Two Pleasant Evenings

Pleasant is such a wimpy word. Got no bite. Like nice. I hear these words and even though they are meant as compliments they conjure negative images in my diseased mind.
Until recently. Nice can be nice. Pleasant can be pleasant. They might even be antidotes to acid and anger and jaded sarcasm.
Carol has a friend who puts on a fireworks display every summer around July 4 and he is quite proud of it. We went for the first time this year and his pride is justified. This ain't just some guy setting off cherry bombs in beer cans.
He had two tables set up with all kinds of explosives interconnected. Wires running around, strange looking projectile columns, it looked like a mad bombers delight. The show started around 9:00 and lasted for half an hour. Spectacular. All kinds of explosions and sky designs and noises one after the other.
The crowd was a cool crowd, not the typical derelicts I hang around with. Sipping beers, laughing, enjoying conversation before and after the show. No staggering drunks, no loud vulgarity, no fat people desperately grabbing some group sex in the woods.
In keeping with changes I have recently made, I only brought four beers and no whiskey. Whiskey can be evil.
I only drank two beers. It was a laid back, a very enjoyable evening, that I really dug. I felt comfortable and relaxed. Is this how normal people do it?
Last night Carol and I hooked up with Keith and we strolled around Market Days in "the city" after I escaped the madness that is The Booze Emporium.
It was a perfect summer night. We checked out craft booths, talked to merchants, checked out a couple of stores, listened to outdoor music and had a beer in the beer tent.
Again it was a perfectly comfortable, easily relaxed night that just felt so damn good, so damn right. My nerves were calm, my mind was engaged. I was not driven to run up and down the streets drunkenly screaming "Where's the madness? Where are the circus freaks? When do the beheadings begin?"
I still believe there is a time and place for pure madness. I need it like the fat man needs his next quadruple bacon cheeseburger smothered in buffalo chicken slabs.
I just don't need it every single time for every single thing I do.
I am discovering that quiet contentment can be more powerful than three fingers whiskey.
This summer is flowing quite beautifully, and those two nights, among others, will stand out in my mind when I am shivering like a frightened kitten in 8 degree death cold this rapidly approaching winter.
And the extra special bonus is that I will actually be able to remember them.