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Cultural Transposition
Jul. 4th, 2005 10:11 pmJust went out to watch some neighborhood fireworks for the first time in several years. Not many, but given that I haven't seen _any_ since about the same time Bush was elected, it makes a nice start (there was no correlation between those two events...it was the clinical depression at fault, not the political one). Several thoughts occured to me.
1) Despite regulations, there have definitely been some advances in firework technology...or else my previous neighbors were all cheap. Quite a few were visible _over_ the roofs of the houses in the next cul-du-sac. Like mini "real" firework displays. And the fountains, etc. on the street were much more lengthy than I remember as well. Don't know if it was all legal, but it was fairly prevalent.
2) And along with the pretty lights came a raucaus so intense that a full-fledged gang-war could start the next block down and no one would notice...and I live in the sub-urbs of Eugene, OR...so it's not like we get a lot of gang wars period. Insert your own ironic "contrast to life in a warzone" Iraq observation here.
3) Every time I hear a whistling pete I remember our family dog, Jenny. A sweet-tempered golden/lab mix who turned into a (large) quivering ball of neuroses every 4th of July and New Years. It got so bad that one year she'd beg to go out to escape and then refuse to go out because that's where the noise was and finally did her business all over the kitchen floor. It was as if someone had taken a really large brown tube of toothpaste and...well...you've probably already got more of a picture than you want. In short: we had a bi-annually panic-stricken dog. The solution: better living through chemistry! You have not truly chuckled until you've seen an animal stoned. Or rather, hung-over. The night of the 4th, drugged on doggy-valium, she was generally quite quiescent. It was the next day, with unsteady steps and incredibly bleary eyes, that she appeared in search of...well, the hair of the dog that had bit her. It's not often your dog will stumble into the wall _twice_ on their way down the hallway...and there were occasional guilty winces on our parts when cornering around the coffee-table didn't go quite as planned. Fortunately, Jenny was blessed with a rather dense skull, and never seemed to notice the sharp "crack!" of bone meeting wood. I miss her still. However altered her state of conciousness, she was a good dog.
4) And now, finally, the thought that prompted me to _post_ for the first time in months. You go out, you light a firework, you watch the sparkles and listen to the explosions and then the sound dies away and the actinic light dims and you're left with a taper billowing with clouds of pungent smoke, all for the sake of the founding fathers. It's really not much more than a flashier version of lighting a stick of incense at the shrine of the ancestors, is it? The venerable Franklin and Jefferson are not content with Myrrh or Frankinscence...they want cordite!
1) Despite regulations, there have definitely been some advances in firework technology...or else my previous neighbors were all cheap. Quite a few were visible _over_ the roofs of the houses in the next cul-du-sac. Like mini "real" firework displays. And the fountains, etc. on the street were much more lengthy than I remember as well. Don't know if it was all legal, but it was fairly prevalent.
2) And along with the pretty lights came a raucaus so intense that a full-fledged gang-war could start the next block down and no one would notice...and I live in the sub-urbs of Eugene, OR...so it's not like we get a lot of gang wars period. Insert your own ironic "contrast to life in a warzone" Iraq observation here.
3) Every time I hear a whistling pete I remember our family dog, Jenny. A sweet-tempered golden/lab mix who turned into a (large) quivering ball of neuroses every 4th of July and New Years. It got so bad that one year she'd beg to go out to escape and then refuse to go out because that's where the noise was and finally did her business all over the kitchen floor. It was as if someone had taken a really large brown tube of toothpaste and...well...you've probably already got more of a picture than you want. In short: we had a bi-annually panic-stricken dog. The solution: better living through chemistry! You have not truly chuckled until you've seen an animal stoned. Or rather, hung-over. The night of the 4th, drugged on doggy-valium, she was generally quite quiescent. It was the next day, with unsteady steps and incredibly bleary eyes, that she appeared in search of...well, the hair of the dog that had bit her. It's not often your dog will stumble into the wall _twice_ on their way down the hallway...and there were occasional guilty winces on our parts when cornering around the coffee-table didn't go quite as planned. Fortunately, Jenny was blessed with a rather dense skull, and never seemed to notice the sharp "crack!" of bone meeting wood. I miss her still. However altered her state of conciousness, she was a good dog.
4) And now, finally, the thought that prompted me to _post_ for the first time in months. You go out, you light a firework, you watch the sparkles and listen to the explosions and then the sound dies away and the actinic light dims and you're left with a taper billowing with clouds of pungent smoke, all for the sake of the founding fathers. It's really not much more than a flashier version of lighting a stick of incense at the shrine of the ancestors, is it? The venerable Franklin and Jefferson are not content with Myrrh or Frankinscence...they want cordite!
