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Sherlock & Me - Spandrella

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It happens here. And here. And here. And here.

Ever since Columbine (I was 17, at a Littleton high school, though not that Littleton high school), I've had trouble dealing with mass-murder type news stories. Which is only natural I suppose. Just like since Katrina, I've had trouble with natural disasters. I have dishonored the victims of the earthquake in Japan, hurricanes in New York, floods in south Asia, and shooting victims in Ft. Hood, Virginia Tech, and elsewhere by simply not being able to dredge up the depth of emotion that tragedies of that scale require. On some level, I feel like this makes me a bad person, but on another I don't stress about it because it's obvious, even to me, that my level of reaction is out of my control. I promise you there's only so many times you can look at a weather radar map and burst into tears before you have no tears left. And Columbine grated on my soul--over the whole community's soul--for a year or more. It faded from the national spotlight relatively quickly, but it was a constant presence in Littleton for a long time, and it wore me away. When Sept. 11th happened, and everyone was freaking out about how we weren't safe anymore, my reaction was more or less, "Well, of course not. You're just learning this now?"

Sometimes forcibly not paying attention is my only source of protection. So I understand that this is a delayed reaction of sorts, especially given our high-speed high-def instant-access world. But this is kids. Twenty kids. You can't not pay attention to that.

Who wasn't paying attention when Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were asking their friends to buy them guns at gun shows? Who wasn't watching when they drove into the Colorado foothills for target practice?

Who didn't notice when Jared Lee Loughner started talking to himself, rambling incoherently, laughing at inappropriate times?

Who saw James Holmes booby trap his apartment and order 6,000 rounds of ammunition, and thought nothing of it?

Amy the Waitress

On Tynan

I finally arrived at the Manchester, New Hampshire airport around nine at night. We fly in there because it takes less time to get to my grandparents house in a Boston suburb from Manchester than it does from the Boston airport. Traffic and all that.

We were supposed to get there at five, but there was so much snow in Manchester that we had to divert to Boston, wait for the snow to pass, and then return to Manchester.

I actually like the delay, though. I love everything about traveling, including being stuck on a plane doing nothing. There's something very pleasant about being totally isolated from the rest of the world.

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