I spent last night tossing and turning. Every fifteen minutes-- Boom... Bang... Pow... Pop! It was clear; a lesser cartel had won. Holiday contraband from Indiana, southern Wisconsin, east Iowa, and Michigan had been smuggled into city limits, into the eager hands of civilians living on my block! My serene street became nothing less than a war zone, a brilliant, and shimmering war zone.
Instead of calling the cops-- a futile, rookie move on this holiday-- I stared into the courtyard, witnessing every colorful strata of open fire catapult into a canopy of dry leaves and electrical high wire. Ahh... America-- land of the free, home of the third degree burn.
Then... suddenly! At midnight, as if the assailant had been waiting patiently for the clock to strike an official start of American independence-- KAABOOOOM!-- the loudest declaration of independence heard all night, followed almost immediately by a yawp that pulled me swiftly to the window and an ambulance to my block.
I was certain that I would start my morning run, having found fractions of an ear, bits of a nose, or perhaps slipping on an entire hand altogether, blown clear off, into the helpless marigolds and coreopsis lining my entryway. I didn't, thank the stars.
Point being... you're probably celebrating. You're probably eating. You're probably going to be somewhat near combustible, high-pressure explosives with some form of adult libation in hand that, actually, contains accelerant properties.
Happy, without carnage, fourth of July.