Let's talk explosions for the big 250

Before I recklessly pay tribute to pre-teen and teenage boys who see Independence Day not as a time to remember our brave forefathers freeing this nation (the white part) from British imperialism, but an opportunity to blow stuff up, I need to clarify something:

I hereby renounce arson, animal cruelty, property damage, drinking and driving, drinking and driving while lighting fireworks, drinking and driving while on fire, chasing other humans with fireworks - no matter how much they deserve it - violating local noise ordinances to irritate me or persons herewith established in my dwelling; or setting me, my family, and/or any items possessed herewith by persons covered more herewith in this document submitted herewith, or even therewith, on fire.

I especially and specifically double-dog renounce upsetting pets and migratory animals - not excluding birds, goldfish, and the lizard who lives under my porch (nobody messes with Larry on my watch) herewith - with fireworks, which are technically illegal in this county, but therefore in an illegal manner herewith everyone ignores on July 4 anyway.

My lawyer thanks you for your time.

So … the fireworks started around 11 last night in my neighborhood - exactly one week before July 4.

That’s about right. Especially this year, as the United States turns the big 2-5-0.

I live across the freeway from the Walnut Creek BART station, slightly up the hill, so my bedroom is just a bit higher than the top of the BART parking structure.

So I’ve watched tremendous, but short, fireworks shows around midnight, from the comfort of my own bed, the last two Fourth of Julys.

It’s perfect. My bed points directly toward a pretty large window framing the action nicely.

The structure;s top floor is 50 feet above an office that says “BART Police” on the side.

That makes me laugh every year.

I picture young men - not roving bands of suburban housewives pumped full of chardonnay like everyone believes - scrambling from cover to light multiple cakes of aerial repeaters fused together with a Roman candle, then hightailing back to cover before the fun begins.

As soon as it starts, I imagine a sped-up Star Wars cantina theme playing, as billy-club wielding, mustachioed Keystone Cops pour out of the transit police station and run up the stairs.

They stop at every floor of the parking structure to look for the culprits, because they never scouted the best places to set off fireworks. They were the kids who didn’t get invited one year, so they snitched the next.

By the time they get to the top, they’re too winded to arrest anyone, and the bandits are gone anyway.

I know it sounds completely impossible, but I was one of those dangerously dumb kids. But in the 70s, we didn’t have artificially intelligent insta-phones that snapgram, and we certainly didn’t control anyone’s television unless we were being directed to get up and turn the channel by someone bigger than us.

So we spent a lot of time outside, trying to do the dumbest thing possible about which to tell the other guys at school.

Firecrackers were a big deal all year. Obtaining those started the race to see who could almost maim themself first.

They were like the drug trade. Everyone’s older brother knew a guy. And the only place one could get firecrackers was Chinatown. We fantasized about taking BART to San Francisco (naturally we’d just get off at the Chinatown stop that doesn’t exist) and bravely enter a world of shady intrigue, where every street corner was occupied by a man in a trenchcoat and one of those wide lampshade hats on his head, selling firecrackers by the brick.

“Brick” is illegal firecracker talk. I never saw one, but I assumed it was a lot.

The bigger July 4 blasts were reserved for adult-sponsored shows and hardly ever started trouble. Until, of course, I became an adult and had a run-in with a neighbor foolishly concerned that fireworks landing on her roof were a fire hazard (they were).

Now that I don’t drink and my kids are going through that phase in which they aren’t interested in me until I get a possibly-fatal disease, Fourth of July seems pretty quiet.

I will say, quite seriously, that I owe former neighbors’ pets all kinds of apologies. It seems animals don’t understand explosions are fun and don’t know humans must celebrate winning wars by re-enacting them.

I had a neighbor yell at me and my friends in 1978 for blowing off dozens of firecrackers and scaring her golden retriever. I loved dogs when I was a kid and should’ve stopped immediately and apologized.

Unfortunately, she told us her dog was defecating all over her carpet, which made us laugh uproariously and light up some more after she left, because 11-year-old boys are extremely empathetic, compassionate, and kind.

I have a daughter who’s very sensitive to noise, so fireworks became problematic at times. Even as a teenager now, sometimes the big city-sponsored fireworks are too much for her and we have to leave. Before her, like so many idiotic humans, it never dawned on me people could have a negative physical reaction to booming noises.

Of course, I play drums. Duh.

One good thing about social media this time of year is people looking out for their animals by alerting others the explosions give their pets panic attacks. Of course they panic, as do wild animals, who we can’t take to grandma’s house or somewhere to shelter them from being scared half to death.

Be safe and look out for loved ones for whom you’re responsible this year. Especially the ones who can’t tell you.

My daughters have a dad to feed, so please consider paying a few bucks a month to read these columns. Find more nonsense in Tony’s book “Lying Drunk,” available from Barnes & Noble at https://bit.ly/46xoaJJ or Amazon at https://a.co/d/cYNCUPp).