Sales fizzled again last year here at the Clear Creek Ranch fireworks stand. The new pre-purchase screening protocol I imposed may be to blame. Between the written and oral tests, plus the background and liability insurance checks, the compulsory safety video, and the implantation of GPS satellite tracking devices, it is a good two days before a patriotic pyromaniac can even get close to an M-80 around here.
Still, it seems a small price to pay to be able to blow something up to celebrate our declaration of independence from England, AND support a worthy cause (me) at the same time.
Perhaps the test was too hard. Some examples: How many future U.S. presidents signed the declaration? Name the signers whose faces currently appear on our paper currency. Who REALLY wrote the declaration, Thomas Jefferson or Thomas Paine? How many years did the revolutionary war last? What Indians can we thank for distracting the British and keeping the war from lasting even longer?
And the essay question: Just how independent are we? The majority in both the U.S.A. and England speak English, (although I DO require subtitles and a glossary when viewing British films or American hip-hop videos). Both countries have red, white and blue flags and both enjoy ongoing political intrigues around the world.
The Brits once burned Washington D.C. to the ground, yet we bailed them out of TWO world wars, AND took over several of their botched diplomatic operations in the Middle East, including the deadly and unsolvable Gordian knot that is Arab/Israeli politics.
They gave us Russell Brand and Eddie Izzard. We MUST do something about that exchange rate.
Their dysfunctional royal family is OUR dysfunctional royal family. A royal ex-wife does American television info-mercials for weight loss schemes. The media keeps us better informed on the comings and goings of the royal grandkids than we are of our own.
Independent or not, July 4th is a day for making loud noises and exploding things. Too bad the founding fathers didn't take into account how tinder box dry things are this time of year. If only they signed their petition during the rainy season! But then they were NOT "safe and sane," they were revolutionaries.
As parched as things are right now, one stray bottle rocket and there goes the neighborhood, up in smoke. The same is true in the towns near Clear Creek Ranch. Chock full of picturesque 125 year old Victorians, aka expensive stacks of kindling. Yet each year, fundraisers in town flog explosives in the name of charity AND patriotism. It is hard to argue against, and hard to understand at the same time.
Which is why, here at the ranch fireworks stand, we only sell to folks with working VCRs. Our fireworks displays are on VHS or DVD only. No need to huddle outside in the dark, nursing that holiday sunburn and being eaten alive by mosquitoes, on the off chance of seeing the neighborhood in flames.
Just slip into something red, white and blue and douse the house lights. We've compiled a two hour assortment of the best fireworks displays ever taped "off the air." Replay that quintuple starburst with the cherry bomb punctuation as many times as you want and fast-forward through the commercials.
And if you really want to be patriotic, splurge on the largest big-screen, flat screen, high definition TV you can find. Because if there are two things that make America great, they are blowing up things and throwing money around. And when you can combine the two, well, that is revolutionary. Or is it revolting?
Perhaps this 4th is the day to find out.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
How NOT to Change a Lightbulb
"That light is burned out in the cellar again," my wife announced brightly.
"And which cellar would that be?" I asked. "Our root cellar -- home to grotesque semi-comatose vegetable species not normally found in nature? Or our wine cellar -- final resting place to several vintages of home-bottled Chateau de Clear Creek wine in various shades of murky brown or gray (the contents, not the glass)?The glass is dark green to obscure the floating chunks. Or our brick-lined combination mildew farm/frog grotto -- the one with the seasonally-submerged chandelier?"
"You aren't going to start singing 'Sump-where Under The Rainbow' again, are you? That always scares the cats."
By the way, we have only one cellar, but it has served all the above-mentioned purposes over the years. I hand-dug it during my "Voluntary Simplicity" phase. (Voluntary Stupidity, perhaps?) Its sole function is as a reliable gauge for the level of the local water table. Just check the high water marks, when the light isn't burned out or submerged.
"Let's convert the cellar to a darkroom," I said.
"What's to convert?" my wife said dimly. "With the bulb burned out, it's as dark as it gets in there."
"I mean a photography darkroom. I can develop prints documenting the quaint aspects our rustic lifestyle."
"Tell me, Prints Charming, how much will this cost?"
I gave her a dollars-and-cents answer, but forgot to include the sense, ie the emotional wear-and-tear factor. She agreed, but thought it was an elaborate way to avoid changing a light bulb.
I had a new focus in life and couldn't wait to see what developed. There were things to buy and plans to make. I pictured a pleasant pastime zooming into a new career. Perhaps I could produce a slick coffee table book of poignant black-and-white photographs.
My wife reminded me of my tendency to flit from one project to next, rarely completing any of them.
"You could write an autobiography," she said. "Call it 'The Great Gadfly."
"I prefer the lens-name F-stop FitzDrummond." Literary critics are everywhere.
I did not buy a point-and-shoot, automatic-everything camera. They are fine for tourist snapshots, but not for the epic volume I had in mind. And there is something macho about owning a telephoto lens so big it needs straps and a tripod to support it.
I took a crash course in photography: shutter speeds, diaphragms, lenses, aperture settings, emulsions, chemistry, physics, light meters, enlargers, tripod etiquette, and more. And acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of cheese names, as in "say cheese," "edam and weep," etc., depending on the mood required.
Soon I was a vision in my photographer's vest, festooned with film cans, spare lenses, camera straps, pouches, filters, and more straps.
But no one told me about the Rule of Thumb. Mine is always there in the foreground of every print, out of focus, somewhere between the lens and the subject. Giving new meaning to the term camera obscura.
As my wife had predicted, F-stop FitzDrummond's darkroom soon reverted to its more primitive nature -- home to stalagmite and stalactite wannabees. (No, I do not know which is which).
And at the risk of being charged with Polonius assault, I've finally learned a lesson from Shakespeare's Hamlet, "Neither a burrower nor a lenser be."
Or for you Latin lovers, "Caveat Snaptor."
(Note: this was composed in my pre-digital daze.)
"And which cellar would that be?" I asked. "Our root cellar -- home to grotesque semi-comatose vegetable species not normally found in nature? Or our wine cellar -- final resting place to several vintages of home-bottled Chateau de Clear Creek wine in various shades of murky brown or gray (the contents, not the glass)?The glass is dark green to obscure the floating chunks. Or our brick-lined combination mildew farm/frog grotto -- the one with the seasonally-submerged chandelier?"
"You aren't going to start singing 'Sump-where Under The Rainbow' again, are you? That always scares the cats."
By the way, we have only one cellar, but it has served all the above-mentioned purposes over the years. I hand-dug it during my "Voluntary Simplicity" phase. (Voluntary Stupidity, perhaps?) Its sole function is as a reliable gauge for the level of the local water table. Just check the high water marks, when the light isn't burned out or submerged.
"Let's convert the cellar to a darkroom," I said.
"What's to convert?" my wife said dimly. "With the bulb burned out, it's as dark as it gets in there."
"I mean a photography darkroom. I can develop prints documenting the quaint aspects our rustic lifestyle."
"Tell me, Prints Charming, how much will this cost?"
I gave her a dollars-and-cents answer, but forgot to include the sense, ie the emotional wear-and-tear factor. She agreed, but thought it was an elaborate way to avoid changing a light bulb.
I had a new focus in life and couldn't wait to see what developed. There were things to buy and plans to make. I pictured a pleasant pastime zooming into a new career. Perhaps I could produce a slick coffee table book of poignant black-and-white photographs.
My wife reminded me of my tendency to flit from one project to next, rarely completing any of them.
"You could write an autobiography," she said. "Call it 'The Great Gadfly."
"I prefer the lens-name F-stop FitzDrummond." Literary critics are everywhere.
I did not buy a point-and-shoot, automatic-everything camera. They are fine for tourist snapshots, but not for the epic volume I had in mind. And there is something macho about owning a telephoto lens so big it needs straps and a tripod to support it.
I took a crash course in photography: shutter speeds, diaphragms, lenses, aperture settings, emulsions, chemistry, physics, light meters, enlargers, tripod etiquette, and more. And acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of cheese names, as in "say cheese," "edam and weep," etc., depending on the mood required.
Soon I was a vision in my photographer's vest, festooned with film cans, spare lenses, camera straps, pouches, filters, and more straps.
But no one told me about the Rule of Thumb. Mine is always there in the foreground of every print, out of focus, somewhere between the lens and the subject. Giving new meaning to the term camera obscura.
As my wife had predicted, F-stop FitzDrummond's darkroom soon reverted to its more primitive nature -- home to stalagmite and stalactite wannabees. (No, I do not know which is which).
And at the risk of being charged with Polonius assault, I've finally learned a lesson from Shakespeare's Hamlet, "Neither a burrower nor a lenser be."
Or for you Latin lovers, "Caveat Snaptor."
(Note: this was composed in my pre-digital daze.)
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