Thursday, July 07, 2005
Fireworks Induced Psychosis Creates Chaos, Claims Thumb of One
Spinner Ranch, Brewman. It was "that time of year again" as members of the Spinner Clan and friends expressed their patriotic love of fireworks by blowing up that which they love, fireworks. Indeed. Four days of madness began when Bathan Spabor ambled down to the P-Ranch from Minneapolis, prepared to light fountains and nervously tap his foot while persuing everyone with a cold bottle of Rolling Rock held aloft like the blood of Christ. Against all advice, he took 169 instead of I35, creating a four hour drive out of what might have only been three.
"Why did you do that Bathan?" asked the Rag Files.
"Oh, I don't know," responded Spabor. "Just felt like it maybe."
Day Two began with the shelling of of the P-Ranch with high powered mortar rounds, more fountains and roman candles. As the madness took effect, hordes of friends and family converged from miles away, frantically tearing at the ground and grilling burgers and brats while imbibing great quantities of Bud Light and Miller High Life, the champagne of beers. "More! More! More!" they all screamed until all the fireworks, couches, window frames, beer brats, burgers, charcoal and clean air had been consumed in the flames of perdition's revenge. From the ashes of this chaos, thick plumes of black smoke arose and hooded, jackboot clad occultists traversed the landscape with ritual swords, calming beheading any survivors.
And then there was even more fireworks, upon the less than timely but still welcome arrival of Hair-e's sober brother Dalius from the cities. Temporarily released on a day pass by the will of his gay dad's, the brother arrived in a fifty foot lincoln continental aircraft carrier replete with undulating missles, sparklers, snakes, glow worms, mortars, fountains, roman candles, bottle rockets and lighters. After giving up drugs and alcohol, he had to sign a pledge stating his willingness to cut down trees and light fireworks at every opportunity. And the 12th step of AA is, "God grant me the serenity to light off the things I can, to always avoid getting caught, to burn the fucker down and the wisdom to know when I hath burnt mine self." Toward that end, poor Dalius did not succeed. Part of his problem involved the Method of Ignition. My brother's prefered method is to line up a bunch of rockets, light several sparklers and hold them by the rockets until everything blows up. Unfortunately, sparklers burn hot--as evidenced by a KARE 11 news story that showed what sparklers can do when handed to careless manniquins. In a sad display that demonstrated that manniquins had better reaction time than he, my poor brother lit his thumb on fire whist attempting to light stuff off. I came running with first aid, but my offer was soundly rejected, even as I bagan to choke on the smell of burnt thumb. "No man just wait! I gotta do these mortars!" was his reply. When I finally gained access to the thumb, it looked black and red and wider than it was long, courtesy of a mountainous blister.
Despite such tribulations the event was mostly filled with violence, stress, panic comradery and warm feelings in unequal portions. The former were fleeting and felt only upon the onset of separation anxiety, the breaking of bones or the spilling of blood. The latter were felt more or less continusly and celebrated by the drinking of mass produced liver poison and the burning and eating of dead flesh. Tents and blood pressures were raised, but not flags. Tempers were lowered, fires kindled and laughter in and of the darkness and the dark things we laughed about: Little Bear Spinner's Tale of the Bloody Finger, Lost Bird's tragicomic sufferings from which he'll rise above eventually, the burning of brothers' fingers and stubborn refusals of first aid, rain, wind, wet heat and the near biblical torments, and burning hydrocarbons released unto the great lung of mother earth.
These were the times that were ours.
"Why did you do that Bathan?" asked the Rag Files.
"Oh, I don't know," responded Spabor. "Just felt like it maybe."
Day Two began with the shelling of of the P-Ranch with high powered mortar rounds, more fountains and roman candles. As the madness took effect, hordes of friends and family converged from miles away, frantically tearing at the ground and grilling burgers and brats while imbibing great quantities of Bud Light and Miller High Life, the champagne of beers. "More! More! More!" they all screamed until all the fireworks, couches, window frames, beer brats, burgers, charcoal and clean air had been consumed in the flames of perdition's revenge. From the ashes of this chaos, thick plumes of black smoke arose and hooded, jackboot clad occultists traversed the landscape with ritual swords, calming beheading any survivors.
And then there was even more fireworks, upon the less than timely but still welcome arrival of Hair-e's sober brother Dalius from the cities. Temporarily released on a day pass by the will of his gay dad's, the brother arrived in a fifty foot lincoln continental aircraft carrier replete with undulating missles, sparklers, snakes, glow worms, mortars, fountains, roman candles, bottle rockets and lighters. After giving up drugs and alcohol, he had to sign a pledge stating his willingness to cut down trees and light fireworks at every opportunity. And the 12th step of AA is, "God grant me the serenity to light off the things I can, to always avoid getting caught, to burn the fucker down and the wisdom to know when I hath burnt mine self." Toward that end, poor Dalius did not succeed. Part of his problem involved the Method of Ignition. My brother's prefered method is to line up a bunch of rockets, light several sparklers and hold them by the rockets until everything blows up. Unfortunately, sparklers burn hot--as evidenced by a KARE 11 news story that showed what sparklers can do when handed to careless manniquins. In a sad display that demonstrated that manniquins had better reaction time than he, my poor brother lit his thumb on fire whist attempting to light stuff off. I came running with first aid, but my offer was soundly rejected, even as I bagan to choke on the smell of burnt thumb. "No man just wait! I gotta do these mortars!" was his reply. When I finally gained access to the thumb, it looked black and red and wider than it was long, courtesy of a mountainous blister.
Despite such tribulations the event was mostly filled with violence, stress, panic comradery and warm feelings in unequal portions. The former were fleeting and felt only upon the onset of separation anxiety, the breaking of bones or the spilling of blood. The latter were felt more or less continusly and celebrated by the drinking of mass produced liver poison and the burning and eating of dead flesh. Tents and blood pressures were raised, but not flags. Tempers were lowered, fires kindled and laughter in and of the darkness and the dark things we laughed about: Little Bear Spinner's Tale of the Bloody Finger, Lost Bird's tragicomic sufferings from which he'll rise above eventually, the burning of brothers' fingers and stubborn refusals of first aid, rain, wind, wet heat and the near biblical torments, and burning hydrocarbons released unto the great lung of mother earth.
These were the times that were ours.
