In my opinion, one of the nicest reasons to live where I do is our lack of themed annual festivals. Oh sure, we have friendly gatherings on the beach for Canada Day and charming events like Art in the Garden, even fireworks when they’re not a hazard. But thank heavens, we have sidestepped the screwy desire of some towns to stagger around for days in stupid historical costumes to support themes dreamed up by brainless committees.
I grew up in a place that put great focus on one week per year where the entire populace was encouraged to dress up as Cowboys & Cowgirls and celebrate their deadly rotgut whiskey-trading past. Surely a fine legacy to commemorate. Yeeha! They did this with a straight face; “Ironic Cowperson” was not in their repertoire. Even the police wore cowpoke lids that week, and bank tellers sported shit-kickers and a little neckerchief. Oblivious and compliant, the mayor dressed like the Grand Marshall of a rainbow parade, replete with fringes and a toy six gun.
I never understood it, I never enjoyed it, but explaining why was pointless. There was no listening, there was only adherence to what they’d be deeply shocked to discover was a seriously fabulous civic dress code. Whatever you do, don’t point this out to the Hyper-Macho drugstore cowboy obediently wearing his 75 gallon hat and pearl buttoned flammable shirt.
Privately I tried to explain my resistance to my friends. What if we jetted off to Australia to attend ‘Sydney Scurvy Days‘? Or to Spain to catch ‘Seville Inquisition Carnavale‘? España is so close to Old Blighty – why not just pop over to enjoy ‘London Cholera Week‘? Nip to Paddington Station, hop the Eurostar to Paris, and catch the ‘Guillotine Gala‘ at the Centre Pompidou!
We’d even have time to hit Salem, Mass for ‘Burning Witch 2018’. This years theme: ‘Pursed Lip Disapproval of YOU and Your Ungodly Ways’.