Commemorating those who died for Freedom, or "Woo-HOO!! Where's the sunscreen?! Come in early for three days of holiday savings! HOW much for gas?! OMG, I look so faaat!! Pop me one's those bad boys, wouldja? Number 37 on our list of the Top 100 Summer Songs! Howd'ya wantcher burger? Are we THERE yet?!"
Here in Choc City, one cannot avoid--even if one tries really, really hard--the sights and sounds of contemporary America remembering its war dead in ways that are completely antithetical to remembering its war dead. 'Cause, here in Choc City, we take our pious hedonism neat, beer back. Make that "four beers back". Bird can't fly on one wing, y'know! Har har!
So, just a few notes from your sobsister regarding this most sacred of secular weekends:
1) "Rolling Thunder"--that exhaust-spewing mass of fat and grizzled men in leathers and denim patches astride the Official Clichéd Motorcycle of the Memorial Day Weekend™--will make traffic and, really, Life Itself anywhere near the National Mall unbearable thanks to their felt need to remember noisily their brothers who fell in Viet Nam. Those of the riders who were, in fact, anywhere near Viet Nam in the '60s, that is, and who aren't, instead, bloated middle-managers with a Stars'n'Stripes bandana and a hardon to straddle steel with the big boys. Ah yes, nothing says "Rest In Peace" like the sound of a half-million Yobbos With Attitude riding muffler-free "hawgs". Just like pourin' out a li'l for my homies by dropping three cases of wine down a steel staircase.
2) In that vein, it's nice of President Bush to have given us so many new people to commemorate. And he says there'll be plenty more come summer. He's thoughtful like that.
3) The "Rolling Thunder" crowd aside, many fat people, many, many fat people of all ages, are in town. High school children from landlocked states. Parents pushing children pushing strollers into museums for no discernible reason. Yesterday, I briefly considered standing outside the West Wing of the National Gallery of Art as it was being turned into a recreation in marble, lipids, and polyester of Omaha Beach on D-Day and offering Free Context. As in: Hello. This museum contains Art. It does not move. It does not make sounds. It will not interface with your mp3 devices or your camcorders. It is meant to be enjoyed, ideally in silence, by simple observation. A knowledge of the subject matter of the canvas is helpful but not essential. Much of this Art is from another continent. A continent is a large land mass. There are seven of these land masses in the world. Most of this Art is from the continent called Europe. Which is not really a continent except in the minds of the Caucasian cartographers and historians who devised this classification system. Again, the Art does not move or make sounds. Please do not annoy other museumgoers by your impatience at the apparent refusal of the Art to move or make sounds.
4) Almost everything at my local icosatetraplex blows dead dogs. And not recently-deceased ones either. I have zero interest in seeing Shrek 3: Phoning It In or Pirates of the Caribbean 3: What The Fuck Is The Storyline Again?. I do not want under any circumstances to see Bug or Vacancy or *shudder* Delta Farce. I want to see Paprika but have no idea when it's coming here. Have I mentioned that ninety percent of everything is crap? Yes, and a quick glance at your local movie listings will reaffirm this truth any time you feel like contradicting Theodore Sturgeon.
5) On the up side, I managed to make it through an entire five months without having to hear any of the trilling twats competing on American Idol "sing" even one loopy, doodly, melismatic note. I understand a young girl won this season. Call me when a conga-dancing poodle is in the running and I may--that's "may"--tune in. Remember that "ninety percent rule"? Bump it up to ninety-five percent for anything associated with American Idol.
6) Apropos of nothing, I blame Osama bin Laden for 24. I mean, Kiefer Sutherland's supposed to be a nice guy and all? but no. And not just "no" but "hell no".
7) Walking past the Capitol yesterday, the following thought occurred to me: for the world's biggest whorehouse, it don't smell much like fish.