Bastion of Pyromaniacs
Posted by Moose on July 4th, 2006. Filed under: Tis the Season.I live in a part of town that loves its fireworks. Gunshot cracks have been setting off car alarms all weekend. But, as darkness falls on the Fourth of July, the pops and whistles have become constant. I’m really glad the dog isn’t home because she’d surely be cowering in a corner, shedding even more rapidly than usual. I’m more partial to the deafening startlement. The noise pollution and errant sparks make me feel less left out of the explosive fun. I’m not the type to set fireworks off, accident-prone people should give exploding firebombs a wide berth, but I do enjoy watching them. Sadly, I need to work. Hence, I am at my desk, rather than downtown watching those lovely lights burst.
This is not the sympathy plea. Begging for sympathy would imply that I hadn’t totally brought this on myself. I was the genius who decided she wanted to write more. And with great power comes great responsibility. Or something. Actually, with great responsibility comes great justification for reward. “I’ve worked 10 whole minutes. I deserve to dash to the corner store for some Haagen Daaz.” So I did. You could argue that Haagen Daaz is wasted in cherry coke, but you would be wrong. The majority of my afternoon was spent napping and reading a novel. I could have plowed through and been at Captain Queso’s barbeque or up on Twin Peaks watching the fireworks.
But no. I had to be all dedicated. To my future. To getting enough rest. To poor time management.
Just as I typed that, I learned that people who bring about their own lameness sometimes do get undeserved rewards. My desk faces the street and I haven’t bothered to shut the curtains yet. Because I’m lazy. Fireworks just exploded above the tops of the houses right in front of me, showering down white sparks.
I think it’s time for a casual stroll. A well-deserved casual stroll because I got six minutes of work done.
Outside on the porch it feels like autumn. The night is crisp and leaves are falling. No doubt shaken off their branches by the explosions. The air smells like barbequing chicken. Walking around the neighborhood, there are amateur fireworks displays everywhere you look. Driving becomes an exercise in skilled maneuvering and faith-based paint protection. Around every corner is a whole family watching as the sparklers are waved and dangerous explosives lit. It sounds like the apocalypse is nigh. There’s going to be more than one burnt digit this evening.
Back at my desk, the whistles continue unabated. Louder booms come from the direction of the wharf. I need to get back to work, but I got my Fourth of July fix. Earlier I was wishing I lived in the Marina or the Presidio, or anywhere there aren’t hoodlums shrieking at each other while rummaging through your trash. But it’s very alive here. And not just because of the garbage combing and illegal pyrotechnics.
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