July 4th in Philly (Part 1)

There really is no better place to be than Philadelphia on Independence Day. It is the epicenter of the spirit of the event, the eye of freedom's storm, the "Cradle of Democracy", if you will. It's like being in Times Square on New Year's Eve, at Arlington on Memorial Day, celebrating St. Patty's in Beantown or being in Vegas for the annual AVN Adult Expo.

Essentially, hallowed ground.

Despite the claims of my detractors and the caterwauling of the politically unenlightened who oppose my views, I am a rabid patriot. A carrier of the torch of liberty. A fighter for freedom. A true red, white and blue fanatic. A regular Yankee Doodle Dandy.

I just happen to be privy to the little secret that true patriots are often more critical rather than agreeable when it comes to feelings toward their country and its policies. I have certainly been very vocal of late.

It stems from that special type of anger and disappointment when you know that the principles and laws are mostly in place to compliment a great people, their progress and their governance, but the citizenry - through ignorance, bigotry or selfishness - seldom gets the thing right.

There was little time for that sort of national introspection today however. It was the Fourth of fuckin' July and Simone and I took the ferry across the Delaware River (yes, that Delaware River) to celebrate in the City of Brotherly Love.

Our crossing may not have been as hazardous or hasty as Washington's, but we too were seeking the birth of a new and better country after years of war, oppression and political hardships. We went to pay homage to our heritage, partake in some finely brewed ales, stare at some stone crazies and sneak a fast, bumpy ride upon the knees of our favorite uncle, Sam.

Contrary to that line in that old tune, I hate a goddamn parade. But Simone is a sucker for them and she promised her Mother she'd get some cool photos. So off we went in search of the pomp and circumstance.

Like jingoistic lemmings the paraders marched and waved down Market Street to smatterings of applause from the surprisingly low turnout of a crowd. Lincoln, Jefferson, Franklin and Washington impersonators drawn by carriage in front of Minutemen clad militias, Union Civil War troops, maidens in bonnets and lace, fifes and drums, men in stovetop hats, town criers and a group of prancing dandies in genie shoes and turbans known as the Fralingers all ambled by. Local high school marching bands passed with youthful, rosy-cheeked, taut-buttocked, creamy-thighed majorettes that caused Simone to lash out and smite me. Not for any overt ogling on my part (I keep that in check), but for the very prurient motor impulses (and blood) which she knew were racing from my medulla to my crotch. She was right to strike me. I am becoming a disturbingly lecherous creep in my autumn years. Unfortunately, I do not respond well to violent reprimands or negative reinforcement techniques so the vicious cycle will start anew with the next batch of nasty jailbait in glitter and white boots.

As it approached noon, the sun was beginning to be an issue. Simone takes to Old Sol much like Dracula. There is a lot of hissing, recoiling, shape-shifting and, on occasion, trails of smoke rising from her cloaked form.

It was time to get inside, to the beloved dank confines of ye olde mead tavern.

This sentiment was backed up by one of those illusion-spoiling moments of anachronism when we saw a drummer in full Colonial Army regalia running down a side street with a wrapped cheese steak in hand, screaming out to his girlfriend, "Brianna, wait up!" as his sword clumsily slapped at his thigh.

The obese were also getting to us. A few glances to our left and right and we realized we were amidst more doughy rolls and sticky buns than had we stumbled into a bakery. The obesity problem in America is very real. In Philly, it is epidemic. It is why Andy Reid, the 300+ lb coach of the Eagles, will never be fired. He has a physical image bond with many Philadelphians that cannot be severed. Reid is their blessed icon of blubber.

Simone and I made our exit, passing various vagrants mumbling and shouting to themselves. It's hard to tell the crazies nowadays. Every time you cross the street to avoid some raving lunatic spitting obscenities and vitriol at the sidewalk or moon, more times than not, it's some asshole with a Bluetooth in their ear.

We dutifully marched on to the bar.

NEXT: Into the belly of the Teabagging Beast