I can't possibly tell this story alone

Last year, I watched our town’s 4th of July fireworks display from the Target parking lot about a half-mile from ground zero (of the display, that is). It was sad, but I was far from alone–families opened SUV trunks and pulled out folding chairs. Kids ran up and down the parking lot aisles with sparklers. So it was really only sad for me, since I intended to watch the fireworks, then head in to Target for some groceries. This year, I felt compelled to join in the thousands at the park if for no other reason than I didn’t want to make a tradition of sitting on the hood of my car in the Target parking lot then ambling in to pick up a six pack and some toothpaste. That doesn’t seem right.

The display started with a lone warning shell–one of those white explosions that does nothing other than rattle nerves. You could feel it in your stomach. It was with that shot that a post-toddler/pre-junior girl behind me began to shriek as if undergoing a live, anesthetic-free amputation. She didn’t stop. The screaming evolved over the course of the show from a nerve-jangling, “I’m scared and want to go hooooooooooooome!” to a shell-shocked, holding herself “Ugghhhhh ughhhhhh ughhhhh.” Her mother pleaded for her to calm herself down by shrewdly begging, “Please calm down, please calm down.” Then the girl’s grandmother came to the rescue, and tried a different tack. “You need to try to calm down. You need to try to calm down.” She wouldn’t be calmed.

Meanwhile, in the skies: I remembered how little I truly enjoy fireworks displays. But I was close enough to feel fragments of spent charges hit me in the face, so I figured if you’re going to be there, you may as well be up-close/personal. I could hear music that was allegedly “synched” to the fireworks (or vice-versa), though neither rhythm nor boom matched up in any discernible fashion. I found this to be really frustrating. Especially when the opening drums–a clear, unmistakable beat ripe for explosive synching–of “Born in the U.S.A.” came on, and a weak cheer rose up from my area. There was fist pumping when the Boss sang the ironic/anthemic chorus, though no one sang along to the rest of the song–a scathing indictment of our country’s handling of Vietnam vets. (Even the video paints a bleak picture.) Still, fist pumping/head bobbing.

“I. Just. Want. To. Goooooooo hoooooooommmmeeee!”

I felt badly for her. I hated fireworks–and loud noises, in general–as a kid. I still remember being in Williamsburg when I was three or four and sprinting for cover behind a colonial-themed building and covering Ye Olde ears while people in wigs re-enacted something or other with cannons and muskets.

The display progressed toward what inevitably was supposed to be the pre-climax. A flurry here, a high-shot there. But as it built up force, there was a final shot–a weak loner of a blue & white disc (not even one of those giant umbrella, Disney castle-grade ones) exploded and there was silence. Even the poor, screaming girl stopped, as if surprised/unprepared for it to be over. A tentative clap rippled throughout the crowd, and people shrugged their shoulders. I had direct view of the ridge upon which the fireworks were being shot. The other side of the ridge glowed orange, and I could see the tips of flames and a few people running around behind it. So I’m pretty sure a small (and hopefully contained) fire broke out, which wasn’t surprising either, since most of the other surrounding suburbs cancelled their displays due to the extreme heat/dryness. That was probably smart of them. The music still played–God Bless America. I hope they put out that fire.

And to think we almost left after the opening act–a white teen rapper who could rhyme, but swung his disproportionately small arms Cocker-like while doing so. It was jarring. The bar on the west siiii–eed of Dayton served only beer, which was how we muddled through the rapper’s set, listening to the kid spit lyrics like “I’m like Michael Jordan / Like Michael Jordan / Like Michael Jordan.” Entertainment was limited to Young Rabbit’s family–mom (head bobbing, drinking), dad (head bobbing, drinking), grandma (drinking), grandpa (who thoughtfully acquiesced when Sonny Boy shouted at him “yeeeeeh, yeeeeeh, throw yo’ muthafuckin hands in tha muthafuckin air”), aunt (w/video camera–I wonder if she posted it to YouTube, I’ll have to find it) and uncle who was alternately bobbing his head and craning it away to see the Dayton basketball game on the TV opposite the ‘show.’

At a table in the wings sat a paunchy man in technicolor Zubaz, a white fanny pack at his waist, a two-foot rat tail curled down his neck, and a mustache too ironic for actual life. His girlfriend was an 80s glam vision. A founding member of the New Power Generation. They were the next act.

Unfortunately, the awesomeness that was Andy D cannot be captured with words. And this isn’t a tired writer’s lazy way out–what we saw simply defied explanation. I went to Dayton a little low on psychic fuel. I went out that night lethargic and maudlin. Andy D started, and–as Jack Black attests in School of Rock–one great show can change the world. Andy D and his back-up singing wife dropped rap/techno-comedic/dance lyrics inspired by Showgirls, vikings, and “drunk chicks.” It lived somewhere in the realm of Tenacious D, Beck and Eastbound & Down. Anyway, hadn’t laughed or screamed that loudly in months.

It was good enough that I finally broke down and opened up a YouTube account for the sole purpose of making sure this clip is seen, believed.

Insult was liberally applied to injury tonight, as I de-selected an unfortunate/slow raccoon from nature with my Honda. There are a few key details worth rehashing here, and they’re not at all intended to be ironic or “creative.” Just the facts.

A: I’d just finished teaching my class in which I gently persuaded my students to “choose” a controversy to read over the course of the semester. That controversy was “atheism”–one that I’ve gingerly introduced to past classes with some success. They were really enthusiastic about it, though. So, as a result–

B: I left class happy. Was listening to music and futzing with Pandora on the dark drive home (very dark–no moon visible, and like maybe the street lights were all somehow unlit or dimmer. Very low visibility). I settled on my Otis Redding mix, and was even happier when You Left the Water Running came up first. Once that was over, and as I drove in the near-pitch blackness, Dusty Springfield (SOAPM, naturally) came on and I turned it up because I was

C: singing Dusty Springfield loudly in falsetto. Not altogether poorly either, I might add. It was when we were Learning from each other’s knowing looking to see how much we’ve

D; ‘COOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNN!

E: I saw it so briefly before my driver’s side front/rear Bridgestones took its life. Judging from the sound and extent of the impact, I’d put him in the Heavyweight class of suburban raccoons. It was in Libertyville, so he was probably living very well off the scraps from the tables of Sunset and Whole Foods customers.

F: I had to park my car outside tonight in the hopes that the ‘coon fragments could dislodge from my undercarriage until I can get a good flush up in there tomorrow. I know there are remains because

G: I stopped directly after the incident for a deserved six-pack of beer and checked.

I drink to you, Libertyville raccoon. Being good isn’t always easy, no matter how hard you try. I hope you forgive me.

One of the most frustrating and liberating classes I took in graduate school was on the art of the review. To that point, I don’t recall ever feeling as though I was qualified to review anything more than maybe a Simpsons episode. Nor do I ever recall paying much attention to reviews as acts of writing–they served a public need about other people’s writing and gave my urges to read some sense of direction (“read this Dave, not that Dave,” or what have you). I read a lot of reviews that semester–art, literature, movies, anything I could get my hands on. Around that time, Dale Peck wrote this review of author Rick Moody’s…work, which famously began, “Rick Moody is the worst writer of his generation.” Since then, I’ve read reviews with a different eye. They can be as entertaining and artful as the subjects they critique. Our professor that semester told all of us would-be authors that getting torn up by another respected author was a kind of feather in your cap. Tomorrow, The Omnivore awards their Hatchet Job of the Year to “author of the angriest, funniest, most trenchant book review of the past twelve months.” They are all good, you can read them here, and tip a pint to those brave authors who took a real big feather right in the cap for their troubles.

Based on the jean overalls, I’d say this is mid-90s? Still a pretty good cover of the song, though Wilson Pickett can’t be ignored. In fact, I think maybe his version is better. Still, if you’re feeling nostalgic for something quintessential 90s.