The Ink-Pot and the Palette

I've never been patriotic enough that I wanted to celebrate the anniversary of this nation's founding with a bunch of gunpowder-based noise devices. Besides, I grew up in Hawaii, where the American tradition of mindless waste meets the Chinese tradition of fireworks in such an excess of sound and smoke that "never" would be way too soon to experience it again.

For some reason, the neighbors with fireworks--and there were more of them this year than last--seem to think that an orgasmic explosion of booms, bangs, sparks, pops, whistles, and flashes is best held off till midnight, as if this were New Year's Eve. It's about 1:00 now, and they've shot their wad at last. It's mostly all over except the street-cleaning.

Which, by the way, none of them will undertake. Tomorrow, the street will be heavily littered with firecracker leftovers. Will I go out there with my broom and sweep up after them? Hell no. That's what their moms are for--or so they seem to think.

Monsoon seems to be recovering from the bewildered quivers. Now he's playing, but he spent most of the evening either sitting on my feet, or cowering in the basement stairs.

All of this is a long way of saying that I hate this holiday, and I'm glad it's over, and the rockets' red glare can go fuck itself.