A parade is one of the more incomprehensible of human activities. It is the slow perambulation of the inane, the fatuous, and the downright ridiculous. It is a large group of people gaping at a smaller group of people who are either making fools of themselves or making bad music or both. Add a touch of militarism, and you add a touch of the troubling.
I feel so sorry for young people who were coerced into participating in this idiocy. It is written all over the faces of those who were coerced by school, family, or circumstance. The expression on the faces of the willing adult participants, who for the first time in their lives and for no rational reason whatsoever have the attention of others, is positively beatific, however.
A parade features layered, banal sentimentality and horse shit. In fact the most interesting thing about a parade to me through the years is watching a horse take a shit in the street and the varied reactions of the spectators. At the same level with that interest is my interest in the poor bastards who have to attend a parade and scoop up the horse shit—and those are low levels of interest indeed. Those attractions are not normally in and of themselves sufficient to tempt me into the dubious, voyeuristic role of a spectator at a parade. And that goes for every parade from the Tournament of Roses Parade down to the Fourth of July Parade in Central City, Iowa.
I did attend the Independence Day Parade here in San Miguel this morning simply because I wanted to see the Mexican variation on all this and I was in the area. I can report that that was all it was—a Mexican variation on the same old crap. Now I never have to do that again either. I have spared you any photographs.