The Fourth of July

            I spent the fourth of July in the working-class neighborhood of Cypress Park. It was a war zone. There were so many illegal fireworks that for all intents and purposes they were legal. The police didn't even bother to issue citations.
            I had a good seat and the display was spectacular. It was more professional than in the past. The quality of illegal fireworks has improved dramatically over the years.
            I stood and watched one explosion after another. There was a barrage of different types of fireworks in the air, combined with M-80s and Cherry bombs on the ground. The neighborhood was taking the fourth very seriously.
            I heard someone playing Stars and Stripes Forever in the distance. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. It was a faint sound at first; it sounded like it was coming from a neighbor's house. How brilliant, I thought.
            Smoke filled the air and Stars and Stripes Forever was getting louder. I saw a car emerge from the smoke. It was a police car, LAPD, with two officers laughing uncontrollably inside. Stars and Stripes Forever was blaring from from their loudspeaker. I caught one policeman's eye and waved, he waved back. He was still laughing.
  

Pelicans

           I've been going to the beach on weekends with my hot lady friend. She gets hotter as she lays in the sun. It's a secret beach. I can't tell anybody where it is as a matter of principle. I've made that mistake before and I've ruined a great beach by word of mouth. People are blabbermouths. It took years before it was ruined, but the last time I was at the great beach, there were models doing photo shoots and people from all over the world speaking in strange tongues with pallid skin. It was a disaster. 

            I found the new secret beach by accident. I couldn't explain where it is if I tried, that's how secret it is. 

          When I'm at the beach flocks of pelicans fly overhead. They do maneuvers, drills of some sort. They're organized flyers with multiple formations. They look well fed, and as of yet, I haven't been able to determine who the ring leader is. I'm amazed they can fly as well as they do. They're chubby birds, viable replacements for Thanksgiving. With all the fish they eat, there's a good chance they taste like sushi. 

  

White Pants

         I saw a man wearing white pants. I was thankful he was wearing them. It was night and I was driving on a dark winding road and if it wasn't for his pants I wouldn't have seen him at all. 
            Men don't wear white pants anymore. White pants use to be cool. John Lennon went a step further and wore a white blazer with his white pants for the Abbey Road album. 
            I have a white summer suit that I haven't had a chance to wear, but I swear I'm going to wear it someday. I'll probably wear it at night when it's cooler.  The idea of wearing a suit during the day in the summer time seems like minor form of torture. I'm thinking I'll wear it to a restaurant, some where like Musso and Frank, or Dan Tana's. I'm bound to impress somebody, even if it is just the maitre d'.