4th

Whenever the 4th of July rolls around, I think of the phrase "Patriotic Gore," and I associate it with Gore Vidal thinking he wrote a book of that title. But he did not. It was the title of a book review in the New York Times of his book "The Last Empire" in which he writes an essay on Edmund Wilson who wrote a book entitled "Patriotic Gore." Vidal Sassoon comes to mind, and then Seigried Sassoon. Etc.

The days of summer wither away, all the dreams and high expectations with it. But today people will gather in large numbers all over the country to eat hot dogs and snow cones, wave miniature flags and watch the wonders of gunpowder and laser lights. Even as I write this, a group of runners passes my house on the annual Fourth of July 10K race to start the eventful day.

Some businesses are closed and others have tremendous sales. And, as usual at such unavoidable times, I am anxious and depressed. It is chronic. I've never done well with national holidays. I do not wish to be part of the hoi polloi, and yet my resistance seems always to cost me something.

Perhaps today I'll watch "The Razor's Edge," the 1984 version with Bill Murray. The opening scene is a great midwestern 4th of July celebration. I've spent time in Lake Forest where it takes place. Oh my. I've tried to be Larry Darrell, but here I am.

And so a photo of repose. No dancing girls. No artful techniques. Nothing to complain about. A simple snapshot of better days.