The Insomniac's American Dream

Our great nation’s birthday is right around the corner and nothing says America like warm apple pie, athletes on steroids, and coupe utility vehicles with a Spanish name. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate America’s independence from Great Britain (and subsequent dependence on antidepressants, not that there’s any positive correlation between the two) than eating a slice of pie with Marion Jones in the back of an El Camino as spherical breaks of colored stars shoot across the night sky. Well, first I have to engage in the traditional methods of self-avoidance and buy an El Camino. Then I’ll get a pie. And if Marion Jones won’t return my letters and phone calls, I guess I’ll have to settle for Rafael Palmiero. As for the fireworks, I can do without them; they are not a significant part of this equation. Seriously, when was the last time you watched a fireworks display and went Holy shit! Did you see that? Telephones are mobile, mail is electronic, televisions are flat, and performing oral sex has become a societal protocol amongst the female population. A lot has changed over the years. Everything is bigger, better, and more convenient. Yet, despite all the great advancements throughout the past two decades, fireworks have stayed the same with very few exceptions. I challenge anyone to debate with me on this topic. I suppose one can argue that those ones that break apart and crackle, wiggling around like sperm under a microscope for a brief moment, weren‘t commonplace twenty years ago. Big deal. When I was seven, I figured that one day I’d go to the local high school football field and watch giant American flags and dead Soviets illuminating the black night. Instead, it’s the same old shit serving as a backdrop to Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to be an American.” Our forefathers have assumed the fetal position in their graves.