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For the 4th Ms. Pikachu was with a cousin at an amusement park.

We went downtown for the F-16 flyby. They were late, which was okay, so were we. One pass and they were gone, certainly heading for the next scheduled town.
The 4th must be the one day a year where their navigation and timing skills are put on display. They got here, but were 10 minutes late; .500 isn't bad if you're swinging at baseballs. Practice, practice, practice, they have 364 days to get it right for next year.

My is-it-worth-it rule is that time spent at a destination should be more than the time spent getting there. The flyby was under 10 seconds. We walked farther downtown to see what festivities there were. You couldn't help noticing blankets staked out along the river to reserve spots for the fireworks. Apparently the absent owners did not fear goose doo-doo. There were plenty of geese.

There was a robot tournament where two, count 'em two, competing robots tried to push the most canisters over an incline. It would be a fair guess that those in attendance were family and classmates of the competitors. There was a tent where a pancake breakfast was held earlier, and a banner for the start/finish of a race held that morning. That was it.

Most of the activities have been moved to a rural college campus. It would seem to be time to move the rest of it. There is no reason to shut down the main road through downtown for an empty tent and a crowd too small to get arrested for unlawful assembly.

It didn't seem worth the time. But Trainboy thought the robot with pincers was cool. So it was worth it for him.

Time for lunch. Trainboy says he wants pizza. To Chuck-E-Cheese we go. Pepperoni pizza, games, what more could a kid want. We returned home bloated with cheese products, and leftover pizza. What a deal.

The wife and I planted some flowers in the planter. It was partly cloudy, but still very bright. It rained on us anyway. Trainboy thought it was hilarious.

The wife changed into her Supernurse costume and away she went to save life, liberty, and buttheads from themselves. Before leaving she reminded me that fireworks were at 9:45. It was up to Trainboy and me to amuse ourselves in the meantime. I did laundry, he did Cartoon Network.

Sometimes it amazes me how much laundry needs to be done. Clothes, sheets, towels, it's an unending cycle. The Circle of Laundry. Why aren't more women depressed? Why hasn't there been an explosion in nudist colonies, where everybody sleeps in a sleeping bag, showers, and air-dries?

Cavemen only showered when they were caught in the rain. They bathed when they went fishing. If they only had one greasy bearskin they were happy. Cave women thought the men were manly and they too were happy. At least until they decided they needed a newer, more fashionable fur.

What am I doing here? Haven't a clue. So, uh, back to the narrative.

I tire of laundry and want to get out. I check the tablet on the fridge for things to get. There are things. Trainboy and I head to Hy-Vee to get them. We get tartar sauce, Kraft's, Lemon Herb. I put three of them in the basket. Trainboy gets thoughtful, "Dad, I think we need another one." No arguing with that, it all gets used. A fourth one into the basket. Grab a bottle of Lea and Perrins for me, and we're both happy.

We head back to dairy and get a gallon of chocolate milk. You might say, "Isn't it cheaper and easier to just buy white milk and add Nestlé’s Quick?" You might. I would have to say that if my milk-averse kid only wants chocolate when it comes out of the jug that way, I'm not arguing with a six year-old. I'm surrendering faster than the French. It's peace at any price, in this case, $3.09 a gallon.

I like the fruit and yogurt parfaits at McDonalds, but you have to go there to get one, and how often is that? Not often enough if you like them and you only go there if they're offering a toy in the kids' meal the kids want.

Sooooo, as long as we're in dairy, into the cart goes a 32-ounce container of yogurt. Then it's off to frozen foods for frozen fruit, get some trail-mix, and we are set for some serious yogurt bingeing.

A bag of Doritos for Trainboy. A bag of toffee-covered peanuts for me. Works for us, time to head back home. Forgot paper plates, and whatever else was on the list doesn't matter either, we got the important stuff- our stuff. We are guys, guyly guys.

Back to doing laundry. Have to get it out of the dryer before it wrinkles. May I just digress a moment here, may I? This may not matter to anybody else. This may be laboring under suspicion no more founded than trickle-down-economics. Be kind, don't laugh. But I prefer to dry clothes on the 'warm' setting rather than 'hot.' If left unattended it seems they don't wrinkle as quickly, or as badly, that way. It also means the clothes finish drying just ahead of the washer finishing. It makes for a much more efficient operation imho.

Don't wait for the awkward silence to pass; it won't unless you keep reading.

Around 9:15, toiling upstairs with another load of laundry to put away, it was obviously getting dark outside, and the fireworks thing came to mind. A half-hour till fireworks seemed like plenty of time to me. Put on the shoes and away we go. Guys are like that.

A half-hour seemed like plenty, it most certainly was not. The area had probably been packed for hours. What to do, what to do. I pulled into a business and parked in a no-parking area. They weren't open, I didn't care, so call the cops, and you think they aren't busy already?

We walked two blocks to a bridge with a nice view and inserted ourselves into the crowd. The bridge walkway was full of people in lawn chairs who were still trying to maintain their space. Forget that. We'd just got there and had no need of being comfortable for a few hours.

There's a space wide enough for my knees, and there I stand. Trainboy goes up on the railing and my arm stays around him. The people on either side of us scoot to even out their spaces. I don't care; it's just Trainboy and me on the bridge.

People shoot their own fireworks. When they drop to the water he declares, "It made fish sticks!" He says it every time; he always thinks it's funny.

"Oprah, Umah. Umah, Oprah." That still isn't funny. But I digress again.

Another rocket into the river, another "fish stick" comment. I tell him that if he caught one, and had tartar sauce and bread he could have a fish stick sandwich. "Ha, ha. Good one dad." I've just been patronized by my six year-old son.

The fireworks start. It's a good show. It's timed to music broadcast on the radio. The car is blocks away. Usually you can figure that at these things there's always a teenage boy who's plowed all his burger-flipping money into a giga-watt sound system that worth more than the mini-car it's in. He's proud to show it off, and it's the one day a year you don't mind. No such luck tonight.

It’s fireworks without music, we tough it out. How did the pioneers do it?

After about thirty minutes of a pyromaniacs dream Trainboy notifies me his butt hurts and he wants to go home. That's my boy. We walk back to the car, and from the sound of rapidly succeeding explosions the grand-finale must be starting. Get in the car, turn on the radio, hear the last few bars, and we are out of there before the traffic jam can even start. Trainboy had wonderful timing. Sometimes it's all in the buttocks.

We're home in a few minutes. We kick back to toons, chocolate milk, and fish sticks.

Supernurse gets home, and resumes her disguise as mild-mannered Superwife. She shares pizza with Trainboy- he's a growing boy. I fall asleep on the couch- it's just a guy thing. Some might call it a weenie's camp-out.

And that was the 4th.

Publicserf