I hate Texas

I live in the only place nearby where it is legal to blow up fireworks. As a result, everyone and their colicky step child heads over here for Independence Day.

For the past week, fireworks have tapered my evening strolls and they’re only going to get worse. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. Tomorrow is the day when all of the firefighters in the area man keep their buttcheeks clenched in hopes of a really big fire to battle.

See, New Mexico is a desert. In deserts, contrary to popular belief, there is a lot of vegetation. That vegetation has evolved to withstand long periods of drought. Thus, the area is a deadly yellow color for the 80 percent of the year when it doesn’t rain. This, without the touch of man, would be perfectly acceptable, as the desert can just spring right back up to life with one rain cloud (it’s really remarkable, actually).

With the touch of man, however, the desert is just so many matchstick heads waiting to ignite. Enter July 4. Enter half a million Texans who care far more about seeing cool explosions than whether or not my hometown burns to the ground.

Tomorrow, like every year, the Chaparral Volunteer Fire Department will have a group lunch, then spend the night patrolling the area. Tomorrow, like every year, a fat Texan child is going to clap his hands at the various Mr. W fireworks. Tomorrow, like ever year, I’m going to stay inside and try to sleep.

Francis Scott Key was right: it’s hard to sleep when there’s rockets bursting in air, you might as well write a poem.

I live in the only place nearby where it is legal to blow up fireworks. As a result, everyone and their colicky step child heads over here for Independence Day. For the past week, fireworks have tapered my evening strolls and they’re only going to get worse. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. Tomorrow is…