A few years back I went to the US of A to celebrate July 4th for my book The Naked Man Festival. I chose to celebrate the holiday in the town of Capitan, New Mexico because I didn’t want the anonymity of a large city. I wanted a small town parade followed by a great big small town party. I stumbled upon Capitan by typing in ‘July 4th parade’ on Google and, on page 37 of my search, found the ‘Village of Capitan’website with pictures of their Annual Fourth of July Smokey Bear Parade. The parade seemed to be entirely made up of fat people sitting on the backs of trucks waving American flags. It was absolutely perfect. That was exactly the Independence Day experience I was after.

I did find some other interesting ways to celebrate the Fourth of July on the net, though. In Oatman, Arizona, for example, it gets so hot that they hold a massive egg-frying contest—on the footpath. Back in 1986 in Willimantic, Connecticut, they couldn’t afford a band for their parade so they asked everyone to bring their ghetto-blasters along. The local radio station then played band music. Last year over 10 000 people turned up to the Boom Box Parade with their ghetto-blasters. In Lovington, New Mexico, they’ve utilised their large summer lizard population by running The World’s Greatest Lizard Race every July 4th. In 1976 this inaugural event wasn’t too successful, though. When a large tub covering the lizards was lifted, the lizards didn’t move. They were so petrified by the large crowd that they began to eat each other. The lizard with the largest stomach won the title. Still more horrifying is the Rainbow Gathering held in a different ‘forest’ every year. On the Fourth of July, a haze of hippies (I believe that’s the collective noun) sit in a massive circle in a ‘meadow’, hold hands and chants ‘Om’ together for a few hours. I think I’d rather eat the lizards.

Capitan had no lizards, hippies, boom boxes or frying eggs to speak of but, besides the parade, they did have an Old West Ranch Rodeo, a Country Dance, a Chuckwagon Campfire BBQ and free tattoos for the kids. The Mayor of Capitan promised: ‘Our sleepy village comes awake with a parade and rodeo that’s just too much fun. We let our hair down and have a great old time.’ I pictured a hootin’, hollerin’ time with a bunch of rowdy cowboys and cowgirls accompanied by lots of knee slappin’, moonshine drinkin’ and general yee-haain’. It was actually mostly fat people sitting on the backs of trucks waving American flags, but I did get a bit of hollerin’ at the rodeo that’s just too much fun. And here’s a few pics to prove how much fun it was. Oh, and happy Jool-eye Fourth!

I was in Hue in January 2003 as part of the research for the Tet celebrations (Vietnamese New Year) for my book The Naked Man Festival. I was on one my usual aimless wanders down side streets looking for the ‘real’ Hue where I found Tet celebrations in full swing as I peeped into people’s houses and saw lots of card games going on and plenty of drinking. I was squeezing down one impossibly narrow lane when I heard loud music and even louder out-of-tune singing. I peered through a small window into a tiny, dark and smoky room. A bunch of twenty-somethings were crammed into the corner watching a large-screen TV and belting out a bit of karaoke (another favourite Tet activity). Before I knew it, the door was pulled open and I was dragged inside. A glass of beer was shoved into one hand and a piece of dried squid dipped in hot chilli paste into the other. The lads were well and truly drunk. Two large crates full of empty ‘Huda’ beer bottles were ample proof of their consumption. ‘You drink!’ said the only fellow who seemed to speak a little English. I took a sip. ‘No, no,’ they chorused. They wanted me to skol. As soon as I downed the glass they handed me another. ‘Drink!’ they chorused. After skolling three beers, I was handed the microphone. At least that gave me an excuse to put down the squid. It had the consistency of old shoes and tasted only slightly better. The list of songs to choose from was really quite incredible. Particularly for such a back-alley, toilet-sized operation. In fact, the song list was the biggest I’d ever seen in any karaoke bar. I sang ‘I come from a land downunder’ while the boys hollered and screamed along with no idea what they were singing. I sang song after song, and skolled beer after beer. I even had a go at a Vietnamese song—which made me sound like a chicken on heat. At one point I had a beer, a chunk of squid, the microphone and a copy of Playboy in my hands all at the same time. Before I couldn’t stand up any longer, I made motions to leave. After much protest, I was sent on my way with a handful of dried squid and hugs all round.

Next week on Brian’s Karaoke World Tour: Kyrgyzstan

On the way back to the hostel I passed a Karaoke bar. Ernest Hemingway was up on stage singing ‘Chantilly Lace’. I never knew Papa sang. He had quite a good voice, too.  After Papa, another Hemingway got up to sing. Well, when I say sing, I mean howl. He howled his way through ‘Lady’ by Kenny Rodgers. He was so drunk he almost fell off the stage. His name was Tom Grizzard and, besides having a very red nose, he was a realtor (American for real estate agent) from Leesburg, Florida. I wonder if his house-selling spiel was done à la Hemingway: ‘Walk into this room that is the ensuite. The toilet is desired by everyone until the new winds draw close. And the bath beholds the very gentle and the very strong by the new French windows.’
Tom had brought his fan club along. All twenty people sitting at a long table were all wearing yellow T-shirts with ‘Tom Grizzard – Wannabe Pop’ printed on them. This was his third attempt at winning the title. I asked him what he thought his chances of winning were. ‘As Hemingway would say,’ he slurred, ‘the fun is in the hunt, not the catch.’ I told him I was writing a book about festivals. ‘What’s Hemingway got to do with vegetables?’ he asked looking very confused.
‘No! Festivals!’ I shouted over a fat bloke’s boisterous version of ‘Rhinestone cowboy’.
‘What sort of vegetables?’ he said looking even more perplexed.
‘Hemingway loved carrots,’ I shouted.
‘Really? I didn’t know that.’