Happy Birthday U.S.A. of America!!!!!!

All week long Erin and I have been reminded that the 4th of July is this weekend. You see, Erin and I go to bed rather early (9:30 is usually when we turn off the light and say goodnight), yet we have been awoken every night this week to the sound of whistling firecrackers and thunderous explosions. It kind of drives me nuts but at the same time there is nothing I can do about it because I firmly believe this is karma biting me in the ass.

When I was a kid, I, like every kid in my neighborhood, was obsessed with fireworks. There was a span of like 5 or 6 years where all I cared about from late June to mid-July was lighting bottle rockets and setting off firecrackers.

Unfortunately, fireworks were illegal in New York, not that that was gonna stop us. I remember pooling all our money together and sending a pair of missionaries down to Chinatown to bring us back "the goods." We would wait for hours hoping and praying for our neighbors' safe return. When they came back, they always had a story to tell us about some Chinese guy with a whole car trunk full of the most amazing class C explosives you could imagine. Oh how I wished I could have seen the goods inside that trunk - I could only imagine the type of fun the guy with the car trunk was gonna have this 4th.

One year, we had a real panic in the neighborhood. I don't know if it had something to do with Reaganomics or the Cold War but we failed to send anybody down to Chinatown on our quest. It looked pretty bleak for the kids in the neighborhood, what were we gonna do? Light some lame ass sparklers? Watch some "snakes" burn? What were we gonna do? We had no damn fireworks!!!

Luckily, my dad was a cop who had no ethical quarrels with relinquishing some confiscated fireworks from the evidence room. Oh, the joy on my face when my hero of a father started to set off jumping jacks in the street. It started with just a few of us enjoying his little fireworks show, then pretty soon all the kids in the neighborhood gathered around to watch him in action. I could see him feeding off the energy of the crowd... he was definitely the coolest dad on the street that day and he knew it. He was getting real fancy, lighting bottle rockets off two at a time, setting off a whole pack of jumping jacks all at once, he didn't care, hey this was "free shit." Oh, this was so cool: he would light them off with the burnt end of his cigarette. Never in my life did I wish to be a smoker until I saw that you could light fireworks with cigarrettes. He was an anti-smoking campaign's worst nightmare.

Of course this ego trip came to an abrupt halt when my next door neighbor, whose cousin was in town visiting, came walking up the street to watch the show. My dad, who was now throwing the jumping jacks in the air with his eyes closed, never saw this girls kinky, curly, dirty blonde hair coming when he threw what would end up being the last jumping jack of the evening.

As a boy there are always first times for everything, the first time you get in a fist fight, the first time you see your neighbor naked, and the first time you see a girl get her hair lit on fire. I remember it being so fast, yet moving in slow motion at the same time. The blood curdling scream, the smacking of her head and of course the crying. The smell of burnt hair is something to remember too, but it's not nearly as cool as the fire itself. Luckily, an older boy in the neighborhood who ended up becoming a volunteer fireman later on in life was there to pull the jumping jack out of her hair and save the day. I remember my dad nonchalantly walking over to this girl, giving her a once over and telling her she was all right. What he couldn't hide was how pissed he was that this little punk stole his thunder by saving that stupid girl's life. Thanks for nothing, kid.

So remember, have fun this weekend, and don't throw fireworks down a hill while other people are walking up it without looking.