terence this is stupid stuff

I was riding the subway this morning - uh, like I do ... Christ, this is a stupid lede, and it's only going to get stupider - and in the brief aboveground span between 4th Avenue and Smith and 9th, I decided to text my father the latest news about Larry Brown in what I freely admit was part of a plan to convince him to contribute to my Knicks ticket fund. Because why else do we have international communications capabilities if not to relay professional sports rumors?

Well, I was about to find out.

I opened up my phone and saw that someone left a message earlier that morning. This was unusual, as most people know not to leave messages for me. With the exception of my parents, people who leave messages are dead to me. It's a good rule, and it's gotten me this far, so I have no intention of changing that policy.

So I figure it must be something important, probably from one of my immediate ancestors. Sure enough, it's from my father: "Hi kid, I just wanted to let you know that there was another incident on the Tube. I don't know exactly what's going on, but we're all fine. I'll call you later."

Not precisely the way I wanted to start my morning. Not precisely the way anyone wants to start their morning.

Luckily, my dad did call me back later, safe and sound and at the pub. Also there were friends and work colleagues and, from the sound of things, most of London. He joked that this was the case two weeks earlier, and in fact that this was always the case, that he suspected that local papers had files full of stock drunk-London photos for obligatory day-after stories. London wins the Olympics: the pubs are full. London hit by terrorist attack: the pubs are full. Absolutely nothing doing in London: the pubs are full.

All the same, I can't think of a more eloquent and excellent fuck you. Not only are Londoners willing to stand up to terrorism, they're willing to do so with no coordination whatsoever. As a favorite poet of mine once wrote:

There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.

Not that it takes much, but, hell, I'll drink to that.