Every Fourth of July, I trek up the hill to see the fireworks and every year I swear that next year I'm not doing it again. This cycle of denial has become a more important ritual to me than the holiday itself.
Our place of viewing is a short walk from my house, and very high up so mid-breeze, and therefore not quite as traumatic as The Downtown Esplanade Boston Pops Are You Insane Fiasco. I do not like the following: heat, bugs, crowds, bright light, loud noises, or mass transportation. Nor do I enjoy being surrounded by other people's bodily emissions (sweat and piss being the two in question here) or their flagrant inebriation.
And so the festive trip down to the Charles River is one I can say I've never made after nearly 10 years in this fine city. Instead, I go to Medford, where the locals are surly but predictable and everyone has a sense of humor about the fact that we're on the roof of a library viewing the Boston fireworks pretty damn close to New Hampshire. The repeat offenders bring boom boxes and re-broadcast the symphony orchestra as it plays the soundtrack to the explosions downtown.
Medford itself can provide hours of entertainment, especially the residents -- who make the most fascinating anthropological studies -- calling their hometown "Medfit".
The beauty of experiencing July Fourth on the roof of the Tufts library lies in the sheer determination of those arriving early to secure front row seating. The dedicated arrive en masse beginning at noon, setting up lawn chairs and coolers, beach umbrellas and kiddie pools on the grass that, strangely enough, grows on the roof of the building.
By the time you arrive at 9:30 or 10:00 at night, the rowdy crowd is sauced up and rarin to go. The highlight of the evening was a misty-eyed rendition of The Star Spangled Banner performed by frat boys who wailed full tilt while patriotically trying to shove each other off the roof.
During the orchestral performance of a certain classical number, two 14-year-olds exchanged the following wisdom:
"I know this song -- what is it?"
"Oh yeah -- it's from the Beef commercial. 'Beef -- it's what's for dinner'."
"Yeah, totally!"
Ah, Medfit.
I survived the day sans sunburn, hiding my Irish ass in the cool filtered light of my back porch, alternating between iced coffee and soaking my head and linen dress with icy water from the garden hose.
The culmination of the evening was the consumption of grotesque quantities of pulled pork and fried catfish at Redbones at 1:00 AM. The restaurant was playing the violently somber How it Feels to be Something On from Sunny Day Real Estate, the juxtaposition of which caused widespread confusion and made an ironic end to a traditionally celebratory day. After dinner, the echoes of Denis Leary rang in my head: "I'm going to wipe my mouth on the American flag!"
My legs hurt from climbing that hill and I didn't sleep well just thinking about the infiltration of the commercial media on the minds of future music audiences.
I'm not going to see the fireworks next year. I swear.
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