What is the special hollow feeling that comes on the 4th of July? My own personal beige demon leftover from suburban summers alone?
Walking through scorched brown baseball field. If only that soda machine worked.
Hammered zombies of Light Beer taunting folks? As if teetering on one braincell while jeering at differences is the main cultural heritage of independence.
A day usually pulsating with Camus' "The Stranger" overbearing bright light and broiling heat becomes the most popular day for glowing coals grilling meat out in a tree-less backyard.
Even when it's a peaceful one, my arm around my loved one on the banks of Chincoteague Bay, fireworks being set off from various points on the island, the membrane between worlds feels thin and pliant. At any moment either Red Skelton or The Red Skull could reach through and pull you into a dark gluey abyss.
Ghosts of war are not far from the surface. What does a nation mean and can it be defined without the conversation becoming a snake eating its tail?
Is it any wonder that at least one cable station always runs a Twilight Zone marathon on this day?
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