New York City's celebration seemed pretty sedate, at least by Big Apple standards. Certainly there was little of the spectacle of the two great July 4th's of my lifetime -- 1976's bicentennial, with it's tall ships sailing up the Hudson as New York prepared to host its first Democratic Convention in 52 years and celebrate their economic recovery from the previous year's near-bankruptcy, and 1986, when the Statue of Liberty turned 100 and Presidents Reagan and Mitterrand partied all weekend with the help of Frank Sinatra, Johnny Cash, 30,000 vessels in New York Harbor and the largest fireworks display in American history.
No, it rained this year, fittingly. Not that precipitation was necessary to dampen the country's patriotic fervor. It's been a tough twenty-first century so far here in WORSP (that would be the World's Only Remaining Super-Power). As George Bush's reign of error inches towards a close, we have less for which to be thankful with each passing day.
The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan drag on, although little notice is taken anymore. Mention of American casualties is rare and Iraqi casualties rarer. Pictures of our fallen soldiers are non-existent. Half-hearted arguments fizzle here and there, like a sparkler discarded at a picnic, as to whether the surge is actually working, but they're more for the sake of appearances than anything else. $100 fill-ups at the pump and a 5.5% unemployment rate have slowly and methodically sapped the country of the will to protest a war seen only on HBO and paid for by borrowing against our children's futures. Even the government we installed in Iraq is sick of us. Prime Minister al-Maliki presented us this week with a gift-wrapped demand to leave, the sooner the better, and the Bush/McCain response was, "No thanks, we're good."
General Antonio Tagube, the messenger whom Bush sent to investigate the reported atrocities at Abu Ghraib and then promptly fired when Tagube informed him there was gambling taking place in the casino, made a noisy comeback as Independence Day approached. He hooked up with the Physicians for Human Rights on their report detailing the torture of prisoners by the American army and declared, "There is no longer any doubt as to whether the current administration has committed war crimes. The only question is whether those who ordered torture will be held to account." What's that you say? War crimes? It brought us halfway out of our Barcaloungers, where we were depressively trying to nap away the summer. But the concept of an entire administration being guilty to some degree of war crimes was too much for us to get our heads around so we filed it under "left-wing crazy," right next to the image of Dennis Kucinich reading articles of impeachment into the record of the House of Representatives. (The idea that Congress in its present construct would, or could, actually impeach a corrupt president is laughable. Nancy Pelosi, Speaker of the House, admits she "would probably advocate" impeachment -- if she were not in the House. But, as it is, "the question of impeachment is something that would divide the country." There's some leadership for you.) So the Bush/Cheney train continues inexorably on down the tracks, running out the clock until they return to the private sector and cash in the chips they've been amassing for these past eight years. And our fitful slumber continued.
Former Deputy Associate Administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency, Jason Burnett, accused Vice President Cheney's staff of editing congressional testimony on the threats of global warming. Seems the veep wasn't happy with the conclusions drawn that climate change has human health consequences. "I'm not interested in pointing fingers at any individual," Burnett said, but (he might as well have added), "the guy I'm thinking of has a battery in his chest and I think he lives in a bunker." To which we yawned. That kind of penny-ante corruption barely survives a full news cycle these days.
I know it's the 4th of July. I know it's a time to profess love of country, greatest experiment mankind has ever seen, blah, blah, blah. Trouble is, it's hard to perform on demand. And I'm just not feeling it.
To borrow a time-worn analogy, if America was a woman with whom I was involved, our relationship would be on the rocks. She's like this big, beautiful, rich and powerful woman you brought home to meet the parents a couple of decades ago. She may have had a few skeletons rattling around the back of her closet -- genocide, slavery, sexism -- and your parents warned you to keep your eyes open, but you went ahead and took the plunge. She was just so damned sexy and she took care of you, besides. The toys kept rolling in and you continued trading up for better apartments. Sure, she drank a little too much and she could be a bit on the loud side. People whispered behind your backs that she was pushy. But you ignored them and concentrated on her good qualities. She could be generous to a fault when she was so inclined, she always did her best to help you get ahead and, most of all, she was never boring.
But the relationship is troubled. As the years pass, it becomes more and more difficult to excuse her acting out. Finally, you wake up one morning after dragging her out of a party she had crashed after too many cocktails where she insulted the host, got in a fight with the guest of honor and refused to leave when asked. You look at her, passed out next to you in your king-size waterbed; all puffy and bloated, her greying roots showing beneath her dye job, skin dried and wrinkled from too many borrowed cigarettes and too much Caribbean sun. And you realize, as you watch her sleep those last few moments before she opens her bloodshot eyes, hung over and mad at the world, that maybe you don't love her all that much anymore.
When you try to explain the situation to friends they ask, "Why don't you leave her?" And the truth is, maybe you should. But, when push comes to shove, you just can't bring yourself to walk out the door. Let's face it, you're no spring chicken yourself. All of your friends are her friends. They'd probably choose her and you'd be left to grow old, without the benefit of grace or company. The apartment is nice -- could you really go back to a studio in one of the boroughs after three bedrooms and a roof-top pool in Soho? Plus the sex is still good once in a while. Damned good. And she can still make your heart sing when she smiles that smile she saves for only you. So you stay, promising yourself there are better days ahead.
That's pretty much how I feel about America these days. When someone says, "Love it or leave it," I'm forced to admit that I probably should, but I probably won't. Italy's a long way away and they don't play baseball.
So, I roll over, give her a kiss and say, "Happy anniversary, dear."
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