Picture of the Yesterday: Broken tombstones, taken from the corner of Church & Fulton Streets in Manhattan. (Once again, enhanced with Photoshop to make my camera-phone seem less crappy.)
Sorry to do another graveyard picture, but it struck me as incredibly sad that these tombstones have crumbled, their names and dates worn away. Somebody's 6x great grandfather or grandmother has been reposing there for hundreds of years, possibly remembered, possibly not. In high school, I had a girlfriend who lived near such a weathered graveyard in Bernardsville, NJ. When we passed it on walks, it amazed me that the dates couldn't be read, that there were people under the crumbling, centuries-old slabs that were long forgotten. Maybe there was a book somewhere with their names in them. Jen knows that whenever I go, I want to be cremated and dumped in the middle of the Atlantic. This way, people can visit me at the beach, and when it rains, I can visit them. Of course, by then, I think they'll have this whole "death" shtick taken care of. They'll probably have computers with our brains downloaded on them, where our respective programs can interract and yap away with each other day and night. (And who's to say that that we're not living in that world already?)
In the news of the living, the poor, poverty-stricken Yankees need another $350 million of public money for their stadium. Why is it that the city has no money for schools, but plenty of petty cash to loan Stienbrenner? The mind boggles.