June sixth is a date with a couple of interesting connotations.
First off, it's 6/6.
Which really means nothing, but it's pretty cool to write on a check. Just think: in four years, the date will be 6/6/6.
The most obvious connection is that 58 years ago today, Allied Forces invaded France and opened the final chapter in World War II's European Theater.
For me, though, June 6 is the day that I moved to New York City. June 6, 1996. I've been here six years now. It's the longest I've ever lived in one city, matched by my stays in Brookline, MA (Grades 1-6) and Tempe, AZ (Jr. High and High School). I've had some successes and I've had some failures. I've done a number of different things here, both personally and career-wise; some of them worked and some of them didn't. I grew from a callow youth to a man; I ran into some of my limitations and finally recognized them for what they were. I found that it's a town that's easy to fall in love with but it's a town where it's a little harder to fall in love in. I was here when the twentieth century peacefully expired, at midnight on December 31, 1999; I was here when the 21st century made its violent debut at 8:45 in the morning on September 11, 2001.
I sometimes feel the itch for a change, but then I wonder: where would I go? My friends are here, my family's here. And in comparison, well, nothing else is quite the same. It's a town full of people from somewhere else, full of the self-invented and the re-invented. There's more to do and see and feel here.
New York, New York (it's a helluva town, the Bronx is up and the Battery's down, the people ride in a hole in the ground).
It's been six interesting years.