The 4th of July has—had—no meaning for me. No birthdays, tadalafil diagnosis no anniversaries, viagra canada no remembrance of great parties where so-and-so hooked up with what’s-his-face and who’s-e-bob threw up in the geraniums. Yet here I am on a Metro North train, narrowing my gaze on some special 4th of July flip-flops that will always remind me of the day when Love—and this is where I get all mystical and fruity—stood up in the bleachers, waved its “I’m No.1″ foam finger at me and cried, “Yes, I do exist.”
Love and the 4th of July? I can feel you, my Australian kin. I feel you kicking your hackles into top gear. I sense your tongues engorged with insults, ready to paste me for my turncoat-edness.
“She’s shifted,” goes the cry. “Gone to the other side. Wrapped herself in Old Glory and hitched her caboose to the ‘Land of the Free’ locomotive. Recall her Australian passport at once! She is Abraham Lincoln sans beard! She is an apple pie!”
Not so, mates. I’m still as Australian as Paul Hogan’s undies. But just between you me and the lead-soaked wall of my Upper Eastside apartment, I have been knocked in the conk by amore. But not in the way you might be thinking.
I mean like an apparition suddenly caught in the X-Files flashlight, I saw Love exposed and in the flesh.
Think of me on this day, this 4th of July. Frocked up—some would say gussied is a better word, but I opt for frocked—and spellbound on the sandy shores of New Haven, Connecticut. The earth has conspired with God to bake the perfect day. Imagine a cool breeze flirting through sundresses, a sun that kisses everyone in a pre-sunset seduction. A preacher. A wedding party on a beach. Faces turned, open and honest, toward the show.
A wedding. I went to a wedding on the 4th of July. Read the rest of this entry »
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