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Well, here it is – the Fourth of July Weekend!
Sweaty Americans from sea to shining sea will be dumping something like 150 million bags of crushed ice over 1.1 billion cans of beer in coolers, throwing a diet coke or two in for the wife, and heading for any place where they can find a little bit of sunshine and a lot of other sweaty Americans. It's how we like to celebrate our nation’s independence.
Most of us know that our country was founded on the inalienable right to wear tank tops and flip-flops, eat brats, play Frisbee, and develop heat stroke. In the interest of our long-term success as the ultimate lawn-party nation, I thought we might take a few minutes here and go over some of the finer points of the big day.
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This past weekend was the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. Each year thousands of latter day Druids celebrate the first instant of the summer season. They congregate to share, discuss and revel in their spiritual awakening at sacred places like southern England's Stonehenge or east Ann Arbor's Denny's.
With the Solstice falling on Saturday, there was a pretty aggressive Summer Solstice party here at the lake this year, as measured in BBD (Beers Before Dark) units. I didn't actually make it out to join the celebration, but judging from the happy revelers washing up on our beach wearing Jager Bomb tee shirts and beatific smiles, it was a big success.
Of course, the other big thing that happened this past weekend was Father's Day. Inspired by the Solstice, I was going to really get into the spirit of the thing and sacrifice a goat in a bonfire, mainly so I could wear my brand new barbecue apron imprinted, "You Don't Have To Be A Pagan To Cook Here, But It Helps." It turns out sacrificial goats are in pretty short supply around our house, so I had to settle for chuck ribs on the grill.
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The Detroit Red Wings did not win the Stanley Cup this year. Yikes! Our Wings are the most magnificent sports franchise since Ogg’s Cave Clubbers dominated the old Neanderthal Leagues and won twenty-one straight Pleistocene Cups. How could they possibly have lost?
For those of you who do not live in Michigan, or for those of you who do live in Michigan and who are not Detroit Red Wings fanatics (we know who both of you are and where you live…) I should give you a little background.
In ice hockey, the highest achievement possible is winning the Stanley Cup. This is a trophy named after a nineteenth century British Governor of Canada, Lord Stanley of Preston, Earl of Derby and Count of Crosschecking. After watching an impressive hockey contest back in 1893, Lord Stanley apparently figured that the players must be pretty darned proud of their accomplishments, and really thirsty, so he bought them a big silver cup to carve their names on and drink Molson out of.
The best hockey teams in North America have been doing that ever since.
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