“This is totally a hipster party, huh?” says a friend as we scan her Williamsburg rooftop for a decent fire-works-viewing vantage point.
“I don’t know if I’ll fit in,” says another friend.
“You’re fine. You have a beard.”
We find a spot along one edge of the roof and continue drinking Brooklyn Summer Ale–until finally, the first of many fireworks lights up the sky just beyond the Brooklyn Bridge. There is some ironic patriotic singing for a moment, as you might expect. Then, from somewhere in the rooftop crowd, a loud voice proclaims, “Stephen Colbert!”
A few seconds later, another voice says, “Sigourney Weaver!”
And then it’s on.
“Sondheim!”
“Taco Bell!”
“Tim Howard!”
“Hanson!”
“Value Meals!”
“Ralph Nader!”
“JTT!”
“Hobby Lobby!”
And so forth. Obviously most of it was coming in ironic tones from ironically clad white people. But some of it is heartfelt. And it keeps up, through the entire show–which turns out to be an epic display with more fake-out finales than the last Lord of the Rings movie.
“Chicken!”
“Matchbox 20!”
“Saved by the Bell!”
During one of the false endings, I receive a text from one my friends saying she has had her fill of Gossip Girl types and was back in her apartment. A few others had already joined her. But a couple of us stay up top through all seventy-two finales.
After the last firework, as I walk down the six flights of stairs to my friend’s apartment, I say to myself, “Sigourney Weaver?” And then I think, “Yeah. Sigourney Weaver.”
I have never liked the phrase Proud to be an American. I don’t think I should be proud of something that I didn’t earn. But I can un-ironically say that last night, I felt pretty damn happy to live here.
