new years
Well, my Christmas might have been a bit fucked up, but New Year's eve kicked ass. We finally had a fireworks holiday without a burn ban, and it seemed like everyone joined in on the fun. I didn't even have to buy many fireworks. I had plenty left over from the 4th of July, which was great seeing as how most of the stands were out of gear.
My accomplices this year were my cousin James, his girlfriend Valerie, and their friend. Normally I cause havoc on my mom's cul-de-sac, but I didn't want to risk dealing the neighbors all night. Besides, I had some real firepower this time, so we shot fireworks at Valerie and James' place. At first we had to be careful because Val's drunk father was there, and he'd give us hell if he saw us using anything home-made. When we arrived, Val's family was out firing those little confetti pop-guns and some spinners, so James and I felt we had to give a demonstration of our "destructive capabilities." We launched 4 mortars into the sky inadvertently starting a firework war with the rednecks down the street. The next half hour was spent firing little things waiting for the old man to go to bed.
Good God, as soon as he hit the bed we pulled out everything and went crazy. We had every assortment of kaboom known to civilized man; dozens of rockets, 2 cases of mini-rockets, enough mortar shells to start a border conflict with Canada, water dynamite, a case of sparklers, flashers, tanks, fliers, a brick of jumping jacks, and a seemingly endless supply of camellia flowers. We all knew the worst part was those bastard homemades of mine. Unpredictable monsters, they could go with a poof making a lot of smoke and flare like such second-rate magician or they could go up with such force that those worthless cops figured we were terrorists. Of course they were right, but that's not the point. Once you've lit as many fuses as James and me you realize where the danger lies. Some might call me insane for using an giant decorative plastic candy cane to fire rockets out of, but all I see is a thick layer of plastic protecting my hands from all the spraying sparks.
But my God, what was I thinking when I turned that toolbox into road dynamite? I loaded that wooden crate with maybe a pound of powder all encapsulated within a giant Centrum bottle. All night I was dreading the idea of setting that demon in the road and lighting it, but it was my creation. I was the mad scientist here, so it was up to me to go up in flames if I fucked that one up. Come ten o'clock I decided it was time. Even if it killed us all, it wouldn't make the nightly news, so no better time then that. I screamed out to everyone "I'm lighting it! Get back!" I didn't even have to show them what "it" was. They had seen it. They knew. James and I set the monster in the street with a pretty little red toy convertible and a soldier on it, as if we were making some psychotic Corvette advertisement. James ran back to set up his camera, there's no way you can do something so foolish and Not get it on camera. It's un-American, dammit! I hit the lighter against the fuse and the second I heard that hiss I ran like a gold medalist track star. Once I reached James I turned to face it and for a second I wondered "Good God! Is anything going to happen? What if it doesn't blow?" I only wondered for a second, because the monster answered my silent question. Few people ever experience instant daylight, but for all of us ducked behind cars and trees and with camera lenses against our eyes, well, for that second it was noon.
We had unleashed the monster, and she was furious. She roared like a battlefield and a massive flare of hellfire and colored sparks covered the street. None of us were even aware of the shrapnel that must have been passing us. Being a poet at heart, the first thing I uttered beautifully encapsulated the moment for all of us: "Holy Shit! Did you see that!" It was like we were the first Louisianians to launch a red plastic convertible into low orbit. We were a team of NASA computer techs cheering at the Apollo rocket.
I don't know what I expected when I ran over to see the wreckage. Certainly there were chunks of plastic scattered with the wooden planks and our brave soldier's left arm? Well, we did find that stuff, but not at the site. There was only the base of the toolbox on the ground. We had to find our wreckage though. No true bomb jockey will blow up something without carefully examining the mayhem he's caused. We were still finding chunks of wood at 1am. The doors were gone, probably landed somewhere in Mississippi. The convertible was a twisted mass of char and red plastic, it's passenger now a quadriplegic. Poor brave bastard. The bomb itself? Only a crack in the side. We found it on the side of the road looking as though someone had simply stepped on it by accident. All the other bits and pieces were scattered along th length of the neighborhood. We received the highest approval by our brothers, the entire block was silent. The normal people were too scared to come out, the firework groupies too stunned to light a Black Cat. Maybe the pretty shows overlooking the Statue of Liberty get applause; I always found stunned silence to show much more respect.
There was no possible way to top that, so the rest of the night was spent testing our stranger devices. Turns out a foam football packed with black powder will leave a perfect smoke ring in the air, ethyl alcohol actually prevents fuses from lighting, and t-shirts can't put out plastic fires.
Our only duty for the rest of the night was to win the war against the rednecks. They had scoffed our mortars with their own launch, and after a particularly good shell burst, their children taunted us. The only option was to unload in their yard at Midnight. My ammunition lay on an angled piece of cardboard, 60-odd assorted rockets of varying power; from the screamers to the murderous Black Cats to the tiny humiliating hand rockets. In the midst of all the crackers going off and the fountains and mortars, I launched every one of those missiles at the neighbors. That'll teach those kids to call us "fuckers."
Happy New Year
My accomplices this year were my cousin James, his girlfriend Valerie, and their friend. Normally I cause havoc on my mom's cul-de-sac, but I didn't want to risk dealing the neighbors all night. Besides, I had some real firepower this time, so we shot fireworks at Valerie and James' place. At first we had to be careful because Val's drunk father was there, and he'd give us hell if he saw us using anything home-made. When we arrived, Val's family was out firing those little confetti pop-guns and some spinners, so James and I felt we had to give a demonstration of our "destructive capabilities." We launched 4 mortars into the sky inadvertently starting a firework war with the rednecks down the street. The next half hour was spent firing little things waiting for the old man to go to bed.
Good God, as soon as he hit the bed we pulled out everything and went crazy. We had every assortment of kaboom known to civilized man; dozens of rockets, 2 cases of mini-rockets, enough mortar shells to start a border conflict with Canada, water dynamite, a case of sparklers, flashers, tanks, fliers, a brick of jumping jacks, and a seemingly endless supply of camellia flowers. We all knew the worst part was those bastard homemades of mine. Unpredictable monsters, they could go with a poof making a lot of smoke and flare like such second-rate magician or they could go up with such force that those worthless cops figured we were terrorists. Of course they were right, but that's not the point. Once you've lit as many fuses as James and me you realize where the danger lies. Some might call me insane for using an giant decorative plastic candy cane to fire rockets out of, but all I see is a thick layer of plastic protecting my hands from all the spraying sparks.
But my God, what was I thinking when I turned that toolbox into road dynamite? I loaded that wooden crate with maybe a pound of powder all encapsulated within a giant Centrum bottle. All night I was dreading the idea of setting that demon in the road and lighting it, but it was my creation. I was the mad scientist here, so it was up to me to go up in flames if I fucked that one up. Come ten o'clock I decided it was time. Even if it killed us all, it wouldn't make the nightly news, so no better time then that. I screamed out to everyone "I'm lighting it! Get back!" I didn't even have to show them what "it" was. They had seen it. They knew. James and I set the monster in the street with a pretty little red toy convertible and a soldier on it, as if we were making some psychotic Corvette advertisement. James ran back to set up his camera, there's no way you can do something so foolish and Not get it on camera. It's un-American, dammit! I hit the lighter against the fuse and the second I heard that hiss I ran like a gold medalist track star. Once I reached James I turned to face it and for a second I wondered "Good God! Is anything going to happen? What if it doesn't blow?" I only wondered for a second, because the monster answered my silent question. Few people ever experience instant daylight, but for all of us ducked behind cars and trees and with camera lenses against our eyes, well, for that second it was noon.
We had unleashed the monster, and she was furious. She roared like a battlefield and a massive flare of hellfire and colored sparks covered the street. None of us were even aware of the shrapnel that must have been passing us. Being a poet at heart, the first thing I uttered beautifully encapsulated the moment for all of us: "Holy Shit! Did you see that!" It was like we were the first Louisianians to launch a red plastic convertible into low orbit. We were a team of NASA computer techs cheering at the Apollo rocket.
I don't know what I expected when I ran over to see the wreckage. Certainly there were chunks of plastic scattered with the wooden planks and our brave soldier's left arm? Well, we did find that stuff, but not at the site. There was only the base of the toolbox on the ground. We had to find our wreckage though. No true bomb jockey will blow up something without carefully examining the mayhem he's caused. We were still finding chunks of wood at 1am. The doors were gone, probably landed somewhere in Mississippi. The convertible was a twisted mass of char and red plastic, it's passenger now a quadriplegic. Poor brave bastard. The bomb itself? Only a crack in the side. We found it on the side of the road looking as though someone had simply stepped on it by accident. All the other bits and pieces were scattered along th length of the neighborhood. We received the highest approval by our brothers, the entire block was silent. The normal people were too scared to come out, the firework groupies too stunned to light a Black Cat. Maybe the pretty shows overlooking the Statue of Liberty get applause; I always found stunned silence to show much more respect.
There was no possible way to top that, so the rest of the night was spent testing our stranger devices. Turns out a foam football packed with black powder will leave a perfect smoke ring in the air, ethyl alcohol actually prevents fuses from lighting, and t-shirts can't put out plastic fires.
Our only duty for the rest of the night was to win the war against the rednecks. They had scoffed our mortars with their own launch, and after a particularly good shell burst, their children taunted us. The only option was to unload in their yard at Midnight. My ammunition lay on an angled piece of cardboard, 60-odd assorted rockets of varying power; from the screamers to the murderous Black Cats to the tiny humiliating hand rockets. In the midst of all the crackers going off and the fountains and mortars, I launched every one of those missiles at the neighbors. That'll teach those kids to call us "fuckers."
Happy New Year