4th of July, 2008

As a wise man once said, you should annually celebrate your country's independence by blowing up a small part of it.

I used to enjoy that aspect of July 4th, immensely. There's nothing quite like attending a professionally-designed and tax-funded pyrotechnics display, oohing and aahing along with thousands of other patriotic citizens. I also think it's important for us to momentarily set aside our political differences, joining together in praising the greatness of our country with explosions, bright lights, and Ray Charles music. But despite the great level of fundamental pleasure I've always felt from watching the sky scintillate, I always enjoyed setting off my own explosives even more.

My favorite Fourth ever was probably the time our family spent the weekend on the Burtis's farm in Olathe, Kansas. I'm not sure who funded their purchase, but fireworks of all kinds were abundant, and adult supervision was minimal. Each kid had a lit punk, pocketsful of Black Cats, and plenty of real estate to demolish. There's nothing quite like a bunch of pre-teen pyromaniacs riding around on a tractor flinging fireworks at every random fencepost, bush, and chicken we saw. It's a wonder we didn't set anything on fire, and I'm sure the horses and cows all had nightmares for the next several weeks.

And yes, we did hold the 'crackers in our hands to light them. We did throw them at each other. We did have roman candle fights at 30 paces. We did ALL the stuff that the labels warn you not to do. We also launched tin cans, destroyed plastic army men, blew up anthills, and had an incredible amount of fun doing it. Then...lemonade and watermelon. Ahhh -- Nirvana in the heartland, it was.

But over the years, things changed. While I still am proud to celebrate this country (despite its mistakes like slavery, prohibition, and Jimmy Carter), I rarely blow up anything anymore. Because of my morning workout schedule, I fall asleep far too early to see any public fireworks displays. And because of random expenses such as @#$! car repairs and gasoline, I am reluctant to budget for a trip to Wyoming to buy fun fireworks. So, while my heart still swells at the thought of the magnificent thing our founding fathers acccomplished on that July 4th in 1776, I celebrated in a very mellow fashion this year.

I watched the Twilight Zone marathon on the scifi channel, cleaned house, and finished reading a book about a guy who has run 226 miles without stopping. I also managed to squeeze in a short bike ride and a swim. But the highlight of the day was getting my son to agree to go see a movie with me.

I've been trying to talk Tanner into joining me for a movie for over a month now. Yes, I know that no teenager wants to spend time with his old man; the lameness of being seen in public with a parental unit pretty much pegs the uncool-o-meter. And when your dad is a bespectacled, bermuda-shorts wearin' nerd such as myself, it's gotta be pure torture. But dang it, I love this kid, and I truly enjoy hanging out with him and talking to him -- he's just gonna have to deal with it. At least as long as I'm paying part of his expenses. (And judging from the, uh, enthusiasm (cough) with which he seems to be seeking gainful employment, this era could continue for a long time to come.)

Most of the time, "band practice" has been his excuse. I'd tell him what time I wanted to go to the movie, and then after a consultation with his fellow musicians, he would be shocked to learn that a practice had been scheduled for that exact same time! This rare cosmic coincidence happened again and again...but finally, on the 4th, the boy reluctantly agreed to attend the cinema with me.

We discussed the options, and decided that Indiana Jones was safe; that we'd both probably enjoy it, despite lukewarm reviews. At least there'd be insects, snakes, stunts performed on speeding military vehicles, and some sort of quasi-religious mumbo-jumbo. Spielberg couldn't mess that up too badly, could he?

I'll let you know in my next post. In the meantime, have a great day!