“Baby you're a firework, come on, let your colors burst!”

― Katy Perry

“You're gonna stand there, owning a fireworks stand, and tell me you don't have no whistling bungholes, no spleen spliters, whisker biscuits, honkey lighters, hoosker dos, hoosker don’ts, cherry bombs, nipsy daisers, with or without the scooter stick, or one single whistling kitty chaser?”

― Joe Dirt

“My favorite thing about the 4th of July is listening to fireworks on the radio.”

― Brian Lund

There are three things that I associate with summer.

Eating a bomb pop while it drips down your arm.

The smell of cold water on hot asphalt.

And the arrival of the fireworks stand.

I don't know how it works in other parts of the country, but in Southern California it’s only legal to sell fireworks for five days before the 4th of July.

However, the evil fireworks marketing geniuses make sure the stands are set up in supermarket and church parking lots weeks before to whet the appetites of local pyromaniacs.

I was one of those pyromaniacs.

As a kid, watching those stands go up was like visual crack.

I loved the colors, the graphics, and the awkwardly translated names of the fireworks they sold.

Names like "Apollo Witches Cauldron," "Jet Dragon Snake Jumbo," and "English Type Snow Drop."

To say these sulfur and gunpowder packages didn't quite live up to the excitement their names promised is an understatement.

I’m now convinced that every July thousands of factory workers in mainland China laugh their heads off at how gullible we are to buy this crap.

But back then, no matter how many years previous the performance of an "Ace Lightning Spray Fountain" left me unsatisfied, I was always convinced that the next “Double Mega Nuclear Sunrise” I lit up would deliver on its boastful sobriquet.

Eventually, some friends in the know wised me up and I learned that the arrival of the fireworks season wasn't about buying the family-friendly "safe and sane" items mandated by California law.

It was about connecting with David Sherman.

Think of David Sherman as the sixth-grade version of a rogue arms dealer.

The go-to guy.

The connection.

The pyrotechnic candy man.

He knew he was the only game in town, and in a pre-Road Warrior world coined the phrase, "You want anything that flies or explodes, you talk to me."

There were rumors about his contraband and where he got it, with some saying an uncle who lived in Mexico was the source.

Others said his stepdad was a cop who passed on the illegal stuff he confiscated to curry David’s favor.

One kid even swore that he saw a triad member leave Sherman's house late one night, but turned out it was only the takeout boy from Li's Szechwan Palace.

I couldn't have been more than ten years old when our mutual friend Eric Phillips arranged for me to gain access to Sherman's inner stronghold.

His bedroom.

But it wasn’t like other kid’s bedrooms.

Sure, he had NFL bed sheets and KISS posters on the wall, but there was also an old cigar box full of cash in his sock drawer and a wrist rocket within reach - in case anybody started trouble.

"Hey Phillips, who’s this guy?" he asked.

"It's my buddy, Brian. Brian Lund. He's cool man," replied my suddenly nervous friend.

"Lund huh? Sounds like a pussy name to me. What do you want, Lund?"

"S-s-s-some firecrackers," I murmured.

"Firecrackers huh? You got the dough?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Let me see it."

Flush with paper route cash, I in fact had a whole twenty-dollar bill in my pocket, which I took out and showed Sherman.

"Whoa, hey alright," he said, suddenly warming to me. "I think we can do some business."

And with that, he pulled a large box from under his bed filled to the top with the most lovely and beautiful illegal fireworks I’d ever seen.

Bricks of "Black Cat" firecrackers.

Pack after pack of "Moon Traveler" bottle rockets.

Handfuls of small pink cylinders with tight green fuses known as M-80's.

I bought everything I could and thus began my dicey history with illegal fireworks.

Later that day I tried launching a bottle rocket for the first time.

I had no idea how this was done, nor did I have the patience to wait until dark, so I just stuck the attached stick into the ground, lit the fuse, and ran.

To my disappointment it didn't take off like the promised Moon Traveler, instead, exploding after a moment like a firecracker.

I assumed it was faulty and tried another but got the same result.

After a couple more ended the same way, I decided to change my tact.

If all they did was blow up I reasoned, then I’d use them that way.

Breaking off their sticks, I placed ten of them into a tin can, tied their fuses into one, lit it, and stepped back, ready for a huge explosion.

Instead, five seconds later I was pelted by a stream of fiery projectiles, two of which hit dangerously close to my left eye.

It was then that I figured out the concept of a "bottle" rocket, meaning one designed to be set loose in a bottle, or something similar, to allow for launch.

Watching them from across the street - and in broad daylight - I didn't notice the flames jetting out as they tried to extricate themselves from the hard ground, only the explosion when they were finished.

Placing them in a can had turned it into a mini-mortar launcher, one conveniently aimed at my face.

But wait, there’s more 4th of July stupidity to come.

The following year I thought it would be cool to throw lit firecrackers into the air.

However, I didn't realize that there is in fact only one way to do that correctly, using the "quick wrist flick" technique (every male reader is now knowingly nodding their approval).

Instead, I went for the full Luis Tiant windup.

My hand, with the lit firecracker in it, passing next to my ear just in time for it to explode, leaving both a ringing sensation and numbness in three of my fingertips that lasted for hours.

In subsequent years I had more mishaps, most born out of boredom.

That’s the time when you can really get hurt - after all the "good" stuff has already been lit.

Because as every red-blooded American boy knows, when all you have left is the boring stuff, it’s your job to make them less boring.

Case in point. One year I gathered all the "duds,” opened them up, poured their contents together, and leaned over with a match to light the pile.

Pro Tip: The real world is different than the movies. You can NOT move faster than gunpowder can ignite.

The hot flash that burst in my face left me seeing colored spots for a few minutes, though I thought I avoided any further damage.

That was until I walked into the house later that day and my mom yelled, "what happened to your eyelashes?"

But that wasn’t the end of my firework innovation.

It’s a known fact that “Ground Bloom” flowers suck.

All they do is spin on the ground and change colors.

Instead, I thought that if crushed in a vice, I might entice them to blow up, like Piccolo Pete’s do when a similar modification is attempted.

Unfortunately, all it did was cause them to wobble and spin out of control, one of which landed directly under the gas tank of our neighbor's car, where it sat and shot a white-hot stream of fire straight upwards for an extremely long and nervous ten seconds.

Sparklers and snakes are the worst types of kiddie fireworks.

But not so if you crush them up and mix them together.

Then they produce a wonderous glowing flame that not only catches your pant leg on fire but burns down half of your mothers prized rose bush.

Despite numerous other experiments gone wrong, I made it through my youth with nary a scar or burn mark and with all my fingers intact.

Nowadays I turn into "Fire Marshall Brian" when the fourth rolls around, following the guidelines suggested by The National Council on Fireworks Safety, which includes setting a perimeter, having a bucket of water standing by, and only handling burned-out cones with metal tongs.

Except for last year, when I had an epic fail.

Lazy, tired, and half-buzzed, I decided to forgo the bucket of water. After all, I’ve picked up burnt out fireworks by hand for years and never felt one that was hot enough to re-combust.

After the final cone was spent I gathered up all the fallen soldiers, threw them in a plastic bin, and stuck them under a plastic ladder in front of my garage, directly under some patriotic bunting hanging from eves of my roof.

This, kind reader, is what’s known as foreshadowing.

Then I wrapped things up, hopped in the shower, and hit the sack early.

Two hours later I was abruptly awakened by my wife shouting…

“The brunt of the louse is in flowers.”

“What?” I said, groggy and not quite processing what was happening.

“The front of the spouse is inspired.”

“Huh?” I said, processing the urgency, but not the message.

“The front of the house is on fire,” she screamed.

Oh, I see.

Bolting to the front of the house I found a pool of fiery molten plastic where the bin and ladder had once been, and above them, the bunting engulfed in flames.

A few shots from the garage fire extinguisher and it was over - except for the shouting.

Look, I get it. I’ve lost a step. I’m no longer the pro pyromaniac I once was. I just just don’t have that spark anymore.

Get it? Spark? Meh.

However, when I next see a "Cluster of Bees" shoot overhead or hear the sound of cherry bombs going off down the street, don’t think that I won’t be tempted to rush over and tell the purveyor “Look, this is how you can make this better."