Red White and Blue. With Love.

This holiday is already bad enough, what with the drunkards out in full force and not even pizza shops open to save them from their own inanity.

Why I felt the need to indulge in my bitter, self-righteous loneliness and complete unfeelingness twoards this day of eminent pointlessness (my uncaring is so strong I even had to hover over the Goog-icon until my Homer Simpson “doh” moment hit) is beyond me. Maybe sometimes you really just need that tiny push, that extra excuse, to grab a six of mediocre belgian-style wheat beer and two-day-old strawberry shortcake. Well, the strawberries were already macerated so it’s not as if I put any effort into this fandango.

What are we celebrating, anyway? The day a bunch of old (now dead) white guys signed a crinkling piece of parchment, announcing their grand intentions to cease, and I mean absolutely desist, paying any more representation-free taxes to the oppressive colonial powers that be? What, so we’re celebrating some version of our libertarian roots? Hallelujah.

Besides, it seems terribly ironic to celebrate what is ostensibly a holiday about America and freedom and independence and over-indulgence when ships full of people are being detained (for example) in Greek ports (yet another irony, o bastion, motherland of democracy) en route to protest against the inhuman suffering of one group of people at the hands of another, far more powerful group of people.

O, the humanity.

Woe, the humanity.

Independence from nothing but our own moral compasses and human responsibility. I’ll drink to that.


One thought on “Red White and Blue. With Love.

  1. My coffee cup, which has a beer-can-foam-insulator around its bottom half, held on by duct tape if you must know, has a sentiment it would like to relate to you. Actually, the cup’s sentiment is simply “Starbucks”, but that is muffled by the foam-insulator so that all remains of Starbucks’ attitude is a sliver of check-box and the designation “Decaf”, in imitation of their paper cups. What the coffee cup as a political entity now says to me, and to whomever is sitting facing me (since it says this on its front and back) is, “You can’t soar like an eagle when you’re working with turkeys.”
    I’ve had the foam-insulator for five or ten years, but it’s your message today, which reminded me of an essay I sent to Al Jazeera this morning (about the questions one asks being more insightful for one’s journalistic audience than the answers one finds and presents), that finally cracked open the meaning of this foam-insulator sentiment.
    In fact, this foam-insulator chides me. “Soar” reminds me of my favorite invective: against people who “take refuge in abstractions.” It is bad enough when you’re doing something lousy and justifying it to yourself with some hifalutin empty words (such as S.Res 185). But when you take on the role of vindicator but, instead of doing the gritty work of peace, toss around empty accusations, then you’re really, speaking of Greece and Cyprus, missing the boat.
    If we’re going to accuse someone, let’s accuse them of something tangible, and that entails getting down where they are, in what they’re doing. You can’t disapprove of something you don’t know about. If you think you have to explain the concept of justice to people, they’re not going to listen to you. Turkeys aren’t stupid.

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