“At a real high level of anything, there’s a certain amount of almost crazy behavior to get to this incredible position…there’s a madness.”

Happy Yacht Rock Thursday to all who celebrate

Somewhere in America, july 4th, 9 p.m. My neighborhood went to war with the sky, and the sky lost. I had been warned. "It gets a little loud," Dale said. A little loud. The first shell rose from behind Rick's fence and bloomed over the cul-de-sac, and before it faded, an ANSWERING shell rose from two streets over. They were not coordinating. They were competing. In Japan, fireworks are handled by licensed masters. You sit by a river and receive the display with gratitude, like a tea ceremony made of fire. Here, every man with a driveway is his own gunpowder shogunate, supplied by a tent at the edge of town. A tent. They sell the sky-fire in TENTS. "Where did you train?" I asked Rick between volleys. "Train?" He lit another fuse with the focused calm of a man grilling. "You back up, is mainly the thing." His son ran past holding a small fountain of sparks, laughing. The dog hid under my porch and would not look at me. I joined the dog briefly. I am not ashamed. I was, briefly, ashamed. By ten, the street smelled of smoke and hot dogs, and the displays grew desperate and magnificent. Walt brought out something cylindrical that required two men to position. The wives watched from lawn chairs with the unbothered faces of veterans' wives across all of history. "Is this legal?" I asked Dale. "Depends," he said, and lit it. Depends. The national answer. When the finale came — everyone's finale, everywhere, at once, no one willing to end second — I stood in the road with my hand on my chest. The sky over this ordinary street was, for one minute, more glorious than any castle's. A man does not ask the Fourth for silence. He holds his dog, and salutes. Next year I will buy the tent's finest. Rick has already offered to teach me. The lesson, I am told, is one sentence long: you back up.

miss you everyday

Stateside, a gas station. I drank a frozen blue beverage too quickly, and was struck down by a punishment this entire nation knows, and accepts, and has named. The drink is called a slush. Ice, sweetness, and a blue that does not occur in nature. The day was hot. I was thirsty. I drank like a soldier at a river. The pain arrived in my skull like a war horn. Behind the eyes. Above everything. Total. I gripped the roof of my car. I may have made a sound. "Brain freeze," said the cashier through the door, with no urgency whatsoever. It has a NAME. The affliction is so common it has a household name, like a cousin. "Tongue on the roof of your mouth," called a man at the pumps. He did not look over. He prescribed the remedy mid-pump, casually, the way one mentions weather. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. The war horn faded. The healer nodded at his pump, finished, and was gone in a Chevrolet. In my land, punishment follows crime by way of courts and seasons. Here, the sentence is instant. Drink with greed, and the ice strikes the mind directly. No trial. No appeal. Perfectly fair. And here is what moves me. EVERYONE has felt it. The cashier. The healer. Children. Elders. An entire nation united by the same small lightning, all taught the same cure, all passing it on to strangers at gas stations, free of charge. You cannot fully distrust a country once you know it shares one pain. The freeze does not punish thirst. It punishes haste. I finished the slush slowly, like a scholar. Blue tongue. Clear mind. Then at the door I forgot everything, drank deeply, and was struck down again. "Tongue, hon," said the cashier, without looking up. Discipline is a journey.

USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving. Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free. I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these." "They just come with the table, man." They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner. This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat. I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared. "Did we…?" "Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless." Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined. My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude." Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man. I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy. Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived. I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most. Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.

The worst candy in the history of mankind is the Runts banana. There is nothing that comes close.

WSMFP

Wait until they get to the part where we sacrifice a pop-tart

Our Jaguar Family has heavy hearts this morning. We lost Coach Dean Taylor, a great teacher, coach, friend, mentor. Coach was our weights teacher & DB coach from 2007-2024, when he retired. He will be deeply missed; he impacted thousands of kids. Condolences to the Taylor’s! 🙏🏻

The Curt Cignetti College Football 27 cover looks like the poster for a 1994 Disney movie in which a recently divorced NFL head coach decides to coach an underachieving high school team of misfits as a way to reconnect with his son who's grown distant after his parents split up.

20 min whipping post is good for the soul

I’m truly blessed to announce I have Committed to @SDCoyotesFB #ᴀɢᴛɢ #GoYotes @CoachVitzthum @CoachBKirch @joshmanchigiah @NWGRIZZLYFB @CoachSMartin @ShaunKunz2 @CoachJBBennett @RashadDaniels12 @CoachAJ_Johnson

Maybe being a 90s homicide detective could fix me

they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night

Not renewing the contract of a coach that is 167-23 in the last eight years seems pretty dumb to me 🤷🏼‍♂️

@Hudl @HudlSupport Please please don’t get rid of HUDL classic… Was on the phone with a professional, he did a good job, but… Coaches get ready, HUDL classic is going away.

Martin Luther, 1517:

After a great visit to @FriendsU and a conversation with my parents I am proud to say I have committed to @FalconsFU Go Falcons!❤️🖤 @CoachSMartin @ShaunKunz2 @RashadDaniels12 @CoachHarrisonFU @NWGRIZZLYFB

1st 200m of the season not bad only up from here 📈 •22.6 * lane 8 * @CoachSMartin @ShaunKunz2 @NWGRIZZLYFB @PrepRedzoneKS @6starfootballKS

Me outside of my moms room at 9pm to tell her I need a poster board for tomorrow: