How does one write a useless column that changes no minds about a subject that's quite relevant but matters little? Well, pardon a bit of self-congratulation, but I think I'm something of an expert on the subject, having done it every first week of July for a decade. Here then is the most generic column on legalizing Wisconsin-style fireworks — aka "the Fun Stuff" — you'll ever read. Print it out and read it next year; it'll save me some time.
So. I have an opinion about the banning of big-boom rocket-type fireworks that go up in the air and explode. Or fall over sideways and shoot into the garage and explode right by the gas tank of the lawn mower. If you agree with me, what follows is a well-reasoned breath of fresh air; if you disagree, it is appalling nonsense, particularly in light of (insert vaguely relevant recent news story here).
Here is where I state my opinion about fireworks. There are many colorful turns of phrase that use the words "boom" and "shower," and an indisputable assertion about the beauty of aerial explosives. These are obvious sentiments with which few find disagreement, but I am setting you up to accept my assertions.
Now here is where I acknowledge the opposing side and characterize it rather fairly — but the other side detects a note of sarcasm that makes them defensive and realize that the fairness was just a trick to shield the writer from criticism. Unfortunately, here is a cheap shot, because I'm feeling frisky and think you're all on my side, for some reason.
Here is where Wisconsin is brought into the issue, and we discuss the wide array of explosives sold freely to people who are wearing U caps and drive back across the border checking the rearview mirror every 10 seconds. Lost tax revenue is discussed right about … hold on … right here. The subject is meaningless for one side, and something the other side doesn't really care about, but if the point isn't brought up, someone will write a letter to the editor, and the columnist will read it over breakfast and sigh unhappily.
Having laid out the arguments, it's time to muddy it up with emotion: waxing nostalgic about youthful experiences. Comical exaggerations are made about the lack of supervision in those days, contrasted with modern, protective sensibilities that stifle the joy and drama of summertime childhood. The wearisome phrase "and we turned out OK" is used. Here is an example:
When I was a kid my dad ran a fireworks stand at the gas station, which in retrospect is like selling explosives at a petrochemical depot — no, that's exactly what it was. But nothing ever happened because people knew they shouldn't light off fireworks at a gas station. Well, everyone but me. I threw a cherry bomb in a flooded culvert, and an alarming quantity of frogs floated to the top. After a while they started to move again, which was a relief, because a boy can live with the idea that he gave two dozen frogs a headache, but it's hard to live with the idea of mass amphibicide.
I also unrolled dozens of Black Cats and heaped the powder on a stone. I'd place a baby-food jar lid on top with a fuse, light it and run away with the certain, immediate conviction I was not only jeopardizing my health but the success of the current Apollo spacecraft mission. Pieces of the lid were later found embedded in phone poles six blocks away.
