East Columbia Heights, Washington DC. A typical street scene for the 4th of July. Like hundreds of similar scenes across the city, this guy is standing about 2 feet from the explosions: How they don't blow their bloody heads off every year is something of a miracle, but somehow they cheat death and survive every year. And every year I puzzle over the appeal of blowing up hundreds of teeny little zit-crackers when most folks are trying to get a bit of sleep. Bah! Cynical old farts of the world, unite!