‘Brandon Bombs’ blur lines
I’m writing from the shade of a fireworks tent.
One of nine in Russellville, if Google is to be trusted. I suspect there are more. Firework tents don’t need a Google listing or a Facebook page. They just need card tables stocked with Black Cats and bottle rockets, a box fan or two, and an RV out back with a generator attached to keep the show running well into the night. That’s it.
That’s the recipe for every fireworks tent going back 30 years, when I was the same age my kids are now. Those tents are like time machines. Anytime I step into one, I’m transported back to 1994.
Of all the things that have changed since then, I thought — I hoped — fireworks would remain the same.
I was wrong.
I learned that today when my daughter finally convinced me to pull over at the tent near our house. A sticky sort of heat was trapped beneath that red and yellow tarp. Everything glowed pinkish orange. It was nauseating. My kids didn’t seem to mind. They ran from table to table, pawing at roman candles, black snakes, smoke bombs and sparklers.
The sight of all those firecrackers kicked the time machine into warp speed, sending me barreling from the present to the past, and then I went off the rails.
It was the name printed on the outside of a 16-shot, 500-gram finale cake that sent me over the edge. It wasn’t “Gorilla Warfare” or “One Bad Mother,” or even “One Bad Mother … In-Law” (although that one made me grin).
No, it was a name we’ve all heard before, a phrase that was first chanted at the Talladega Superspeedway, then printed on T-shirts and slapped across highcrowned hats, bumper stickers, golf balls and beer koozies. And now the “Let’s Go Brandon” slogan had slithered its way into the firework tent by my house.
I’ve worked hard to steer this column away from politics, but it seems everything is political these days, even fireworks. I can’t help but wonder what sort of display that Brandon Bomb emits across the night sky. Does it spell out the message in red, white, and blue? Does a tiny American flag rise from the embers when the big show’s over, all four corners tattered and charred? If it did, would anybody notice?
It’s getting downright ridiculous, this gradual merging of church and state and the holiday aisle at Walmart.
Which asks the bigger question: Why has the line between politics and everything else become so blurred? Isn’t anything sacred anymore?
Not when money’s involved, and fireworks are big business, especially in rural parts of the country where Chinese-made artillery shells are sold by the truckload. In 2022, Americans spent over $2 billion on fireworks. I wonder how many of those sparkling fountains or multi-shot aerials sported some sort of political message or undertone.
This is our world, folks, one in which cheap propaganda has made it impossible to separate patriotism from tribalism. The same world my kids are growing up in. What will they think when they look back on it 30 years from now? What will they remember?
If the 15 minutes we spent inside that fireworks tent are any indication, the answer is the same as always. They’ll remember the “good stuff,” as Joe Dirt so eloquently put it. “Firecrackers, man. You stick ’em in mailboxes. You drop ’em in toilets. You shove ’em up bullfrogs’ backsides. Yeah … That’s the good stuff.”
I know it won’t always be that simple, but it will for a little while longer.
Eli Cranor is the nationally-bestselling, Edgar-Award winning author of “Don’t Know Tough” and “Ozark Dogs.” He can be reached using the “Contact ”page at elicranor.com and found on Twitter @ elicranor.