Hot Times

All it takes is a simple inconvenience, of sufficient magnitude, to see daylight filtering through the cracks in the armor of the arrogant, elitist pseudo-intellects – when the issue becomes large enough to affect not just the lives of the common folk they hold in contempt, but something personally symbolic to them.

The inconvenience could be anything, like the heat. And the dry grassland. I give you the upcoming Independence Day, 2008 Edition. Not just any July 4th – but the driest, and potentially most dangerous in years. Let me not be misunderstood; as Americans, this day should be "personally symbolic" to all of us. But when it comes to those who see value only in terms of dollar signs, we all risk getting burned.

This past week, Governor Schwarzenegger made an urgent request to the state's populace that smacked of an uncommonly high level of common sense, for a politician. He didn't mandate it – he didn't ram-rod it through the legislature and make it a surprise new law – he ASKED us. For that simple favor, we owe it to him to at least listen.

The combination of the heavy dry season, nearly 1,400 wildfires ravaging the state, and the July 4th holiday bearing down, prompted 'Ah-nold' to appeal to the press, with a plea for us all to refrain from lighting fireworks this year.

A blatantly opportunistic "liberal" swipe at our fundamental patriotic traditions, cried the talking heads! (Our republican 'Governator' accused of liberalism?) Why should Californians bear such sacrifice, they asked? The driest summer of a decade? Fires raging up and down the coast? So what??

One such raging mouth, on a local radio program, argued that the Governor's call was a baseless overreaction. There was "no hard evidence" that fireworks cause fires. Huh? Huhh???

True, nearly all of this year's blazes were the result of lightning strikes – those odd, warm thundershowers that pop up sporadically during dry spells, bring sudden downpours that make everyone think the hot spell is breaking, only to dissolve and reappear elsewhere. The part of California where I live had a few. Yet the fires continue. Each morning breeze smells of a gently burning chimney. It's actually kind of nice until you realize that it is everywhere, and actually some huge expanse of acreage – maybe even someone's livelihood – going up in smoke up or down the coast. The evening sun casts a stunning red aura, filtered by the neighboring county's pyre. Radio reports assure us that the blazes are now partially contained. But still very present.

Contrast the percentage of fires caused by lightning throughout the year to those caused by fireworks that are only a factor one day of the year, and sure, the "evidence" probably looks minimal, if not absent, that fireworks are a threat during a dry season. But think slightly deeper. Lightning is an unpredictable force of nature. Fireworks are an unpredictable force of humanity. We're talking about flame-spewing tubes of cardboard, in countless backyards and suburban lots, intentionally set-up and lit by amateurs, likely snookered, whose judgment is probably not that stellar when they are sober.

Those things can, and do, tip over, becoming randomly aimed firebombs launched into neighboring yards, engulfing whole blocks with smoke. I've personally witnessed a few "innocent" backyard fireworks displays go awry and get scary fast. Picture a neighboring house's foot-high hedge suddenly become the Burning Bush of Moses, and our less-than-sober host trying to stomp it out with his bare foot! That is just one image forever emblazoned on my memory from a July 4th celebration past.

At another such Independence Day bash, Yours Truly was loaded enough to walk through a closed screen door without realizing it. Aren't you glad someone else had the matches?

With a "probable event ratio" of 365 to 1, it stands to reason that a pompous erudite could glance at the statistics and conclude that fireworks have been wrongly condemned.

Don't get me wrong. As a child, I enjoyed picking out badass looking planet-busters at the local fireworks stand, begging my parents to buy them, then wiggling with impatience that evening as they were finally lit in our backyard – to either flare up mightily and layer my nostrils with that hoary belch of intoxicating sulphur... or fizzle like a lost erection in an overpriced motel room with a pissed-off hooker.

I grinned wide, zig-zagging, twirling and figure-eighting sparklers against the dark evening shadows, and poked a finger in each ear, with delight, for that small yet mighty king of all fireworks, Piccolo Pete. Each backyard became a mini Los Alamos, and perhaps we should have sported broad-brimmed hats like little Oppenheimers.

I've just described a slice of Americana that perhaps not every future generation will learn to appreciate.

But recall if you can, the huge San Francisco area wildfire of 1991, which cost millions of dollars in lost homes and acreage, not to mention a few lives – and was caused by a tossed away cigarette. Hundreds of residents lighting up cardboard flamethrowers hotter than a thousand cigarettes should not be taken flippantly in a drought year like this. Brittle grass, usually green, pliable and difficult to smolder during a year of normal humidity, might go up like oily cigars in 2008. Yet still they keep a'bitchin' and keep a'burnin'.

"WE'RE SACRIFICING AN AMERICAN INSTITUTION FOR THE RAVINGS OF SOME ENVIRONMENTAL CHICKEN-LITTLES."

Well, this year... yes. I'd rather not be chased out of my home in my underwear, by police enforcing a mandatory evacuation, because some Budweiser burping moron set himself ablaze joking for his tribe of little bastards, holding a lit Red Devil "Fire Fountain" to his crotch – shouting "Hey looky everyone I got me a flame shootin' prick!" – and toasted the whole flippin' neighborhood down with him. Thank you very much.

And let's not forget that small-in-number but large-in-stupidity contingent of July 4th revelers who smuggle in those celebratory WMDs from across the border. Can you say "fuego grande de la muerte?"

Anyone who has read Jean Shepherd's "The Great American Fourth of July and Other Disasters" knows exactly what I'm talking about. Shepherd was the author and narrator of "A Christmas Story," and if you loved that, then you gotta read his equally hilarious send up of Independence Day, which continues the adventures of Ralphie & Family. It was made into a TV movie in 1982, but I've never seen it on VHS or DVD since. A young Matt Dillon plays Ralph, a bit more grown-up than the role immortalized by Peter Billingsley in "Christmas Story." Find it. Rent it. Buy it. The point is, Ralphie's dad is just as big a nut
about July 4th as he is about the Yule Season, and one of the running jokes in the film was that the blasting sirens always found their way to the Parker residence.

"THE LOCAL CIVIC GROUPS WHO DEPEND ON FIREWORK STANDS AS A SOURCE OF ANNUAL REVENUE ARE PENALIZED UNFAIRLY OVER A KNEE-JERK FEAR!"

You mean those groups that lobby local government to impose new taxes on us non-members the rest of the year? That won't let us walk on the grass... that restrict us from parking along the coastline to sight-see – unless we're their personal buddies? Those same people who would probably sue a local bar for putting potentially dangerous people out on the street at closing time? Cry me a river. And route it into the valley!!

I don't want to ban fireworks. I get the All-American Tradition of Proud & Patriotic Fun thing, just fine. Trust me. But instead of moaning about rights and traditions, can't we just look ahead to next year, and hope the weather doesn't make our entire state a potential cinder box again. C'mon, you're getting the day off anyway. Nobody has asked us to ban the barbeques!

In the meantime, here on the coast, July 4th at sundown, we still have a huge city-produced, state-approved, fireworks display that lights up the sky for miles around, out over the bay, lit by professionals who know to count their fingers both before and after the show. It's visible from countless front lawns, from the city park and the beach – where thousands gather to picnic and enjoy the day. It's crowded, sure, but no end of excitement.

And you can tell the difference between them, and the people who still insist on homemade firework shows. Just listen which direction all the sirens are going.

Humbly I say, three cheers for the Governor.