I am no Muscle car, but this July Fourth, rears fearful memories of rednecks peeling out of the corner bar, where they'd just cashed paychecks. Angry Americans who've slammed several beers, right before racing to the state line to fill Nova & Chevelle trunks with lethal fireworks. History is littered with such cautionary memories. Masculine, yet shitty cars define the 'american man', and perhaps America. Defending dumb-shit nostalgia, and un-deserv-ed freedoms, is the 'American Operating System 1.1'
​Me personally,  ...I am perhaps a Pontiac Fiero..., A decent enough looking attempt at a sports-car, but just as lame.  The facsimile of something fast, but wimpy, and scaled-down -- perhaps effeminately sexy, but with no redeeming features whatsoever, except that it doesnt look like a pick-up truck, thank god!

America is a has-been muscle-car, obsolete, uninspired, and in need of nut and bolt restoration.

Like a Corvair, or Karmann-Ghia. I am underpowered, dim, and anemic, ... [you know, like a Fiero]. My interior is spartan, dashboard confusing, and the AC is broke.  I was built in America, mid-day Friday, right before the holiday weekend began.  No skilled labor on this production line, and no one is trying to impress management the day before a July 4th holiday. This factory is working it's way towards the door, not towards Quality.

Just before Pussy Fiero sales fizzled-out -- This relic, (a pretend muscle car in drag), was perhaps briefly cool. Today the Fiero, and so many other Pontiacs line the bottom of the scrap-yard, even their second-hand parts go un-used. Which is basically where America now celebrates independence.
In the 80's auto workers hustled to slap sections together, wandering the factory floor beneath day-dreams of charcoal briquettes, potato-salad, and picnic blankets -- But never working on car quality. So it happened that my underbody immediately began to rust through -- my clear coat fades by the day, timing chain was slack, and the cylinder head split. But I know who I am, and that I live in a strange republic full of red-necks, risk, and dark forces.   Independence Day means different things to many "Americans", but to me, it means sticky vinyl car-seats, plastic-chrome window cranks, leaky metal coolers, and pre-catalytic smog. It is a season of snagging carp, piss-warm shit beer, and mosquito bites.  There isn't much else to regale on "The Fourth", but its fair to mention I don't feel half as free today as when this Fiero rolled off the line.  I'd feared a small part of America back when I was young, but now I shudder at most of what I witness.

“A clown with a flamethrower still has a flamethrower.”

American Anthems steer us 'down to the levee', but the nostalgic levee is hot, dry, and masked ICE agents are waiting below the bridge to arrest dissenters.  Awkwardly, we all gather around as friends with a few kilos of TNT to celebrate how things used to be.  Because... why not blow some shit up to celebrate our freedom to blow some shit up?

"If we had a fast car -- Maybe together we could get somewhere".       ​-Tracy Chapman.
​

Whatever your opinion of American Muscle cars, the best ones are well in our past, despite what Corvette & Mopar owners may claim -- And perhaps, the past is where they, and their owners belong. Stellantis, doubled down on gaudy muscle cars heaving Hemi Engines, from zero to sixty, and eventually... Regardless of the 'Turner Diaries' reconstruction, America will abandon stupid muscle cars altogether. Gasp!, Stellantis is looking at a few billion dollar short-fall this quarter, mostly on throwbacks, and muscle cars.  Eventually even tacky boxy NASCAR crap will be Electric. Sometimes, on a holiday such as this, the "glory days" is just so fucking unbearable. Watching people cling to the past. Watching drunk paralytic tongues resuscitate Seeger anthems, imagining themselves stoned in a pit-crew, spraying fuel into a fake muscle car, tells the tale.  The cars rolling around the actual track are so far and away from what you can buy at the dealer, that the game of pretense that you are 'kind of' a race car driver, is a joke.  Post apocalypse, the same proud red-necks who'd frightened youth, are still with us, but they are now running "government". While one may hope that they expire in a blaze of inglorious petrol on a riding mower... This dumbass muscle car never goes out of style. Your neighbors are pushing the same white-cleanse agenda from before the noughties. The mass extinction of masculine hubris will alas take more time to fizzle out.

Around this time four years ago, Charlie Sykes said during an appearance on MSNBC, “A clown with a flamethrower still has a flamethrower.”, and that is where we sit to celebrate our "Independence".

  To me, the pageantry of the Independence Day parade, (which is full of clowns by the way), is where we reflect upon a trunk full of ice,  beer, wieners,  and quarter-sticks of dynamite. July Fourth is always framed in front of a hot grill,  with a masculine maniac in a mullet squeezing a can of Gulf Lite into a blaze. It is a fearful season marked by a fuck-ton of potential energy, that can (and does) go really quickly the wrong way.

Relax...! this is all senseless drivel, and America is stronger than ever before. 

But the Clown still has a flamethrower...
Setting the whole shebang ablaze is the birthright of All Americans, and for anyone named Larry, Gary, Don, or Rod, as these clown names require no Green Card, nor Citizenship documents.   
Self Immolation of American evil cannot happen quickly enough, and it's fucking hot out today. And... Oh,  "The Clown still has a flame-thrower..."
But fireworks, and hunting rifles are merely prequel plinking practice for America's next celebrity school shooter. Here in america, we get a break from the media clown-car only when liberal bastion gets shot up, or flooded.
A Rocket's Red Glare will soon bring us together around a funeral, and a  celebration where C.C.R. & Eagles anthems, along with white pride, fill smoky skies. The sulfur themes of racial enslavement are coming up the rear. This year, [on the 4th] we will blow some shit up, just before  our hangover wakes us up to the fact we are no longer free -- So what's with the fireworks? We are so un-free, that even "South Park" is pulling punches, stating, "I don't know what else we can say about Trump", (or even Trumpism).
Strange to celebrate civil liberty, when we are far from free.  Not in the press, not in public, not free to protest, and not free to travel, not free to worship... We are not free from taxation without representation, and we are certainly not free to love whomever we desire. So grab a can and burn some shit, because fire is cleansing.  Man it's hot outside!
​ 

Every Billboard on my holiday drive is for Fireworks, and Personal Injury Attorneys. Which is to say plainly, more than a bit ironic. People role play, burning shit down,  blowing shit up, and shooting things, perhaps so that they don't advance to the next round.
When Independence Day rolls around [again], people either stock-pile dangerous explosives, or are trying to escape those with them.
As I steer cautiously toward a rural cottage beside a lovely lake, I understand that the sweaty Orange sunset will soon bleed with purple, pink, and brown... while explosives smolder It's fore-ground. two inches to the right and we would have moved away from our dread... but today we fear the desperate red-necks more because the gloves are off on white pride.
I’d suppose in the whole of the world, there has never been a paradise like America so enamored with its sordid conquests, slave history, neck tats, and danger that we celebrate, NOT independence from autocracy... And our freedom to fuck shit up.  Sweaty drunks coated with bug-spray and sunblock, squirt lighter-fluid, unleashing wild flames and ruin upon a lovely landscape. Children dance and twirl sparklers, and here again we slump, to gaze over our gut as the lit wick of independence sputters out.

Independence day, and the vacancy of government, are a  mirror of America's disrepair. Seriously, who drives a Chrysler "muscle car" anyways?

"But, I can't go for that."   -Hall and Oats

And why shouldn’t our “leaders” posses the full measure of our basest instincts. Waxing an old muscle car, like polishing a gleaming weapon, is how we lovely Americans now relate to our post apocalyptic World. We have strange cars, strange tools, and stranger Fashion. Those who still do their own car repairs, and their own grocery shopping, on balance betray our belle-epoch with fistfuls of refined sugar, warm beer,  wieners, and vapes. 

From our revolutionary war through the cold war, fashion never revealed so much [sigh] about American supremacy as it does today. Beneath a proud muffin-top, a track-suit, a tatted neckline, and velour airport pajamas -- Free expression in America's fashion defines the coach-class slave we are today. We see ourselves as celebrities,, influencers,  but we are pretty vacant. Everyone rides in Steerage, imagining themselves as influential. Today, haute couture is measured in Fleecy slippers, Ironic T's, and it's washed down with a 96 OZ Big Gulp thermos.
American celebrity status is measured by "limited edition" Sneakers, stretch-pants, and elastic waistbands. Our true brilliance reflected in a gleaming gigantic Costco shopping cart.  To see one's reflection in these thin chrome bars is at least a bit slimming.

Independence Day means that America is now free to consume buffalo wings, lick it's fingers, and then lose them to a firecracker. All we 'Free Americans' need to understand this holiday is found scrawled along the rural-route through Indiana, or Georgia. Banners for Injury Attorneys, Casinos, Fast Food, and Fire-Works, beg allegiance. That Star Spangled Banner yet waves, yes -- But it has been defiled, misappropriated, and soiled. Luckily it comes with extra bacon, and ghost pepper sauce.
Even the mega-church is seeking new parishioners, but they too fly the flag  upside-down out on the lawn -- An unsubtle nod to restoration of America's white racist Christian  tyranny.
Bright-sides...!, you can now hire an attorney with or without missing fingers using a QR code whilst speeding to the E.R.
Any reasonably advanced civilization,  Is measured by it's cart-size,  waistline, and heartrate.  We are growing, so to speak, into our role as a "has-been" empire, ruled by a has-been emperor like Jabba.

Healthcare is reactive.  Statins, E.D. Drugs, Glucose Monitors, Dialysis, and botulinum, are OTC self-care without question for their medical efficacy. We can do it all ourselves while romancing a Half-Pound-Dog & Big-Gulp super-combo.

"Happy Fourth", he said awkwardly.

Wherever a screen-door slams, into a sweaty July 4th, “has-been” America is simmering in its transitional juice from scrappy republic, to nostalgic smug-fuck, to short-lived social disaster, to political holocaust.  We watch the fireworks, together, as the whole empire collapses under it's largess.
For me, little pink houses, screen doors, picket fences, and swimming-holes, still mean something… but not in that, twangy “set a spell”, way… Perhaps in the truly affirmative knowledge that what we have lost to recent tyranny, will not return to an immoral majority, so I try to find value wading through elegiac feelings. What we have forgotten to do today, lives in the music, somewhere. We have forgotten how to be free. We should adore simplicity, inhale its majesty, feel awe, and touch something meaningful. But we just want to blow shit up, and blame others for a wet fuse, our own failure to launch.  Behind the glare of a glowing gadget, is a world pressed like a flower -- desiccated, and well beyond resuscitation.
Independence, is perhaps now only the freedom to imagine the past fondly, where we once  heard freedom ring -- Where we'd looked out for one another. Where we are at now, is a fucked up capsule, sealed off hermetically from whomever we were supposed to care about.
Since the "Civil War" we have been trying to outdrive rednecks that resent those of us who can type.

When I drive a car, I enjoy the privilege of knowing I am (of course)  the only good driver, and everyone else is a motherfucker. ...And we are all trapped beneath glass and steel, shouting at each-other. Today, we all live in the same conceited capsule. hiding behind the machine.  And we are all driving them poorly.  We believe we are free from influence, and sovereign in our own thoughts, but we don't have original thoughts any longer.  We are wasting our time talking about politics, and who we pledge allegiance to.  We cannot all become stoics overnight, and hence, we are doomed.  We are not free, because the machines, have already won. They have already picked out your cheeky cut-of shorts, what explosives you will buy, and how you will light them ablaze.

Independence means different things to different people.  Here in America, freedom means you have the right to choose your own facts, your own explosives, and perhaps what janky car you'll drive aggressively --  But you cannot outrun the genetics of this failing republic. Since the "Civil War" we have been trying to outdrive rednecks who resent those of us that can type.  Ignorance builds relic muscle cars, in the face of far more efficient machines. And although fireworks only show up in the darkness, a redneck will still set some off midday.
This holiday,  instead of celebrating independence day; Just say, "Happy Fourth", without any feeling, and then blow some shit up.

We've got your back, and will keep your fingers safe in a ziploc.
​

Superstition /soo͞″pər-stĭsh′ən/
noun

1. An irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.
2. A belief, practice, or rite irrationally maintained by ignorance of the laws of nature or by faith in magic or chance.
3. A fearful or abject state of mind resulting from such ignorance or irrationality.

Consider Golf. As with most male superstition, Large Club Size has the mythical aberrant of fulfilling a promise of competence.  But, ability comes from practice, and perseverance,. and not specifically one's gigantic tool. I once knew a guy who'd walk onto a course early spring, or late autumn, with range balls, and two clubs... A seven iron and a wooden shafted putter.  He'd shoot PAR or below without a pig-skin glove, dorky shoes, or blousy chinos. He'd play 7 or 16 avoiding the cups closest to the clubhouse, because he was playing for free.  Practice makes the difference, as in most endeavor... But we still seek advantages, even status, from cool gear instead of putting in the work.  Every year the department store sells a pre-strung tennis racket which likely won Wimbledon the year prior, and yet, most hold out for the latest un-strung technology.  This is to say that we are easily tempted by marketing, and superstition, [mostly Bull-shit], to hit further, drive straight, and go fast.  We ignore the lessons of raw talent, and hard work, preferring to believe that the latest gadget will ease the pain, open the door, and create opportunity.  I am in awe of those raw talents who approach nearly every endeavor with patience, and a watchful calculus, like local surfers bobbing behind waves, waiting for the right moment. 
By contrast I get exhausted in the waves climbing on every one.
I have a friend who rides a shitty bike,  refusing to upgrade. He deserves it, but some monastic celibacy precludes his ascendence. Just the same, he is a terrific cyclist. We all know a guy who betters seasoned riders without any sophistication, or even practice. (His initials are J.B.)... But for most... 'hard work', and NOT 'hi-tech' makes the difference.
​Laughably I seem to be heading way too fast toward some end-game, where I cannot be helped.

Twice, each year we get a reminder of the things we have not yet accomplished:  New Years Day is spent in quiet reflection of one's regrets, and missed opportunities -- We double-down with resolutions to change. We approach our Birthdays with the reluctance, of a doctor's check-up -- We lift our drooping chin in a morning mirror, with the confidence that we are aging gracefully. These days, we fidget reflectively, pensive, if a bit disappointed in our results.
I want to be adored, we all do... and I work tirelessly toward that end, BUT with my poor technique, and nasty nature, I fail. e.g., people tend to stay clear of my cloud.
​
Most days,  I know that I am not special, nor deserving of adulation.  Should we stumble upon our birthday and not feel worthy of a party, it's likely that we are well past our "deserving phase".  There will always be some adult twat who believes they are intrinsically special, and should be adored daily... especially upon Birthdays, but most of us will simply buy ourselves some new stuff in hopes of improvement, and keep our head down. Me, I'm still waiting for my bionic upgrade and my Jet-Pack, "Happy Birthday, dumb-ass!, Take this shit... you will need it!"

I've always been mediocre,  and at nearly every endeavor, I could use a little daily affirmation to feel whole, or even competent. Alas, I don't get much positive feedback.  I get zero "Kudos", zero "Likes", and far less adoration. Nevertheless, I try a lot of things on, in hopes of finding a competency which fits me well. Alas with my figure, nothing flatters.  So, I've settled upon the maxim that it's better to be lucky, than to be good at anything at all. Mediocrity inspires my defeat, which brings a strong head-wind, and no aero-bike will fix that.

Aero is Bullshit anyway -- As are gigantic club-faces, brand-new shitty surfboards, Electric Fishing Poles, and $400. baseball bats. To get good at something takes practice. The right swing, and proper focus.  Struggling to get good at something which one has no business attempting is bull-shit too. One need only scan the Running path for evidence of the un-adapted. I have been trying to "get good at" so many things simultaneously, but have come to realize my repeat defeat cannot be practiced into competence.  Realizing that I have no business in marathons,  a swimming pool, transmission repair, golfing, or hang-gliding... I've settled into my mediocrity.  

Taboo talisman that it is... "Aero" is the "Surround-sound" end game of a dying hobby. Aero was invented to level out the classics, using Time Trial bikes as marketing for strange tech, that no mortal will ever actually ride. Aero was created for D-Bags who cannot swim nor run, but want to gain 9 watts.

What wont make me a better cyclist is an Aero Bike; nor aero anything for that matter. I keep my head down, and bring my elbows in, when riding in my drops. I tuck down low while descending, but find no gains from novel aero sanctuary.
Aero Bikes are the New "Surround-Sound", a giant club for lonely men, which has in a few decades outlived it's usefulness, and has alas marketed itself to death.  This began with a "kick-ass", (but shitty sounding) college stereo, pointing a Cerwin-Vega speaker out of one's window, in hopes of Bro-recognition... (Lonesome men hoping someone will share in their relish of "Rush 2112"), These lonely guys gobbled up the Surround Sound Evolution, like cheese fries at a rave, and Soon enough "Red Barchetta" broke into "Quadrophenia", which gave way to the inevitable Subwoofer. Before too long, music and film were dissected into tiny packets, and spread over a shit-ton of stupid anemic speakers, paired with subs, birthing 5.1, 9.1, 9.2, and even 12.4 channels of soulless surround-sound, Too Fucking many marketing guys in the incubator, killed the whole titanic shit-storm.  Today we have stupid shitty sound-bars, and tiny Bluetooth portables which sound impressively tinny, like a squirrel is locked in a bucket... and today, nobody even buys a kick-ass stereo. 

(Well, except for lonely old guys who'll likely buy an aero bike and a rear-view eyeglass mirror, without much convincing).

Death is the inevitable end game of any hobby which evolves unnaturally from Fat 'club-face" into sticker adorned Aero -- Or Surround Sound. Aero is what they sell you, when you've forsaken that cool vintage bike in your garage, believing you have graduated into velo-topia.

Taboo talisman that it is... "Aero" is the "Surround-sound" end game of a dying sport. Aero is the Gigantic Club Face which wont make you a better golfer, but promises you will get noticed,  (...for all the wrong reasons).

Long live the Kool kids who ask their parents for a Bike for their birthday. Viva the natural talents, and the jalopy riders.  Today, let's celebrate those who ride bikes well into their old age!, even if they wear tacky neon, tennies, as long as they DO NOT ride stupid-ass aero bikes.

When Specialized re-introduced the Shiv, with a "Nutrition Pouch"  the die was cast to dismantle cycling's dynasty for the last time. As if the throttle bike wasn't bad enough; That too will soon be aero. 


P.S. 
​
Trump Don't Surf !