Here in Yeaman, in the middle of every July, there’s a post pagan ritual which roughly translates into “Fireman’s Ball”. Every firehouse in the country becomes a ballroom where the locals coagulate into what can best be described as a ho-down.
Think: Trailer Park Wedding Reception and you’ll get an idea of the class list on tap. Don’t get me wrong, while the attendees think an MBA is a basketball league, they are the most sincere, genuine and real people you’ll ever meet in my country of phonies. They are so steeped in reality your eyes water and breathing gets tough. The seriousness with which they take the festivities is heart wrenching, and believe me, my heart has been wrenched enough for me to know.
i started out my day at lunch, drinking a bottle and a half of red (Bordeaux). Came home and drank another bottle and a half of red (Sauvignon)– fuel enough for the 10 minute walk Miss Demeanor and i needed to arrive at the ball. i had a good buzz going in every sense of the word. ‘Good’ because i was feeling no pain but also ‘good’ because i was in glib mode.
An explanation of ‘glib mode’.
True story: last year sometime i was coming home from work pleasantly drunk and had to take the subway here in Capital City. There was a strike going on, which meant the car i found myself in was packed even at 8pm. But i was glib drunk and sparked up conversations with those immediately around me and then, like a pool of urine on cement, i spread out and started mingling with more and more people crapped out from a long day capped off with a subway strike. Yet still i made them laugh. All of them. To the point that when i stepped of at my stop that night i got an OVATION. They freaking CLAPPED for me as i walked away.
When i’m in Glib Mode i can talk to anyone about anything and make them like me. It’s a gift. And that night at the Fireman’s Ball, i was gifted.
i swigged cold Heinekens from a can (@ 5 Yea-bucks a pop!), serenaded complete strangers with what i was convinced was sparkling conversation and took pictures.
Here’s another view of dead soldier champagne bottles as the night wore on and on me:
When i ended up at this point, i knew it was time to stop:
‘Stop’ as in ‘move on to other things’, not ‘stop drinking’. Yeah, like i needed to spell that out.
What i moved onto was a a young girl who hooked up with a fireman. i guess those small town dreams come true after you’ve been plied open with enough champagne. Here’s my tribute album to the Belle Butt of the Ball.
From there on my pictures get as fuzzy as my memory. On the way out of the festivities, past bouncers that let pass everyone (we’re talking seventy year old teenagers, wheelchair-bound rock and roll hounds and knife hiding juvies with hair waxed down), i snapped the following photo-graphic proof that i had wound down long before the night…
Al’s Note: Concerning the title and category of this blog post… i swear on a case of Jack Black that i have NEVER drunk a Pabst Blue Ribbon. i chose the title solely the strength of its pun.
The category will be reserved for stories from my drinking past, most of which will not be as recent as the tale related above.
Currently Drinking: Water (after 2 Trailer Park Daiquiris).
It’s still early, i’ve only had a couple drinks and am done for the night. Good thing, i got a busy workday tomorrow.