The Fourth of something

Well, that's a relief. Despite all the warnings and hysteria, the entire country got all the way through the Fourth of July without anything getting blown up.
Actually, my dogs—the biggest of whom has spent the better part of the week cowering under the office desk—are quick to remind me that for days we've had endless explosions right outside our window. But I don't mean fireworks. Those are our explosions. I mean their explosions—you know, the evil-doers. Them.

Our nation was awash this holiday with warnings and paranoia that terrorists would strike, apparently on the premise that because this holiday is a big deal to us, someone would come clear from some cave in Afghanistan—or more likely, the family mansion in Saudi Arabia—to show just how much they despise our beacon of freedom and democracy blah blah blah. Or perhaps people just remember that movie a few years ago where the aliens came from 26,000 light years away to blow up the White House on July 4, and figured—"Hey, those guys were aliens. So are these guys. They probably think the same way."

But seriously. Rationality has left the house when places like the Clark County (Wash.) fairgrounds fence off the area where their big annual fireworks display happens and search everyone coming in. News flash: someone came from Saudi Arabia, intent on killing as many people in as highly-revered an American venue as possible, is gonna pick a day important to them—not us—and is not gonna make a beeline for poor Clark County. You might as well just search the parking lot for a limo with Saudi plates.