Even though it’s been more than a month, I’m still irritated by this year’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.
I first attended the Thanksgiving parade in the late 1940s, post-war, pre-television. I must have been around age four because I was pre-literate and impressed that another kid in the car could read the word “garage.”
Those were the days when you could drive into Manhattan, find a parking spot easily, and walk to the parade route.
My earliest memories of parade celebrities are restricted to Hopalong Cassidy riding his white horse, Topper, and Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys, mounted on his golden palomino, Trigger, which was later stuffed, exhibited in a museum and ultimately sold at auction. This year, there were no horses, not even mounted by the police. Presumably, the Department of Sanitation crews were tired of cleaning up after horses.
The last time that I actually went to the parade was with my little daughter in 1991. The only thing that I remember was watching some huge man with glasses, in a suit, clearly a gangster, carrying a small child and plowing through the crowd, running over anyone who got between him and the curb for the best possible view of clowns cavorting on Central Park West.
Since then, I’ve only watched the parade on television, faithfully, and perpetually annoyed. Invariably, what I’m watching is not floats, not balloons, not marching bands, but commercials selling dreadful must-have toys to children and lethal, must-have medications to adults. (Side effects may include death, slow death, painful death or all three.)
Blatant exploitation of the innocents.
This year, for the first televised half hour, there was no parade, only ads along with effusive praise of the announcers by the announcers as they pointed out with great elation, “Look, a [brand name] truck, hamburger or flameless fire pit.”
Early in the program, President Biden appeared, wishing the audience a Happy Thanksgiving. In response, the TV announcer wished him a “Happy Birthday.” Was that a subtle bit of campaign dirty tricks, of sneakily drawing attention to Biden’s age?
Once they actually started televising the parade, it was essentially all commercials with the exception of a float bearing Wampanoags, indigenous folks encouraging ecological consciousness.
Then there was everything else which included performances of bits of Broadway musicals. I somehow expect they’re just out there trying to sell tickets.
You’d think that the selections would be displays of professional talent, but the performers lip-synced their songs, some with slightly off-color lyrics (Hey, this is a family show). I was amazed at how they coordinated their lip syncing with a full orchestra even though there wasn’t a single instrument in sight.
In anti-musical tradition, 11 cacophonous marching bands, each seemingly comprised of 76 out-of-tune trombones, played vaguely recognizable tunes while accompanied by frozen cheerleaders wearing frozen smiles.
In contrast, It was heart-warming to see the inimitable Rockettes with their inimitable kickline that has been part of the parade since 1958.
The best part of the parade, and what makes it unique, are the enormous balloons floating over the heads of dozens of handlers. Many years ago, there was a shortage of helium; perhaps it was being used to manufacture nuclear weapons. Consequently, the balloons hung limply and pathetically from cranes. So disappointing.
This year’s airborne lineup included thirteen kiddie cartoon characters, two toys, four sales promotions, an acorn, a pumpkin, an ice cream cone,and Smokey the Bear.
At least three of the balloons were injured: The Wimpy Kid had a deflated hand, the Uncle Dan Duck (who?) had a collapsed wing, and Geoffrey the Giraffe (also, who?) had its neck hanging at right angles to its body.
In the wickedness of my childhood mind, I used to hope that some errant wind would take a balloon out of the control of its handlers and do something cataclysmically unexpected. In later years, such instances did occur when gusts drove balloons into buildings, trees, and lamp posts and even wound up injuring parade watchers.
According to the New York Times, major precautions were taken this year to prevent just such catastrophes.
The highly anticipated climax of the parade was not Santa, but the one and only Cher (without Sonny). At age 77 she was gorgeous, svelte, and with an unlined face. How does she do it?
Sadly missing from the parade were my favorite balloons, including the Trump balloon, a howling, naked orange blimp of an infant, and the Chris Christie balloon (life-size) enjoying the Jersey Shore in his folding chair while the public had to stay off the beaches due to a state government shutdown. If you haven’t had a chance to see these fabulous floaters, just look them up online.
Happy New Year anyway.
,
