Let’s hear it for the Fourth of July
It’s pretty much a classic out there today, like other Sacramento Fourths in memory: Hot as fuck’n cayenne gelato, with that kind of sleep-inducing summer burn that knocked me out flat for a good hour this afternoon, after playing music (literally, not metaphorically) with a friend. Lucky that my neighbors in the apartment house who are prone to making frequent and embarrassingly noisy rumpypumpy were just having a conversation today. Coming, no pun intended, up with a ninth-chord vamp to accompany their moans and groans (mostly hers) might be fun, but that sort of thing gets a little tiresome after a while.
I stopped by a house party for the Fourth, but it was still late afternoon and I see those people all the time so it’s not like we had a lot of catching up to do. I’m transcribing an interview anyway, so it made for a convenient way of getting out of there, and I also wanted to write something for this space. Which I’m doing. I may go back; I may go to another friend’s house across the river; I may go home. It’s hot, and hard to function in this weather.
The Fourth usually takes me back to times with me and my dad. We lived in San Joaquin County, where fireworks were illegal, and my dad would cross the county line to Galt to buy a mess of fireworks every year, before it turned into liquored-up fat guys dressed like toddlers who were doing the “Hey, watch this!” stuff with a beer in one hand and a lighter in the other. Back then, you were more likely to get some lecture on sensible pyrotechnics by some pedantic science-teacher type, and usually strong drink was vehemently opposed when combined with stuff that blows up and makes noise. I always dug that my dad liked to light up the neighborhood. I’m just kind of over fireworks at this point in my life, though.
Well, kind of. But not really. —Jackson Griffith