dragon scrotum

The annual 4th of July celebration in Wenonah passed by much like it always does, with a few notable differences.

The boys and I arrived late; the parade had already double backed by the time we got there. That's never happened to me before.

I missed the battle of the bands, the battle royale between the Pitman Hobo Band and the Bonsal Blues Band. The parade stops when the bands pass each other, and they together play one or two rousing patriotic songs. It's the true highlight of the parade, and it makes that 9:15 am beer that much more refreshing.

Remy didn't run out in the street to fetch the thrown candy. Boo did, but only under duress. He probably felt a little ridiculous, this 6-foot 13-year-old, running down the street for Smarties and Sweetarts and Bit 'O Honeys and Bottle Caps, and, if he was lucky, the occasional and widely prized Tootsie Roll. Why did someone think it was a good idea to package the world's most detested candy in huge BJ-size bags? Does anyone really like Smarties?

Then I went to O'Connor's (Oak's) for more morning beer. I finally got to talk to Jack Wiler, who's a hoot with tremendous recall of his life growing up in Wenonah. Also Jim Maddox, who blogs about nearby Woodbury Heights...great to read their blogs about local history and shared baby boomer experiences, regardless of locale. Thanks, Jack.

(Because I am so much younger than Jack, I can only place myself on the tail end of the baby boom, and I can't remember shit anyway, and that's why I like his blog.)

The usual crowd of over-the-hill hippie guys were at Oak's and, as I was unaccompanied by kids and dh, I was able to talk to some of them at length. These were some of the guys I spent my teenage years hanging out with, guys like Ron, Jim, Victor, Richie, Larry, Steve...mostly blue collar guys with Peter Pan syndrome who used to punctuate every other word with "fucking" and "man" back in the 70s, so a conversation with any of them might go something like this:

"Hey, Victor."

"Hey, Carey. Hey, have you seen Paul? He was fucking here a minute ago, man, and now he's fucking disappeared."

"Sorry, I haven't seen him."

"Fuck. He has my fucking CAR, man."

Victor and Jack shared a story about one evening when they had driven to the Pine Barrens. Jack's brother Mick was there, and somebody else, I don't remember. They had all dropped acid, and they remembered the exact dosage. Apparently Victor had received some extra-strength blotter, but wasn't aware of its exaggerated potency. So he took 2 tabs, which was something like the equivalent of 4 regular-strength tabs. Jack took one, Mick took 1/2. How the HELL these guys remember this, I don't know.

So they're out driving in the Pine Barrens and swear to GOD there's a car that's following them, right on the bumper, along the scary, dark, winding roads through the woods. Then, suddenly, as if it were an alien spacecraft, if disappears. Like that! Then they recounted how the tree branches turned into arms reaching out at them, these blue alien arms. A trip to remember, evidently, but how one can remember anything on that much blotter astounds me.

Victor told me he studies Tibetan Buddhism, and then shared with me information about his various tattoos. Apparently there's a dragon around his scrotum. Thanks, Victor!

I see these guys once a year, and they never cease to amuse me.

The mug was really lame this year. They've apparently run out of historical buildings to highlight, so they threw some clip art on it. Even my friend Lisa gave up on the mug this year. She's been an avid collector, and to my knowledge has never missed a 4th. But she didn't come to Wenonah this year, she and her festive 4th of July socks, and I missed her.

I'd been dreading this day for awhile, given the tension between the inlaws and me and probably all their friends...long story, but I wasn't exactly feeling the love upon my arrival in my old hometown. But then after a couple of beers and compliments at Oaks before heading down to the firehouse for more, the day became a nostalgic trip back to the 70s, when drugs were cool, everybody was your best friend, and older guys who could have easily taken advantage of teenage jailbait--even guys with tattoos and fast cars and motorcycles who said "fuck" all the time--were gentlemen.

with degenerates like these, who needs friends?

This 4th of July in Wenonah was pretty much like all the rest of them have been, except it wasn't the hottest day of the year like it usually is. A little morning rain kept the heat away, and the lingering cloud cover and low humidity helped me stay fresh and dry throughout the festivities.

Usually by the time the firehouse opens, people are sweating and glistening like pigs.

What struck me this year is that people looked old. Classmates. Friends. Of course we all look older, but I've been able to kinda gloss over that and see people as they looked 20, 30 years ago.

I couldn't do that this year. I noticed balding heads, wrinkled faces, yellowed teeth, tummy bulges, broken capillaries...and while some of us have aged better than others...we're our parents now. Our parents look the same as they used to, but now we look like them. We're the people the kids look at now and call "old."

And yet...we can stand there and trade stories about youthful adventures and drink beer (though not as much as we used to) and still not feel any older than when we drank Bud and Annie Green Springs and smoked pot and piled into Tom Hoover's beat-up van, speeding down Breakneck road, Zeppelin on the 8-track, not knowing or caring what curveballs we would be faced with the next day.

Yup. It was 4th of July in Wenonah. Same as it ever was.

get outside

Way back when, about 1972-73, my junior high English teacher, Mr. Howard, taught a class called "English Through Rock Lyrics," the coolest class in high school. He would mimeograph (huh? what's that?) lyric sheets of songs by Dylan, CSNY, and others. He would play the songs, we would follow along with the lyrics, and write reports interpreting them. That was the class. Cool, huh?

We picked our own songs for interpretation sometimes; the only one I can remember choosing is Robert Palmer's "Get Outside." ("Sneaking Sally Through The Alley" was too long.) It goes something like this:

"If your vision is holding you
If you can't fathom out what to do
If you can't read what you write
If you find yourself waking in the middle of the night

Get outside
Get outside
Get outside

If you can't decide what you wanna do
If you can't stand what people say to you
If you can't see when your eyes are open wide
If you ask yourself what you're doing and there's no reply

Get outside
Get outside
Get outside"

Clearly the take-away interpretation of this song is "get outside." I don't remember what else I could have said about it, but I'm pretty sure it was probably a load of bullshit.

Mr. Howard was the best teacher imaginable, young and funny. He entertained the class with his cartoons, and once drew a cartoon for me featuring the citizen hippies of Wenonah clearly stoned or tripping and marveling at a nearby squirrel, saying "Look at the squirrel, man." "Cool." "Far out."

How positively quaint.

I'm pretty certain I didn't learn much in that class, aside from learning to listen to music lyrics more critically, searching for subtext. Happily, I don't have to work so hard interpreting lyrics today. Whew! No clever irony or nuance here!

"You can find me in the club, bottle full of Bud
Mama, I got that X, if you into takin' drugs
I'm into having sex, I ain't into making love
So come give me a hug if you into getting rubbed

When I pull out up front, you see the Benz on dubs
When I roll 20 deep, it's 20 knives in the club
Niggas heard I fuck with Dre, now they wanna show me love
When you sell like Eminem, and the hoes they wanna fuck"

--"In Da Club" by 50 (or "fiddy", as the kids call him)-Cent

Now, let me think...what exactly is Mr. Cent trying to say?

shake that fascist groove thing

There's a post on HuffPo by Robert Guttman here, assailing Bush for being the worst president ever (and as a commenter added, the worst president possible.) Guttman's no slouch; his bio says he is director of the Center on Politics & Foreign Relations at the Johns Hopkins University School of Advanced International Studies in Washington, D.C.

I get so angry thinking that Bush is the president. I mean, how the hell did THAT happen? But after six years, I'm also exhausted thinking about it, and I admire those who are politically active, who attend the rallies and the meetings and write the blogs and work to get the rest of us fired up. People with passion.

In fact, it's really only been since Bush's election that my interest in politics has developed and now unfortunately I waste a lot of time reading left-leaning political blogs. Before that, my first interest in anything presidential was when Nixon was elected.

I was in sixth grade, and as I recall, he started out being a pretty popular president. I wrote him a letter to tell him how great it was he was president.

I received a reply, with a photo of him and his family, including Tricia and Julie. They reminded me of Betty and Veronica, if Veronica were the blonde one. Or maybe more Marianne and Ginger. If Ginger were the blonde one.

When Bush was elected, I was reminded of a song I liked in the the 80s when Reagan was elected: "(We Don't Need This) Fascist Groove Thing" by Heaven 17. It was banned by the BBC. The lyrics are quite prescient:

Have you heard it on the news
About this fascist groove thang
Evil men with racist views
Spreading all across the land
Don't just sit there on your ass
Unlock that funky chaindance
Brothers, sisters shoot your best
We don't need this fascist groove thang

Chorus:Brothers, sisters, we don't need this fascist groove thang

History will repeat itself
Crisis point we're near the hour
Counterforce will do no good
Hot you ass I feel your power
Hitler proves that funky stuff
Is not for you and me girl
Europe's an unhappy land
They've had their fascist groove thang

Chorus

Democrats are out of power
Across that great wide ocean
Reagan's president elect
Fascist god in motion
Generals tell him what to do
Stop your good time dancing
Train their guns on me and you
Fascist thang advancing

Chorus

Sisters, brothers lend a hand
Increase our population
Grab that groove thang by the throat
And throw it in the ocean
You're real tonight you move my soul
Let's cruise out of the dance war
Come out your house and dance your dance
Shake that fascist groove thang(Shake it!)

I'm not sure what "Hot you ass" means; I think whoever transcribed the lyrics from the song made it up. Like "scuse me while I kiss this guy."

But anyway, it's kinda scary that British fop refugees from Human League penned something that applies to our current administration nearly 25 years later.

color-wise

What are these words?

Robel
Tyrikius
Israr
Cah’Juan
Yomar
Lizdy

Without knowing, I might guess they’re the names of some unknown countries located anywhere but North America. But as it happens these were some of the kindergartners in the class I subbed for the other day. Interestingly, the class comprised an accurate ethnic snapshot of my town: maybe 60% white, 25% black, 10% Hispanic, 5% Asian.

Growing up in a predominantly white town in the 60s (meaning, there were NO discernible blacks living within Wenonah’s proper tony borders), we had no idea about blacks. Oh sure, we’d see them in the supermarket, or sometimes driving by in cars, but we didn’t know where they came from. They were very mysterious. We later learned they lived in Jericho, right across the road from Wenonah, and we talked about Jericho in hushed tones. It seemed odd even then that one road cleanly separated white from black.

Then some black kids joined the party. They moved to Wenonah, but they lived on the farthestmost street in town: the street right next to Jericho. We weren’t quite sure what to make of them at first. They were a novelty, which made them immediately popular. And they had 60s-era, whitebread names: Bruce, Mike, and Sheila.

In a totally white town, we could have given these kids a headache. But after the novelty wore off, their color simply didn’t seem to matter, right through high school and beyond.

Nowadays it seems like, hard as we try, color still does matter. Kids are brought up embracing their culture of origin, and rightly so. But sometimes kids are the unfortunate victims of bad or absent parenting, perhaps falling under the influence of their ne’er-do-well peers, and color becomes a divisive issue that stays with them.

So when Remy spouted off the “N-“ word the other day in school, we all had something to learn. More later.

the best darn 4th of July in America, part 2

The Wenonah 4th of July has an odd effect on people. Like a magnet. People move out of town, out of state...and they still come back for the 4th.

The mug line forms early, because the mugs will sell out if it's a popular design, as is this year's Vulture mug. I'd venture to say that this was one of the most popular designs ever; usually it's a depiction of some old boring historical building or another. Residents and ex-residents have been collecting these things for decades.

The mugs come with 3 tickets for beer. Technically, when you've used your tickets, you're done drinking; with most people, this is easily within a half hour. In reality, people trade tickets back and forth, so there are always plenty of black-market tickets floating around.

The beer lasts a couple of hours.

And it's always the hottest day of the year. Out on the apron of the firehouse. With no shade.


The fine ladies of the Ladies' Auxiliary handle the hot dog duties. Nothing tastes quite so delicious as a Ladies' Auxiliary hot dog--with kraut!--wrapped up in tin foil for an undetermined length of time, scarfed down on the hot apron after quickly downing 3 mugfuls of beer in a half hour on the hottest, sunniest day of the year.

Once the buzz kicks in, people start to look like this:

And you'll see horrifying footwear like this:


After standing there for an hour or two, drinking beer, talking to old pals, new pals, your new best friend's mighty attractive 24-year-old son, guys with plates in their heads, women formerly known as town sluts, ex-hippies, current hippies, friends' parents, uptight Republicans, Harley riders, old teachers, kids you babysat for who have kids of their own...the sun and the heat work their magic and create a sleepy lull over the crowd, blanketing everyone with a slightly dazed, beatific expression that says "Yes. I've made it through another 4th. All is right with the world."

The saddest part of the day is when the kegs are emptied, the firehouse garage doors shut down, and people shuffle off hoping to crash one of several private parties in town, where usually everyone's welcome anyway. Or they make their way to the lake, to sail in the relatively new Anything That Floats contest (this year's winner: a Chevy Blazer cap turned upside down.) Or perhaps to the softball game, although I'm not sure anyone really does that anymore. Some traditions have to die to make room for new ones.

Some take well-deserved naps.

In our case, we hit a party, got caught in a thunderstorm, and in a sacrilegious act of near-treason, headed off to another party in our own town.

the best darn 4th of July in America, part 1

To my knowledge, I've never missed a Wenonah 4th of July.

A little town about one mile square, Wenonah thrives on its history as a former vacation resort and rail town, not far from Philly. Revolutionary War-era homes dot the town, but it's most noted for its big, stately Victorian homes. In the eighties, Yuppies moved in, took out huge loans, and fixed those babies up nicely. There's a whiff of snobbery in the air.

In the past several years, huge turkey vultures have descended on the town, ganging up on the roofs of some of these old homes, creating a distinct Gothic atmosphere. Nobody seems to know why they've come--there's no film crew nearby--but the residents don't mind. In fact, they've honored their presence by immortalizing them on the official 2006 Wenonah Fire Company Independence Day Celebration/Vulture Festival beer mug. (Spooky is in the background, clearly pissed that I've disturbed her nap.)

I cannot tell you what a huge honor this is for the vultures.

The day begins with 4 one-minute blasts of the fire siren, signaling everyone to start moving to town for the parade. And then the drinking starts. On wraparound front porches, in lush backyards, along the road of the parade...drinking, and lots of it. Wenonah is a dry town, and the display of public drinking is a cherished tradition.

The Waverunners are in the parade this year. Don drives the truck with some swimmers in the back, while the rest of us walk behind. He could've fit another swimmer in the truck, but the seat was already occupied by the industrial-size jug of mimosas.

Unfortunately, being in the parade means you pretty much miss the parade. As always, it's the hottest morning of the year; halfway down the route and we're all soaked. We throw candy; Kelly beans an elderly spectator in the rather ample backside with a tootsie roll. Nice shot, Kelly!

Although I don't live there now, Wenonah is my hometown, and I know quite a few people who live there. I walked happily down the street, waving at people, saying howdy, giving hugs...it was like I was running for mayor. Some of the other swim moms snarked that I should have my own float. Great idea! And you can drive it, bitch.

The patriotic ceremonies take place after parade. There are veterans involved. I don't know anything else about this event; I've never attended because the words "patriotic ceremonies" are just code for "boring." Schedule of events--8:45 am: PARADE; 11:am: BORING.

The games of athletic prowess continue after that. Peanut scramble, sack races, running races for the kids. The peanuts are the best damn peanuts you'll find anywhere; my boys know they'd better come back from that scramble with their bags brimming with peanuts or I'll lock them in the nearby portapot. (The one on the right is mine.)

While I enjoy watching my boys participate in the games, I'm itching to get to the firehouse, where the fire company volunteers generously donate their valuable time for the most important event of the day: the beer pouring. On a hot day with a thirsty crowd, the mug line stretches to the street and beyond, but the volunteers work quickly to move the line along. Beer manages to create instant love around the apron of the firehouse, turning your most hated 6th grade rival into your best friend, and making your best friend's son look mighty attractive for a 24-year-old.

I love my rich friends

Went out for a much-needed gno last night with the regulars. The barkeep concocted this fruity thing for me with pineapple juice and dark and light rum. With an orange slice. All that was missing was a colorful plastic monkey (do they still make them?) and an umbrella. I'm not a very sophisticated drinker.

There were four of us; two live in a tony neighborhood in rather nice homes, with the requisite weekly cleaning woman. They're not snobs by any means. Both grew up in families with money. They're not rich, but they're well-off. They're both very dear friends, and while I can't trash them directly, I can bitch about their lifestyles.

It's always interesting, hearing their stories about their kids and their neighbors' kids, and how life on that end of the economic scale differs from life here in the middle class swamp.

In this particular neighborhood, kids who have summer birthdays are routinely held back a year from school, not because they're not academically able, but so they will be the leaders of the next class of kids. They will be smarter, bigger, faster. It's an intentional parental decision. And there is no such thing as preschool. No, they call it "developmental kindergarten." To give these latecomers the skills necessary to lord it over their classmates with regularly scheduled birthdays.

One friend, L, was moaning about her fear of her 6th grade boy getting a blow job. What??? Apparently the kids are starting younger these days, but since real sex is icky, they start out with oral sex in the middle school. Which, in my mind, can be just as icky, but try explaining THAT to a 6th grader.

"How could you possibly think Bob will get a blow job in 6th grade?" we asked.

"Well, that's what they're doing now. Plus, Bob's so cute and nice."

"No, it doesn't work like that," H explained. "The bad boys get the blow jobs. If your kid is quiet and nice, he'll be sex-free through high school. No need to worry!"

"Or perhaps he'll be gay!"

"Well, that wouldn't eliminate the blow-job problem, would it?"

We all pondered this a moment, our youngsters having sex at an even younger age than WE did (the winner, L, came in at 15. I believe that's statutory rape now. "But I LOVED him!" she said.) And that brought about a collective shudder, as we all reached quickly for our drinks.