It’ll never stop sounding weird, when I see or hear or read somebody say “Happy Memorial Day!” It’s a bit like saying “Happy Yom Kippur,” isn’t it? I mean, I know that to most Americans, it’s just a barbecue day, and I’m not saying I did anything special in honor of the fallen or anything, unless you consider running scandisk and defrag on the spare computer in the laundry room and bagging up a mess of old magazines for the bin a solemn ritual. It just seems that, while it is true that most Americans use Memorial Day as a day to put meat to fire, well, it just seems like the least we can do is pretend it means something.
You know. Like Christmas.
I for one had a fine Memorial Day weekend. Dad and Little Brother were here. They wore me out. First they dragged me to the new Air and Space deal at Dulles. Then there was dinner at Ruffino’s Pasghetti House, the charm of which unfortunately is starting to wear thin. The food was not the fine spastic comfort food it was, and the fellow who served us just didn’t seem that interested. He was efficient and all, but there was no passion in his work, as if all the magic had just been sucked out of it, as if you could hear him under his breath complain that he had been led to believe this path would be more glamorous somehow. Anyway. The next day, we visited the Spy Museum, which is fun to do but generally requires more time than the 35 minutes a boundless 10-year-old is willing to offer it. Back across the river, and then we indeed put meat to flame, yummy pork tenderloin with yams and corn. My lunch today will consist of those leftovers.
As I noted, yesterday was spent sprucing up a couple of CPUs and doing a bit of redding. It was too hot to do anything outside.