Worked a 13-hour day today. Wow. After a morning of meetings and an afternoon of coding that ended up being a dead-end, I really wanted to accomplish something. And to code, too. So I stayed and cranked out some neat stuff while listneing to CNN in the background.

That’s been the toughest thing about this new gig. It often takes me an hour just to get a perl script open on my screen because of impromptu meetings and questions. I like that stuff, too, but there’s a satisfaction obtainable from coding that’s harder to get from managing projects or people.

On my way out of Chelsea Market (where Bill Clinton was hanging out today — Melissa swears she will never wash her hand again!), I stopped and looked at the missing signs and photos. They’re just like the ones all over the city. A photo. Age, height, birthmarks, jewelry. Which WTC building (1 or 2), what floor (the signs are mostly for high floors…), and contact info.

They have such tragic personality, the signs. It’s not the personality of the missing (who are we kidding now… murdered) person. It’s the personality of the person who made the sign. The lover, friend or relative. The tear-streaked New Yorker who seems to be holding onto my shoulders begging me to tell them that Tom with the birthmark on his right shoulder is ok, is alive. In real life, you want to be strong for the sad, frightened person, but with these signs there is no one to hug and no shoulders on which you can sliently dry your own eyes.

On the happier side of things, Brad rescheduled his visit for October, and Anthony tells me that Dave’s in town. New York could use a good dose of both of them.