Moments later, a raging grease fire started and the temperature gauge on the grill maxed at 800 degrees F. Just for show, folks.

With apologies to Cheap Trick, this is me saying hello to the very, very small number of readers who have enough gumption and perseverance to power a small village, end a protracted conflict in a terrorist-sponsored country, and still have time to do my dishes. Kudos to you, friend.

But wait, you have questions? Where I’ve been? What I’ve been up to? These may get answered in time; but know that I’m a little older now, I’ve seen more doctors this month than I’ve seen in a decade, and July is over (pretty much.)

What the hell happened?!

Let us take a moment to thank our Founding Father’s for their perseverance in bringing us the right to bear arms, and that includes blowing off said arms with incendiary fireworks.

The best of the bunch is also the most-dangerous of all, the common sparkler (a. sparkelousalloveryourarm.) Silent and beautiful, these blow-torches on-a-stick seem to be slightly more exciting than smoke bombs that fill backyards with noxious fumes, killing the family pet. Directions are simple. Load one or twelve into a single hand; wave like you just don’t care. Oh, jesus, keep that thing away from your face! It’s too late, isn’t it?

I had the privilege of working Independence Day, a holiday spent nervously planning sight-lines and traffic escapes for that evening’s big show downtown. Just imagine some idiot driving his vehicle onto sidewalks, then running straight down the middle of a street holding a heavy tripod in each hand. And that wasn’t me.