Welcome to the commune podcast. This is Jeff Krasno. Many of you may receive my weekly Sunday

commusing article where I address a breadth of issues from the spiritual to the sociopolitical.

And on occasion, I will also record an audio version of these articles and release it here as a bonus episode.

So today on the 20th anniversary of 9-11, I share with you some recollections of that day and where we have come to find ourselves.

If you're interested in receiving my weekly screed, sign up at OneCommune.com and follow my regular

ranting on Instagram at Jeff Krasno. And without further delay, here's this week's

commuting titled Our Own Worst Enemy. September 11, 2001.

Bleary-eyed and knackard, we trundled into the Motel 6 in Santa Cruz at 2 a.m.

After making the post-gig hall up the coast from San Juan Capistrano.

Better to sleep in before the show that night at the Rio Theater than endure a hectic day battling traffic on the 101.

I shut my eyes only to be jostled from slumber seemingly moments later. My trusty sidekick vibrated

furiously on the nightstand. I sluggishly turned over, the creak of my bones harmonizing with the rusty

coils of the box spring. My dad loves to call me for no reason, often early in the day. Of course, I recognize this emerging

habit in myself as my daughters prepare to flee the nest. Just hearing the voice of your

progeny makes the world seem momentarily okay. But on this particular day, at 6 a.m., I press

the decline button and stuff the phone into the top drawer next to Gideon.

Only seconds later, the nightstand began to pulsate like a subwifer with a busted tweeter.

Damn it, Dad, I need some sleep.

Hello!

I croaked dramatically, exaggerating my distress the way children do with their parents.

Turn on the TV. Right now, he barked.

I fumbled for the remote and jabbed at the power button.

...