Bianpao and German Folk Tales

2008, the year of the Olympics, was ushered in by an ear-bleeding cacophony of firecrackers. All around Xining, large amounts of gunpowder wrapped in pink tissue paper were set alight with leaky cigarette lighters and thrown into the air, on the ground, at friends, or simply run away from.
Everywhere I go fire crackers are cracking. On the street little boxes erupt in slow motion, one every few seconds, the instigator apparently no where to be found. From my window I watch little boys and girls tease the wicks with lighters and drop them just in time to save their fingers. Their parents are long gone, probably behind another building setting off an entire wreath of the damned things. Hardware stores are the main proprietor of these miniature bombs. Whenever Chinese people build things, they need to scare off the demons that frequently plague substandard building materials with powder's frightening crackle.
If one goes outside on any given Xining afternoon, shuts their eyes, and remains quiet for a few seconds, he may be treated to the distant rat-a-tat of these little red cylinders. As construction is out of control in this Western Chinese outpost, so is the ignition of firecrackers. I often curse out loud at groups of smirking workers who take me by surprise with ancient and annoying tradition. Frequently, during prolonged outbursts, I scan the skyline for an imploding building, a sign that the inevitable has finally happened. Never, however, I am so lucky.
Children in my housing complex do four things, two of them have been relegated to dusty closets by the winter - riding bikes and playing with sports balls. The other two are a bit less constructive, one is playing with bits of broken glass and trashed cardboard, the other is to, of course, play with firecrackers. I often curse under my breath at these little kids' parents. This is the antithesis of Struwwulpeter, their parents are the bleeding heart liberals of child discipline, they could blow off a finger for God's [or gods', depending on your inclination {or neither}] sake. Perhaps, it is a thing of pride, the sons and daughters of the Kingdom of the Four Inventions could never possibly hurt themselves with their own creations. There is an innate sense of control that is hereditarily inherited by all children of China, and none of little ones can be scorched by the sudden combustion of this explosive.
Perhaps the prevalence of this dangerous game stems from a lack of education about playing with fire? Or perhaps its related to the spoiled generations of New China that are demanding firecracker allowances and whining their parents into submission when the elders do venture forth to stop them. With the news about undisciplined only-children calling the shots, the latter would make more sense, but I have seen various toddlers suckling on crumpled cigarette packs they've rummaged from the ground. Wait, so then maybe the former makes more sense. Oh, what the hell am I talking about sense for.