Dreams of independence A 4th weekend in America BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

The Fourth of July weekend is one of those weird non-holidays made relevant in my mind only once: by Richard Ford’s novel Independence Day, which invokes the true spirit of American Independence in the journey a divorced father takes with his troubled teenage son.

I associate the weekend mostly with party angst. Will I get invited to someone’s backyard BBQ to spend the day drinking beer and eating hot dogs and chips in the hot afternoon sun? And, if so, will I even want to go? This, thank God, for me at least, is not a family holiday. It has always smacked of keg parties and sunburns followed by loud, red-white-and-blue bursts of color in the sky, to which one is expected to applaud.

This year, in particular, I wonder what exactly are we celebrating? America has proven itself to be independent only in that we’re willing to be the biggest jackasses in the world. Clearly our addiction to Middle Eastern oil makes us more like co-dependents than independents.

I am also stunned by the amount of American flags flying in Portland this year. I only once wanted to wave a flag and that was the day after 9/11 when for about five minutes it became an emblem of solidarity and hope before it was tarnished by our government’s thirst for revenge. Some might fly the flag in honor of our troops in Iraq. I support this gesture. However, I can’t help but feel sickened by the fact that the flag The Chimp in the White House sends our men and women to fight under is the very flag which will cover caskets of lives lost for nothing but oil.

When I first lived in NYC, July 4 invoked a powerful feeling of " Maine-sick " as the heat rolled down the streets like Texas tumbleweeds and the city emptied out, making it all the more apparent that the friends I should have made all had houses in the Hamptons or on lakes in Westchester County. There was a loneliness associated with it that made my heart wince as I made my way to a rooftop BBQ with an apartment full of B-list actors, whom I didn’t know, in the sweltering sun somewhere near 11th Avenue and Midtown. I imagined myself belonging somewhere — or to someone. Hell, I would have been happy with a sea breeze and a close friend.

This Fourth of July weekend was punctuated by a late night on the deck at Brian Boru, where a friend of a guy I once dated suggested I take his number for a " booty call " because he’s not " looking for a relationship right now. " Somehow in my alcohol-numbed state I actually typed his name and number into my cell phone, a dumb blonde grin on my face as if this was amusing, not just insulting. I mean, can you believe the arrogance? This coming from someone a good five inches shorter than me. Unless the old wives’ tale is true that thinning hair equals a huge package, I’m not sure that’s an offer I’ll cash in on any time soon.

The following night, Aliya and I scored the last two seats at Fahrenheit 9/11. Smooshed up front in a folding chair, with my face expectantly tilted upwards for the full 90 minutes, I felt like I spent most of the movie with my head buried somewhere in Michael Moore’s expansive navel. Now, that’s a booty call.

As we left, perhaps emboldened by my Dubya rage, I took a moment to slip my number and an invitation for coffee to a guy with sparkly blue eyes whom I’ve noticed for months but to whom I’ve never gotten up the courage to say anything more than a choked hello. Aliya and I were both so stunned by my bravery that once we got out the door we went running down the street screaming likes those dudes in The Gods Must Be Crazy when the Coke bottle falls from the sky. Hey, Sarah Jessica Parker and Mathew Broderick met at the movies. Miracles happen. Even in Portland.

That night, from the living room of Aliya’s apartment, where I am camping out until August, I could see the red sign of the Eastland Hotel, the top of the church on State Street, and above the whirs of the nearby Mercy Hospital I could hear gulls and smell the ocean. I felt for the first time in a long while truly independent from all the things we collect to make our lives feel rooted — apartments, land lines, dial-up Internet accounts, furniture, and hot-water bills. And as I thought about that moment when I handed Sparkly Blue my modest proposal, my eyes averted and my hand shaky, I smiled and thought, this night of independence might actually be worth celebrating.

Stories, thoughts, ideas, and nominations for the 10 sexiest men in Portland can be sent to Caitlin Shetterly at bramhallsquare@yahoo.com