As I point out every year, I hate the Fourth of July as the mongol hordes of inlanders (no life east of I-5? Hell, there’s no life east of Ingraham St) and the Zonies (hence the expression: an annoyance of tourists) flock to the beach for the day where they get horrific sunburns and drink copious amounts of light beer celebrating…what?..patriotism…freedom…oblivion? This year has been especially lovely what with the four-to five day weekend people have taken allowing them to get a running start in the drunken idiocy marathon.
Me? I go to work in the morning where all is calm and quiet and then later bunker in on my deck and watch the chaos as the second leg of the summer holiday trifecta plays out below; the Fourth of July bookended by Memorial Day and Labor Day after which peace descends, one again, upon the neighborhood.
Come Wednesday we’ll be crawling from the wreckage.
Pray to the imaginary deity of your choice for me.
(Added): I drove through Mission Bay Park (prime viewing space for the the Sea World fireworks) at about 8AM and the parking lots are already full, meaning these folks have thirteen hours of sticking it out in the heat to watch fifteen minutes of colorful explosions. Neat.
(Added…even later): Just got home and it’s not as bad as usual. There are probably two policemen for every three blocks not counting the police helicopter eye-in-the-sky that circles every few minutes. The streets are surprisingly dead and not a lot of premature firecrackers going off, meaning that I was able to coax Stachmo out from under the bed. Of course this will be the last I see of him until four in the morning when he lumbers up on the bed. Beckham? He doesn’t give a damn.