Independence Day celebrations baffle and depress me.
First off, what are we independent from? We’re nailed to horror chamber jobs surrounded by the kind of people who spend hours strategizing against crab grass and tossing macaroni salad at anyone heartless enough to wear sealskin. Gas and oil prices are up and taxes squeeze every tiny COLA raise our salad-bar bosses grudgingly release.Independence Day celebrations baffle and depress me. First off, what are we independent from? We’re nailed to horror chamber jobs surrounded by the kind of people who spend hours strategizing against crab grass and tossing macaroni salad at anyone heartless enough to wear sealskin. Gas and oil prices are up and taxes squeeze every tiny COLA raise our salad-bar bosses grudgingly release. I stood on Boulevard East this Fourth with thousands of others watching the tall ships, and know what? After about the fifth one they all looked the same. None had polka dots or striped sails, none tried speeding ahead of the others, none rammed the smaller boats manned by maniac suburbanites that flitted around the main attraction like moths on speed. None fired at each other. Most were too tired to make it even to the GW Bridge. The whole effort resembled a Knicks fast break. They may as well have given us a flotilla of barges carrying international major kitchen appliances. I looked around at those who actually brought entire families and everyone had the same expression: I’m tired, hungry, thirsty, I have to pee. Why aren’t we home barbecuing? Yes, I went down to South Street Seaport the following day and yes they were impressive close up, but an hour wait to board? I couldn’t see standing in that blazing heat just to walk around thick rope and discover where the Ecuadorian First Mate keeps his Gameboy and skivvies. Fireworks are thrilling the same way watching a magician saw someone in half is – after the first six times your neck gets stiff. The child within me should still love this stuff, but that kid was snuffed out during the Nixon Administration. Explain baby parades on the Fourth. Parents pool talents months in advance to create humongous floats that can’t fit in garages, trying to recreate the entire Franco-American War to win first place. The kids are crammed into all sorts of insane costumes, made to walk blocks, sobbing and aching from all that waving in front of the entire sadistic town. Imagine being an 8-year-old forced to wear the Pillsbury Doughboy outfit, standing on a rickety float saluting bakeries, and then having to confront classmates next September. You wonder why serial killers abound? Regular Independence Day parades aren’t much better. You get to see, once again, the high school band and twirlers, all inwardly cursing the fact that they’re missing prime beach time, the Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts and Brownies, organizations geared for kids who couldn’t make the traveling soccer team, thousands of fire engines, sirens torturing infants not already traumatized by Pierogi Man, a group of elderly men in multi-colored spangled uniforms playing kazoos and sweating puddles, glowering cops, glazed politicians, and three guys from DPW always out of step. Look, keep the holiday, change the name. Call it Survival Day. – Joe Del Priore