I cannot begin to express my disappointment in the city of Roseville, which made me a grand marshal for their parade without telling me that the job was purely ceremonial. Absolutely no power whatsoever.
I had expected to be ferried down the street to great acclaim, a plenipotentiary appointed to do things — issue pardons on the spot to grateful men imprisoned for stealing a single loaf of bread, strike down onerous ordinances, suspend zoning laws with a single commanding gesture. "You there, whose shed is too large — arise! Be of good cheer!"
But all I was supposed to do was smile and wave like some rented ninny.
I think I know why. We were honorary Grand Marshals. The real, true Grand Marshal must be a reclusive, Oz-like figure whose head appears at City Council meetings, makes fearsome commands while the floor shakes and smoke billows up. "The great and powerful marshal demands you lengthen that green light on Laaaarpenteur!"
By "we" I mean there was another Grand Marshal: Vineeta Sawkar of TV and internet renown. She brought the cheerful charisma; I brought … well, I brought some Altoids, which I considered throwing at the children. But they expected candy, not microscopic breath mints.
I should have thrown money. In 1978, Percy Ross, a local moneybags with a flair for conspicuous philanthropy, rode in the Aquatennial Parade and threw $16,500 out of the car in silver dollars. In one bag! Crushed a small bystander. No, of course not; he threw them out in fistfuls, which is the sort of thing you do if you want to help your fellow man, or have your worst suspicions about human nature confirmed. Ah, they're rolling on the ground, fighting over the coins. Excellent!
Anyway, the community parade is a throwback to the era before we stared down at our glass rectangles, before Imax entertainments and home TVs the size of picture windows. The idea of sitting in a lawn chair for two hours to watch marching bands and truck beds teeming with politicians seems absurd in an era where movies feature Batman and Superman punching each other for an hour, but there they were, happy and content. (Citizens, not Batman and Superman.) A perfect night. No bugs. Warm breeze. The honeyed tones of the mid-evening sun. The smell of kettlecorn and mini-doughnuts. Heaven.
You could, if you wished, poll the onlookers for their positions on the Issues of the Day and find great divides and mutual castigations on matters great and small, but for now there's the pleasure of simple civic unity in the parade of local heroes. The vets in a chuffing Hummer; the classic cars piloted by waving Masons; the precision drill team doing an acrobatic routine with orange traffic cones. It's a happy salute to civic amity repeated all summer across the state in innumerable towns. The Parade. You look at all the smiling faces as you pass, waving back, and think: "This is a good place. And if I'd had great — albeit temporary — powers?"
Wouldn't have changed a thing.
OK, maybe the timing of that light on Larpenteur.
james.lileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 • Twitter: @Lileks • facebook.com/james.lileks
