blog.big-woop.com

Here's what's cool: Seeing your name float by in letters at least the size of your head during the closing credits of a movie. Especially when you were in no way expecting it to happen. And especially when the same is easily one of the best movies you've ever seen. Good stuff.

After the preview screening tonight at the Riverview, someone approached me, asking me about the story with which I regaled you all the last time. Yes, the tale of my little bit of vigilantism has spread far and wide, apparently; people have labeled me everything from 'miscreant' to 'hero.' It's strange, though: All that had to happen was for me to almost get my head split open—only squares wear helmets, man—by an ignorant motorist in her too-big car.

I also got to meet four different celebrities there: Ned Beatty, Gil Bellows, Tim Guinee, and one Ethan Cherin, with whom I hadn't spoken since the last day of high school.

It was so nice outside today, I decided to bike to work (Also, my car is in the shop). Having discovered that the Twins aren't home nearly often enough for me to make major bank by the time I have to go back to school, I was on my way to my friend's parents' yet-to-be-sold, still-needs-a-lot-of-work house to strip varnish off of door frames and stairways, earning hefty sums for working with volatile—and possibly blood poisoning-causing—chemicals.

En route, while crossing an alleyway, I was almost sideswiped by a giant, black SUV whose driver did not seem intent on slowing down to turn onto Prior. I swerved around it, its front bumper nearly missing the back tire of my (brother's) bike. I hopped off, ready to give the driver a piece of my mind when I saw that the twenty-something, too-much-fake-tanner woman in the driver's seat—who had finally realized she almost nailed someone, and had finally come to a stop about halfway into the street—was still holding a cell phone to her ear. "Oh." I said aloud. That explains everything. I stepped up to and reached through the window, grabbed the cell phone, and hurled it through the air, and across the street, where it broke into pieces on the roof of a garage.

I hopped on my bike and rode away.

The fourth of July was cool. It started, more or less, with a trip to Wisconsin for the good fireworks they don't sell here in Minnesota; Jacob, Al, and I were intent on blowing shit up proper. While checking out at Fireworks City in Baldwin, the woman ringing me up commented on my purchases. "Looks like we've got a connoiseur," she said. I smiled politely and handed her my money. I had done diligent calculations to make sure I would get the most bang for my buck: In my bag, I had 44 large explosions and several hundred smaller ones. But we weren't finished loading the trunk with contraband. A quick stop at one of Hudson's historic liquor stores solidified the fact that our fourth would be a good'n. Jacob and I sat in the car listening to Laura Nyro while Al gathered libations inside.

Hours later, having already severely diminished our bounties, and having just watched the soon-to-be-classic Pfrommer Goes To Work, we wandered back outside to light off some more fireworks. Several artillery shells later, while sitting on the pavement twisting the fuses of rockets together, around one in the morning, I heard a strange and unexpectedly authoritatian voice. "Hey guys," it said. I turned to my left and froze. "Whatcha doin'?" It was the Saint Paul Police, and we were busted.

The first thing that went through my mind was the list of laws we were breaking. The second was to respond with:

"Uhhh... Just lightin' off some fireworks... No good?" I asked.
"Uh, yeah. No good." Duh, went his words, falling off his tongue with a dull thud.

As we packed our unexploded treasures into a grocery bag for confiscation, the rest of our gang, who was still across the street, and hadn't noticed the officer's stealthy entry, sent a number of bottle rockets sailing over our heads. The officer was not too cool with this. He shone his flashlight in their direction and shouted to them: "Ya done!?" They scampered their way back into the apartment as confirmation that yes, they were indeed quite finished. It was about then that both I, and the officer, noticed my beer, which, after admitting my age, was tipped over. Shit. This was it. For a second there it looked like I was going to get off scot-free, but now I was totally boned. Fireworks are one thing. Unsafe, inebriated, underage fireworks are another. I was going to jail. I was sure of it.

"I appreciate your honesty," he said, and the next thing I knew, we were shaking hands, I was wishing him a happy belated fourth, and he was disappearing, with a bagful of fun, into the bushes, like Moonlight Graham.

And that's all that happened. That's the end of the story. We just went back upstairs and kept drinking more beer.

Happy Birthday, America! Let's blow up some shit.