Monday, July 04, 2005

My Fourth

In the great American tradition of Independence Day, I went with some friends to a barbecue for a Fourth of July celebration Saturday.

We brought beer, bourbon, sausages, hamburgers, and fireworks, because you can't have a proper Fourth of July celebration without blowing something up.

I'd had CQ all day, and I was glad to get out of the barracks. I rode the 40 minutes out to our friends house with Ken and his new wife Joyce in their Explorer, and while Joyce drove, Ken fiddled with the radio and ashed his cigarette out the passenger side window.

We hit I-65, and he found a classic rock station. All three of us in the car were excited about the upcoming party, the weather was beautiful - the sun was streaming down in the early evening over the Kentucky fields, and "Baba O'Reilly" by The Who was blasting out of the speakers.

We listened to Roger Daltrey belt out the lyrics to the anthem, "Don't cry.... don't raise your eyes... it's only teenage wasteland!" while the rest of The Who hammered on drum kits, basses, and keyboards, and Pete Townsend thrashed his guitar in signature style.

Rush was next, with "Freewill," followed by Ozzy Osbourne and Randy Rhoads with "Crazy Train."

We had the windows rolled down as the Explorer crept up to 70 miles per hour, and sitting in the back with a smoke lit and the wind blowing past my face, I had the first profound sense of well-being that I'd had in a very long time.

I'm not sure what it was. Not the music on its own, that's for certain. I think it had something to do with the nostalgia I felt swept up in during that moment, which for one reason or another was enough to cover completely all the present-day frets and concerns that are on my mind all the time.

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Hey, a quick break here - did anyone else know that Live 8 loudmouth Bob Geldof has three daughters, who he has named Fifi, Peaches, and Pixie? Doesn't that sort of limit their career options to the "exotic dancing" field?

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I'll finish this later. Right now, I'm catching up on news.

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