This Could Be Awesome, or Blow My Hand Off

Notes from a pre-teen pyromaniac.

Jun 29, 2024

“Baby you're a firework, come on, let your colors burst!”

― Katy Perry

“You're gonna stand there, owning a fireworks stand, and tell me you don't have no whistlin bungholes, no spleen splitters, whisker biscuits, honkey lighters, hoosker dos, hoosker don’ts, cherry bombs, nipsy daisers, with or without the scooter stick, or a single whistlin kitty chaser?”

― Joe Dirt

“I love listening to fireworks on the radio.”

― Brian Lund

Though I will deny it in court, even at an age when I should be well beyond such nonsense, during the dog days of summer I’m often guilty of pouring cold water on the hot asphalt in front of my house—just for the smell.

Smell is the sense most closely connected to memory, and this one rockets me back in time to my grandparents' house and the endless days spent with my cousins launching ourselves into their pool, then climbing out and racing across the scorching blacktop for our next turn in line.

Yet, as vivid as this memory is, it takes a back seat to the 800lb gorilla of cherished summer memories—the arrival of the fireworks stands.

I don't know how it works in other parts of the country, but where I live, it’s only legal to sell fireworks during the 5-day runup to the 4th.

However, the evil marketing geniuses that are the fireworks executives make sure their stands are set up in supermarket, strip mall, and church parking lots weeks before to whet the appetites of local pyromaniacs.

I was one of those pyromaniacs.

For me, watching these stands go up was like visual crack.

I loved the colors, the graphics, and the awkwardly translated yet irresistible names of the fireworks. Names like "Apollo Witches Cauldron,” "Jet Dragon Snake Jumbo," or “English Type Snow Drop.”

To say these sulfurous gunpowder packages didn't quite live up to the excitement their names promised would be an understatement. But no matter how many times an "Ace Lightning Spray Fountain" or “Comet Chaser Carnival (w/ Report)” let me down, I was always hopeful that the next “Double Mega Nuclear Sunrise” would live up to its name.

Eventually, some friends in the know wised me up, and I learned that fireworks season wasn't about buying the family-friendly, "safe and sane" items mandated by California law, it was about connecting with David Sherman.

Think of David Sherman as the eighth-grade version of a rogue arms dealer.

The go-to guy. The connection. The pyrotechnic candy man.

David was the only game in town, and he knew it, channeling his pre-Road Warrior bravado into a signature catchphrase, “You want anything that flies or explodes, you talk to me.”

There were rumors about the source of his contraband, some saying it came from an uncle who lived in Mexico. Others said his stepdad was a cop, who passed on the illegal fireworks he confiscated to curry David’s favor. One kid even swore that he saw a Chinese triad member leave Sherman's house late one night, but it turned out that it was only the takeout guy from Li's Szechwan Palace.

No matter the source, I can mark the start of my pyromaniac transformation to the day my friend Eric Phillips arranged for me to gain access to David’s inner sanctum.

His bedroom.

It wasn't like other kids' bedrooms.

Sure, he had NFL bed sheets and KISS posters on the wall, but there was also an old cigar box full of cash in his sock drawer and a wrist rocket within reach—in case anybody started trouble.

"Hey Phillips, who’s this guy?" he asked.

"It's my buddy, Brian. Brian Lund. He's cool man," replied my suddenly nervous friend.

"Lund, huh? Sounds like a wuss name to me. What do you want, Lund?"

"S-s-s-some firecrackers," I stuttered.

"Firecrackers, huh? You got the money?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Let me see it."

Flush with paper route cash, I in fact had a whole twenty-dollar bill in my pocket, which I showed Sherman.

"Whoa, hey alright," he said, suddenly warming to me. "I think we can do some business."

And with that, he pulled a large box from under his bed filled to the top with the most lovely and beautiful illegal fireworks I’d ever seen.

Bricks of "Black Cat" firecrackers. Pack after pack of "Moon Traveler" bottle rockets. Handfuls of small pink cylinders with tight green fuses known as M-80's.

I bought everything I could and thus began my dicey history with illegal fireworks.

Later that day, I attempted to launch a bottle rocket for the first time. I prepped it by inserting the attached stick into the ground, then lit the fuse. However, to my disappointment, it didn't take off like the promised Moon Traveler. Instead, it merely exploded on the spot, like a firecracker.

Assuming it was faulty, I tried another, but got the same result.

After a couple more ended the same way, I decided to change my tact.

Not yet understanding the concept of a “bottle” rocket, which, to allow for launch, requires the stick to be placed—and this is the important part—loosely, in a bottle or something similar, I reasoned that if all they did was blow up, then I’d use them that way.

So, I broke off the sticks, placed a dozen in a tin can, tied their fuses together, lit the fuse, and stepped back, anticipating a huge explosion.

Instead, five seconds later I was pelted by a stream of fiery projectiles, two of which hit dangerously close to my left eye.

But wait, there’s more 4th of July stupidity to come.

A couple days later I thought it would be cool to throw lit firecrackers into the air.

Still the neophyte, I didn't realize that there’s in fact only one correct way to do so, employing the "light, quick flick" technique.

[Most male readers are nodding their heads knowingly, while most (okay, all) female readers are saying, “What the fuck is it with guys and fireworks?]

Instead, I went full Luis Tiant, the timing of which brought my hand, with lit firecracker, next to my head just as it exploded, leaving both a ringing sensation in my ear and a numbness in my fingertips that lasted for hours.

In subsequent years the mishaps continued, most of which were the result of boredom. That’s the time when you can really get hurt. After all the "good" stuff has been lit. Because as every red-blooded American knows, when all you have left is the boring stuff, goddamn it, it’s your job to make them less boring.

Case in point. One year, I gathered all the "duds,” opened them up, poured their contents together, and leaned over to light the pile.

Here’s a pro tip. The real world is different than the movies. No matter how fast you are, you can NOT move faster than gunpowder can ignite.

The hot flash that burst into my face left me seeing colored spots for hours, though, fortunately, I avoided further damage. Or so I thought, until I checked in with my parents later that day and my mom screamed, "what the hell happened to your eyelashes?"

But this wasn’t the end of my work in the field of firework innovation.

For example, take that most embarrassing of fireworks, the “Ground Bloom Flower,” which, get this, changes colors while spinning, on the ground.

Snore.

Just like we did with Steve Austin, The Six-Million Dollar Man, I knew I could make it better.

In my previous research, I’d found that if you used a vice to crush a 'Piccolo Pete'—a firework from the 'screamer' category designed to, well, scream—you could force it to explode. It then stood to reason (c’mon, I was twelve) that by making a similar modification to these pedestrian flowers, I could achieve the same result.

Unfortunately, all this did was cause them to wobble and spin out of control, depositing one directly under the gas tank of a neighbor’s car, where it sat, shooting a white-hot stream of fire straight upwards for an extremely long and nervous ten seconds.

Another year, I decided to put my focus towards improving sparklers and snakes, the worst kind of kiddie fireworks.

What I discovered was that if you crush them up and mix them together, they produce a wondrous, colorful flame that not only catches your pants leg on fire, but burns down half of your mother’s prized rose bushes.

Despite years of fireworks experiments gone wrong, I made it through my youth with nary a scar or burn mark—and with all my fingers intact.

Nowadays, things are different. I’m a father. A husband. And in theory, an adult. One who only purchases regulated and approved fireworks.

And when the 4th rolls around, I turn into "Fire Marshall Brian,” strictly adhering to the guidelines suggested by The National Council on Fireworks Safety, which includes setting a perimeter, having a bucket of water standing by, and only handling burned-out cones with metal tongs.

Except for last year, when I had an epic fail.

Lazy, tired, and half-buzzed, I decided to forgo the bucket of water. After all, I reasoned, I’ve picked up burnt out fireworks by hand for years and never felt one that was hot enough to re-combust.

Once the final cone was spent, I gathered up the fallen soldiers, threw them in a plastic bin, and stuck them under a plastic ladder in front of my garage, directly under the patriotic bunting that hung from the eves of my roof.

This, dear reader, is what’s known as foreshadowing.

Then, I wrapped things up, hopped in the shower, and hit the sack early.

Two hours later, I was abruptly awakened by my wife, shouting, “The brunt of the louse is in flowers.”

“What?” I said, groggy and not quite processing what was happening.

“The front of the spouse is inspired,” she said.

“Huh?” I replied, understanding the urgency, but not the message.

“The front of the house is on fire,” she screamed.

Oh, I see.

Bolting to the front of the house, I found a pool of fiery molten plastic where the bin and ladder had once been, and above them, our 4th of July decorations engulfed in flames.

Fortunately, a few shots from the garage fire extinguisher and it was over - except for the shouting.

As I sat there staring at the smoldering remnants, it occurred to me that I’d lost a step. I was no longer the professional pyromaniac I once was. I just didn’t have that spark anymore.

Get it? Spark?

Meh!

Then, out of nowhere, a "Cluster of Bees" shot by, and, rather sadly, hit the ground before it exploded.

I could tell from the trajectory that it came from my neighbor’s house down the street.

“I should probably go down there,” I said to myself.

“I can show him how to make it better.”

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