The annual Fourth of July post

I think I want to save the profundity in this year’s Fourth of July post. You can only ponder the importance of mid-summer as a watermark for life so many times. But, as usual, I was at barbecue, drinking beer, surrounded by friends. And it was happy. Matt came up to me at some point and said,

“Tate I was trying to remember what I did on the Fourth last year, and then I remembered, I spent it with you.”
“Oh yeah, at my old house on the deck right? Yeah, and I had just moved in.”
“And all you had in your room was an air mattress, some shirts and a photo of Walter Kronkite,” Gavin said.
“Actually, it’s Willie Nelson, but yeah.”

A lot can change in just one year. But there I was, in a new city but a lot of the same people. So actually, kind of the same. Like everywhere you go, your life follows you, and everywhere the pieces of your life go, they’re still kind of with you. Okay, so a little bit of pondering. Now pictures of aging functional drunks:


“What are you taking a picture of?”
“I’m taking of picture of four foxy ladies, so you better smile.” And it worked. Women love flattery. Even smarmy flattery.


The party was at Jamie and Jason’s this year. A fierce game of horseshoes was played throughout in the background. Only two people were hit.


I’ve discussed the merits and demerits of the “game” that haunts my life, called “Slap The Bag.” Here it is in photo illustration. Drink Chablis from the bag:


Slap the bag:


And fireworks. Jason said we had to light them off in the street, because he just cut the weeds and the stumps were all dry like hay. But by dark we were all so lit up, that we just went for it in the yard. There were a few little fires, put out very quickly. The neighbors had a pretty vicious salvo on their front porch too:



And for another year, we were once again, all truly free. Free to drink yellow beer, eat a melon soaked in alcohol and three or four cobs of corn, throw metal shaped like a ‘U’ into sand, play with a tiny dog named Pompadour, set fire to your girlfriend’s backyard and then plunge into a tequila and potato salad soaked sleep at 10 p.m., dreaming tenderly of a country that doesn’t torture its immigrants or tap the phone lines of its citizens.

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2 Responses to

  1. JLC says:

    well said.

  2. Yo-Rissa says:

    Hey, so as payment for making me stand in front of a camera and talk politics (or not)…why don’t you update your blog?!?! Just a thought…

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