Just some silly video of Olivia and I playing miniature golf in a KOA in Kingman, Arizona.

1. Melted Handlebar Grips. Much thanks to the sun for boiling down on my bike’s grips so valiantly that it literally melted them onto my hands.
2. Woody’s Gas Station. Upon walking in, and me in my straw cowboy hat, an arrow head necklace and nearly completely unbuttoned, button up shortsleeve, the attendant calls out “Howdy partner.” I could sense the snide tone to his voice and his friend’s smirk indicated they were likely having a laugh at my own good expense before I came in. I countered with long slow drawl added to my voice, “Pack of Blue Spirits,” which roughly translates to “Can I buy a pack of American Spirit Regulars?” I think he then realized how serious this conversation had become, because he got them without delay and somehow sussed out that I was from Pittsburgh. He claimed to have lived there himself in the past and made some remark akin to “Yeah, the weather’s a helluva lot better up there.” To which I replied, of course, “Yeah, and so is the football.”
3. Natural Planet Health Food Store. My next — and what was to be my final — stop was this store with a name that clearly indicated it would sell healthy food. Upon entering I discovered shelf after rows of shelves full of vitamins and supplements, and a small stand selling granola. When I asked her if she had fresh fish, commonly thought of as “health food”, she looked at me as though I was crazy. In what kind of world do people think that taking supplements and vitamins can be considered eating healthy food?
4. Safeway. I was only introduced to Safeway a few months ago, but it’s nearly on par with Whole Foods, even though it’s basically just your average super market chain. Two great pieces of life happened here:
   • Bike Lock. I placed my key into the lock to attempt to lock my bike up and, somehow, beyond the explanations of man and gods, the key literally melted into the lock. Irremovable. Excaliburred into the lock for all time, perhaps?
   • Crocodile Dundee. The fishmonger/butcher, maybe 25 years old or so, was incredibly social and talked to me non-stop about the great boneless pork chops he’d just cut up (and how they barely had any bones even left in them, each one about 3 inches thick) and various hamburger specials. I just wanted the tuna. When he saw my attention drifting he finally handed me the two tuna steaks, but not before one last remark. “Are you from Australia? Your outfit looks like those Australian guys I’m always seeing.”

What a great ride.

For example, he’s the type of guy to jump on a snowboard and start hitting giant launches with the pros, only to land on his ass and break his tailbone. He’s been hit by an SUV going 45 while he was simply skating down the street and survived, a few torn ligaments and some hospital time, but the SUV was literally way worse.

So living with him is a trip. We’ll go out and have a blast on the town, staying up until 6am at after hours bars or just his house, and lo and behold, when noon comes around he’s awake and asking me when I’ll be ready to go back at it. We’re the same age, but his full fire spirit is still stuck in the teenage years, I do believe at times.

So when he invited me to attend a Fourth of July celebration with him and his crew, I had no idea what to expect. On the 3rd we drove from Pittsburgh to Ohio, a state more willing to legally sell fireworks than our own beloved PA. The fireworks superstore was packed, there was a line 100 deep, everyone in Steelers and Penguins jerseys, just to get into the place. Four state troopers patrolled the parking lots, making sure no one was smoking or carrying lighters into the explosive-ridden building. By the time we came out, he had $400 worth of fireworks in a box that could barely fit into the back of his Pathfinder.

Arriving at the party, I found the 10 people already there were 10 other versions of Flood, all ready to go full steem ahead into the night, no matter how many PBRs it would take. Before the night was over, we’d roasted an entire pig, crushed a coffin-sized cooler worth of alcoholic tastiness, and at one point almost lit a family on fire. After receiving multiple complaints from people at Schenley Park (where we went to shoot off the fireworks), one of the people in our group decided that if we couldn’t shoot the fireworks off, he was just going to light the whole box on fire.

Everyone casually walked away from the park as hundreds of mortars, bottle rockets, and roman candles all whizzed and banged into the air, through the trees and over our heads.