Here in the blogosphere, lots of writers will be crafting posts called “Fireworks.” Surely, the word will be trending today? I should be writing a post about Kathie Veilleux and Smokey Moxie Pork Wings, but I didn’t buy any ribs this week. I’ll buy the ribs this weekend and we’ll feature Kathie on Monday. Crap, I’ll need to buy a grill, too.
I’ve written about fireworks before.
And before.
This is my favorite fireworks post.
Smoke, fire, combustion, pork wings. Why am I sitting here listening to a song about fireworks by a band from Canada? I’m paraphrasing their lyrics here:
“she said she didn’t give a BLEEP about fireworks, and I never saw someone say that before.”
If it were still the Eighties, would I have been called a Commie?
I’ve got to go. I have to hang a flag or two down at my house so no one accuses me of being a bad American, a Canadian, or something worse.
No fireworks until Moxie…baybee.
Julie-Ann Baumer 
I no longer hang flags. Call me a bad American if you want. Flags only keep us divided and fighting the wrong enemies.
You paraphrased song lyrics, I’ll paraphrase some Howard Zinn.
Our nationalism—and devotion to a flag (my flag is better than your flag) has spawned mass murder via war, along with racism and religious hatred. Americans do this better than anyone.
Oh, and I love that song by not just any Canadian band—they are the Tragically Hip, one of my favorite bands, the Canadian Beatles, or something akin to that.
You know that at one time, I wanted to move to Canada and become a Canadian, right? I always liked their national anthem better than our own. It’s one of the best parts of an NHL game, like when the Bruins play the Maple Leafs—I look forward to hearing “Oh, Canada.”