"...At the eyeballs' last bleeding."

As I tap out these words, the sounds of our joyously martial national birthday continue to boom and crack and sporadically drown out my typing.

I love fireworks. I cheered the day Target began selling packages of Chinese goodies in the Midwest. I look forward to when my sister and I can blow shit up in the frigid North Woods at New Years.

So what am I doing blogging when there are bombs still bursting in air? Blame Skokie.

The assault began around 9:10. From our dining room window, we were able to make out a line of decorative destruction stretching along the horizon from northeast to northwest. In turn or all at once, Evanston and Park Ridge and Morton Grove and Niles launched their celebratory barrages.

Some were high and tight (especially the annoying ones that fly up and simply BOOM with hardly any sparkle). Most just peeked over rooflines and trees. Soon the Navy Pier display added its rumbles and reflected flashes. A few of our neighbors provided their own snickering, illicit counterpoint--a bottle rocket here, a roman candle there.

But no source of fireworks approached Skokie for sheer endurance. Every other municipality was packing it in by 10:00. Skokie kept plugging away. They must have put up a solid hour and fifteen minutes of flash-bang-boom. It got to the point that my wife went off to clean the cat litter and I had to move away from the window to rub my cramping legs.

Damn. We feel independent already. Now some of us have to get up in the morning.