February 19, 2008
This year, for the first time, I dutifully purchased a Febfest button. The pin opens access to a two-week series of events to celebrate the winter weather, or snow-man building, or Valentine's Day, or something. I don't think anybody really knows what Febfest is about. However, this year had a pretty good line-up of events, so I was onboard.
Little known fact: My favorite form of kinetic energy is explosion. The cheerful destruction of whatever just makes me smile. Fireworks are the most guilt-free way to enjoy my favorite kinetic energy (although I am a big fan of squibs as well. The only thing that is more exciting than an explosion is an explosion that sprays fake blood everywhere). And every year, on the close of another Febfest, there is a fireworks show.
Somehow, I have always missed it. Sure, I have Fourth of July, but the chronological China, the opposite end of the year, is always remarkably barren of explosions. This year seemed to provide no exception. At the very time of the firework show, to occur on the baseball field, I was scheduled to attend a visiting theater troupe's, composed entirely of Hamilton alums, production of "The Masses are Asses," a title apparently derived from an Alexander Hamilton quote. While my gut decried the choice, culture won out over violent chain reactions.
As I walked from my room to the theater, a bloom of light erupted over McEwen dining hall. It was the fireworks! I could see exactly the top half of every explosion, making comic wigs over the main Dark Side building. I was too far for the nose-sting tang of burnt ozone, but there they were, burning my retina instead. One of my favorite parts about fireworks is the way their smokey skeletons linger in the dark air then slowly drift away, their dark form illuminated by the subsequent bangs. If only life could be full of explosions.