Like all epics, good and otherwise, what I'm about to present is going to take its sweet time getting to the point. Cannon Beach, and all the stupidity that went down there on the night of July 4th 2004, won't even be mentioned until part three. So, if you would like to skip over the first two installments, feel free.

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Independence Day overtook Halloween as my favorite holiday around the time I realized that most of the fireworks illegal in the state of Oregon could easily be purchased across the Columbia River. While even those cheesy snake tabs are strictly forbidden in places like New York City, mortars and $150 extravaganzas can found in countless retailers in Vancouver, Washington in the weeks leading up to the 4th.

This year, due to poor planning and head-butting among various family members, I was set to spend the 4th watching Fort Vancouver's annual fireworks display on TV. In a last ditch effort to celebrate our forefather's stand against taxes on their tea, I sent off a series of emails to my sister, currently a student at the University of Oregon. Having been schooled in the art of guilt trips by my mother, one of the world's finest, I unleashed a flurry of electronic pouting and moral obligation allegations.

A few short hours later, she caved. In the morning we would meet at our parents house to hijack their cherry red convertible, perpetually locked in the garage like a veal calf. From there, we would join up with them at the Tolovana Inn in Cannon Beach. This was to be a brief ode to the family trips from our childhood- a big ol' happy get-together that would no doubt be torn asunder by bickering...like all those family trips from our childhood.

There was just one little problem. No one had thought to pick-up so much as a sparkler. Hitting the beach without a full cache of illegal explosives would be like going to an orgy without genitals. Every year on the 4th for decades, that stretch of coastline becomes a cacophony of multi-colored explosions; a patriotic, G-rated melee reminiscent of the bridge scene in Apocalypse Now.

With barely an hour to go before Vancouver's stands closed, I headed for the border. Crossing over the Columbia was like entering a strip mall war zone. Someone on a boat near the bridge was sending mortars into the sky, as if to mock those watching across the way in Jantzen Beach.

Vancouver loves fireworks and treats Independence Day like Christmas, Easter and Yom Kippur all rolled into one. Fort Vancouver is overtaken by 70,000 revelers during the holiday, all there to enjoy what is sold as the biggest fireworks display west of the Mississippi. The neighboring state to south loses millions of dollars in revenue each year due to its strict regulations.

As I rushed north, someone on the edges of I-5 fired a series of red mortar shells over traffic. If they were attempting to hit the cars rushing past, they were missing badly. Each flaming ball sailed over the freeway and into the concrete embankment on the other side. Further-up, two jocks merrily urinated against the side on an ancient gray Ford with Oregon plates. They were no doubt rolling towards the same place as me: Blackjack's Fireworks, which claims to offer the world's biggest selection of festive explosives.

The night sky was lit up with blasts of phosphorus but the 4th was still two hours away. The following night in Vancouver would likely yield enough neighborhood firework displays to light up the city brighter than ten suns. I passed various smaller stands as I fumbled my way towards Blackjack's and its 2-for-1 and irresistible 3-for-1 specials. Later, after my vehicle was ditched in the brown field surrounding the pyrotechnic-loving pirate's store, I took my place in a line no shorter than two blocks.

Nearby, a beareded man was selling green Hulk ice cream bars as the locals clogged the land with pops and bangs. Up on the doorway at the front, a red sign screamed "FIREWORKS" with a string of white tracking lights surrounding it. Thirty minutes later, inside, the place was a feeding frenzy. My fellow patriots were tossing ridiculous amounts of rockets and roman candles into their black shopping carts. Children ran in circles, howling like excited chickens in no less than four different languages. Up near the store's ten separate cash registers, a teenager shrieked, "WE'RE CLOSING IN 15 MINUTES. NOTHING WILL BE SOLD AFTER 10:59. THIS IS STATE LAW!"

This did not improve the situation. Fat mothers muttered "Excuse me" as they pushed past and struggled to understand the difference between yellow tagged items and red ones. I too was completely baffled by Blackjack's pricing system and just started grabbing. We were all acting like frightened customers in a Florida Safeway, madly searching for the last AAs an hour before the tornado of the century hits.

My budget for this trip was $50 but, given the circumstances, I was completely incapable of resisting impulse purchases. I tossed in a $30 firework called "The Hot Tub" because the cartoon on the front was cheesy. An 18-inch long recreation of the Titanic with flaming smokestacks joined Ninja mortars and a cardboard goose that shoots fireball eggs out its florescent derriere.

At the register, a guy with jagged teeth like a wolf that's been punched in the jaw a thousand times handed me a debit receipt to sign. The amount at the top? $114.79. Whoops. For spending over a $100, I scored another six mortars for free. Later, I struggled to haul a cardboard box with "CRACKLING ARTILLERY SHELLS" stamped in huge letters on the side.

Closing in on midnight, I still hadn't eaten. I stoped at a place called Fat Dave's. The Fat Dave Special ran $7.50 and the waitress brought me three plates with hashbrowns, country fried steak, scrambled eggs, four pieces of toast and a stack of pancakes the size of my head. I was the only person in the place not capable of joining the AARP and the only male not wearing a hat.

Eventually, a loud family wandered in. It was the daughter's 10th birthday and she scored a plate of b-day fries. The son snidely asked the waitress, wearing a pink sweatshirt with a kitten on it, if they sold fifths of Jack Daniels. She told him no. "That's too bad," he shot back. A total pro, she broke out a sharp verbal slap. "We only sell Jack in gallons." There was Celine Dion and Kenny Rogers on the jukebox. A glass window over a booth had the word "FUN!" written in blood red in the middle of a puke green circle. The family talked about the old Dr. Katz cartoon show.

The chances of being fined for transporting illegal fireworks into Oregon is the same as that for being stopped for jaywalking. Nevertheless, the trip across the border always comes with an obligatory Mission: Impossible twinge. I kept the needle firmly planted on 55 all the way down I-5 into downtown and I'm passed every ten seconds.

Near the bridge, a dark figure leaned out of a speeding window and sent a blue comet to space. Across the river, Oregon was dead and black. No fireworks. No bangs. This may as well have been an omen.

To be continued...

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OK, there's a lot of superfluous detail in there and anyone else could toss out this entire story in three hundred words. Nevertheless, I couldn't tell it without mentioning the family and that eerie stain glassed window. If you're ever hungry in Vancouver, Washington and looking for an anecdote, you could do worse than Fat Dave's.

Maybe "worse" isn't the right word.