Wednesday, July 05, 2006

What's to Celebrate?

I saw the fireworks last night, from a rooftop in Williamsburg. There were lots of people on the streets, a great festive atmosphere. This being Williamsburg, there was a band on the roof playing unspeakably hostile, awful heavy metal punk and it would have been great if only they had moshed themselves off the roof together with their instruments. Luckily for the rest of us, well-adjusted citizens, they only played until the fireworks started.
The fireworks were lovely, as always, predictable as always. I hate the smiley faces, yet the fireworks people seem so proud of them. I love the weeping willows and the ones that look like little cloudy puffs of light.
This being Williamsburg, I have to say, there were all this Latino people having BBQ's on the street and that was way cool. It's the hipsters who have ruined the place.

Watching the fireworks and our communal sense of complacency, I was pondering that really, we don't have much to celebrate this 4th of July, except perhaps that Al Qaeda hasn't blown anyone up in our home turf again (yet). There are American soldiers dying in Iraq, that invasion is a shambles, and we have a President and an administration who all but shit on the Constitution and on the actual principles that make this a great country. This is the most retrograde, incompetent and dangerous presidency in the history of this country. I fail to see what's to cheer about.
Perhaps we may want to celebrate the Supreme Court's decision on the illegality of Guantanamo, but it doesn't matter anyway, since the Bush administration doesn't even heed the Supreme Court's rulings. For a hair-raising account on who the architect of this disgrace is, read Jane Mayer's excellent article in last week's New Yorker about David Addington, Dick Cheney's chief of staff and legal advisor. These two are the ones who rule this country. It will make your blood curl.
So fireworks and a great DuMont burger notwithstanding, I wasn't in such a festive mood yesterday, 4th of July.

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