".. all week long, the Artist shall enjoy the attentions of a Male. The Male must be a leg man, not a breast man and in possession of a slight southern accent.."
Rose Colored Glasses, July 8, 1997
I often fantasize about a life in small town America. It looks neato. A
house, a husband, and a parade down Main Street on the Fourth of July. What
else could a nice girl like me want?
Boise is having such a parade. I'm working at a club here this week, but since there's no show on the Fourth of July, I decide to give Boise an audition. You have a golden opportunity, Big B. Come and get me. I perch my roving ass next to a blue mailbox and a formation of three A-10 fighter jets flies low, bussing the startled Main Street crowd. We're off.
A troupe of chirpy unicyclists roll by first and they precede what seems to be all of the city's firetrucks. If a fire breaks out, the unicyclists will be run over and killed. I toss a lit match at a haystack and cross my fingers. The firefighters, by the way, take every opportunity to spray ducking spectators with water hoses. I consider this to be a hostile act. Several firefighters swim on my Master's team, and they are not the good natured, kitten-saving pansies of lore. They've got issues. They're angry. They like to squirt the very citizens that they claim to serve. Humph.
The American Christian Heritage float (they have a flyer if you're interested) portrays a scene from Valley Forge. George Washington, played by a very young boy, is praying to Jesus, according to the Heritage. I bet. Perhaps he is praying that his troops don't find out that he is eight years old.
A motorcycle cop slowly rides back and forth, scanning the crowd for minorities. No such luck. Several four year old girls cartwheel down the street. Well, I assume they are four years old until I see that they represent a gymnastics academy. Silly me! Obviously these tiny athletes are women in their twenties, hoping to stave off menses for another year. Flip little sisters, flip.
A temp agency has dressed up several of its data entry clerks to resemble, of all things, Minutemen. These poor saps will never get a full time gig. The Too Late for Hate float stars the first and only non-white Boisean marchers. Fast on their heels is the Eagle Family Worship Center, complete with a spinning paper mache Jesus wheel. Roll, Savior, roll.
Horses clop and shit. Abused but rescued greyhounds prance and shit. Two young girls push a wheelbarrow and shovel shit. We, my fellow small town Americans and I, think that the shit-shovelling girls will make fine adults one day. We clap but we don't shit. The bagpiping Boise Highlanders, neatly sidestepping unshovelled shit, sport the only team of men in skirts. Surprisingly, there is no Gay Pride float today, but there is, however, a Star Trek float. You be the judge. My interpretation is that in Idaho, you'd rather be a Klingon than a lesbian.
A family of Mormons, who have gone to great lengths to appear normal, (they have a brochure if you're interested) attract little applause. Right behind them is the Right to Bear Arms float and they are hollared at with hearty gusto. The Mormons gather their children nervously and pick up the pace. Tinkerbell music plays and a pedophile cruises by in an ice cream truck.
Happy Teamsters, represented by several handsome brown-shorted U.P.S. babes, offset the Nazi militia vibe left by Senator (and uber-nut) Helen Chenowith. She has a great career ahead of her if Idaho secedes from the union, but it's Independence Day and, so, she plays along. Consolidated Freightways, whose truckers often make sport of running me off the road, are either part of the parade or stuck in some nasty traffic. They wave and I am grateful for the opportunity to flip them off.
My favorite participants are the war veterans, and I stand to show my respect. The Vietnam vets, looking casual, like they are late for an
Easy Rider extras' reunion, lead the way on foot. They are followed closely by one Korean vet. He sits in a topless car and holds a sign that says, "Korea, The Forgotten War." My dad fought in that war, and so his mate gets my loudest cheers. He stares at the Vietnam vets like if he were twenty years younger, he'd drop their stoned punk asses. Behind him, a darkened bus of WWII vets purrs and sputters.
A great round of applause greets an 103 year old WWI vet named Earl. If I've done my math, this would be Earl's 80th parade. Earl is my man, and he has his act down pat. He waves, he smiles, he drools. Earl steers his wheelchair in an unsteady line and if Earl wasn't over a hundred years old, I'd swear he's drunk. I wave Earl home and just as I am about to sit down, because my legs are
so tired, a Bataan Death March survivor rides by. Damn. I guess I can stand for two more minutes.
The rest of the parade is unremarkable because, I think, it's too easy to crash. From my observation, all you really need in order to march in Boise's parade is a beer belly, a pasty white arm (tattooed with an image of a naked woman), and a small child. If the child is being held with that same tatty arm and balanced on that same beery belly, well,
wow . Only a Chevy Nova with a Jiffy Lube sign on it is stopping you from becoming the next millenium's Earl.
