APTOPIX Winter Weather Michigan Pileup
Luckily, those trucks weren't in Ohio.
(Mark Bugnaski)
I have a taste for the black powder: The lit fuse of an M-60 firecracker, or a screaming bottle rocket, or "Hen Laying Egg -- Caution: Emits Flaming Pellets" provides the kind of "U Can't Touch This" adrenalin rush that makes me think of happy endings.
And so it was that I found myself one spring afternoon in the check-out line at an invigorating explosion emporium.
Two fellow pyro-geeks were ponying up cash for some serious noise makers.
The woman at the register directed their attention to a document the state fire marshal requires us connoisseurs of combustibles to fill out. It asks the question: "Destination where the fireworks will be transported?"
I love this part. We're all gonna fire off these weapons of mass amusement right here in Ohio – some of us won't even make it out of the parking lot.
But that is illegal. An attempt to make honest detonators of us failed last year in the Ohio General Assembly and hasn't yet been reintroduced this year.
So we lie.
I try to be creative: "Kabul," "Mogadishu," "Mumbai," "Duckberg."
This time, though, I had the best destination: Asteroid #3834 aka Zappafrank in honor of the orchestral visionary and First Amendment champion whose passionate testimony before the U.S. Congress in 1985 included the indignant and infamous, "Ladies, how dare you!"
That was prompted by the "Parental Advisory" the "Washington Wives," a group of political moms that included Tipper Gore, wanted on music they considered "porn rock."
The two guys in front of me were getting a lecture from the cashier about how she couldn't sell them the fireworks if they weren't taking them out of state.
"Now," she asked. "What is your destination?"
The guys looked at each other. "Toledo," one of them said.
The woman smiled. She looked at me. I smiled. She looked at the state trooper who was standing guard. He didn't smile.
Then she looked up at the two guys. They were 20-somethings, college students maybe.
The cashier went through her spiel again. The guys looked at each other. "Cincinnati," the other guy said.
It didn't seem as if they were buzzed, or brain dead, or beating a one-off joke to death.
The cashier studied them, trying to get a handle on the situation. The trooper sighed and stamped his feet. I wish I had a watch to look at.
The cashier nodded, and gave it another shot.
"Steubenville," the first guy said.
That was it for the trooper. He looked at the two guys, then the cashier and snapped, "Pittsburgh."
The relief was palpable. The guys left with their goodies. I killed with Zappafrank.
Ah, the hypocrisy.
It's as much fun as blowing up stuff.
Christopher Evans is an editorial writer with the Northeast Ohio Media Group when he's not purchasing fireworks to take to Outer Space.