Happy 5th of July everyone! Hopefully no fingers were blown off yesterday. Actually, at least a few times in my younger (and dumber) years, I have had firecrackers go off in my hand. I can tell it to you straight that it hurts like a $#!@#@**&!, but, temporary pain aside, all ten of my fingers are still right where they’re supposed to be!
In keeping with an informal tradition of a handful of years, our neighbor joined us for a simple dinner at our favorite local spot, after which we retired to the deck of the Chateau Working Stiff for too much excellent California wine. We did light off a few packs of Black Cats and a small assortment of other spinning, whizzing, and spark-shooting things out in the street in front of the house. Apart from that we retired without bothering to catch any of the major firework displays that must have been airing on all the networks. One of the firecrackers must have somehow gotten inside my skull, because I remember having to get up at about 2:30 to take a Motrin. Or maybe that was the wine.