There was a terrible curse put on this town many decades ago. A horrible witch who watched her beloved slowly cut in half by the town’s entire Memorial Day parade condemned all of us, resident and traveller alike. It is now impossible to walk around freely without hearing the sounds of bowling balls forever making their way down lanes.

The balls never reach their pins. There’s never any conclusion, never any satisfaction. Just endless rolling, rolling, rolling. And us citizens, ugh, we hear it everywhere we go. It’s always with us. A terrible aural stink.

As we approach the holiday the sounds get louder. We just have to speak louder during our annual long distance phone calls to Aunt Marge. Some people let their babies sleep in the basement all month.

But that’s about it. We’re not changing much. Just smile, wash thoroughly and carry on. And you can bet this year’s parade marchers will still be wearing their chainsaw shoes.

The power of pride and all that.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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