Attention, K-mart shoppers—
The July 4th season calls for yet another Beetle-rific roadside blow-out and “get-rich-quick scheme” as we find our seasonal journeyman selling fireworks in a big cinder-block emporium.
Perched behind the counter, taking long easy draws off a cigar as the occasion screams “balloons, bunting, and American flags” as he stubs-out his stogie in a cheap, aluminum ashtray and throws all care to the seven-winds. Freedom is as wide as a river, hefty as a barrel full of gun-powder, as shred-up your mortgage cares and send-it-up a screaming rocket as it’s pinwheels of insta-credit. Why, some drop $1000 in one day to join-in the jubilee like Huckleberry on the Mississippi, fishing with a line tied to his big-toe as big-oil, fiery smokestacks and conveyor-belts means America is proud, rude, and #1.
Feel the nostalgic wonder for the Founding Fathers and then remember the scalawags who came-over, clinging to the side of the Mayflower as Beetlejuice & friends “have always been among us”. It’s a tradition as fragrant as yellow-journalism ink, shiny as a brass spittoon, hungry for bloody war and foreign adventure as it’s the fierce snarl of “Black Cat” fire-crackers, whirling those sparking-hoops behind the broken-down old fence pasted-up with circus posters.
Have flea-market, will travel—roadside bounty and the excitement of the depraved, corrupt city “in-town”, rolling-up one’s sleeves and scowling at the ways of urban centers like “the country bumpkin’s code” or what makes us different, from them—cultural insurance and a trustworthy glint.
No matter where you go, the pull-horn of eighteen-wheelers’.
Rural, real America—the one politicians always talk about—yet carries its seamy underside of gross-out guts and bloody-thunder—like squirming wild-life and hobo jungles and slaughterhouses.
The Greatest Show on Earth, right here in my own local Missouri.
Have a happy & safe Fourth of July weekend.