fireworking my nerves
Oh, God. I just got my first Facebook invite to the Celebration of Light, the annual firework festival that happens every Saturday and Wednesday for two weeks. I calmly just selected no and went about my night, but that was only because there was no HELL TO THE FUCK NO option. That's what my Livejournal is for.
You see, I hate the fireworks. Okay, no--that's not right. I actually did go to the fireworks once. They were alright, I guess. Don't really remember much--whether that's because I was nine at the time or because it's hard to commit a bunch of shiny flashes in the night to memory is anybody's guess. But I do remember that it was a hell of a long haul back to our apartment. And it's hard to hate something so fleeting and temporary. What is it, like thirty minutes of bangs and glitter choreographed to music? Can't really hate that. No, it's much more accurate to say that I hate the hoopla that surrounds the fireworks.
See, the fireworks are treated like a big deal by the press and the masses. They're recapped on the 11:30 news, written about in the morning's paper, and regarded by many as a major social event. They camp out on the beach for hours to protect their prime spots, watch the evening's fireworks, then spend hours heading back home. And then they do it all again a few days later. Wooh. Of course, that's not all there is: some bring booze and rowdiness, too. If you ask nicely, they might share the former. If you don't ask nicely--or even if you don't do anything at all--they might share the latter. And then the big finale night happens...and I don't have to hear about it for another fifty weeks. But until then, I'm going to be asked if I'm going to the fireworks by a large number of the people I know and even a few I don't. And when I answer in the negative, they'll ask me why. (And when I tell them why, they look at me like I've just revealed that I kick puppies in my spare time.) That and have to hear about how awesome the fireworks were last night from, like, twenty different people. Fun.
Maybe I'm missing some sort of gene that helps one appreciate big crowded social events. Maybe I don't see the fun or logic in spending hours getting to, waiting for, and coming back from something that won't even last an hour. I don't know. I mean, I can see and appreciate the effort it took to make the fireworks go off at a certain time and look a certain way. But it's just not my thing. And not nearly worth the big fuss made about them every damn year.
--------------------------------
Of course, there's plenty of other things to do besides the fireworks. Too bad the fireworks kinda fuck everything up for everybody not going to the fireworks. Since taking a car is sheer lunacy, everybody climbs aboard transit--so buses, trains and stations are all packed. Downtown is swamped with people trying to make their way to the beach. So the best thing to do is go and stay home. If you're lucky enough to be able to, that is.
You see, I hate the fireworks. Okay, no--that's not right. I actually did go to the fireworks once. They were alright, I guess. Don't really remember much--whether that's because I was nine at the time or because it's hard to commit a bunch of shiny flashes in the night to memory is anybody's guess. But I do remember that it was a hell of a long haul back to our apartment. And it's hard to hate something so fleeting and temporary. What is it, like thirty minutes of bangs and glitter choreographed to music? Can't really hate that. No, it's much more accurate to say that I hate the hoopla that surrounds the fireworks.
See, the fireworks are treated like a big deal by the press and the masses. They're recapped on the 11:30 news, written about in the morning's paper, and regarded by many as a major social event. They camp out on the beach for hours to protect their prime spots, watch the evening's fireworks, then spend hours heading back home. And then they do it all again a few days later. Wooh. Of course, that's not all there is: some bring booze and rowdiness, too. If you ask nicely, they might share the former. If you don't ask nicely--or even if you don't do anything at all--they might share the latter. And then the big finale night happens...and I don't have to hear about it for another fifty weeks. But until then, I'm going to be asked if I'm going to the fireworks by a large number of the people I know and even a few I don't. And when I answer in the negative, they'll ask me why. (And when I tell them why, they look at me like I've just revealed that I kick puppies in my spare time.) That and have to hear about how awesome the fireworks were last night from, like, twenty different people. Fun.
Maybe I'm missing some sort of gene that helps one appreciate big crowded social events. Maybe I don't see the fun or logic in spending hours getting to, waiting for, and coming back from something that won't even last an hour. I don't know. I mean, I can see and appreciate the effort it took to make the fireworks go off at a certain time and look a certain way. But it's just not my thing. And not nearly worth the big fuss made about them every damn year.
--------------------------------
Of course, there's plenty of other things to do besides the fireworks. Too bad the fireworks kinda fuck everything up for everybody not going to the fireworks. Since taking a car is sheer lunacy, everybody climbs aboard transit--so buses, trains and stations are all packed. Downtown is swamped with people trying to make their way to the beach. So the best thing to do is go and stay home. If you're lucky enough to be able to, that is.