As another celebration of the Fourth rolls around, in many parts of the country gunshot-like sounds can be heard, the flash of explosions will litter the landscape where fireworks are legal and, often, where they are not. Fireworks stands spring up like weeds. They sprout, bloom, wither and die all within a couple of weeks.
What's left where I live, is a landscape littered with the aftermath of spent mini-munitions just outside the city limits. That is, if we're lucky. If we're not, we're left with blackened scars from fires upon a tinder dry land.
It's all part of America's love and long tradition with pyrotechnics, from Roman candles to bunker busters. Whether they be for amusement, or death, it's always about "good business." Never mind the litter of spent sparklers on roadsides, shattered nerves of wildlife and domestic animals -- or worse -- on much grander scales in places like Iraq or Afghanistan.
Sometimes I wonder why explosives as toys, or bombs as weapons, are counted as part of the Gross National Product? (Product, production, productivity implies the creation of something useful, of something "productive," doesn't it?) I mean, the sole purpose of explosives is to blow up and in the process destroy shit. But I digress.
Happy Fourth of July everybody!
* while this is just part of a quote intended for the original Declaration of Independence by Jefferson, it was edited out in order for Southern owners to sign the Declaration and still own slaves.