Friday, July 5, 2013

It Starts With The Day

People in my neighborhood go crazy with the explosives. Last night, after shooting off fireworks in the street for two solid hours, someone set a full drawer of clothes on fire. Everyone stood around drinking beer and watching. Even Carlos was out. And my neighbors who I recently heard having sex and now feel uncomfortable being around, so I overcompensate, (which makes me even more of a perv), by being super friendly and cheerful. And three year old kids who were so wired from sugar/explosions/the late hour that they looked and behaved like tiny crack heads. Everyone was out except me. I could only watch periodically from the upstairs porch because I was helping my dog try to survive the massive coronary she was having from barking and digging a hole through the door/the couch/the floor. At one point she looked at me, her chest heaving, her head tilted,

What the fuck are you people doing?

This is what we do babe, we're celebrating.

This makes no sense.

I don't know what to tell you.



Everyone's going to DIE.

Not tonight.

---This was not a consolation and she started barking and spinning in circles. I tried to explain.---

It's starts with the day. You go to the super store and get your beer and your meat. You come home and it's hot so you put on a red white and blue bikini and wash your car out in the street while this plays on the boom box.

Then you start drinking beer and your kids get in the pool and stay there for the next 6 hours doing cannon balls and holding each other's heads under water. Then, if you live in a small town, you go to a parade and wave little flags at the passing firetrucks. If you live near the beach, you go sit on the sand.  If you live in the city, you drink. Then you eat some greasy meat with your friends and drink more beer. Then it gets dark and you start blowing things up and setting things on fire. And if you're lucky, you get to lie in the grass and make out with someone under the stars. If you're not lucky you get to stay home with your dog and keep her from jumping through the glass door.

The dog stops panting for a second and stares at me.

"This is America" I tell her.  "It's how we do".

That does not sound good.

I think some of it sounds great.

But why?

---I pause, I'm not really sure, and that's a fair question. I have to think about it, but then it dawns on me:---

Because we're free.

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