Twenty years ago today, people in the eastern part of the United States got up out of bed and got ready to go to work, or school, or sightseeing. Just like they did any other day. They brushed their teeth, took showers, ate breakfast, had coffee, made their commute.

That routine was to last only until 8:46 am, ET, and the events that would play out over the next hour and 42 minutes ended all semblance of what we considered normal.

Because of video cameras, 24 hour new channels, and the rise of cell phone cameras, the reports from New York, Washington, and Shanksville were a visceral blow- heart-wrenching with an immediacy that the photos of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor couldn't match. We relived those scenes on a near-endless loop- from every available angle, from every available outlet. But you didn't have to be immersed to feel the pain, any more than you needed to to have friends or family in Pennsylvania, New York, or DC to share that grief. You just had to be human.

In the days and weeks afterwards, there was hope. People were saved. Neighbors were helping each other. We came together, as a people. The nation endured. And we were resolute that we would not let the horrors of that day overwhelm us.

We swore that we would never forget the 2,977 people who died that day, the camaraderie the familial spirit that was surging or the unity forged through the shared trauma of a September morning that began with such promise, but ended in heartbreak and horror.

We stood on a precipice of chaos that September morning. And, as a nation, we stood strong- refusing to plunge into that void. Over the past 20 years, though- as partisan divides and political demagogues continue to drive wedges between us, as we have allowed hatred, conspiracy theories, and the lunatic fringe to enjoy an undeserved place in the national discourse as their disciples spewed vitriol towards those who don't share their political views, sexual orientation, or skin color- we inch ever closer to that breach. Time, you see, has a knack for laying waste to even the grandest schemes and our greatest of ideals.

I have my own opinions regarding the two decades of war the nation has fought in the wake of the September 11, 2001 attacks, on the shifting tenets of civil liberties they brought, on the actions of the people who were in charge, but I won't share them here. Instead, I'll leave it to those smarter than I to offer the analysis and judge the events of the years since.

But I feel that it is vital that we regain some of the unity we saw in the aftermath of those attacks, and- more than ever- that we strive to live up to the promises this nation brought to the world some 245 years ago: that there should be an equal playing field for all citizens, regardless of their background, their gender, their sexuality, their religion, their political views; that “liberty and justice for all” is a guiding force behind our being. I still believe the nation isn't too far gone. We can't be. If we are, we're doomed.

I still refuse to accept that.

We are the United States of America.

Indivisible.

By the people, for the people. And we shall not perish from the earth.

On the heels of the very 80s Dirty Work, The Rolling Stones were a band that appeared to be on their way to retirement. 
Mick and Keith, who always enjoyed their share of conflict, were on the outs (again)- at odds over the direction of the band, and many of the rest of the personnel busied themselves in the period before recording the album working on various side or solo projects.

Unlike critics (what the fuck do they know, anyway?), I actually enjoyed Dirty Work. But I couldn't argue against the band seeming to be in their sunset years, seeing as Dirty Work and its predecessor, Undercover, sold poorly. Three years after Dirty Work, the band's "comeback" album- Steel Wheels- was released.

It was a monster seller, with three top ten singles and supported by the biggest tour the band had ever undertaken.

It was also the first opportunity I had to see a band I'd been listening to since childhood, so I dialed and dialed and dialed and dialed and dialed for seemingly hours before getting through to Ticketmaster. I scored tickets to see the band at the Gator Bowl. They were $45 each- which I thought was fucking outrageous (little did I know I'd later pay six times, without even batting an eye y see Paul McCartney), but I was still psyched to see the show with my neighbor, Jeff.

We piled into my Civic and headed to Jacksonville the afternoon of the concert, getting there in plenty of time to catch the opening set from Living Colour- at the time an unknown group who'd managed to score a prime gig. (Side note- while I enjoyed the hell out of their performance, there were plenty of- let's just say "older" fans who I heard bitching that they were too loud and too heavy. Unspoken, though obvious even to 21 year old me, was the fact that those same "older" fans thought they were "too black.")

The opened the show with Start Me Up (of course- what else would they open with?) on the way to two and half hours (give or take) of of straight-forward rock and roll- and plenty of showmanship.

And, behind it all, the nearly perfect percussion of Charlie Watts. The show led me to explore the band a little more in-depth, listening to deep cuts of past albums and appreciating the skill behind them. And particularly of Watts, who played what needed to be played- nothing more, nothing less. He was never flashy, never the outsized personality. He was steady. He was dependable. He was the beat of the band.

Watts bowed out of the band's current tour just last month to have surgery for a condition that was never shared with the public. He said he hoped it would be a temporary thing- that he would be back with the band as soon as he was able. Sadly, that reunion was not to be.

Charlie Watts passed away early this morning at a London hospital, surrounded by his family. And the world will rock a little less because of it.