The Jason Robert Brown musical was better

This fourth of July I visited my father, Dan, his wife, Helen, and her family in Lafayette Hill, Pennsylvania. At the heart of Lafayette Hill is Whitemarsh Valley Country Club, a formal association that Helen's family has belonged to for decades. Whenever I am in a good spot with my life and friends, there is always that visit waiting around the corner. Whitemarsh Valley Country Club is always there to give me that kick in the ass to remind me that I am still a nothing. Imagine digging Abe Lincoln out of the grave and challenging him use a computer. He would feel like shit. Even if you have some great talents and accomplishments, some experiences can make you feel completely out of touch.

Upon arriving at the pool I was immediately rejected for wearing jeans. I asked Dan why they had the rule and mumbled that it was to "keep the trash out." First, it wasn't like I was wearing ripped jorts and a coffee stained tank top. My clothes were from Men's Express. Second, I didn't realize that a pool was the classiest place on the planet. The people here were wearing bathing suits, plus I saw a naked 3-year-old penis flopping around by the baby pool. Third, does Whitemarsh Valley Country Club really get an influx of trashy people banging at the gates? Wishful thinking. They are probably off somewhere eating a Wawa hoagie, watching their stories on a wooden paneled television set, and couldn't give a shit about your club.

The next day I got up and went to the annual Fourth of July parade. This is the second year I have experienced this event and I knew exactly what to expect. If you have been to a small town parade before, you know that its basically a big advertisement for local politicians sprinkled with a few fat girls lazily waving batons. I captured probably the most thrilling fifty three seconds of the parade with my 3GS.



Yes, that was candy being thrown out of the Minivan. Pre-pubescent candy sluts lined the streets to collect broken jolly ranchers and stale starbursts. My 6-year-old sister, Jill, wasn't one of them. Though she did pick up a few pieces to appear competitive in such company, her lack of enthusiasm was more than obvious.

Later that night Dan provided possibly the best illegal fireworks show. On my father's work trips across the eastern US he picks up some great pyrotechnics and shows them off every year on a part of the Whitemarsh Valley Country Club golf course behind Helen's mother's house. Reveling in his moment of prominence, its nice to see. The fireworks were great, but the enormous amount of debris they left on the golf course was even better. Whitemarsh regrets ejecting me from the pool area now. Have fun picking those ashes off your fairway, you supercilious cocksuckers.