It's the 4th this week. Seems right. After that long hot spring and the great green expanse of June — only snowed three times, if memory serves — why, it seems like we've been marinating in summer forever. [Editor's note: Mr. Lileks is not well.]
But the 4th means fireworks, of course. There are two varieties: Legal and Fun.
Legal: Oh look, colored smoke. My patriotism is off the charts.
Fun: A short round object with 64 holes, each of which fires a shrieking object that explodes five feet above the earth, producing such panic in your dog he stands up on his back legs, grabs a shovel and starts tunneling to China.
Or a rocket as thick as a jackhammer-operator's forearm, which tips over after you lit the fuse, explodes and solves the problem of where you're going to dig when you put in that pool.
You can see why the latter are illegal. Kids in my generation grew up with M-80s, which were given to them by adults. Really. "OK, you can go play with explosives, but did you brush your teeth and gargle with mercury? Fine then."
Teen access to explosives is still common, judging from the isolated detonations in my neighborhood, but since no one shouts "if you find it, pack it in ice," I gather they don't have the high-grade materiel of my youth.
Just as well. But here's what I don't quite get:
