63 chilly degrees at 5 this dawn, almost too cool to sit out with the rising sun. Am actually wearing long sleeves. Maybe July really is going to swap with June this year, and the swelter will relent for a bit.
The Times says my old town’s evolving and looking to the future. Guess we should go.
Will 36 hours be enough? Maybe, if we leave the laptops and drop the devices.
Can’t wait to check out The Bridge, with @DJGrothe‘s tweeted recommendation: “Great beer selection, perfect atmosphere. My favorite place in the neighborhood if not all of #St_Louis.” Great, needed a new favorite place. Forest Park and Busch Stadium are ok, too. [Postscript: The Bridge is outstanding, especially on a mild afternoon in July after a long drive and with a suddenly- stalling engine in need of a rest.]
If you’re wondering about the # above, btw, here’s a semiotic analysis of hashtaggery.)
I confess some ambivalence about this particular holiday weekend, and some flat-out repugnance for the drive to get there. (I want my bullet train!)
There’s no better object of celebration than independence and freedom, but I don’t love a parade when it’s devoted to insular superiority and narrow nationalism. Everybody’s anthem seems to boil down to Mel Brooks’s “2,000 Year Old Man‘s” jingoistic jingle: “Let ’em all go to hell, except Cave #76.”
Nor do I care much for fireworks or the red glare of rockets meant to symbolize armed conflict. Independence-as-mutual hostility is nothing to boast about.
On the other hand, independence from the inertial drag of crusty custom and conventional wisdom and stale tradition, from misplaced loyalty and cowering conservatism and blind allegiance to flags and forebears, is worth fighting for.
Independence from the opinions of old dead white guys is genuinely liberating.
Most of all, I suppose, this holiday above all others should be free from the weight of too much heavy introspection. We should free ourselves from fretful over-analysis.
Fire a rocket just for fun, and travel safely.