What was I afraid of, exactly?

And finally, in the second-to-last week of my 23rd year of life, I got drunk.

It's about time.

Farewell "Spec"tacular

O Brother, where art thou?

Here is my contribution to the celebration, such as it is.

So, Spec is getting ready to live it up in the NYC. Not that I can blame him, as this Swing State doesn't have much to offer by way of art and entertainment and excitement and culture.

I'm conflicted, to be sure. On one hand, I am happy for you. You saw your opportunity; you saw what you wanted; you took it. You've got guts, my friend. You've got balls (unless you decide to give blood to the Red Cross by your . . . unconventional means, but I digress).

On the other hand, I'm selfish. Like so many other, more important people are no doubt screaming in your ear, I don't want you to go. It seems like we were just starting to get close, and now you are leaving.

It's funny how things change. I remember when I first met you. If I am being totally honest (and why not, right?), I didn't like you much. There really isn't any tangible rhyme or reason for that, but it was just the first impression. Perhaps it was jealousy. You just seemed so free and fun and open. It was like you could talk to anyone--a perfectly adaptable social butterfly.

Then I actually talked with you, and my petty envy faded. I found a guy who was real. I found someone to joke with and bounce ideas off of. To quote the critically underappreciated Zoolander:

You're my brother. And when I say brother, I don't mean, like, an actual brother, but I mean it like the way black people use it. Which is more meaningful I think.

This sucks, but I support you as best I can. Maybe I'll actually see NYC someday, now that I have an "in". Enjoy the ride, Spec.

My friend, my brother, I shall miss you--more than I'll probably ever admit.

Fireworks in the sky . . . and in my hair

So I went to go check out some local fireworks with the wife, my sister, and her boyfriend. This has become something of a tradition with us--inasmuch as you can call 2 or 3 years in a row a "tradition." We typically arrive a couple of hours early so we can get good seats and people watch (and let me tell you, there is a cornucopia of rejects, rednecks, and white trash from all walks of life at this place).

Speaking of rednecks, this year the wife and I were treated to the story of my sister's boyfriend's family. My sister's boyfriend, let's call him Deano, had a pretty messed up childhood. His family is fucked up beyond words. I thought that my litany of half-siblings and illegitimate sisters was confusing, but my family is Rockwellian by comparison. I honestly lost track of the various combinations of parents Deano's siblings had. Apparently, a couple of his brothers are in jail, his sister has totaled 6 vehicles (she's 20, by the way--and tips the scales at over 400 lbs.), and one of his brothers, Nugget (seriously, that is what they call him), goes around stealing money from his mother's purse and feels the need to greet everyone he meets with a swift kick to the groin. I also guess that this "Nugget" is technically Deano's brother and nephew. Seriously.

After being serenaded by these stories, it was finally time for the fireworks. Now, I like fireworks to an extent. They are pretty. They are pretty loud. And, in the right instance with the right person, they can be kinda romantic. We always sit close to the action for this particular fireworks display, and we have, on occasion, been hit with some debris from the spent sky flowers. Usually, this is not a big deal.

Sadly, this was not the case Monday night.

At first, I just thought that the mosquitoes were coming out, which would not be unusual. However, I soon came to realize that the constant barrage of skin contact was not from any bug. It was literally raining cardboard on us the entire 20 or so minutes of the fireworks. Many of the pieces were about the size of a quarter. Some of the pieces, such as the chunk that landed just behind us, were the size of my fist. Others still continued to burn as they descended towards the ground. At one point, a rather stubborn piece hit the wife in her hand, which left quite a nice bruise.

Now, you'd think that we would have moved or something, but there really wasn't any room to move or position ourselves more out of harm's way. So, like soulless, lifeless zombies (for those of you who have had the misfortune of seeing Land of the Dead), we continued to stare at the pretty lights.