I’ve never attended a hot air balloon festival.
Just what goes on at a hot air balloon festival that I’m not supposed to know about? Can flying through the air in a flimsy looking crate beneath an undependable piece of rubber inflated by a gas that would probably rather be somewhere else be as much fun as it looks on television?
I’ll never know. I’m not ever likely to attend a hot air balloon festival.
I’ve never been attracted to taxicab drivers – of either sex – in my entire life. You might think that this is because I have never taken a taxi, my income being geared more towards a public means of transportation.
You would be wrong.
It is really because I don’t drink alcohol.
Not at all.
Ever.
Now, I’m not suggesting that if I were, for any reason, to start drinking alcohol, that I would fall in love with a cabbie or ride in hot air balloons. I don’t, for a minute, believe that Sir John Gielgud will start serving wine at my parties; it is equally unlikely that I will ever meet famous sports figures. I’m not naïve enough to suggest that there is a direct correlation between alcohol consumption and the adoption of the lifestyles depicted in alcohol commercials on television. Oh, no. I wouldn’t dream of making such a suggestion – I’m not even sure I understand it.
However, as I get older, it becomes increasingly obvious to me that I really am an outsider in this society, that I am something of an outcast. As far as I can figure, it logically follows that, as a member of a very small minority, I miss a lot of social events that most others take for granted.
Just because I don’t drink.
How often has a surprise birthday party been thrown for you in your local bar? Happens all the time, right? And, don’t you get a rush when they pretend to hand you the bill? Well, I will never feel that rush
.
Or, how about the time the four guys get together to help the old lady get her car started, or her old furniture stripped, or some other act of macho charity? Old ladies don’t ask me to give them assistance; they usually beg me not to hit them over the head or take their purses, which are invariably heirlooms which have been in their families for 16 generations.
And, what about the four guys who go up to the cottage for a weekend? (I always wondered about those guys, but that’s probably material for a whole other column.) Sure, there was no food, the cabin didn’t appear to have any means of heating and the woods looked like the stunt double for the woods in Deliverance, but the four guys were prepared for the worst because they had all remembered to bring their beer.
Admittedly, I have chosen to forego all of this camaraderie and good-natured fun by choosing not to drink alcohol. I can blame no one but myself. Yet, sometimes, I wonder what a lifestyle commercial geared to my life would be like…
“Ira and the boys, and girls, have been awake for 36 hours, pasting up a newspaper and generally horsing around. And, now, it’s soft drink time…”
Let’s forget, for the moment, that Ira isn’t the classical macho kind of name that appeals to the average male television viewer. I like the name, and I’m not about to change it.
The truth of the matter is that my experience is either so far removed from that of the average person, or so mundane (I go to a lot of movies, for instance, and like listening to music – commercialize that!), that it cannot be used to sell drinks.
Of course, not being part of the mainstream does have its advantages; I’ve never had the pleasure of fighting bulls in Spain, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I was invited to join an expedition to scale Mount Everest. If the truth be known, there are many “manly” activities that I would rather not try.
And yet, it would be nice if, just once, the call came: “Hey, Ira! We’re taking the shuttle up for a little spin this weekend, and there’ll be plenty of liquid refreshments, if you know what I mean! Wanna come?”