I bought fireworks last night. And I'm not talking about the namby pamby wimpworks that are legal in Minnesota. Those are mere sparklers, although I've always held a special place in my heart for jumping jacks, particularly the art of throwing them into the air and watching them arc back to earth like angry enflamed fireflies.
But the fireworks I bought last night were of the illegal Wisconsin variety. The big dogs. The real hazards to life and limb. To purchase these gunpowdery goodies, my friend Marc and I made a run for the border to a place called Prescott, Wis. By itself, Prescott is not an interesting town; it's simply a little burb that straddles the border of Minnesota and Wisconsin. But, not even a mile into the Wisconsin side stand two honking big warehouses stacked to the roof with pyrotechnic joy. Both stores were sporting the sign that sends chills down my spine: Buy One, Get One For 99 Cents.
Be still my beating heart.
It's been awhile since I made a Wisconsin run for fireworks. It used to be my college summer ritual. But ever since I joined the work world, I just haven't had either the time or inclination, or the money, to devote to fireworks. That simply had to change. Last night, I only had one certain goal: I was going to buy artillery shells. I needed artillery shells. With artillery shells, you can turn your simple camping trip into a fireworks extravaganza.
Artillery shells have come a long way since I last bought them, oh those many five years ago. They've gone from impressive newcomers to the fireworks world to the de facto standard. I was not prepared for the variety of artillery shells before me. I just stood in front of a bunker of assorted artillery shells, absorbing the all-encompassing odor of dormant gunpowder. And I learned something as I stood there. Not only have artillery shells changed, they've become shit-assed expensive. They're a lot bigger than I remember, that's for sure. And, now they're capable of multiple air bursts that could rival the displays put on by most cities. And they can blow a hole in your wallet so fast you'd think they were your girlfriend.
But, this is the 4th of July, the birthday of our nation, the biggest excuse of the year to blow some shit up. Money is no object. So, I bought some wicked cool artillery shells for $40, and then I got some more for 99 cents, and then I bought a whole bunch of small stuff, like firecrackers and roman candles and a couple sticks of dynamite, because that shit's just fun to play with.
Let the mayhem ensue.
UPDATE: Oh yeah. I almost forgot. Happy 4th Of July everyone!
IBM routinely makes a head scratcher of an announcement, and it goes something like this:
May I have your attention please. May I have your attention please. This is a test of the site-wide public address system. If you are in an area where you cannot clearly hear this announcement, please call ***-****.
Excuse me, but if you can't hear the damn announcement, how the hell do you know that you're supposed to call to fix the problem? Is this an attempt by Big Blue to encourage employees to get in touch with the zen side of their personalities? Next thing you know, they'll be asking for the sound of one hand clapping.
I can just imagine there's some lucky soul who has been working here for 20 years, in an office where they never, not once, heard a public address announcement. He or she blithely sat through tornado drills, fire drills, Chinese fire drills, 3/4 inch bit drills. I want to be that person. I want to be free of the omnipresent voice of the public address system.
Not that it would make much difference. IBM employees have a strange sixth sense when it comes to knowing when a fire or tornado drill is looming. I've known of every impending drill hours, and sometimes days, ahead of schedule. So, those of us who know the exact day and time a drill is scheduled simply exit the building and go for a nice stroll a few minutes prior to the drill. That way, we opt out of the ridiculous group huddling down on the lower floors or congregating outside. Of course, should an actual fire or tornado hit, I'm pretty much screwed, but whatever.
So, it turns out Kraft is going to try to make its products less heavy on the calories and fat and cholesterol. How do they plan to do this? By making smaller portions, of course. Anyone want to bet the prices will probably remain the same? Anyone?
Here's the deal, people. I eat whatever I want, pretty much whenever I want. Just last night, I ate at Famous Dave's, where I gorged on ribs and fries and beans and corn. And I'm thin as a twig. 6'1" and 165 lbs. My secret? It's not a fucking secret. I exercise. I run. I do hapkido. I walk to places instead of hopping in my car every time I need to go less than five blocks away.
I don't have time for people who make excuses for their sedentary lifestyles. If you choose to lay around watching television or playing computer games all day, fine. Just don't sit there and complain to me that you think you're getting overweight, or you feel sluggish, or your heart stopped. And, most of all, don't blame Kraft for the fact that you can't make it from the kitchen to the living room without breathing hard and taking a break. It's not rocket science. If you eat shit and don't do shit, you're going to feel and look like shit.
It amuses me when I tell my friends I'm going for a run and they look at me like I'm a nutball or something, but then they turn around and wonder why I can scarf down a taco pizza and not gain an ounce. I'm not bragging here. I'm simply pointing out that our culture keeps sending out mixed signals. On the one hand, you're supposed to look like a Greek god or goddess, but if you happen to live an active lifestyle, you're considered a health nut or obsessed with your looks. No, I'm not. I'm obsessed with living a long healthy life, and I'll continue to exercise for as long as my body will allow it. It really isn't that hard to get off your ass. The human body is designed for motion and work, and it's the only one you get, so fucking take care of it.
There, that's my rant.
Last night, I happened to catch the last 10 minutes or so of a Star Trek: The Next Generation rerun. Hey, I'll admit it, I'm a huge fan of TNG. I honestly think I've seen every episode two or more times each. I didn't think much of the first couple of years. I mean, TNG really didn't hit its creative and imaginative stride until year four or so.
If it weren't for Patrick Stewart and his cool portrayel of Capt. Jean-Luc Picard, I think the series would have died on the vine early on. He held things together and managed to string together serious acting performances even during episodes that must have seemed, to him, as if they were scrawled together at the last second by a classroom full of six-year olds.
STEWART: Well, sure, the premise of this episode is that there's a planet out there with a legal system that executes everyone for breaking any rule, from murder to trampling on flowers, and the inhabitants of this planet happen to dress like they're on their way to a Roman orgy, but I'm going to give it my acting all, because I'm a master thespian.
You especially have to hand it to Stewart for not breaking out laughing any time he realized that, in Gene Roddenberry's future, the flagship of the United Federation of Planets would have a FRENCH captain. I mean, come ON! If that were really the case, the Enterprise would have a super-secret "surrender" button that would unfurl a huge white flag from the saucer section. But, that's neither here nor there.
What I really want to know is: what the heck is a tri-corder really? I mean, it's like the Swiss Army knife of technology gadgets. Any time an away team senses danger, it's the tri-corder that sounds the alarm. Need to stabilize the vital signs of a wounded crew member? Well, call in the tri-corder. What's that? You need to reconstitute the DNA fragments of several species to discover a hidden message left by a bygone civilization? You're in luck, because we have a tri-corder for just such a purpose.
In last night's episode, Wesley Crusher used one of the damned things to outwit a sentry that was protecting a water supply. These things can do ANYTHING. And, the thing is, it's not a very big device, and it doesn't have very many buttons. But, in practically every episode, a tri-corder will be called in to solve some sort of problem. In actuality, I think the tri-corder may be the 43rd edition to the Sony Playstation and the Enterprise Crew members are playing super-future versions of Donkey Kong or Q-Bert, hence the intent look of concentration on their faces while working the little machines.
And that's another thing: where the heck are the video games in Star Trek? Here they have the most technologically advanced ship known to man, and the game of choice is: chess. Chess! Okay, so it's a multi-tiered chess game, but it's still chess. Then again, I suppose they have the Holodeck for all their gaming needs, and I have to admit that the holodeck is totally cool. What's amazing about the holodeck, in my opinion, is that it's not in use ALL THE DAMN TIME.
Think about it. . . they have, at their disposal, the ultimate device for living out their fantasies, but they rarely take advantage of it for their own enjoyment. If it were me, I'd have the onboard computer memory chock full of sexual programs involving me, Dr. Crusher, Deanna Troi, Tasha Yar and a few Klingon females thrown into the mix for good measure.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the geekiest post I think I've ever written for this blog.
