It’s tough to know sometimes whether we are supposed to stand and fight in a place where we are surrounded by those who seek to destroy us by destroying what we believe. Or whether we should surround ourselves with like-minded individuals who will tell us what we want to hear. But there’s no real chance of destroying what we believe.
The phone rings again. It’s a reporter from World magazine. He tells me to come up to the fifteenth floor. They’ll wire me up to the microphone before I head to the stage for the interview. He tells me there’s no script. But, then, he reminds me that my words will be reprinted in the nation’s fourth largest magazine. I feel like I should be nervous and wonder why I’m not.
I’m not sure why they’ve asked me for an interview and I’m sure my critics agree that it is strange.
I remember the first time I was wired to a microphone. I couldn’t hold it while I was playing my guitar. And I didn’t sing so I used it to order whiskey. It felt good for awhile and it helped me to ignore things I wanted to ignore. But the next day was always very different.
Sometimes the guys I used to play with ask me when I’m coming back. But I’m not coming back.
I’m about to leave a coffee shop on the ground floor of the Empire State building. It’s about 11 a.m. on September 11th. I just finished reading the Sermon on the Mount. The man at the table next to me is reading the Koran.