Birthday in the ‘Burg
Well America, I’ve done it. Yours truly has officially escaped teen pregnancy.
That’s right my friends, as of 12 a.m. July 5 Eastern Standard Time I officially doffed the last remnant of childhood and counted my last day under the judgmental label of “a teenager.” Now, I understand that my last installment was lucky to have reached you with the fiery fanfare of our nation’s 238th birthday. However, due to the oppressive nature of deadlines, as well as the fact that even on a non-barbeque and cornhole filled weekend, my editors have to deal with the scourge of my grammar and spelling, I was forced to delay my recounting of the weekend’s patriotic festivities. But, now that my BAC (that’s Blood America Content, for the non-ordained) has recovered to Paul Revere levels and most of my motor functions have returned, I am at last free to share the wondrous events of celebrating our great country in a historical city whose claim to fame centers entirely around our past under British tyranny, and the college who happened to also side with our transatlantic oppressors.
In spite of the emphasis of pre-revolutionary history that Williamsburg is so well known for, the city brought out its American spirit with the awe-inspiring glimmer of patriotism that can only be found in a town whose main industry is rooted soundly in replica muskets and tri-cornered hats. After a day of cookouts, classic rock and country music and about four-too-many replayings of American Pie, I found myself in a mass of baby strollers and fanny packs on DoG Street and the Governor’s Palace lawn, both of which were packed with hordes of tourists and the remaining college students. Just as the claustrophobia reached full swing, the City of Williamsburg let loose a barrage of skyrockets igniting the sky in a mid-level budget production of shimmering red sparkles which reduced the awing audience to four-year-olds fascinated by explosions and shiny objects.
However, the City was not the only one to light up the sky to celebrate our country’s independence. An adventurous group of students decided to add a denouement to the nights festivities with an impromptu — probably inebriated and assuredly illicit — show of undergraduate-budget fireworks on the Sunken Garden, breaking what I can only assume to be a half dozen city ordinances. But luckily the pleasant display left all parties unharmed and coincidentally came a few moments past midnight — which I like to see as a sign that they were celebrating the less well-known holiday: Dia del Jacob.
Yes, my one remaining reader (Mom), I am lucky enough to claim the hangover-filled Fifth of July as my name day after I officially came into the world 30 minutes short of awesome (and I haven’t stopped falling short since). Alas! I cannot say that I had much of an eventful birthday this twenty-o-fourteen, as most of the city barely emerged from their comas before midday. Nevertheless, I was happy to spend the time lounging in the balmy Williamsburg sun with my summertime companions and nursing sparkling glasses of orange juice and icy lime slush. To culminate the day’s lack of pomp and circumstance, I even found myself barred from claiming my Blue Talon free dinner — the first I, as a Cancer, had the opportunity to consume. Apparently it’s assumed that most of a tourist town’s fine dining establishments book up on holiday weekends — but I blame the hostess for not being able to understand my excited babbling when requesting a reservation for 10 people at 5 p.m. So, with The Crust closed for a private event and my last ounce of energy spent, I was snoring adorably in bed by 11 p.m. Though I did leave myself one last post-birthday gift in my pre-slumber haze in the form of a Wawa sandwich, tucked delicately away for when I awoke. Some dreams really do come true.
With that I must leave you, Mom. This has been fun, but I just got a Tinder match, so my attention draws elsewhere. Say hi to Dad for me!