Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Hey Baby, It's the Fourth of July (Or, Umerica)
This July Fourth is a rainy, gray one in New York.
Independence Day has never been up there on my list of "favorite holidays" - sometimes it's fun, sometimes it's boozy. Most of the time, it's hot and sticky and filled with hot dogs and hamburgers and beer and corn on the cob and fireworks.
Hey, wait a minute.
Why the hell isn't this on my list of favorite holidays then? It's just food, booze, and hot explosions. Sounds like a win-win-win situation.
I guess maybe it comes down to this image in my head from a Fourth of July from years past. A friend - a very patriotic friend - held a rooftop party to watch the fireworks over the Charles River in Boston. (Next to St. Patrick's Day, Independence Day is Boston's end-all, be-all holiday.) My friend - I'll call him George - was decked head-to-toe in red, white, and blue. Every fifteen minutes, he would wail "I LOVE AMERICA!!" at the top of his lungs and down another cocktail. Once or twice is cute, but four times an hour for four hours was a bit much to take.
Of course, George was so sauced by the end of it, his patriotic, lovelorn wail sounded like a tuba getting run over by a school bus full of band fags:
George also had to be put to bed early in his party outfit.
Given the state of our country, it's a little hard for me to get that sauced up, that crunked up, that fucked up, that messed up, that slammered, or that hammered over America.