Actually it was Monday, in downtown Akron, and it was the 4th of July, but that Chicago song has been stuck in my head since yesterday.

I realize this is a bit late, but to all my U.S. readers, Happy Independence Day! A belated Canada Day to our friends north of the border, too, eh! And to all my international readers: Happy, uh, Tuesday!

I decided to celebrate the anniversary of our country's freedom from the tyranny of British rule (Stamp Tax? Are you serious? Get outta here.) in the most fitting way I could imagine: going to a rib fest. For those of you who have never been, or perhaps who live in states that might not fully embrace such a festival, Summer in Ohio means Rib Cookoffs, Rib Burnoffs, and Rib Fests. The names may vary, but the formula is the same: Take truckloads of pork ribs, slather them in barbecue sauce, and cook them just right over gigantic grills. Toss in the occasional county fair ride (Tilt-N-Hurl) and appropriate desert foods (Elephant Ears, Funnel Cakes, and Ice Cream) and liberally sprinkle with any number of redneck and urban stereotypes. Erect a pavilion (or makeshift stage) and hire either a bad country cover band or a washed up rock/folk artist, and you've got yourself a rib fest my friends. Yee-haa!

When I was in high school and early on in college I prided myself in attending several every summer. As my life grew more complicated and the time-constraints of the real-world set in, I could barely find one day in the summer during which to get my rib on. It looked like the glory days were over. But lo-and-behold, I think the summer of aught-five marks the rebirth of a tradition that was almost lost to time, like a phoenix rising from the fiery ashes of countless rib bones and corn husks.

And, ironically enough, long-time friend and WITFITS reader Phoenix helped to usher in this Summer of Ribs by joining me for the gluttonous 4th of July spree.

Aside from being a place for damned good eats, I find rib fests to be a fitting tribute to one of this country's more under appreciated meats. Sure, everyone oohs and ahhs over America's darling, beef, but who stops to recognize his hardworking brother, the delicious and versatile pork? And how spiteful is it that our perhaps most touted sandwich, the hamburger, is in fact made from the cow, not the more apropos pig? Clearly there is some bad blood between these camps.

So, when I walk onto a fairgrounds or a blocked off downtown street like I did yesterday, and I smell the deliciously smoked scent, and I take in the small army of pork vendors, I smile. I think to myself, "Self, this year maybe people will stop and take notice. Maybe today is the dawn of a new era of pork and pork-based products." I mean, it's about damned time the pig had its day in the sun, and on days like the 4th of July, the mighty porcine shines.

I do have to shake my head, though, when I see stands advertising beef ribs. It makes me sad. I don't know how anyone could dream of having the substandard beef ribs compared with the clearly superior pork ones. That's like sleeping on the floor when there's a water bed with satin sheets 5 feet away. But I also hate that in this day and age people don't think that the pig deserves to stand on its own. They always feel the need to roll out the token cow product to, I dunno, give some of the more ignorant folk a sense of relief. Like, "Hey, it's me, your old buddy beef, I'm still here! Don't worry, I won't let this uppity pork get too much power. I'm still in power, behind the scenes!" The 1960s may have ushered in an era of racial tolerance among humans, but in the meat world a strong civil rights movement has been long overdue.

Back in downtown Akron, Phoenix, her brother, and I sat on a curb finishing off our latest sample. We made our way up and down the street trying the product of every vendor. As we sat and gnawed on bones, much like our ancient ancestors before us (sans the handi-wipes), we watched the myriad of people passing by. It was an interesting blend of average joes, urban ghetto flava, and white trash chic.

I learned a ton of new females names in the black community (mostly ending in "iqua" or "ifah") as they were constantly being yelled by folks standing only a foot away from my ear to their friends standing only five feet away. I came across numerous middle-aged white folks who were indistinguishable from the walking dead with their pale, leathery skin, red-rimmed and lifeless eyes, and listless shuffling walks. I saw people who were way too old to be out in 90 degree weather, and babies who were too young (like, fresh-out-the-womb young). I saw a few people who were clearly overdressed (preppy frat guys), some that were under dressed ("Hi, I have boobs!"), and a couple that defied explanation. The lady walking around in her stocking feet, carrying her heeled shoes, was pretty bad. I mean, seriously, where did you think you were going today? But the gal who came in wearing a full powder-blue cowgirl outfit (with swooshy little white skirt) was just ridiculous. If you come to a rib fest in anything nicer than a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, I think you've grossly overestimated the importance of your attire.

And then there were the G's getting their stroll on in airbrushed shirts that literally stretched down to their feet (think night-shirt). Phoenix quipped, "How gangsta is it to come pay five dollars and eat ribs?" And the biker daddies and mommas who wolfed down a full slab as an appetizer. Oh, and the who could forget the two most important attributes of any attendee: tats and tits. I seriously think that to get in you either had to be prominently displaying at least three tattoos or have no less than two inches of cleavage showing at any time. Somehow my small rib-craving cadre must have snuck in under the radar.

Performing on the stage nearby was the one and only Don McLean. Oh how the mighty have fallen. I hear he is doing a Waterbed Emporium liquidation sale later this week. And when I say "performing" I guess I should really say "performing off key" as his guitar was clearly not tuned properly during what was probably the first half of the set. As I licked the tasty, tasty barbecue sauce from my fingers, I voiced what I'm sure everyone else must have been thinking: "Quit playing these songs no one cares about and get to American Pie. I mean, for godsake, that's the only reason your here. Play it fifty times in a row, I don't care, just play it." Had I thought about it I might have grabbed a lighter and started yelling as much. But inevitably I would have gotten carried away and started yelling, "Freebird!" at the top of my lungs. And I don't want to be that guy.

The three of us finished off the last two samples of the day, having made a clean sweep of the place. Although Open Pit was declared winner by the judges (whoever they may be), we as rib connoisseurs were not so easily swayed by the giant billboards and proclamations of "Best Ribs In The Nation" or "Our Ribs Are Clearly Better, See How Many Faux Blue Ribbons We Have?" We all agreed that Open Pit was indeed tasty and perhaps even worthy of second place, but we chose a lesser known as our best in show. We found their sauce to be both delicious and unique, and the meat was tender and juicy. Many places offered a side table with additional sauce(s) to drown your ribs in but they did not. We appreciated the fact that they had so much confidence in both the flavor and volume of their sauce as it was cooked on the ribs, that they felt no need to even offer ancillary barbecue. If this wasn't enough, we got an excellent vibe from the booth itself. The man taking the orders was a middle-aged gentleman with a salt and pepper beard and bearing a grin that lacked at least one (and maybe more) teeth. He may not have been from the south, but I could tell from looking. The grill man was the clincher, though, as far as authenticity. This younger gentleman in perhaps his mid to late twenties stood in front of the hot barbecue and deftly turned delicious racks of ribs with a pair of tongs in his right hand. In his left hand he held his respite from the afternoon heat: a big ole slice of watermelon, perhaps a full quarter of a melon in size. Of everyone there, those were the guys I wanted making my ribs. And they came out swinging.

Later we noticed something that should have tipped us off to their greatest. Among the many signs proclaiming their accolades was one that claimed they were voted best at the Mankato, Minnesota Ribfest. If the people of the city that bears my name (or at least part of it) feel they were the best, then who am I to disagree?

The evening wore on and our hunger for barbecued pork was eventually satiated. As we reflected on what had been a marvelous day of gorging, Phoenix summed up the experience best by saying, "I got boned at the rib fest!" Yes you did, Phoenix. We all did.

And it's never felt so good.

Tags: Food, Humor, Independence Day