Regular readers have enjoyed my occasional tirades against China, an evil country, run by corrupt individuals. The fact that I once suffered at the hands of a manager who was an insane, yammering Chinese woman only made my loathing of China deeper and richer.

I don’t blog about hard news stories often but if I stumble across one that’s going to reinforce my prejudices, I’m more than happy to oblige.

The Chinese steal every western technological innovation they can get their tiny hands on because they lack the freedom of imagination and creative juice necessary to invent things like Apple products and movies. Although, admittedly, they’ve gotten pretty good at hacking into the computer systems (a western invention) of other countries via the internet (another western invention). Also, paying royalties doesn’t mesh with their agenda of crushing the west.

My latest out-loud laugh at China came when they canceled Super Girl. Super Girl is an American Idol/Pop Idol rip-off. The official reason for the cancellation was that the show exceeded the :90 minute, state-imposed, time limit placed on ALL talent competitions. Additionally, it was branded as “vulgar, manipulative and poison for our youth.” The culture minister issued a harsh statement saying, “What the market chooses is not necessarily a good thing.” Have you seen Jersey Shore or Teen Mom? He might have a good point. He also said, “…we can’t have working people reveling all day in low culture.”

In its place, the state will run shows with programs that promote “healthy morals, public safety and practical information about housework.” One fan of Super Girl blogged, “I will never be happy again!” and another suggested that, “Maybe we need another revolution.”

The real reason it was canceled is that bureaucrats were caught off-guard by the show’s astounding popularity. The show relied on audience votes to pick the winner and the LAST thing the Politburo wants is for people to become accustom to voting.

I just won a pair of tickets to the Broadway musical Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. (Which, as an aside, I would never pay to see. It’s just not my thing.) Mrs. Wife and I will soon be reveling in some low culture and I’ll bet our life will be better off for it.

If Christian fundamentalists were to come into power here in the U.S., I could see them doing the EXACT same thing as the Chinese communists. Canceling shows they deemed “poison for our youth.” Controlling what’s allowed over the airwaves so that only their approved messages came through. They’re cut from the same cloth.

Each morning while my Mac is booting up I stand at my window, cup of coffee in hand, and survey my fiefdom. I’m ten floors above 6th Avenue and from that vantage point the streets look like veins, flowing with taxis, buses and pedestrians.

On Wednesday morning I saw something new outside my window. Overnight, the hotel across the avenue had been ringed with concrete NYPD car/truck bomb barricades. Many high-profile buildings in Manhattan have cement barricades that are disguised as planters, but the temporary ones used by the NYPD are more function than form. They’re pretty obvious. The cops are expecting trouble.

The Warwick Hotel isn’t exactly a top-tier hotel and I couldn’t imagine what high profile guest would warrant protection against a possible truck bomb. It seems absurd. Then it came out in the news. This week, the UN General Assembly is meeting and this turd will be speaking:

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, President of Iran and “wee man” syndrome sufferer, is staying right across the street. Boy, is the hotel catching hell. There will be protests. Great. I don’t want to be collateral damage! Why can’t he stay at the Iranian consulate’s residence? More importantly, if I see him, would that count as a celebrity spotting? I hope he wears that snazzy 1988 Members Only jacket.

This weekend here in NY/NJ, everyone is focused on the 10th anniversary of 9/11. Is it like that where you live, or is it the third story in the newscast? It looks to me like the overwhelming display of grief is reopening a lot of old wounds. But it’s necessary. It’s right. The memorial. The special programing on TV. The visiting dignitaries. It has to be done.

Mrs. Wife and I lived in the East Village, less than a mile from the WTC. We both worked in midtown and had to walk home because the transit system was shut down. She was six months pregnant and was wearing terrible shoes that chewed her feet up. We had to stop so she could rest. The streets were choked with people trying to get home. It’s the only time I saw New Yorkers not complain about being inconvenienced. The air stunk like burning electricity for weeks after. South of Houston St., where we lived, was a militarized zone and we had to show ID and pass an armed checkpoint in order to get home. But we were alive and so were all of our friends, and that’s what mattered.

Architectural purists complained about the design of the World Trade Center but I loved it. I would ride my bike there all the time. If you stood with your back against one of the towers and looked up, an optical illusion made the tower seem as if it were bending over you. Even more so if you had a few good bong hits in you. They were astonishingly tall buildings. When flying home, those two towers were the first things I’d see. Hello, fellas! It’s good to be back!

Here’s a very good exhibit that’s up in Bryant Park for only two days. There are 2,819 empty chairs lined up across the lawn; one for each life lost in the attack. They’re all pointed south where the World Trade Center once stood.

Our wedding anniversary is 9/11. Not THE 9/11. Today is 12 years. For the first few years after the attacks, I didn’t feel that being in a celebratory mood was respectful or right. I feel awful that some families were torn asunder and that my beautiful shining city has a big gash in it. But I’m reclaiming 9/11 to celebrate my marriage. 12 years is a pretty damn good run. A lot of folks don’t make it this far, but we did.

I lived in New York City, but 9/11 is so much more than a terrorist attack to me.

* * *

The annual 9/11 remembrance has given rise to a new sensation. In addition to the sad reflection and thoughtful meditation, 9/11 also serves as a reminder that autumn is upon us. It’s the opening weekend of the football season. The weather turns cool. The theater season gets underway. The kids are back in school. It’s time to swap out my summer clothes.

Also, it’s the final week that this place, a New Jersey summer institution, is open.

Steiner Sports Gifts and Collectibles is an outfit that deals in sports memorabilia. Aside from the usual bubble gum cards and signed baseballs, they specialize in catering to wealthy micro-collectors. They cut “exclusive” deals with players and teams. They are big on partnering with the New York Yankees.

Yankee deity Derek Jeter hit his 3,000th major league hit this summer. Steiner Sports, in partnership with the Yankees consigliere, swooped in and created the following collectible items from the game where he achieved this milestone.

• Bases used in the game: $7,000
• Balls (unsigned): $2,000
• Dirt that Jeter walked on from the shortstop and right-hand batters box: $250 for a half-ounce container
• Jeter’s used sox: $1,000

Under a separate agreement, you can buy a vial of dirt from the old Yankee stadium that was demolished in 2008. And there’s no need to worry whether or not it’s legitimate Yankee Stadium dirt. Rest assured. All dirt sold by Steiner Sports Marketing is collected “under strict supervision to assure authenticity.” The target audience for these items appears to be brain damaged Yankee fans with deep pockets.

I understand the pull of nostalgia and the want to hold onto a piece of your youth. But this strikes me as both tragic and laughable. Ladies…if you walked into some guy’s apartment and saw a container of (potentially bogus) Yankee Stadium dirt sitting in worship up on his mantle, would you not run for the hills as fast as your feet could carry you? I wouldn’t want The Daughters to date someone of this ilk.

Well! That was uncharacteristically mean-spirited! I usually try not to judge people too harshly but as long as I rang that bell, I might as well get it all out of my system. Buckle up.

If I was emperor of the planet for one day, I would write an irrevocable law that would state; if you are caught talking on a cell phone while walking down the sidewalk so loudly that everyone can hear you, you have to go to the county jail for seven days. If you’re using a Bluetooth, you have to go to a federal penitentiary for nine months. I know that sounds a bit harsh but things have gotten pretty bad out here.

I hurt myself at the gym in the stupidest way imaginable.

I was doing reverse curls (grab a barbell with palms facing inwards and pull it up to your chin). In front of me were two TV monitors. One was playing an interview with Sean Hannity and Dick Cheney. Sean, he of the steely look in the eye and jutting square jaw and Good Ole’ Dick, looking every bit the Bond villain he is, sat in front of an animated waving American flag backdrop. Two heroes. The other monitor played the corporate cyborg New York Yankees beating-up on the small-market Toronto Blue Jays.

My eyes frantically darted from one monitor to the other. I became so angry that I lost my concentration, pulled the barbell up too fast and smacked myself in the chin. My jaw snapped shut so hard that my teeth banged together. They still kind of hurt.

Anger. It’ll get you nowhere, brothers and sisters.

I had a horrendous dream yesterday morning. I was walking through a half animated/half real forest. Waddling down a pretty, sun speckled trail appeared none other than Winnie-the-Pooh, your favorite “bear of very little brain.” But right behind him, waddling in hot pursuit, was ANOTHER Winnie-the-Pooh. The second Winnie had cancer! He was trying to catch the first Winnie to give him his cancer.

The only physical difference between the two was that the second, cancerous, Winnie-the-Pooh had white eyes instead of black. “Jesus Christ, Winnie, run! It’s cancer, for fuck’s sake!,” I yelled. Realizing he was in mortal danger, healthy Winnie waddled as fast as he could, big, stupid smile frozen on his face, and kept repeating over and over “Oh, bother!, Oh, bother!”

My alarm went off and I woke up in an absolute stupor. I walked to the bathroom through thick air and replayed the dream over and over while in the shower. I got into the city, still not fully awake, turned the corner at 44th and Broadway and was hit in the face with this:

Sweet Mother Mary! The big Times Square Disney store animated billboard is featuring Pooh characters. It’s as though this town is a living entity that peers into my innermost thoughts and daydreams and uses them to torment me. My iTouch shuffle does it sometimes, too.

A friend invited me over for a post-work glass of vino and a bite to eat. He lives on the Upper West Side and was home with his charming 3-year old daughter while his wife was out at a business dinner. I had some time to kill so I walked up from 54th and 6th, cut across a corner of Central Park, and then up Amsterdam Avenue into the west 70’s. The sky was a brilliant blue hue and there was just a slight twinge of a cool breeze to announce the coming of autumn.

I didn’t listen to my iTouch or bury my face in a smart phone (as many did). Instead, I did a lot of people-watching and soaked it all in. Walking up Central Park West and winding through the neighborhood, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the sense that I was surrounded by successful, happy people. People who had interesting careers and lots of friends. Pretty homes, perfect marriages, stable work they enjoyed and no financial duress. They don’t get bad haircuts, don’t drive a car with a big dent in the front quarter panel and don’t wear shoes that hurt their feet. Frankly, it made me feel kind of sad.

Now, I know better. All those people who I clandestinely envied are probably just as neurotic and I am. Possibly more so. The Upper West Side of Manhattan is one of the top two epicenters in the U.S. for neurotic behavior (the other being the Upper East Side). But it seems to me they handle their neurosis with a lot more panache and joie de vivre than I do mine. I felt melancholy.

What are we longing for? Where does all this yearning come from?

—Pina Bausch