The Chris Moeller Archives

Chris glares back at the rockets' red glare

Independence Day is one of my favorite holidays. It's an occasion for Americans to take a much-needed break from their constant fretting over the plight of other nations and pay a little tribute to their own. It's also the season for fireworks.

When once asked if he liked motorcycles, George Carlin responded, "I like motorcycle accidents." That's essentially the way I feel about fireworks. Then there's also the way Mort Sahl said he felt about General William Westmoreland during the Vietnam War, when the Army Chief of Staff would appear on television decorated with all of his medals--Distinguished Service, Bronze Star, et al. "Very impressive!" Sahl said, "If you're twelve."

During the summer, fireworks go off in downtown Des Moines at about 10pm every other Friday night following a ballgame. From where I can live, I can hear them loud and clear, but never see them. This is the equivalent of being a guy who has to take the neighbors' dog out to take a shit. I get all of the inconvenience, none of the perks. When the illicit firecrackers, bottle rockets, and Roman candles, up from Borderfuck, Missouri, start exploding around the neighborhood this time of year, I root openly for user error. Nothing life-threatening, mind you, maybe just some jagged fragmentation cutting through the ankle or shin of the principal attendant. A blown off digit would send a powerful message to others that would try to disturb my time and peace away from work.

Aerial, civic-related fireworks have their advantages, I concede. They mark important home runs and victories by the home team. They make it easy for me to beat the traffic when they're tacked on to the end of more interesting outdoor events. Our ozone layer is probably beyond saving anyway so their damage to our air quality can be mostly ignored after the smoke has blown away. I really just don't need to see any more fireworks displays for the rest of my life. They don't excite me. They're loud, and the rhythm of their explosions is not made more appealing, aesthetically, by coordinating it with the greatest hits of Lee Greenwood. They disrupt the natural world, which for me is plenty colorful and exciting as is. And the displays never change. To my knowledge, there hasn't been any revolutionary new technique or design employed in the pyrotechnic industry for years. They're a modicum of danger combined with almost no feeling of adventure. I can top both by staying at home and putting random household items in the microwave.

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Broken washing machine holiday update: I haven't had to resort to bathtub washing yet. Turns out it's easier so far just to keep buying new clothes. Also, I still haven't invested in a washboard. I got to thinking: Why not save more money and just use my abs? I mean, am I right, people?

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A Groucho anecdote from Dick Cavett's book "Talk Show" (Disclosure: the earlier Mort Sahl line comes from that book also): Groucho was lunching with the late John Guedel, whose name you've seen as producer on the credits of "You Bet Your Life." A couple approached the table and the man said, "Groucho, we just adore you. Say something insulting to my wife." Groucho looked her over and said to the husband, "With a wife like that you should be able to think of your own insults."

posted by CM @ 4:48 PM