I’ve always loved the fourth of July for the same reasons I love the rest of the summer: sun, good people, swimming, grilling/eating. The additional piece of awesomeness is firecrackers. Not so much fireworks or fireworks shows, but sparklers and M-1000s and bottlerocket wars and those things that burn crazy colors and spin and shoot up into the air.
This year we upped the ante by going shooting, because it’s loud and sort of scary and, for better or worse, All-American.
Every Monday is Ladies Day:

We shot a Glock (below) and a 22. The former was louder, with more kick and bigger bullets. I was also, somehow, a better shot with it:

Shut up. It was my first try. I later killed a paper dude target, 3/3:

Shooting ranges are weird places:




Then we went swimming at the dam, and to Sarah’s lakehouse for grilling and fireworks.


No less than THREE vegetarians of varying loyalty, including myself, broke their vows for Joe’s upgraded hot dogs (lamb, pork, and homemade condiments). Worth it:

U-S-A! U-S-A!:


I took charge during the firecrackers, to a possibly obnoxious extent:


And, like any other party, we spent lots of time hiding out:

What with the burn marks on my chest from the glock shells, my burnt thumb from an M-1000 fuse, the copious amounts of meat and Lone Star, and Sarah’s cowboy boots, I think it’s safe to say that we totally went America all over everybody’s ass.




















