We woke up early and went with Mr. T's family to the San Diego Wild Animal Park because it was Tom's birthday and what 57 year old doesn't want to ring in another year at the zoo? Then, after sweating and wishing we could have gorillas in the yard, we headed back to LA because I was going to see the fireworks dammit.
Mack was sun whipped so he passed out on the couch, but I latched onto my neighbors and went to the beach. We stopped by the liquor store and bought 22's of Budweiser because at the time it was an American beer, and on the 4th of July you should drink American beer with the colors of the flag on the can. It's like a rule. Next year, I guess I'll have to turn to Pabst Blue Ribbon. Dear god, America, we gotta do something and quick.
From the beach, I watched as fireworks popped and crackled all around me. You could see them all up and down the coast, and then you could see the smokey haze in the sky that was their aftermath. The beach was full of people, shirtless, tattooed, many with convictions, and I actually felt proud to be an American, inspired by these ruffians who don't do what they're told. Cue the music.
Just as I was feeling all blessed to be a part of people who've made an annual tradition based on explosives and founded thanks to criminal behavior, the cops showed up. To confiscate our fireworks. Which were about as dangerous as a sparkler. After we made the kids who were with us pack them up and hand them over, the cops realized the error of their ways and told us to take them home and set them off. We obeyed.
The pops and flashes brought the night to life and made the entire neighborhood feel unified. It felt good to make noise, to cause a ruckus, to admire the beauty of eruption and to preserve a holiday that has always given me memories worth cherishing. Hooray for the USA.
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