Yes, here is my arsenal of joy, arranged much like the lethal arsenals of freedom fighters, or the THC-drenched buds of reality fighters. Approximately 4,000 individual gems that spin, glow, shoot into the sky, or simply explode with earsplitting volume. Bliss....

These aren't the so-called "fireworks" for sale out of makeshift shacks in grocery store parking lots. Snakes and sparklers are for young children; my arsenal is for much older children, like me.

The experience of acquiring these pyrogasmic morsels is worth describing to all you firewonks, so I shall.

I received a flyer in my daily ration of junkmail from an aptly named, mythical-sounding place called "Phantom Fireworks," a business that supposedly existed in a made-up town named Warfordsburg, Pennsylvania. Yes, you heard right, Warfordsburg, P.A.; birthplace of...well, home of, well...not a goddamn thing, as far as I know. In fact, didn't O. Henry invent that berg in one of his short stories?

I browsed the flyer long enough to get the same feeling a ten-year-old kid gets when he comes across a wayward Hustler magazine. The titillation from the mere thought of just blowing shit up tickles young men at their very sensual core, and upon realizing that this too-good-to-be-true place called Phantom Fireworks actually offered real fireworks for sale, I became flush with childish glee.

But there was one minor problem: even if such a place actually existed, they did not ship their explosives to your door; you had to hop in the car and try to find them, somewhere in the wilds of Pennsyltucky. And, of course, the giddiness of a grown man towards fireworks would surely fade before making such a journey, much like a boy's eventual and inevitable disinterest in living the rest of his life in a treehouse.

So what to do? Don't lose the feeling, obtain the explosives, and hold tightly to the images of blinding flashes of light, thunder cracks, and pungent black sulphur clouds drifting across the lawn.

Ahah! It comes to me, as the pragmatic and economical person I've grown into: plan a trip to Ohio to visit relatives, which--just so coincidentally--has me drive past this hypothetical hamlet called Warfordsburg. If such a place did indeed exist, what harm would there be in gently veering onto the exit ramp, sliding into a parking space, and strolling into the shop to casually peruse their wares? And if, in the end, it was just this man-child's nostalgic dream, what harm would there be? I hadn't seen Grandma in awhile, anyway.

I remembered from the flyer that this place was supposed to be near Breezewood, Pennsylvania, the lice-infested armpit of our nation's interstate highway system. Signs like "Gateway Restaurant: 60 miles (Breezewood exit)", "Breezewood--Town of Motels, 33 miles" brought on a faint flutter in my stomach, telling me that I was fast approaching my fireworks nirvana. (Or was it telling me to avoid contracting E.coli at the Breezewood McDonald's?)

And then, finally, a bona fide, honest-to-God, no-mistaking-it, billboard for Phantom Fireworks. It actually existed in my grown-up world! Okay, got to keep my cool. I don't want to appear too giddy.

The parking lot was full, so I parked with other cars on the grass, much like one does at a rock concert or the carnival fairgrounds. Don't get too excited; keep it in check, I told myself.

I got out of the car slowly, maintained a casual stride to the door of the shop, and entered. "Excuse me sir, excuse me!" the woman seated at the folding table called after me, not even two steps into the shop. The store is tightly controlled--ingress is forbidden without them first photocopying your driver's license, and then taking down all of your personal information onto a standard waiver form. How wonderful--something so official and controlled, and yet fiendishly illicit at the same time! My favorite part is that, if you are a resident of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, you're not even allowed in the store. (In other words, they will sell you stuff to blow shit up, as long as it's nowhere near them.)

I gladly offered my driver's license, home address, phone number, hat size and mother's maiden name, just so I could get near the rockets, bombs, Roman candles, and the other tools of my patriotic expression. The woman at the little table gave me a final once-over, making sure I weren't no subversive Commie hippie boy from Philadelphia, smiled curtly and allowed me to pass.

Once inside the store, I was overwhelmed. My adrenal gland was pumping out of control, but I kept a calm exterior. They even had grocery store shopping carts! It was so beautiful, tears welled up in my eyes.

Mortars! I'd never seen actual mortars for sale before, except way back in the 80's when the president set up a fireworks shack on the South Lawn during some sort of "Fireworks for Hostages" summer blowout sale. And they had all shapes and sizes of rockets, from bottle rockets to surplus Space Shuttle solid rocket boosters. I was openly blubbering tears of joy at this point.

Finally regaining my composure, I settled on the largest "combo pack" they had to offer, at the meager sum of $299.99. Cheap at twice the price, I say. They even threw in another box of mortars and a "mini rocket variety pack" just as a final thank-you. I gladly paid and quickly made my way back to the car, feeling as if I had just scored a lifetime supply of every contraband substance a twelve-year-old boy could ever dream of. I was so overcome with childlike emotion, I wanted to salute and pledge allegiance to the flag right there on the spot.

I still feel the glow of that man-child moment even now. Or was I that way already?