In which I had no narrow escapes from explosives

When we were kids, my brother and I loved to blow stuff up.

He took it a step further with the fire bit, but - like most bad childhood habits - he outgrew that, and the Dumpster lived to see other trash bags.

The Fourth of July was a magical time, sort of like Christmas, but with louder noises and an ever-present scent of burning fuse. Sometimes burning hair and burning flesh, but not too often.

We were experts at lighting impossibly short fuses and running for our lives. We would have been wonder explosives experts in the military. Oddly enough, my brother's now aiming for the other side of that profession, having signed into the Navy last week so Uncle Sam can pay for medical school. Life, you are truly ironic.

Anyway.

Sometime between accidentally branding my arm with the punk (that cattail-looking lighter stick-thing) and becoming responsible for the funding of my own wardrobe and hairstyles, I outgrew the fascinanation with dashing away from explosives. I don't know when it happened or why, but the "Woo!" factor just isn't there anymore. I can't remember the last time I bought actual fireworks. Those champagne poppers for New Year's Eve don't count.

So I was content to sit on a lawnchair surrounded by the Springers and 15,000 strangers Sunday night as we watched a brave Someone Else light off very big explosives. Good show, Gillette. Just wish the finale had been a bit more ... finale-ish. It was like you were just getting started when it was over. Sadness.

Randomness and some stuff that I maybe shouldn't confess ...

I don't know what I was dreaming about, but I woke up at 2:30 a.m. Monday, whisper-yelling "Shoo! Get away! Shoo! SHOO!" at a pair of jeans that was lying on the floor by my bed. No idea ...

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I'm re-reading Harry Potter. All of 'em. We're currenly evading the Prisoner of Azkaban.

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I bought Staind's "Illusion of Progress" while I was home over the weekend. Love the whole thing.

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I'm not a runner, but during my visit to the folks' place, I ran a 5½-mile loop. Twice. It included a brutal uphill stint that I was certain I would never be able to tackle at anything faster than a turtle-ish crawl, but there I was, jogging and panting my way up Boxelder Road. It felt so fantastic that I decided to ditch the Loop-de-Park routine here in Laramie and try a little road running instead.

The result: I'm horrified and humbled by the life-draining difference a couple thousand feet in elevation can make. A full 20 minutes before I'd planned to quit running, I was walking and wheezing, two miles from home. I won't be deterred. Someday, I'll make the full route at 7,200 feet. I will DO it. I just haven't attempted it since. It is Jubilee Days, after all ...

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Dear men of the world (specifically shorts-wearing men of the world): wear underwear.

The horror! Erin and I were simply enjoying a drink of an evening at a local establishment, only to turn around and see it hanging out of Douchebag du Jour's shorts. Pretty sure he did it on purpose, but I suppose it's possible that someone really is that unfortunate in their choice of clothing. I doubt it, though.

The upside was the bartender's reaction when we explained why we were in such a hurry to get the hell out of there and for God's sake, get us our tabs now. I've never seen a guy so grossed out and horrified in my life. Priceless.

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Sarah's Mullings. Perhaps I'll name the next blog that. Thanks for the suggestion, Google-searcher.

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Assholes come in all shapes, sizes, professions and tattoos. The latest nominee to the hall of fame: A thieving, lying, town-skipping former business owner. Seriously, dude ...

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Most of my dreams are incoherent travels through impossible landscapes, strung together in a whirlwind that makes my head hurt when I wake up and try to remember them.

But I've had two dreams lately that, in the midst of the insanity, involved very coherent philosophical conversations with persons imaginary about such things as marriage and love (last night) and faith (sometime last week). It's incredibly odd to wake up and realize I actually had a good, wise thought in the middle of my snoring.