ScareMeIsm

So my dad could tell you where he was when Pearl Habor happened. My mother could  tell you where she was on armistice day. I can tell you where I was when we touched down on the moon, when Kennedy was shot (both of them), when the Watts riot broke out, when the Vietnam war ended, when Nixon resigned. Most of us can remember where we were when Oklahoma City and Columbine happened (most reporters in the country were on route to at least one of the last two), and it would be hard for any of us to forget where we were when 9-11 came around. But I'm going to be a little more honest than most of you. I don't have all the details of EXACTLY where I was and EXACTLY what I was doing at those critical moments in history. Time and hyperbole have helped me fill in the blanks. But there is one event where every second will remain graphically vivid in my brain, until Paul's Heimers does me in.

That will be this day, May 5th, Cinco de Mayo, 2005, 2:34 a.m. Mountain Time. "Pop goes the Weasel."

It was one of those mornings when I just couldn't sleep, probably because it would be the last official day of classes. So I came in here and hopped on the internet to amuse myself. To my glee I could see my friend Mindy at ABC in New York was on line. "I will IM her," I say to myself. She was in disblief that insomnia would have anybody up at this hour. We started a typical cynical battering of current newsmakers, particularly that twit lady from Georgia.  Why did we advance and elevate this worman's story? She isn't even blonde!

I see the indicator, "Mindy is typing."

 And then it pop's up...mild s___word expletive three times in a row not stopping for commas. It's been more than three years since I've spent a day in a newsroom, but it's like riding a unicycle. You don't forget. This meant something. When you see three s___word expletives in a row without a comma  you know better than to respond.

( It's always reminded me of the "living under a runway before stage three noise regulations."  Residents would just stop their conversation on a dime during the flyover, pausing for up to 30 seconds, and then pick right up where they left off as jet engines transitioned from blast to dull roar. You just know what to do.)

 Responding just slows down the process. The follow up appeared in lightning fashion. "Bomb went off at British Embassy in New York." "Pop goes the Weasel." I did write "see ya," which was probably more than I should have written. That could have given NBC a one second lead on disptaching a crew. I was feeling all the old adrenalin. I ran to the bedroom, turned up the TV and started looking  for details. I was wondering who I could call to help out, how we could find a local angle. CNN was up with pictures first,and within a half hour everybody had something. Sowly through the morning something turned into not much. The Embassy was a consulate, and just one floor in a 22 story building. The bomb was two home made grenades set off outside when even New York streets are empty. No one was hurt, very little damage, no clear motive. "Pop went the weasel."

An hour later I'd calmed down. No sense waking up the guy I met a few years ago who used to be a British citizen and was once in New York. I calmed down, remembered I'd retired, rolled over, and serenaded myself to sleep soto voce singing, " all around the mullberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, pop went the weasel. I won't forget these details.  " What a rush! Thanks Mindy. "