The explosions started at 9AM today. I am not a “dog mom,” nor a mom mom, so I was indifferent to them, as I will remain when they commence in earnest once the sun goes down. There are few things whiter, more Nextdoor, than being an Angelino perturbed by the sound of fireworks. I suppose the only thing whiter than being perturbed by the sound of fireworks is feeling the need to share this indignation online.
I am fairly certain that my neighbors are not celebrating the violent, genocidal origin story of this country, nor the continued existence of an empire in decline, when they fill the sky above us with light and smoke. They are, instead, celebrating the continued existence of themselves, in spite of it all. Why anyone would be upset by this is beyond me.
Some people post to prove they exist; others set things alight. It’s the same instinct, just manifested differently. Personally, I find the sound of M-80s detonating to be less irritating than reading someone’s millionth self promotional post about the same project. At least fireworks only happen biannually.
I am not the type who requires the manufacture of a bang, be it literal or figurative, to feel fulfilled. I make things, up to and including what you are reading right now, but I am terrible at advertising them, as the idea of someone, anyone, sighing as I have sighed at yet another reminder that something is “still streaming” fills me with shame. I realize that, by holding this opinion, I am in the minority amongst both my friend group and the world at large. “What’s the point of making something if no one sees it?” they ask. “Why not?” I counter. “What’s the point of getting up in the morning?”
I make things because the alternative is to not — for many years I didn’t, and for many years I felt adrift, wasting my youth and first marriage on getting fucked up and playing Mario Kart. I am now hashtag blessed enough to possess the ability to make and the making itself proves, to me anyhow, that I am not a complete waste of space; I don’t care who, if anyone, sees the end result. Besides, if I weren't manufacturing a low readership newsletter or low listenership podcast or low viewership streaming show, what the fuck else would I fill the hours with? I have no interest in “binging” television, nor do I particularly like online shopping. I realize that, by holding this opinion, I am in the minority amongst both my friend group and the world at large.
Side Note: I often wondered how everyone seems to watch hours upon hours of television, possessing encyclopedic knowledge of the minutiae of the medium like it’s their jobs, like they write for Deadline or some shit. One day, it hit me: they are not actually watching these shows. Rather, they are letting them auto-play in perpetuity while looking at their phones.
I suppose I accept the firestarters more than the constant posters because a brief reminder of existence, an occasional demonstration of life, feels more powerful than constantly shoving your presence down the universe’s throat. What did people do before they could broadcast every thought and experience to a global audience? I suppose the same thing they did before they could look at their phones: either make or not.
While I post infrequently, I am a ceaseless, silent scroller, fascinated by the facts others deem suitable for public dissemination. The more they tweet, the more they add to their “stories,” the lonelier they seem, desperate to be seen and heard; were they actually enjoying the activities they shared, wouldn’t they be too engrossed to post? Yet there I am, absorbing said posts while laying in bed with the curtains drawn. My activity is witnessing theirs, usually as a form of procrastination from making my own, equally empty, whimper into the void. I am no better or worse, just different.
It has always been, and it always will be, easier to do nothing than to do something. Having the ability to turn every thought into disposable fodder, however, is the illusion of having done something; to have made your mark, said your piece. It’s sound and fury, though. A flash, a bang, then gone. I suppose this, too, is as disposable as anything else, just wordier. But it feels different because it’s mine.
The guy who stands next to the Panorama smoking pot all day was standing next to the Panorama smoking pot the other day. He has a wide, welcoming smile; he is easy to get along with, presumably because he is constantly, catatonically, high. Whenever the lobby door is propped open, the smoke from his joint seeps in; it ruins the illusion of the place a bit, but not in a bad way. It reminds me that, in spite of how otherworldly the Panorama may feel, reality is always outside. It is a good lesson.
I had gone out to smoke a cigarette when an explosion, loud enough to set off a cacophony of car alarms, shattered the silence between us. I flinched, in spite of myself. He laughed.
His kids wanted him to buy fireworks, he told me, but their father was no fool. By way of teaching them a lesson, he said, he pulled out a $100 bill and a lighter. “You want me to light this on fire?” he asked. “Daddy, no! Stop!” his son yelled. “Well, that’s what I’d be doing if I bought fireworks,” he replied. “Wouldn’t you rather me buy you some toys?” “Yes!” they squealed. I nodded in agreement. It was a good lesson.
“You don’t need to,” I said. “They can just watch other people’s.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Let other people waste their money. You can just freeload off of them.”
Bang bang.