The summer is over, and I can’t help but feeling like I didn’t enjoy it enough.

Things I used to do daily from June to September – ride bike, camp, swim, and stay out later than usual – I don’t have time to do them anymore, it seems.

These days, it’s extra hours at work, weeknight commitments, and weekend obligations. Between the work, weddings and events, the majority of the summer is spoken for before it even begins. That makes it hard to enjoy it like we used to – care free.

Most of you are probably saying, “Well, welcome to life as an adult, Sonny.” If so, you’re right. It’s time to grow up.

But I’m not sure what’s worse; feeling bad for wasting a summer or accepting that you did because you’re getting old, and that makes it OK.

I had to convince three different people not to drive drunk this past weekend. I didn’t know them really, they were mutual acquaintances, but that shouldn’t ever make difference. What’s wrong is wrong.

And what struck me was the idea that I was being irrational about the whole thing. That taking a cab was a stupid thing. Is that an irrational idea? These people seemed to think so.

They’re not alone. There’s plenty of people out there who don’t have any fear, or consideration, when it comes to driving drunk. These are often people who have already been caught for doing it once or twice before, too. I was talking with someone else about my weekend experience, and they asked the question, “what is it going to take to make them stop?”

Short of killing themselves or someone else, no idea.

Driving drunk seems to be as much of an addiction for some as drinking is for others. For some, getting behind the wheel after a night of partying is as, if not more important, than the party itself. Taking their keys is like taking an NRA member’s guns away.

I’d try to offer an explanation, some insight into why people feel the need to drive drunk, but there isn’t one. It baffles me. Passing out at home, not having to get-up and get your car and challenging the law are too important for some people. They have to do it. Hopefully those reasons, which are the only ones I can see as to why people drive drunk, will justify the consequences that’ll eventually come every offender’s way. But I doubt they will.

Tuesday was my day at the fair. It went great. I think we got a pretty good story out of it, too.

If I had had it my way, the whole thing might have gone completely different.

Originally, I was really hoping to spend the day “in the life” of a carnival worker. Didn’t happen.

Instead I worked with a bunch of real nice people doing a bunch of unusual (to me) odd jobs. Things couldn’t have worked out better.

So it’s like Garth Brooks sang, “Sometimes I thank God… da da dum… for unanswered prayers.”

Looking back on it, I’m not sure what I would’ve got out of working a carnival. Carnies have long hours and spend a lot of time on the road. From what I’ve gathered, it’s a job like most – not much glamour, plenty of hard work. A story, all by itself, that you can find anywhere.

What I learned to appreciate from the fair is; it takes all kinds. Not just carnies. Sounds cheesy, but honestly, most things in life are (I still get goose bumps when I hear The Scorpions “Wind of Change” – you do to).

It takes all sorts of people to make the fair work. It takes the derby car drivers who brought the fans who bought the pies. Or in my case, vice-versa. It takes the caller barking at you on the midway to play their game to scare you into visiting the ag area to see how a farm works. It takes people who can laugh at themselves and others to make the fair a good time, understanding that there wouldn’t be much to laugh at all if everyone were the same. I’ve learned to appreciate everyone and everything at the fair. Because it’s always been about the people.

There are a lot of great local festivals these days. It seems like there’s one every weekend.

Although, I don’t think there’s anything going on this Friday and Saturday.

That got me thinking; if I had to keep the streak alive, what kind of event would I bring to Norwich?

So I’ve come up with a festival idea for the future. It’ll probably never get off the ground, but it’s fun anyway…

“Chenango Single-Wide Showdown 2008: The biggest, nastiest trailer rally this side of Hot Springs, Ark. Folks who like the calm and quiet of their Trailer Park need not apply!”

Trailers of all kinds – from rotten bottoms to high tankers – would be towed in from far and wide. With the promise of music, food and no cops, Norwich would be smothered with propane-toting Landmarines.

Here’s some possible testimonials from satisfied attendees:

“I was at the Rolling Septic Review last year in Tulsa, and I’ve got to say, the Chenango Single-Wide is the rowdiest, most care-free weekend I’ve spent since getting paroled. The “trailer Jenga” was worth the price of admission alone. Those people know how to run a rally.” – Cherry Stem, Hobbs, New Mexico.

“I’ve never seen so many crab-grass patches get laid down in my life, and I’ve been at this a longtime.” – Sally “Brown” McStain, Montpelier, Vermont.

“We got married, had our reception and went on our Honeymoon in a trailer at Single-Wide. That was awesome. What was really awesome is that we got to move into it afterward. The Single-Wide staff said they didn’t want it back. Also,according to Guinness’ records, all that – marriage, reception, honeymoon, life – has never happened before all in the same place. That’s pretty neat.” – Eric “Cool FeBreze” Rogers, Hornell, NY.

Here would be the tag line “Blues people like the Blues festival, art people love Colorscape and athletic people like Gus Macker… Real people love Single-Wide.”

If you’ve ever been to a wedding, chances are you’ve given a standard wedding gift, right?

Cards, gift certificates, money, crock-pots, kitchen sets, etc.

Have you ever given a gift that keeps on giving?

I call them embarrassment bonds.

Many of those were offered at a great friend of mine’s wedding that I was in this past weekend.

For example, I left people forever with the image of myself dancing cheek-to-chest with the groom’s strapping father.

Our song: “Unchained Melody.” Our dance floor: made of clouds. Our moment: Indescribable. So are the pictures on Youtube. He’s already lost out on a huge promotion because of them and I’ll never be taken seriously on the net again.

It goes to show, an open bar and an open mind are not a good combo in the information age.

That wasn’t even the worst of it.

I thought it’d be a good idea to throw on some Axe Body Spray from the free amenities tray in the reception hall bathroom during a quick freshen-up. Turns out it wasn’t spray, but actually shave gel. I didn’t notice until after giving myself a thorough hosing. Good thing I had tuxedo insurance – and a good explanation.

“Your dad’s fiancé was so jealous because of our dance that she accosted me in the bathroom and doused me with Nivea shave gel,” I told my newlywed friend. “She was about to give me a swirly before DJ Dave came in and threw her off me. Real mature.”

So much drama. So little time.

Although I enjoyed it, this next scenario turned out to be the holiday fruit cake in my little gift basket:

The maid of honor and I are both huge horror fans. So as a gag, I made a mask out of a piece of prime rib off the buffet, revved up my Stihl saw, and chased her screaming throughout the reception pretending I was “Leatherface” from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We wrecked a few tables, tweaked some pace makers and ruined a few dinners. In hindsight, doing that during the father daughter dance was probably in poor taste.

The people that matter all laughed.

I call those embarrassment bonds because the stories will only mature – get stupider and more over-the-top – with time.

Who remembers a bread maker?

I am not a Harry Potter fan.

I am cynical and mean though, and I understand where the people who leak the ending of “Harry Potter and The Deathly Hollows,” are coming from.

But I’ve got to give “spoilers” a thumbs down for basically ruining most Harry Potter fans’ lives – just because they can.

The last wizard book may not be a big deal to some. But for others, a ruined Harry Potter ending is like a Chernobyl meltdown happening inside their little hearts.

Harry Potter fans haven’t hurt anyone. I say let them enjoy their fantasy and let’s not always be raining on their parade.

Some government agencies don’t do so hot in the reputation category. I’m sure the IRS and the DMV immediately stand out in everyone’s mind.

These days it seems like FEMA isn’t too far behind them.

But those other two agencies don’t get accused of not getting anything done. Plus, FEMA doesn’t strike fear into our hearts like a cold government bureaucracy should. Not like the “I–R–S” and “D-M-V” do. They command respect – even if they screw up – through fear. I cried last week at motor vehicles and I didn’t even do anything wrong. “If you had only filled out a form wrong or forgotten a critical document like most people do, I wouldn’t have had to yell at you for something totally un-related, like looking like John Candy when he was in Plains, Trains and Automobiles,” barked the DMV lady. She sounded right even when she was wrong.

FEMA, on the other hand, sounds like a good name for a wholesale foods distributor.

They deal with disasters – and not well, some say. But when things go bad – FEMA. When things get worse – FEMA. When despair breaks the levees – FEMA. Like it or not, they are the tax-payer’s answer to the mini-apocalypses. Let’s give them a name and an attitude that suits the part.

Here’s a suggestion for the Federal Emergency Management Administration’s new name:

S.K.U.L.L.

It doesn’t stand for anything but it sounds nasty and “tuff.”

Read two probable testimonials from disaster victims who dealt with a new-look, more IRS-like, emergency administration:

“Within hours of the disaster, SKULL was promptly there to be surly, cold and apathetic to my situation. The agent I met with misplaced my paperwork, but eventually issued a check to help repair my storefront – not before making me feel really lousy about it. Thanks SKULL.”

“Not only did SKULL deny my requests for federal assistance after floods left me homeless, they said if I kept complaining that they’d come down here and give me something to cry about. I believe it.”

Sounds like they’re taking-care-of-business to me.

If you’ve got a good name you’d like FEMA to consider, feel free to send it in a post-marked envelope to evesun.com blog comments, P.O. Box 8337, Burbank, CA 91502.

There’s a lot of harmful propaganda floating around out there regarding my performance in the Dairy Day Goat Milking Contest Saturday.

It’s true, contrary to my claims in a previous blog, I did not yield a single drop of milk from my goat (who I found out later is named “Sahara”).

Not because of I am a lousy milksmith. Rather, I failed because I trust people – people I thought were my friends.

How do I know I was betrayed? Because the technique was there. The pick-up lines and soft music were there. The will to win was there. The only thing that wasn’t there was a working tit on the left side of that goat’s udder.

Clearly sabotage.

Oh yeah, “old faithful” gave it up for Mayor Joe Maiurano the turn after mine – once Dairy Day organizer Janet Pfromm made a “special” adjustment for him (she removed, upon further review of surveillance tape from a security camera, what appeared to be a small rubber plug from the goat’s udder).

I was too predictable. They knew I would volunteer to go first to spare everyone else the heartbreak of loss. I never had a chance.

Betrayed, humiliated, angered and frustrated, I said nothing as the boo’s from the crowd of thousands rained down.

“A kindergartner could do better than that you bozo,” one man said. “You’ll never milk in this town again you bum,” said another. “You made my granddaughter cry you worthless hack,” a woman said as she slapped me across the face.

I took it like a man though, because no one wants to hear excuses. And I ain’t giving any. I screwed up. I lost.

All I want is another shot, a fair shot. If I lose, I’ll live in exile and never challenge the goat milking kingdom again. If I win, I will take the throne that is rightfully mine. All conspirators will be forgiven (mercy they most definitely would not show me) and together we will enter the golden age of this empire under my rule.

Before you peasants pick through my blog, note your inequities as you read the work of royalty.

Well, not official royalty. Not yet.

But unless your name happens to be Mike “The Main Squeeze” McGuire, all you really are is a sniveling subject in the world of high-stakes competitive goat milking – a.k.a my new kingdom.

Come witness my coronation as your ruler at 2 p.m. this Saturday at the Dairy Day Celebrity Goat Milking Contest. Be amazed as opponents run away in fear of my “utter” ability. Be dazzled as goats line-up to be gripped by my gentle, yet purposeful hands. Be astonished as I build a wooden Ark to save my people from drowning in the flood of un-pasteurized milk that will undoubtedly flow from the Fairgrounds’ Exhibition Hall. Come. And you will one day be able to tell your grandchildren that you witnessed my two-handed “Canasawacta Clutch” deliver us to freedom.

If I am going to be this big, I might as well be a whale headed in the wrong direction.

How awesome would that be? Anytime you screw-up the world will bail you out – no questions asked.

“Hello, I’m a desperate whale in need of $20 bucks for cab fare. I slept through my alarm and now I’m late for an appointment with my probation officer across town. They said if I miss another urine test they’ll throw me back in jail. Can anyone help me?”

Can anyone help you? Are you kidding?

The world’s top marine biologists would hand over fistfuls of cash, debit cards, and travelers checks all at once, start hailing you a cab and say, “Don’t you even worry about the money. All that matters is you pass that drug screening.”

“About that. The reason I overslept is because I got wicked stoned yesterday and drove 90 miles in the wrong direction on the way back from a party. My car ran out of gas and it took me all night to get back.”

–”Oh you must be exhausted. You should rest. Don’t worry about the appointment, whale. My brother-in-law is an attorney. He knows some people who know some people in the state probation department. He can pull some strings.”

“What about the dirty urine?”

–”Let me know when your make-up test will be and I’ll smuggle you in a clean sample. Not only are we Marine Biologists drug free, we are also crafty.”

“Sounds like you guys got this under control. Can we go get some food now? I’m jones’n for a breakfast burrito.”

–”I’m a strict vegan – but eating some sausage, bacon, eggs and cheese with a misguided whale does sound pretty good. Hop in my car, breakfast is on me.”

It obviously pays to be a whale.

Just don’t strive to be one of those rare 1,000 hogs that roam the backwoods of Georgia and Alabama. They can’t catch a break.