s640/Flags2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Funny caption for this photo under repair. Please come back again soon. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVIe1biISA8TeNaB_2t1a9didXjms3CsOPuDYT9hretilH9GvoGvFklQCbY5UAw4viEEs1q9GBilWjDLUO1BQ8S-MOByuqX0sg_7091ihU01gnV0RRQoC21bFU6uoyw56-NivqMZ1k0QB/s1600/Prometheus-Revised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIVIe1biISA8TeNaB_2t1a9didXjms3CsOPuDYT9hretilH9GvoGvFklQCbY5UAw4viEEs1q9GBilWjDLUO1BQ8S-MOByuqX0sg_7091ihU01gnV0RRQoC21bFU6uoyw56-NivqMZ1k0QB/s640/Prometheus-Revised.jpg" width="410" /></a></div>
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This is the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center. Here, get your learn on: <em>According to Greek mythology, Prometheus was a Titan who defied the will of Zeus and brought fire to Earth, helping mortals while risking harsh retribution from the authorities. The mountain-like-pedestal at the base of the statue symbolizes the earth, while the circle containing the signs of the zodiac represents the heavens. The red Balmoral granite wall behind the statue has a quotation from Aeschylus: "Prometheus, teacher in every art, brought the fire to earth that hath proven to mortals a means to mighty ends."</em> Next time you're there, you can impress the hobos with your knowledge! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR25repv_0MNnL-0MVbmcgf5IkMAYbRgyQGzEf5ooRkka4wQkz4MlmauIyxAbmL9O1CImQShu5X_2gUP9PTuh4oSBBEWfBhlLNp8dwOUwb95m0Wd76uDdfTY32hNQtGw3Oybd9K-i_zoyO/s1600/Decorative+Thing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR25repv_0MNnL-0MVbmcgf5IkMAYbRgyQGzEf5ooRkka4wQkz4MlmauIyxAbmL9O1CImQShu5X_2gUP9PTuh4oSBBEWfBhlLNp8dwOUwb95m0Wd76uDdfTY32hNQtGw3Oybd9K-i_zoyO/s640/Decorative+Thing.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Seen here is an elaborate decoration sponsored by the swanky crystal company Swarovski just moments before LG inadvertently knocked it over. Stuff happens Mr. Swarovski, LG is sorryski. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYmm7saZsLR8ZulPwTgqcSj6HvzWA5zkLUNbOvdAMl9NGQ0gBKsQkD2HnPTPRrL9ON_L2y8KEw9JPkPd_EnZ7jWvv5sOmHr9Q9X5ayn7h4D1hWQcSWysmtf1Yx0xkqr9NZqTgVa1jKixN/s1600/Tree-Revised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYmm7saZsLR8ZulPwTgqcSj6HvzWA5zkLUNbOvdAMl9NGQ0gBKsQkD2HnPTPRrL9ON_L2y8KEw9JPkPd_EnZ7jWvv5sOmHr9Q9X5ayn7h4D1hWQcSWysmtf1Yx0xkqr9NZqTgVa1jKixN/s640/Tree-Revised.jpg" width="384" /></a></div>
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Another view of the tree. Pictured in foreground: People who had no idea they'd ever be lucky enough to make it onto <strong>The LG Report</strong>. They probably would've dressed better if they had any advance notice. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXHp31CQjklhjHZszU0BbM_I4aIvXvWmeYPJ27FQ_uj2zW1qxT8EJ9WsNsaIZllNPdRA6Mooeu3jvBpPFKRptgEk7zbSEOqw0t8mwf_9ex00k6dnYQh4QuVhuArGgE_JcBnkOkgq_9fZj/s1600/Trumpet+Guy-Revised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXHp31CQjklhjHZszU0BbM_I4aIvXvWmeYPJ27FQ_uj2zW1qxT8EJ9WsNsaIZllNPdRA6Mooeu3jvBpPFKRptgEk7zbSEOqw0t8mwf_9ex00k6dnYQh4QuVhuArGgE_JcBnkOkgq_9fZj/s640/Trumpet+Guy-Revised.jpg" width="358" /></a></div>
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No, he's not a real person. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxDv-62CT1MjL6FFFDvTtzTHybMYzFVYdzDlvifY9jEqSyj-n67PYQKOxxkYs61OwRzRgTX9UuKNNULTA9BbcQkP1XR2YtAsAmnINOoZq8QR5vvs28GJ48RF7P3hQogJDGvU2WtHsX7Uc/s1600/Zamboni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxDv-62CT1MjL6FFFDvTtzTHybMYzFVYdzDlvifY9jEqSyj-n67PYQKOxxkYs61OwRzRgTX9UuKNNULTA9BbcQkP1XR2YtAsAmnINOoZq8QR5vvs28GJ48RF7P3hQogJDGvU2WtHsX7Uc/s640/Zamboni.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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In honor of the NHL strike, ice skaters refuse to use the rink at Rockefeller Center. If you believe that, LG has a bridge to sell you. Actually, this was a skating party for all of the effective and reasonable members of the U.S. Congress. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRujSAmJcTsczGK92qWz6pxgm8p089e3nNey8KKIo2i022_AF_o2rTW8Nbx0Gp4Um3ga93PY4HtrPB2pqpPxyuFgXKdIELliWK48NR7NadKggh1lq3JMaWGav5E4hl1vDy_TqYSsfXpRw/s1600/Stocking-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRujSAmJcTsczGK92qWz6pxgm8p089e3nNey8KKIo2i022_AF_o2rTW8Nbx0Gp4Um3ga93PY4HtrPB2pqpPxyuFgXKdIELliWK48NR7NadKggh1lq3JMaWGav5E4hl1vDy_TqYSsfXpRw/s640/Stocking-2.jpg" width="378" /></a></div>
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Finally, a photo of LG's and The Wife's Christmas stockings. As you can see, Santa thinks so highly of LG that he forces LG to have a Costco-sized stocking to be stuffed with all of the goodies that LG deserves. This has absolutely <u>nothing</u> to do with the fact that LG was in charge of purchasing both stockings last year. <br />
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That's it for this time kidz. It appears that <strong>The LG Report</strong> is only publishing monthly at this point, but LG will try to post a bit more frequently in 2013 (as if you care, we know...) <br />
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From everyone here at <strong>The LG Report</strong> (a staff of thousands, internationally), we wish you a very happy, healthy and prosperous 2013! <br />
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-11793978411149995302012-11-13T22:29:00.002-05:002012-11-13T22:29:46.124-05:00Doggie Door Challenge 2012 <br />
Gather 'round folks to hear (or read, technically) the tale of the Great Doggie Door Challenge 2012. It is, as you know, a world-wide phenomenon (in LG's mind anyway) and has taken the internet by storm.<br />
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It all began in 2010 with the Snowpocalypse that battered the Jersey Shore (yes, a precursor to Superstorm Sandy.) LG was at his sister MIG's house when the Snowmageddon-like blizzard struck. <br />
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The white stuff was so high that it blocked the doggie door. This was problematic because MIG's two dog friends, Jake and Sophie, couldn't get outside to do their business. And nobody wants their dogs conducting their business from a home office. <br />
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So MIG grabbed her shovel and headed out through the doggie door (the only feasible way to get into the backyard, since the gates were blocked with 3+ feet of snow) so that she could clear an area for the dogs to relieve themselves. Being a chivalrous brother, when MIG grabbed her shovel, LG grabbed his video camera. He knew that readers of <strong>The LG Report</strong> would need to see this.<br />
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In case you missed it, you can see a video of MIG crawling back through the doggie door by clicking <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dupCkKvs2VA&list=UUN6wvS6iSPalCy0e2J46PPw&index=9&feature=plcp"><span style="color: red;">HERE</span></a> . <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9xszQTP2Bax08GGl_apooCRK9fvE4LFpNBkkyXQFBwMRajym0q1YEpL59mcb4pJwYECT9ugdfZji_x5BzLbEcGJW2r-eLR0Wjjdr-ODLo62jl7QjeKERDRs5AlluMAuIXZYhGjvVn4EH/s1600/doggie+door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9xszQTP2Bax08GGl_apooCRK9fvE4LFpNBkkyXQFBwMRajym0q1YEpL59mcb4pJwYECT9ugdfZji_x5BzLbEcGJW2r-eLR0Wjjdr-ODLo62jl7QjeKERDRs5AlluMAuIXZYhGjvVn4EH/s320/doggie+door.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is NOT Dannie. Close though. </td></tr>
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Fast forward to sometime thereafter. LG and The Lovely Wife were dining at the home of some friends. These friends happened to have a doggie door. LG's buddy Dannie, feeling his oats (or Alpo), bet LG five bucks that he, Dannie, could successfully crawl through the rather small doggie door. <br />
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And gosh darn if he didn't. Woulda made Snoop Dogg proud. <br />
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LG paid Dannie the five bucks and threw in some Milkbones too. <br />
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Of course, as Dannie was pushing his way through the doggie door from outside the house, he got momentarily stuck and received a number of wet kisses from Mark's affectionate pooches who were anxiously awaiting Dannie's arrival on the other side. Unfortunately, no video record of this event exists. <br />
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Fast forward again, this time to last weekend. <br />
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LG and The Lovely Wife hosted a bunch of friends at their house for a dinner party on Saturday night. LG, always being the gracious and entertaining host, jury-rigged a makeshift doggie door (and a narrow one at that) to further test Dannie's doggie door abilities. It should be noted that Dannie has become a P90X workout fiend and has lost 20 pounds or so since his last doggie door foray. LG made the doggie door a tight one. <br />
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To see a short video of the pre-attempt interviews that LG conducted with Dannie's legion of doggie door fans ("Dannie's Doggs" they're called on the Professional Doggie Door Crawlers Circuit, or PDDCC) shortly before his first try at getting through the door on Saturday night, click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RUL8VNLAB0&list=UUN6wvS6iSPalCy0e2J46PPw&index=3&feature=plcp"><span style="color: red;">HERE</span></a>. <br />
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Now here's where things got a bit tricky. <br />
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Due to a technical malfunction with the video equipment, and through absolutely no fault of LG's or the homemade wine or the homemade limoncello, the camera failed to record Dannie's first attempt at squeezing through the door. <br />
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Which was just as well. <br />
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Dannie rose to the challenge rather easily, so LG tightened up the adjustable door (which LG has since patented, given the high deamand for makeshift, non-functioning doggie doors in America today) and asked Dannie to try again. Dannie graciously agreed. <br />
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If you'd like to see a short clip of interviews with Dannie's Doggs before the second attempt, you can click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xvTXVhBZ8ko&list=UUN6wvS6iSPalCy0e2J46PPw&index=2&feature=plcp"><span style="color: red;">HERE</span></a><span style="color: red;">.</span><br />
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[<strong>NOTE</strong>: Dannie doesn't spell his name as "Dannie" with an "ie" at the end. He seems to prefer just plain ole "Dan," but LG spells it that way in an attempt to annoy him -- even though it never seems to have that effect. In fact, Dannie has never even commented on the weird spelling. But, of course, LG won't let up...Dannie, Dannie, Dannie, Dannie, Dannie, Dannie...]<br />
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So now we come to the moment of truth, the spectacle that you've all been waiting for...the video clip of Dannie actually attempting to pass through the <strong><em>World's Narrowest Doggie Door</em></strong> (which may not be a strictly true statement, but it's written in the best tradition of the P.T. Barnum School of Blogging). <br />
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<strong>The LG Report's</strong> team of lawyers has advised us, however, that we must post this notice: <br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">WARNING</span>: Do not view this video of Daredevil Dan and the Doggie Door Attempt 2012 unless you are over seven years old (chronologically, not maturity-wise, that restriction would exclude half of our readers) and you do not have any cardiac health issues. This video has been rated "I" (for Inane) but the Motion Picture Academy of America. Any resemblence to any person, living or dead, is strictly coincidental unless it's actually them in the video. Void where prohibited. Not valid in Canda. <br />
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Now sit back, grab your bowl of snausages and prepare to be amazed by clicking <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eMcB1FU1ChY&list=UUN6wvS6iSPalCy0e2J46PPw&index=1&feature=plcp"><span style="color: red;">HERE! </span></a><br />
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That's it for today folks, thanks for stopping by, we hope to see you back here again soon. Our doggie door is always open. <br />
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-37164424165160384912012-10-21T12:38:00.001-04:002012-10-21T12:38:16.452-04:00Why LG is Leaving Facebook<strong><span style="background-color: yellow;">Editor's Note: When LG wrote this post, he was sincerely intent on leaving Facebook, but has since been talked off the ledge. He is now going to limit his FB activity to once a week or so. But in the meantime, he saw no reason to allow a perfectly good blog post to go to waste, so it appears below. Please enjoy responsibly.</span> </strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsr8ir-7vrPKqm55ltKA680zQdxvAMt4npCt6mq-sH3aRmC5EwrH26cLGk8Qbw2Tk7M7jZhZ_7WWJRZ1CHrn_h-pTIUH9bH9JtrV2D6VElXCzS1AiK3JK3dTLE-VXQqGFQnFi0Pego2fG/s1600/no-facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsr8ir-7vrPKqm55ltKA680zQdxvAMt4npCt6mq-sH3aRmC5EwrH26cLGk8Qbw2Tk7M7jZhZ_7WWJRZ1CHrn_h-pTIUH9bH9JtrV2D6VElXCzS1AiK3JK3dTLE-VXQqGFQnFi0Pego2fG/s320/no-facebook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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LG knows, this sounds dramatic. HE'S CLOSING HIS FACEBOOK ACCOUNT!<br />
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But it only sounds dramatic because... <span style="color: red;"><strong>IT IS DRAMATIC!</strong></span><br />
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LG is leaving Facebook for a number of reasons. He's not sure if he's permanently signing off or just taking a hiatus, that's TBD. Reportedly, it takes at least ten minutes and the execution of a very complicated series of maneuvers (involving eye of newt, bat wings and a dead rabbit) in order to actually close down your account, as opposed to merely suspending it. <br />
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If if you simply "suspend" your account, Facebook makes it very simple to reactivate it. Just trying to log in will automatically reinstate your account and thrust you back into Facebook's sticky web of privacy invasion and annoyance. And even when you close your account, as we all know, your posts and other information stay in Facebook's archives forever - or at least until the impending Mayan Apocalypse.<br />
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So why exactly is LG leaving Facebook? <br />
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Good question, he knew you'd ask. Here, in no particular order of importance, are LG's reasons:<br />
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<strong>The privacy invasions are out of hand</strong>. Facebook takes every opportunity to share all of your information with not only advertisers but also other members. Their thinking, LG believes, is that the more "friends" you have on Facebook, the less likely you'll be to leave. Thus, they randomly post your comments from other people's pages on your page so that people can see what your friends (who are not their FB friends) are up to, thereby possibly motivating them to extend a friendship request. When LG tells Friend A (who is not connected to Friend B) that Friend A is not as big a jerk as Friend B, he doesn't want that posted on his Facebook page for Friend B to see (in all fairness though, LG also needs more friends who don't just go by first letters.) <br />
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Another example: The other day LG caught Facebook going through his attic looking for girlie magazines from the 1970s (there are none up there, of course, but LG is quitting FB before it gets to the basement...) <br />
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<b>It's a gigantic time suck. </b>It not only distracts us from more important pursuits (like Angry Birds and ESPN.com), but it also takes time just to explain why you're leaving it. LG finds himself wasting far too many minutes checking FB and providing witty commentary (some might say "snarky" but he'll ignore those haters) on the posts of far too many people. Of course, now LG likes some people on Facebook who he's never met in real life better than people who he has met in real life. Oh well, that's the way it goes.. <br />
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<strong>Honey Boo Boo beckons. </strong>Facebook eats up valuable time that LG could be using to watch Honey Boo Boo and her exceedingly talented clan. LG realizes that Honey Boo Boo is still very young and he doesn't want to jinx her, but if the girl plays her cards right...she may grow up to be as talented and intelligent as Snookie! <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniGs-WxxqOKd75COSZ2W_Zw8dVb__zrCwH25Wi3tgLCDsPyzOMFhEILfFfhVu_0YHiK8so61kwfiqiyWqDGtGc08ezWetobAKaziiiLCIYkon6oyAUJou8orN34MNctAlNcxfKqGn9pFj/s1600/Honey+Boo+Boo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniGs-WxxqOKd75COSZ2W_Zw8dVb__zrCwH25Wi3tgLCDsPyzOMFhEILfFfhVu_0YHiK8so61kwfiqiyWqDGtGc08ezWetobAKaziiiLCIYkon6oyAUJou8orN34MNctAlNcxfKqGn9pFj/s640/Honey+Boo+Boo.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Snookie is reportedly living in the beautiful house behind Honey Boo Boo in this photo. </span></td></tr>
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<b>The election season is gearing up. </b>LG generally (with a few notable exceptions) uses Facebook for his own amusement, not to try to sway others to support a particular candidate or cause. The multitude of political rants are getting annoying and they'll only grow more frequent and strident as election day nears. LG realizes that everything that everyone posts on Facebook is true, but he already know these interesting facts so there's no reason to remind him that President Obama was born on Venus and the U.S. Government actually <u>pays taxes to</u> Mitt Romney. <br />
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<b>LG is fed up with being mistaken for George Clooney. </b>When women see LG's photo on Facebook, they immediately try to friend him, assuming that he's really George Clooney operating under a pseudonym. LG knows that it sounds ridiculous, but it's true. To set the record straight, here's what George Clooney looks like:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLw0XVQwVyhzXNpO3Zl1QRBlnHcUR4Uu94__W6cGwfYEwU29QR8P9RDIBd_dY2na5e1nSDZE1YhmeLNUJq9uVG4z-7H_IcTpNdqtOjNWQlEbqo6ROh-4t3xw0BuyaGkujih0UOfFolqTY/s1600/Clooney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLw0XVQwVyhzXNpO3Zl1QRBlnHcUR4Uu94__W6cGwfYEwU29QR8P9RDIBd_dY2na5e1nSDZE1YhmeLNUJq9uVG4z-7H_IcTpNdqtOjNWQlEbqo6ROh-4t3xw0BuyaGkujih0UOfFolqTY/s640/Clooney.jpg" width="436" /></a></div>
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And here's a recent photo of LG: <br />
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As you can see, there's a significant difference, so why the confusion?<br />
<br />
<b>They don't allow you to eat KFC on Facebook. </b>That one is self-explanatory. Facebook says it's too greasy and messes up the "Like" buttons.<br />
<br />
<strong>Cat photos ad nasuseum</strong>. And not even actual cat photos of Facebook member's pets; we're talking stock photos of cats typing on computers, talking on phones and using the toilet. <strong>Facebook Feline Fanatics</strong>: When your effin' cat can actually drive a car, then LG would like to see the photo. Until then, stick it! <br />
<br />
<strong>Getting off Facebook seems so much more Gangnam Style than staying on it. </strong>Self-explanatory. <br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>LG needs to spend time helping Big Bird polish up his resume. </strong>Again, self-explanatory.<br />
<br />
<strong>The Tanorexic Mom. </strong>It turns out that she actually got her deep bronze tan from spending too many hours in front of the computer screen posting Facebook updates. She's actually an albino underneath all of that Facebook glow. <br />
<strong></strong><br />
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Fear not friends, <strong>The LG Report</strong> will continue to publish, weekly or so (The <strong>LGR</strong> has been on a particularly long hiatus, LG knows...) and if you don't have LG's email address and need to get in touch, you can do it through the blog. <br />
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Keep it real out there folks. Maybe LG will see you soon in real life. But not on Facebook. <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: cyan;">[<strong>Another Editor's Note</strong>: The last sentence above struck LG as fittingly dramatic for his Facebook exit blog post but, alas, it doesn't ring true now that he's sticking around FB. If you're one of LG's FB friends, you can assume he's staying on because of you and you alone. Thank you.]</span><br />
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<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-88972446422238561322012-09-13T23:36:00.001-04:002012-09-14T11:49:17.966-04:00The LG Report Visits Katie Couric's New Show <br />
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<br />
OK folks, you've read the headline. Here's how it went down: <br />
<br />
<strong><u>BACKSTORY</u></strong>: LG's sister, MIG, asked him to join her and family friend Marge C. (name has been abbreviated to protect the innocent) in the audience of The Martha Stewart Show a few years ago, when LG still lived in NYC. So he went. While there, Martha's <strike>slaves</strike> staff solicited guys to sign up for the all-male Super Bowl show audience. LG did, brought three friends, and they were rewarded with, among other things, a $350 indoor grill (like a George Foreman grill but 10 times better.) <br />
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So, a few weeks ago LG received an email from the new Katie Couric Show asking if he'd like to be in an all-male audience and bring a few friends since he'd been in one before (apparently, that bitch Martha sold LG's info to other talk shows...now she'll be going back to the pen for invasion of privacy...) <br />
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Hoping for another muy awesome grill or the like, LG said yes, as did his buddies Jimmie and Geo. Dannie also said yes but had to back out in order to defuse a nuclear bomb under the Empire State Building. Or take a client to lunch, LG forgets which. <br />
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The show's theme was "Probing the male mind" -- deciphering how men think about things (those "things" being mainly women, the largest demographic of Katie's viewers, by far.) <br />
<br />
The guests were former longtime Sports Illstrated writer Rick Reilly (one of LG's faves; LG has been subscribing to SI for 3/4ths of his life) and two other guys whose names LG couldn't be bothered remembering. They were all pretty funny actually, although Reilly stole the show (in LG's biased opinion.) <br />
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What follows is a pictoral essay on LG and Friends' day with Katie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffFgOTHdbuh30mylTzmk-Xm0L56Lz1x8eMtxf0nPAAcO3wBnSxgJw8yffdkYw-7-JmhMFE6LPcPPSskXSeb7YLBTB2dEDbYDvnqcFXYyKNWKrUW2TtHEIniDE2jCsOt7ApfnQNijiwL2l/s1600/Outside-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="606" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffFgOTHdbuh30mylTzmk-Xm0L56Lz1x8eMtxf0nPAAcO3wBnSxgJw8yffdkYw-7-JmhMFE6LPcPPSskXSeb7YLBTB2dEDbYDvnqcFXYyKNWKrUW2TtHEIniDE2jCsOt7ApfnQNijiwL2l/s640/Outside-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Here was the line of guys waiting to get in to the show. Just to prove that LG and Company weren't the only guys there. Although these guys were mostly losers, as you can see. The show did request, however, that everyone wear a brightly-colored shirt because "Katie loves to see bright colors in the audience." The guys in dark blue and purple shirts apparently didn't get the memo. <br />
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This was the scene in the "waiting room," an ABC cafeteria judging by the chips and sodas that were on display but that audience members couldn't touch. That's Jimmie in the foreground (although by the look of the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, it's Jimmie's grandfather). He's texting a bet to his bookie. Notice that he's not wearing a watch because he lost it on a horse in the fifth at Aqueduct. Those guys in the background never thought they'd be so lucky as to appear on<strong> The LG Report</strong>. LG received a full waiver from them of course (NOT.) <br />
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This a survey that they asked us to complete before heading into the studio. Those answers belong to some anonymous audience member, not LG of course! (LG wouldn't lower himself to objectifying women like this...) <br />
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Geo was so excited this morning when he dressed for the show that he mistakenly wore two different shoes (honest). As you can see, the one on the left has pronounced white stitching and the one on the right is a penny loafer. At least the socks match. Geo says that he throws all of his shoes in a pile, hence the tendency for a mix-up every now and then. You have a sock drawer, Geo has a shoe drawer. Just pull two out randomly in the dark and hope for the best. It makes for good entertainment for his friends anyway. And now you. <br />
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Jimmie and Geo pose with Katie for a photo for <strong>The LG Report</strong>. Katie said she'd be thrilled to appear. She also broke down and said that she was a fool for leaving "The Today Show" and hates Meredith. As you can see, she's much taller in person that you would imagine. She used to play linebacker for the Bears. That's a motorcycle chain around her neck. She lifted Geo by his head shortly after this photo was snapped to get a better look at his mismatch shoes. <br />
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Most of these daytime talk shows have a warm-up comedian. This guy was pretty lame. He asked people where they were from to discern who came the furthest to attend the show. One guy said "South Africa" and another said "Australia." LG, not wanting to be outdone, raised his hand and said that he lives on the International Space Station. The guy didn't appear to believe it, although he knew he was no match for LG when it came to wit and humor. At least that's what LG picked up on, and he's never wrong. Notice the guy and gal making out behind the Katie sign. <br />
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Here's what the audience looked like. There were some women, as you can see in the back end of this photo. All of the guys, as you can also see, are watching the "Ellen Show" on their smartphones. <br />
___________________<br />
<br />
Candidly, LG and Friends attended the show in the hopes of getting another excellent audience gift. <strong><em>Unfortunately, Katie screwed them.</em></strong> The gift was a free copy of this bogus book by one of the guests who appeared on the show. That was it, one damn book. It's worth about $345.00 less than the gift that Martha Stewart (although a bitch) provided. <br />
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Jimmie was so disgusted that he gave his copy of the book to LG. So here's the deal: <strong>The LG Report</strong> reader who leaves a comment stating the most compelling case as to why they want this book will get it mailed to them free (LG will pick up the postage and handling fee). Leave your comment below (not on Facebook, thank you.) <br />
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None of the show's crew would specify when this episode will air, but it should be sometime next week ("Katie" is on at 2pm on ABC in the NYC viewing area; check your local listings.) <br />
<br />
LG suspects that he, Geo and Jimmie may be on camera in the audience because they purposely fake laughed excessively on the way to commercial breaks in order to attract the cameraman's attention. LG was wearing a bright blue checked shirt, Jimime wore a pink shirt and Geo had on two different shoes.<br />
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Until next time, thanks for stopping by! <br />
<br />Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042982628827505561.post-42641453231518594552012-09-10T22:41:00.000-04:002012-09-10T22:41:34.047-04:00Remembering September 11, 2001 <h2 class="date-header">
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[<b>Note</b>: <b>This
post, originally published on September 10, 2010, is the most-viewed in
the history of The LG Report. It's being published again as we
approach the 11th anniversary of the September 11th attacks</b>.] <br />
<br />
It's hard to believe that nine years have passed since that horrific
day in September of 2001. Nine years. In a way, it seems like it
occurred a lifetime ago, but in another way, it feels like it was much
more recent. <br />
<br />
As many of you know, I was in my office in downtown Manhattan on the
morning of September 11, 2001, about five blocks away from the World
Trade Center. Shortly before the first anniversary, I sat at my
computer and wrote 21 pages of stories about things that occurred on
that day and in the year that followed. I had passed on all offers of
grief counseling, preferring instead to cry by myself periodically,
usually while in the shower. My stubbornness may have been a mistake at
the time, but I'm the son of a native Greek father who only went to the
doctor when he had an appendage to present for re-attachment.
Actually, not even then. So writing about what I'd experienced was, I
believe, my catharsis. <br />
<br />
I had a feeling, as I was memorializing those stories, that one day
they'd appear in a book. Six years later, I published a volume on the
professional lines insurance industry, and those stories comprised the
bulk of the chapter on September 11th. <br />
<br />
A large number of people employed in the commercial insurance industry
perished on that day, including former colleagues of mine. <br />
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There
are many memories that I didn't record in those 21 pages; maybe
someday I'll reduce those to writing as well. It was a very surreal
time in the lives of most Americans. <br />
<br />
The first event which made me realize how screwed up things had become
was when, on September 12th, I saw a Michigan State Police car cruising
along Third Avenue in Gramercy Park, not far from my apartment. Did New
York City really need help from that far away? I'll also never forget
emerging from my normal downtown subway stop on the way to work in the
weeks after 9-11 and seeing the remaining shell of the World Trade
Center Towers smoldering. The entire Ground Zero site emitted an odor of
burnt wire and rubber. During the first couple of days, I had to show
my business card to National Guard troops in order to be allowed into
the area where my office was. <br />
<br />
One of the more emotional moments, at a time when such were plentiful,
engulfed me as I was on the phone with a woman at Hertz trying to rent a
car. It was a couple of days after September 11th and I wanted to
drive from Manhattan to my sister's house at the Jersey Shore. When the
rental agent, who, I believe, was in Oklahoma, realized that I was
calling from Manhattan and had been living through the event and its
aftermath, she suddenly dropped her businesslike tone. <br />
<br />
"<i>What's it like up there? Are you OK? Can we do anything else to help you</i>?" <br />
<br />
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Her
genuine concern and kindness struck a chord deep within me. It was at
that moment that I took a break from thinking about the craziness
around me to realize that September 11th was not a New York
catastrophe, or a Pennsylvania or Pentagon catastrophe, but truly a
national catastrophe that affected every single American in a profound
way. Those who were close to the events of that terrible day have no
special ownership of its tragedy or an enhanced right to receive
sympathy. All of our lives were changed immeasurably on September 11th.
Some of us, I believe, have a duty to report what we experienced so
that other Americans, current and future, may have a better idea of
what transpired on that fateful day. <br />
<br />
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With that in mind, below is a brief excerpt from the September 11th chapter of my book. <br />
<br />
This is one of the few times that <b>The LG Report</b> will not attempt to provide a humorous posting. <br />
____________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
[Excerpted from "<i>Claims Made and Reported: A Journey Through D&O, E&O and Other Professional Lines of Insurance</i>," Soho Publishing November 2008; All Rights Reserved ( <a href="http://www.sixthandspringbooks.com/product_info.php?cPath=2&products_id=362">Click Here For Book's Webpage</a>)<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>May your strength give us strength</i></b><br /><b><i>May your faith give us faith</i></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b><i>May your hope give us hope</i></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b><i>May your love give us love</i></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
– Bruce Springsteen “<i>Into the Fire</i>” <br />
________________________________________________<br />
“<i>Into the Fire</i>” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2002 Bruce Springsteen
(ASCAP.) Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All
rights reserved. <br />
_________________________________________________</div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2652927651797939193">
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: small;">VIII. September 11, 2001 </span></b><br />
<br />
[<b>Note: This chapter is a revision of a piece that I wrote just prior
to the first anniversary of September 11, 2001, well before I knew
that I would be writing this book. I attempted to memorialize many of
the events that I had seen and heard about on September 11th and during
the year following that unfathomable tragedy. Given that so many
commercial insurance people died on that dreadful day, I thought it
appropriate to include those writings in this book. One-quarter of this
book’s net proceeds will be donated to the National September 11
Memorial & Museum</b>.]<br />
<br />
<br />
The morning of September 11, 2001 began like most other mornings for me
at the time. I woke at 6:30 am and spent 32 minutes riding my exercise
bicycle in my living room on East 18th Street in Manhattan while
watching TV. I then showered and got ready for work at AIG’s downtown
offices. Every morning, just before leaving my apartment, I’d rip a page
off my horoscope-of-the-day calendar to see what the stars were
predicting for me. This routine was attributable to my mother, who
passed away in 1993. She used to put a horoscope-of-the-day calendar
into my Christmas stocking every year starting in about 1980. After my
mother died, my sister Maria continued the tradition. My guess is that I
had read my daily horoscope almost every morning for 21 consecutive
years.<br />
<br />
That day, something very strange happened even before I left my
apartment. I was about to rip off September 10th’s page to read the new
day’s prediction when I said to myself, for no discernible reason, “<i>The world is different now, I’m not going to read horoscopes anymore, I don’t believe in them</i>.”
With that thought, I unceremoniously threw the entire calendar into
the garbage. This was the first time in 21 years that I knowingly
refused to read my daily horoscope. <br />
<br />
Outside on Third Avenue I flagged a cab and headed south to my office at
AIG in the financial district, in keeping with my routine. I want to
emphasize here that I don’t claim to have ESP or any special ability to
see the future, but there was an unusual aspect to my commute. Riding
down Third Avenue (which turns into Bowery Street in lower Manhattan),
there was a point in Chinatown, called Chatham Square, where the Twin
Towers would become visible from the cab after being obscured earlier by
buildings. In my mind’s eye, I would regularly imagine the Towers
exploding from a high floor just as I entered Chatham Square. I didn’t
know what would cause an explosion and I certainly never thought that a
plane would be responsible. Nonetheless, I was envisioning a large
eruption of gray and black smoke. This vision was the only reason that I
knew the name of Chatham Square (whose sign was rather obscured): I
felt strongly that someday it would be an important detail and I took
special note of it. Over the previous three years, whenever I’d arrive
in Chatham Square to see the Towers unharmed I would literally breathe a
sigh of relief. Even on September 11, 2001 I had that (false) sense of
security upon seeing them intact. <br />
<br />
My next significant memory of that morning occurred shortly before 9 am.
My home phone service had inexplicably been malfunctioning for a few
days and I finally got around to calling Verizon. I was dialing customer
service when a colleague, Jason Brown, entered my office to tell me
that he heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the World Trade
Center Towers. I looked out my office window and saw dense clouds of
paper fluttering high across the sky towards Brooklyn. It reminded me of
the many ticker tape parades that I had seen along lower Broadway
after a championship season or during a world dignitary’s visit. But I
knew there was no parade that day. Something was wrong. <br />
<br />
A bunch of us went downstairs to get a better look. Standing on the
sidewalk in front of 175 Water Street with an ever-growing crowd of
upward-looking gawkers (much like the throngs in a 1950s science fiction
film watching descending UFOs on a city street), I remember thinking,
or perhaps hoping, that helicopters with fire hoses would show up…of
course, they didn’t. <br />
<br />
Mesmerized, a colleague, John Feniello, shook his head and said, “<i>That fire is going to burn for days</i>.”
Of course, he had no idea, nor did I, that the fire would burn not for
mere days but for months – but not high in the sky, rather much lower,
among the ruins of the Towers. But it seemed logical at the time; it
was the only thing that we could believe. <br />
<br />
When the second plane hit the South Tower, any doubts I had that this
was a terrorist attack were immediately erased. We knew the country was
under attack. Shrill screams could be heard and genuine panic started
to set in, even though the worst was yet to come. Security guards
announced that our building was closing for the day and told everyone to
leave the area immediately. Much of the crowd started heading toward
the ferries that were gathering at the foot of Wall Street. Others
started walking uptown toward subways or buses that might, or might not,
be in service. People also began walking across several bridges to
escape the city. <br />
<br />
It was a horror movie coming to life.<br />
<br />
But I couldn’t leave, not at first anyway. I wanted to watch the
firefighters battling the blazes. There’s no rational explanation, but I
didn’t want to move until I knew that the situation was under control.
<br />
<br />
After a while of just staring up at the Towers, I heard a deep rumbling,
like gigantic concrete bowling pins colliding. The noise didn’t last
long, maybe five seconds at most. Before I knew what was happening, the
South Tower slipped down out of my sight. It just disappeared…like a
high-rise house of cards, its base kicked out from under it by an angry
child. Moments later, the three-story building in front of us stood
taller than the 110-story tower in the distance that had just been
compressed back into its foundation. It was the sickest feeling, one
that I don’t think I can quite explain. I saw it and I heard it and I
felt it but I still can’t believe it. The Twin Towers seemed like the
100-year-old oak trees in your front yard: they couldn’t be moved or
bent. If anything, they held up the sky. They anchored lower Manhattan
and provided a sense of direction for every New Yorker who’d ever lost
his bearings. <br />
<br />
The collapse and disintegration of the South Tower seared my brain. I
sincerely hope that I never see anything as stomach-churning again.
People around me started screaming and crying. Everyone on the sidewalk
knew someone who was in the Towers – a relative, a friend or a business
acquaintance. Some people threw down briefcases and started running. I
kept staring in shock. At that instant, I think everyone on the
sidewalk knew that we had just witnessed the death of an unimaginable
number of people. It occurred to me almost instantly that even the most
battle-hardened soldiers never see so many people killed in a single
instant. The aircrews who dropped the atomic bombs in World War II were
not five blocks away at ground level when their payloads did their
dirty work. And five blocks was relatively far in a sense; hundreds of
firefighters, police officers, emergency medical technicians and other
heroes were right on site. One firefighter later described the scene in
this way: “<i>Everything was on fire, everything you saw was burning. It was what I imagine Hell to be like</i>.”<br />
<br />
Quickly, certainly more quickly than I’d have imagined, a thick white
cloud of smoke came rolling at us. It was a five-story-tall fog and it
was moving fast. For a few seconds I froze. The bright September sky was
being obscured. Then a guy not ten feet away from me breathlessly
shouted “Run…ground smoke…it could kill us!”<br />
<br />
I suddenly realized that there might have been deadly chemicals in the
plane. There was no rational basis for this belief; but then again,
nobody knew anything for sure at that point. The frenzy spread
instantly: people dropped briefcases and bags and started running,
screaming, just trying to get away from the smoke as quickly as
possible. I remember thinking, “Those bastards, they might get me too,
this could be how I die…” The fear of death was real and it was
everywhere. <br />
<br />
About two or three hundred of us ran straight toward the East River,
only a block away, and then north past the South Street Seaport. I’ve
since heard that some people actually jumped into the river to avoid the
smoke but I didn’t see that. As we ran up the closed FDR Expressway
the dense white fallout followed us. We formed a seemingly endless herd
of stampeding business suits. Burning smells and the piercing screams
of emergency vehicles joined to assault our senses. It was a war zone,
although until that moment I don’t think that I had ever actually
thought to imagine one. The word that describes it best and one which
I’ve never truly experienced before: Bedlam. <br />
<br />
I was alternately running and walking with four coworkers as we headed
to my apartment about two miles away on 18th Street. A friend from San
Francisco who was in town on business, in the lobby of the North Tower
when the first plane hit, had – by some unbelievable stroke of good luck
– noticed me amidst all the confusion and joined our group. When we
were about halfway up the FDR, a guy who had been listening to a
hand-held radio via earphone yelled out “The second tower just fell.”
People gasped but we all just kept running. A few looked back.<br />
<br />
When we got to my apartment, I wanted to tell the outside world the
names of those who were safe. However, I still had a dead home phone and
cell phone service was, at best, sporadic. Fortunately, my computer’s
internet connection was working so I sat down and composed a message to
everyone in my e-mail address book. To this day, many years later, I
have not re-read that e-mail because I know that it will bring back many
painful memories. But, I later learned, it was forwarded around the
globe to those interested in first-hand accounts of the events in New
York City on that dark day. My friend’s wife, who is an elementary
school teacher, said that she used it in her classes as an example of a
first-person account of September 11th. Here is that note: <br />
<br />
__________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<i>From: LG727@aol.com</i><br />
<i>Sent: Tuesday, September 11, 2001 12:58 PM</i><br />
<i>To: Larry.Goanos@aig.com</i><br />
<i>Bcc: Everyone in my address book</i><br />
<i>Subject: The Surreal Events of Today</i><br />
<br />
<i>I am shaking like a leaf in a windstorm as I type this. I cannot
believe the events of today, as I'm sure you can't. I was in my office
at 8:50 this morning when a colleague came in and said </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center and papers
were flying everywhere. I looked out the window of my office and saw a
ticker-tape-parade type stream of papers flittering across the sky.
After a few short minutes and various reports, some erroneous, a group
of us descended in the elevator to the ground floor of our building,
where we exited and looked to the left a bit where we saw Two World
Trade Center, five blocks away, ablaze from the top third of the
building. It was unreal. The black smoke and red flames framed against a
clear blue sky. </i><br />
<br />
<i>The crowd on the sidewalk grew exponentially until we were standing
shoulder-to-shoulder, at least 300 people staring upwards. One of my
colleagues had just been in the lobby of One World Trade when the plane
hit. He said smoke immediately came shooting down the elevator shafts
and filled the lobby as people exited in terror. Pandemonium. He ran
back to our </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>building, covered with soot, where he stood with us to watch in
horror. We all stood around gaping at the flames, not aware of any
possible danger to us. I sat and thought about how many people I know in
those two towers who have no doubt perished. I'm aware of at least
seven people from my subsidiary of AIG who were in one tower on a high
floor. We do a lot of </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>business with Aon, an insurance broker on the top three or four
floors of Two World Trade Center. As I type this, emergency vehicles are
swirling by on the street outside my apartment on 18th Street. The
massive cloud where the WTC used to stand is visible out my living room
window. </i><br />
<br />
<i>As we watched the flames, after about twenty minutes, all of a
sudden World Trade Center Tower One, which we could only see above the
40th floor or so ,collapsed before our eyes. It was the sickest, most
surreal, most stomach-churning thing that I have ever seen in my life.
My nerves became electrified, in a bad way, and I felt almost like I
would collapse as well. Other people did. People started crying and
getting hysterical, obviously because they knew people in WTC One and/or
know any of the many, many police and firemen and rescue workers who
were in and around the building trying to extinguish the fire and save
lives. I just heard the mayor on the radio and he said he can't even get
a rough estimate of how many firemen and police and EMTs died in the
two WTC Tower collapses, he just said the number would be very large,
staggering. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>This whole day is unfathomable. </i><br />
<br />
<i>As I type this I continue to shake. I think about all the people who
I know in those two towers and I can feel tears well up. There will be
far too many funerals to attend. Many bodies, I'm sure, will never be
identified. It is unbelievable. At least 50 to 100 people I know died
today. Can you imagine that? Unless you're in a war, which I think we
will be soon, that doesn't </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>happen. Many of you too, if not all, are in a similar situation,
maybe you know even more who passed. Hopefully many of our friends and
acquaintances were away on business or vacation, or running late. Our
lives are changed forever and I don't think I'm being dramatic in saying
that. </i><br />
<br />
<i>A few seconds after WTC One collapsed, a large, probably five-story
high plume of white smoke erupted, far denser than any fog I'd seen
living in San Francisco. All of a sudden, someone yelled "ground smoke,
run, it can kill us!" and people began panicking, although, I must say
it was a controlled panic if there can be such a thing. Hundreds of
people began running, although not trampling each other, actually
helping each other to some extent. Although one friend of mine asked a
car service to give him a ride to Westchester (the car was empty but for
the driver) and he said, "Sure, $2,000." I'll let that statement stand
as its own condemnation of mankind, or at least one (hopefully small)
segment of mankind. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>As we walked/ran up the East Side under the FDR, past the South
Street Seaport, the white cloud of deep dust/soot/whatever, followed us
intently. It was moving at a good pace and, I must say, I feared for my
life briefly, either from dying of smoke inhalation or being trampled.
I don't think I was </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>alone in that feeling, it was very, very scary, and my words don't
do it justice. We continued running and walking up the East Side, myself
and four co-workers. All of a sudden I heard someone say "Larry
Goanos!" I looked and it was Fran Higgins, a friend from San Francisco
who's brother-in-law, John Doyle, works with me at AIG. He was scheduled
to be in a meeting at Two WTC at 9 am and was running late, it took
him an extra hour to get in from his sister's house in Westchester and
he was in the lobby when the first plane hit. He ran outside and saw
debris falling and three people actually jumping off high floors in
order to kill themselves via the impact rather than await being burned
by the intense flames. Reports are that many other people jumped as
well. Fran didn't know where to go so I invited him to join me in the
trek to my apartment about two miles north. He had two heavy bags but
lumbered on. His father narrowly missed the bombing at WTC in 1992. Two
bullets dodged by his family at the WTC. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Cell phones weren't working. People were screaming out names. It was
sick (to re-use a phrase again and again; it is, sadly, the most
appropriate.) The FDR expressway was closed. People were running
everywhere, keeping an eye on the large cloud following us. Some were
ready to jump into the East River to escape the smoke if need be. As we
got about six or eight blocks up the FDR someone who had an earphone of
a radio in their ear reported that WTC 2 had just collapsed as well.
The whole thing was the sickest, most twisted, surreal, screwed up
thing that I had ever heard or imagined. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Eventually we made our way to my friend Jim Riely's place on East
22nd Street. As fate would have it, my phone had gone out of service
last night and I was going to call Verizon to fix it this morning. My
cell was working only in spots because of the great strain on the
system. At Jim's we found Jim, Dan O'Connell, Colleen Dempsey (Doreen,
Jim's wife, works uptown and ,I'm sure, is safe) and Chris Doyle, Jim's
partner. Because a lot of you know a lot of these people, here are the
names of people who I know are safe beside those above (a lot of phones
are down but my internet cable connection is working, at least for
now): Dennis Gustafson, Rose Mosca, Peter Wessel, John Feniello, Sandy
Nalewajk, Kirk Raslowsky and Jennifer Raslowsky and their young
daughter Alexandra (who they were just about to drop off in day care at
the WTC when the first plane hit; they made it our office in tears,
clothes askew, Kirk had just thrown down his briefcase, grabbed his
wife and daughter, and ran) John Iannotti, Ray DeCarlo, Greg Flood,
Mike </i><br />
<i>Mitrovic, Kris Moor, John Doyle, Susan Eagan, Gail Mazarolle, Dawn Paolino.</i><br />
<br />
<i>If you know any of their families and don't know if they've been contacted, please call them if your phone works. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Many more are safe, I'm sure, it was just hard to get a gauge with
all the smoke and pandemonium. There are now six of us in my apartment
watching CNN.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I stopped and picked up more bottled water on the way here because
people were saying there are rumors of chemical warfare and possible
contamination in the water (probably not true but why take a chance.)
Things seem to be calming down a bit now (I've been taking a break
between typing to let others send e-mails) but I'm sure our lives will
never be the same. The tranquility of life in America has been
shattered, we have been dragged into the trenches with the rest of the
world. Our soil is no longer sacred, protected ground. Anyway, the
people who I've mentioned are all safe, as am I. God bless America and
God bless us all.</i> <br />
___________________________________________________<br />
<br />
My friend Dennis and I met twenty five years ago, when we were both in
college. He came to live for a summer with the Campaniles, close family
friends of ours who live down the block from my childhood home at the
Jersey Shore. A Virginia native, Dennis was interning for the summer
with Kidder, Peabody on Wall Street. He is now Father Dennis, a Catholic
priest in the New York Archdiocese. One of Father Dennis’s good
friends, Father George, was an auxiliary chaplain with the New York City
Fire Department in September of 2001. He was summoned to the World
Trade Center shortly after the first plane hit on the morning of
September 11th. That day, I was told, marked the first time in the
history of the New York City Fire Department that all 30 auxiliary
chaplains were summoned to a single fire. They gathered at St. Peter’s
Church on Barclay Street, about two blocks north of the burning towers. <br />
<br />
Father George said that virtually every fire truck racing to the World
Trade Center stopped at St. Peter’s so that the crews could confess
their sins (the majority of NYC firefighters are Roman Catholic) before
charging into the flaming buildings. The commanders admonished their
subordinates to skip confession because of the magnitude and urgency of
the situation, but the rank-and-file firefighters paid no heed. These
men forced almost every truck to stop at the St. Peter’s on what would
be the final fire call for most of them. Father George sensed that these
brave men did not necessarily foresee the Twin Towers collapsing, but
they knew that they would very likely lose their lives saving others
and they wanted to square up with God first. So many firefighters
stopped for this final holy sacrament – despite the unprecedented
importance of their mission – that the priests had to absolve them of
their sins en masse as they jumped off the trucks. There was no time
for individual confessions. These courageous public servants knew that
they were going to die, and yet they pressed onward to discharge their
duties. In the face of the fiercest fires anyone had ever seen, they
had no thoughts of their own safety, only of saving others. Ironically,
St. Peter is believed to usher the deceased through the Gates of
Heaven. Perhaps on September 11, 2001 his work began for 343
firefighters at a church bearing his name. <br />
<br />
I have not seen the story above – every word of which I believe true –
anywhere in the media. Despite that, I think it’s an important account
to record. The same holds true for most of the other entries in this
chapter, collected during that fateful day and in the year that limped
along behind it. In most cases I have not changed the temporal
references so that it’s clear these were the thoughts of someone writing
just a year after September 11, 2001. Every New Yorker, and every
American, has vivid recollections of personal experiences connected to
those attacks on our nation. As we all know, it was not merely a New
York tragedy or a Washington, DC tragedy or a Pennsylvania tragedy; it
was an American tragedy which left no citizen untouched. This chapter is
one New Yorker’s attempt at documenting some of the events of that
horrific day and its aftermath in the following year. <br />
<br />
<b>The Call</b><br />
<br />
My friend John works at Marsh’s world headquarters in midtown at Sixth
Avenue and 45th Street. On the morning of September 11th he and his
colleagues heard the reports of a plane crash and looked out their
midtown windows to see the flames and smoke consuming the WTC North
Tower that housed additional Marsh offices. Frantic calls to coworkers
in the World Trade Center went unanswered. <br />
<br />
By early afternoon Marsh management decided to survey their World Trade
Center employees’ families to determine who was accounted for and who
wasn’t. They asked for volunteers to call employees’ homes to see if
they had checked in with their families. John, wanting to help out in
some way, volunteered. He was given a list of names and phone numbers.
He called the first few numbers and got only answering machines. Then a
woman finally answered at one residence. “Hi, this is John, I work for
Marsh,” he began, “I’m calling to see if your husband has contacted you
to say he’s OK.” <br />
<br />
The woman who answered the phone began crying. “I thought you were him,”
she said through her tears. She hadn’t yet heard from her husband.
John gave the woman two Marsh hotline numbers. His stomach twisted into
a knot as he hung up the phone. John dialed another couple of numbers
but then turned in his list, unable to make any more calls. <br />
<br />
<b>Michael Cahill</b><br />
<br />
Mike was the one I knew the best out of the three Marsh FINPRO victims
whose memorials I attended. When I worked at Marsh for two years in the
mid-1990s I had called Mike often for his advice on fidelity insurance
matters (about which I knew nothing and he was an expert.) When I
returned to working for AIG, I dealt with Mike from the other side of
the table. The universal opinion on Mike was that he was a great guy who
was always willing to help out and had as much integrity as anyone in
the business. He was the kind of guy who you knew would be an exemplary
brother or teammate; Mike was always there for you when you needed
him. <br />
<br />
Mike’s memorial service was held at St. Aidan’s Church in East
Williston, New York (Long Island) on a morning in early October of 2001.
The place was already jammed 20 minutes before the start. In
retrospect I recall a rainy and gloomy day but I’m not sure if my
memory is accurate or simply clouded by the general nature of the
proceedings. Like hundreds of others in the packed church, I filed in
quietly and found a seat. What transpired over the next hour I won’t
recount in detail, although I can tell you that the first three to
speak at the ceremony (Mike’s parish priest, his brother and his boss
at Marsh, Tom Vietor) all rose to the occasion and did an admirable job
under staggeringly sad conditions. The last eulogist however, Mike’s
wife Colleen, left to rear their two beautiful young children herself,
took it to another level. She spoke with unparalleled eloquence,
passion and composure. <br />
<br />
I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand from where Colleen drew her
strength (the inspiring memories of Mike, no doubt, had much to do with
it), but I have never witnessed such a display of courage and composure
in the face of a tragedy of this magnitude. <br />
<br />
Her eulogy was funny, endearing and engaging. It was simultaneously
heartwarming and heartbreaking. It captured the essence of Mike
perfectly, at least as I knew him, which only magnified our sense of
loss. She recounted, among other things, that the story of
who-pursued-who in the relationship differed depending upon whose
version you heard, Mike’s or Colleen’s. They had met as summer-share
housemates in the Hamptons. According to Mike’s version, Colleen sat by
the pool reading a paperback with eyeholes cut right through the book
so that she could follow his every move. <br />
<br />
Colleen’s eyes, amazingly, remained dry throughout the eulogy. Both her
words and their deliverance were truly inspirational. The final piece
to Colleen’s tribute was an REM song, one of Mike’s favorites. St.
Aidan’s graciously allowed the family to play the recording over the
church’s loudspeakers as the memorial concluded and people filed out
even though, strictly speaking, it was against church policy. I don’t
recall the title, but it was about a guy who, smitten with a woman,
calls to ask her out but gets her answering machine. It mirrored in a
way Mike’s own courting of Colleen. As the song played my eyes were
drawn to the couple’s innocent children fidgeting in the front pew of
the church. It was a sledgehammer of sadness and it found its mark in
most of us. As Colleen walked up the center aisle to exit, the
previously-muted sobs of the crowd began to rise in unison, unabated.
All but those few souls who had already cried themselves out were in
tears as the church emptied.<br />
________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
For information on the National September 11 Memorial & Museum, please go to <a href="http://www.national911memorial.org/">http://www.national911memorial.org/</a>. </div>
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Lazarushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04546714218677721251noreply@blogger.com5