FOG MAY OBSCURE...

"FOG MAY OBSCURE FOURTH OF JULY FIREWORKS VIEWING!" drones the headline in the morning paper. Like, duh. They can ice that headline down and use it again next year. The Plotniks have lived in Saint Plotniko since 1993 and they have never seen the Fireworks Celebrations on the Waterfront, though from their deck they ought to have a clear view. The fog rolls in around 3 in the afternoon, and by dusk, when other people can see reds and golds and blue bursts in the night sky, the Plotniks can HEAR them, and the people ooing and aahing down there somewhere, and then a vaguely red smear lightens the gray and black fog a tiny bit, for a few seconds, and more oohing and aahing, or maybe it was blue?

The neighborhood used to get together for a communal July 4 celebration, but that changed when the lady who organized it moved away. Now, a few kids might toss a few bottle rockets, maybe somebody will halfheartedly break into a car, that's about it.

The Great Plotnik almost misses the Fourth of Julys of his youth, in the days before air conditioning and freeways, when the family would bundle into the car and drive in searing heat all the way to Uncle Morrie's house in Compton. It took many hours, and Aunt Bootie really wasn't much of a cook, and Plot had to play with his cousins, and then there was the drive many more hours to get back home.

And the sparklers. Uncle Morrie had sparklers, but the kids were forbidden to play with them, so what the Hell good was any of this? Happy Freaking Birthday, America, sheesh. Fog's not so bad.