It is the 4th of July. A day of hot dogs and mirth across the land. Unless, of course, you live on the water mere feet from the site of a gianormous fireworks display like I do. Oh sure, it sounds cool at first.
“I’ll have friends over,” you say to yourself. “Lots of friends. Think of the view we’ll have! We’ll make it an annual spectacular.”
And you would do that. You absolutely would. Except that the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department closes down every street within five miles of my house starting at noon. Uniformed men and helicopters are everywhere. Private security and enormous mobs of people all carrying fold-up chairs and smelling of sunscreen are descending upon my tiny little dock-side roads. There isn’t a parking spot to be had within a day’s hike of the water.
No one can get to me, and I can’t get out. I am a prisoner in my own home, which is why I’m still in my pajamas. Prisoners have no need for pants.
Instead of potato salad and sparklers, I’m chaining myself to my desk and trying to bang out an outline for the new book. It’s not so bad. If we’re celebrating freedoms, chief among them the freedom of speech, there are worse ways to honor that than writing a book. Even if I am sans britches.
To you and yours, a merry and safe holiday.