I spent my
Independence Day doing the unusual, as per custom in my life: I unpacked some boxes in my freshly moved-in apartment, grew lazy, dragged my work-a-holic spouse down with sapping
indolance, and proceeded to lounge about on our new leopard-patterned
chaise, engrossed in a
David Lynch mini-marathon (
Mulholland Drive and
Blue Velvet). How's that for odd yet typical? Odder yet, I vaguely heard
America celebrate its
226th birthday with a snap-pop-boom! somewhere in the distance and the perpherial distraction of firework
colors reflecting in my window pane - just as
Denis Hoppper screamed "Daddy’s coming home!" at
Isabella Rossellini’s vagina.
The whole thing would have probably made a great Lynchian scene itself: creepy, surreal, and flirting with a snap-mad symbolism alluding to...