The name of the restaurant is NO NO. They’ve got the French doors painted white. To me that says New Orleans or French bistro. Well, HC has the scoop:

"It’s a French bistro, southern-style hybrid restaurant called No No" going in where that awful Indian place was (Seventh Avenue between 7th and 8th – next to Michael’s Hair Salon).

"It  looks nice. The interior looks pretty much done. There was a huge flurry of activity there on Thursday. Obviously they were in some sort of "panic" about an opening deadline. A real big crowd of people working on it."

No No – stands for New Orleans, New Orleans  (that’s conjecture). "North of New Orleans (that’s a fact). "That’s all I could glean when I was coming home late last night wanting to get home to my lovely family before they bite me," says HC.

Opponents
of Brooklyn’s proposed Atlantic Yards project wanted to send a big, loud message to pro-Ratner politicians today.

In a New York minute, we go from somber 9/11 memorializing to Tuesday primary day (who can forget that 9/11 was primary day. Who can forget?)

WAKE UP AND SMELL THE COFFEE (REGULAR NO SUGAR).

Okay: mourning’s over. Time to VOTE.  It’s so New York, so speedy, so crazy. But that’s New York whiplash.

The patriotism of the fifth anniversary really got to me — ENOUGH WITH THE AMERICAN FLAGS.  For me the anniversary is that most New York of days, where we all come together and mourn for our city, our friends, our fellow New Yorkers.

It’s a New York kind of blues.

The patriotic part of it never appealed to me. And Bush’s attempt to use the anniversary to support HIS war in Iraq: that was beyond the pale.

But what’s more patriotic, more New York than a rough and tumble, low voter turnout New Yawk primary election. In our small town of Brooklyn, all day long: Didja vote? Who’d ya vote for? =Did you vote yet?

I went into the voting booth with OSFO; the auditorium at John Jay was empty at 4 p.m. (par for the course for a primary, I think). Standing in that voting booth, she is experiencing democracy in action. Sort of.

I let her pull the big red lever for me.

At 11:30 p.m., I went with a friend who volunteered for David Yassky today to the  post-election Yassky party at 200 Fifth. 

The mood at the sports bar on Fifth Avenue was subdued and glum. A friend of a friend, who is a friend of Yassky’s walked out saying, "It’s over for Yassky. This may be the end of David’s political career."

There’s no doubt Yassky is a good, trustworthy guy; he’s a smart, political wonk, who, at least at election time, gets things done for his constituents. He may have waffled on the Atlantic Yards issue, but he does seem to support a reduction in its size.

Yassky still has two years left on the City Council. Some said that he’s alienated his fellow City Council members. But what do I know.

Yassky wasn’t conceding.  He thanked his campaign workers, his extended family, his mother and father, his children and most effusively, his wife.

But it looks like Yvette Clarke is the winner – at midnight the numbers were : 31 % Clarke to Yassky’s 26%. Chris Owens is in fourth Place. That was a big surprise to me.

Personally, I think Yassky ran for the wrong congressional seat, a seat
long held by black politicians.  It was a tough, contentious race from the start.  I  didn’t believe he could win for that reason. 

Activists who oppose the Atlantic Yards put their votes behind Chris Owens, which may have cut into Yassky’s percentage points in some neighborhoods.

At 200 Fifth, Yassky said to the crowd of campaign workers, family, friends, newsmedia and bloggers: “I almost wish it were over. But we owe it to the voters to make sure every vote is counted.”

He was referring to the absentee ballots and affidavit ballots. My friend who volunteered as a poll watcher today said there were problems with a few voting machines in Prospect Heights and some at PS 321.

It started when a Yassky supporter accidentally voted for Carl Andrews. Apparently, the alignment was off on some of the voting machines, which made it hard to tell which name went with which lever. My friend said the Yassky campaign contacted lawyers and representatives of the Board of Elections.

There were no such problems in my voting booth at John Jay High School. 

The unofficial returns, with all precincts reporting, showed Councilwoman Yvette Clarke led with 31.2 percent of the vote to Mr. Yassky’s 26.2 percent.

State Senator Carl Andrews and Chris Owens, the son of the incumbent, Representative Major R.
Owens, who is retiring, received 19.6 percent.

–1 a.m. September 13th

Listened to the incantation of names; watched the spouses and partners on television. Later, caught a few minutes of Bush using the day as an opportunity to justify his war; watched ABC’s  fictionmentary about real events, real people,

It was already 12:15 a.m. on September 12th when I took a walk down Seventh Avenue to see the light.

The light was shooting up from the top of PS 321 in the midnight blue sky. Above Key Food, Old First Church. The light walked with me down the Avenue (shopping list:  Spoon size Shredded Wheat, Raisin Bran, ballpoint pens for TC, orange juice).

The beam of light was sharp, beautiful (there may be two, but out here in Park Slope it looks like a single beam).  I wish it was here every night and of course I do not.

Presence. Absence. It speaks of loss, while introducing something dramatic and new to the city night.

The shop lights were on at Sweet Melissa’s, where a crew was busy getting the shop ready for  its grand opening on Wednesday. Paper covering counters, tools everywhere, the name being stenciled onto the front window. Something new.

Except for the Korean Market on Garfield, Key Food, Pino’s, nothing was open on Seventh Avenue; it was desserted. A few stragglers at Snooky’s (for a moment I thought I might go in and order a scotch, it seemed like the appropriate thing to do). Workers standing outside of Starbucks waiting for a car; voices inside the playground; a dog walker or two.

Back on Third Street the light comes out from behind the limestone buildings. Blue television light illuminates a checkerboard of windows;  time to go upstairs. Wanting: to stand outside; to be the only only there at that moment; quiet, alone.

Tuesday is Election Day.

Dueling openings.

The former Mojo is set to become Tempo Presto; a chic Italian cafe, gourmet take-out and gelateria.

It’s a constant drama over there. They finally put up a fence. A homeless entrepreneur had set up shop there: a veritable department store. Clothing hanging in the back, dirty, used books, kitchenware on a dirty blanket. He slept there, too; his big belly sticking out of his shirt as he snored.

They finally took down the Mojo sign (the Carvel sign went sometime ago). They painted the exterior wall green.

Part of the fence is now down; the Homeless Entrepreneur is on a dirty white blanket by the curb; no sign of him in the last day or two. Work seems to continue inside the shop but they are nowhere close opening that’s for sure.

Across from PS 321, Sweet Melissa’s looks tidy, elegant, pretty; just about ready to open. Workers work late into the night preparing the cafe space for the curious crowds on Wednesday. The front window is papered with reviews of its Cobble Hill sister.

My bet: Sweet Melissa’s will be up and running on Wednesday as promised (on a chalk board sign board outsie the shop). Tempo Pesto: I give ’em until early October.

No people are uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.

Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.

And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.

To each his world is private,
and in that world one excellent minute.

And in that world one tragic minute.
These are private.

In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight.
It goes with him.

There are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery.
Whose fate is to survive.

But what has gone is also not nothing:
by the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.

     — Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Bargemusic
hosts a memorial concert featuring works by Scriabin, Chopin and
Bottoms. 7:30 pm. Fulton Ferry Landing, Old Fulton Street at the East
River. (718) 624-2083.

Brooklyn Botanic Garden is waiving its fees today for visitors
to The Liberty Oaks, on the Cherry Esplanade, a living memorial to the
heroes of 9/11.10 am-6 pm. 900 Washington Ave. (718) 623-7200.

Information for the ceremony at the World Trade Center site

Photo: flickr.com/photos/midweekpost/240212623/

taken from Third Avenue and 16th Street in Brooklyn

Aidan, love is the only thing that lasts forever, and even though
Daddy’s gone, I hope you will remember how much your daddy loved you
and keep that in your heart for the rest of your life.

I have tried hard to find the good to come out of losing the love of my
life. This summer, Dave insisted on buying a hat that he saw his friend
Jerry at the firehouse wearing. It read "Life is good" and for Dave it
truly was, especially in his last months.

Dave strove to live his life
fully, to love his family and friends, to feel his feelings and be an
honest and good man. I think he accomplished that. I hope everyone here
will use Dave’s life as an example. I know I will. So tell the people
around you that you love them, mend grudges, don’t stay angry with
people, and be kind. Dave did these things. His heart was as large as
his frame and I feel privileged to have called myself Dave’s wife.

-Excerpt from Marian Fontana’s eulogy for her husband, David Fontana, who died on 9/11. On September 11 at 5 p.m. Dave’s neighbors on Fourth Street will be dedicating a new plaque in honor of Dave. Fourth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. Park Slope.

Written on September 10, 2005: The last couple of nights the Tribute in Lights has been my reminder that the fourth  anniversary is upon us.

Those bright white twin lights shooting up in the night sky: a reminder to remember what we never can forget.

The last couple of days, the sky has been as bright blue as it was on that Tuesday.

And here it is four  years later and our lives are the same and not the same.

That morning, as always, I was listening to WNYC on the radio. Brian
Leherer reported that a small plane had crashed into the south tower of
the World Trade Center. I, along with many others, imagined a Cessna or
something. Not a jet or a terrorist attack.

Strange to say, I didn’t think much of it. But then it happened
again. Another plane — "What is going on with Air Traffic Control?" I
thought to myself. "We’re being attacked," someone said.

Attacked? A feeling of utter dread ran through me – that thing I’d
always feared was happening. Where were my children? My daughter, only
5 years old, was in the kitchen. My son was at school…

I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t fathom what was going on.
What was happening to all those people in the building, on the plane.
Were they going to be okay?

Listening to the radio, I put nail polish on my daughter’s toes.
Anything to maintain a sense of normalcy. Anything to keep her from
knowing that I was afraid, that there was something very scary going
on.

Unthinkable. I heard a siren in the distance and thought of my
friend, Firefighter Dave Fontana, who was probably on his way downtown.
Squad One would be among the first to be called in the event of an
emergency like this. Somehow I knew that though I knew nothing at all.

I ran to PS 321. Many parents were there, hovering in the lobby,
talking to the principal who was figuring out what to do…Some parents
were pulling their children out of classrooms. I decided to keep my son
there. He was safe, afterall. Unless something else happens. That’s
what we were afraid of. Something else might happen and what would it
be. Still, at school he was safe from the television set. Safe from the
panic of his parents, of the grown ups in our apartment building.

I ran over to my friend Marian’s  apartment. Somehow she knew, though she
didn’t know for sure, that her husband Dave was gone. She knew it in her
heart. It was tragic to see. I told her that of course he’d be coming
back. Of course he would. He always did. But she knew. Strangely, she
knew. I left her smoking a cigarette in her garden.

Running back to the school, I did a quick accounting of everyone I
knew. My father, omigod, he and my stepmother are in their Brooklyn
Heights apartment with its view of New York Harbor and the World Trade
Center…

My mother was with my sister who was in Manhattan having her first
insemmination. She must get pregnant, I thought. On this day when so
many people are dying, she will create a new life. Of course she will.
On this sad, sad day, a new life will begin.

It didn’t work out that way. The procedure didn’t work and she
didn’t get pregnant that day. She had many more medical prodedures –
insemmination, in Vitro, ovum donation. She did finally get pregnant
but miscarried soon after; her fallopian tube was removed due to an
ectopic pregnancy.

This evening my sister and I sat in the back garden of The Chocolate
Bar, drinking white wine, and watching one-year-old Sonya fall asleep
in her stroller. Adopted from Perm, Russia nearly three weeks ago, she
is a treasure.

Sonya wasn’t alive four years ago, untainted is she from the memory
of the 11th. She may have been put up for adoption at birth, but now
she is beloved beyond compare. Wanted. Cherished. Adored.

Walking home I saw the Tribute of Lights above the storefronts on
Seventh Avenue. A reminder to remember that which we never can forget.
3000 mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, husbands,
wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and friends.

Gone but not forgotten.

This year we go about our lives, even the day before the day, It’s
almost like  we’re back to normal — I ride the subway without fear,
don’t jump everytime I hear a helicopter fly above, have stopped
worrying about bridges and tunnels.

But I am not the same. And never can we be. I’m really not back to normal at all.

–September 10th 2005, Brooklyn

Walking with OSFO to Hollywood Video, we noticed the lights. "What is that?" OSFO asked. Those are lights where the World Trade Center used to be.

Cool, she said. Can people see it all over the city?

Yes.

One of the best views may be from the corner of Third Street on Fifth Avenue. It is easy to see above JJ Byrne Park, the Old Stone House. The Gate, the local pseudo-divey bar with the outdoor seating is an ideal place to see: The Lights.

One year, on the night of the 11th, I saw a local widow (her husband was at a meeting at Windows the morning of 9/11). She was creating an artful mosaic of old dishware in bright colors on a lampost in front of her building, a tribute to her husband. The lights were shooting up over the buildings on Carroll Street. She worked alone.

Those lights look like a hole in the sky, OSFO said. I know what you mean. I know what you mean.