Consequences
I'm not a big fan of fireworks. Sure, if there's a good show going on and I have a beer in my hand, I'll look up and do the ahhhh thing. I also understand that its a reason for us to get together and drink that beer.
Yet what soured me on fireworks and fire crackers and sparklers and all of that are my two dogs. They are scared out of their minds at this time of year. Last night Melky cowered in the corner, shaking because of the constant pop outside, coming from where, I don't know.
I pictured some guy, running around, setting them off and cheering by himself. A little strange, you know?
I also always think of July 4, 1988 when I attended a private party in Brooklyn with the guys I was working with in Connecticut and the free fireworks they got from a friend of a friend of a friend who knew John Gotti. These guys set off fireworks for ten hours straight in the middle of the city block. Weird night.
I could have lit a few that night, but I didn't. A few guys called me names that have to deal with being less of a man, but I didn't want to do what the guy from Long Island did two nights ago.
The 36-year old man with a wife, two kids, and a job that requires two working arms, blew his right arm off, and now he's beating himself up about it, and that isn't easy to do. (Okay, one arm jokes are troublesome, but that one wrote itself).
Still, I think of it all the time. The consequences of my actions are bigger than me. They encompass all of the fears of my entire family, and the two dogs quaking under the bed. And stories of guys losing limbs, or worse, happens every year, but still we want to run around and try it, right?
Not me. I like to clap. I enjoy going to work, playing hoops with the boys, and playing golf. Doing all of those things with just one arm would be difficult.
Sometimes thinking about the consequences makes you less of a wimp than what you might think.
Yet what soured me on fireworks and fire crackers and sparklers and all of that are my two dogs. They are scared out of their minds at this time of year. Last night Melky cowered in the corner, shaking because of the constant pop outside, coming from where, I don't know.
I pictured some guy, running around, setting them off and cheering by himself. A little strange, you know?
I also always think of July 4, 1988 when I attended a private party in Brooklyn with the guys I was working with in Connecticut and the free fireworks they got from a friend of a friend of a friend who knew John Gotti. These guys set off fireworks for ten hours straight in the middle of the city block. Weird night.
I could have lit a few that night, but I didn't. A few guys called me names that have to deal with being less of a man, but I didn't want to do what the guy from Long Island did two nights ago.
The 36-year old man with a wife, two kids, and a job that requires two working arms, blew his right arm off, and now he's beating himself up about it, and that isn't easy to do. (Okay, one arm jokes are troublesome, but that one wrote itself).
Still, I think of it all the time. The consequences of my actions are bigger than me. They encompass all of the fears of my entire family, and the two dogs quaking under the bed. And stories of guys losing limbs, or worse, happens every year, but still we want to run around and try it, right?
Not me. I like to clap. I enjoy going to work, playing hoops with the boys, and playing golf. Doing all of those things with just one arm would be difficult.
Sometimes thinking about the consequences makes you less of a wimp than what you might think.
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