To the left was a gaggle of college boys, bumping and slurring down the street. To the right, a lone partier, holding his own in a game akin to "We've Got Spirit, Yes We Do." My instincts say that these two factions had started the night at the same party on the corner. In fact, I vaguely recall seeing about six dudes sitting in a boat that was parked in a driveway early in the evening. It was that sort of vision -- like seeing a monkey with a frilly neck dickie riding a bike -- that didn't register until later. I saw it, didn't acknowledge it, remembered it and rued the missed opportunity to observe the spectacle. I've obviously become desensitized to antics.
Unlike some people who live here, I love when the college kids move back to Duluth. As long as they don't spill Ice House concentrated whiz onto anything I have to wear, eat, or drive, I say "Welcome." They've been back for a few weeks, and I hadn't heard a peep. I worried that maybe our street wasn't fashionable anymore in world of droopy drawers, backward baseball caps, and unfocused eyeballs.
To the left, Captain Dipshit was obviously feeling slighted over something that had happened at the party. To the right, Admiral Assface was defending himself, his party.
CD: I know people who could buy this whole block.
AA: Eff you.
CD: Good luck getting a job.
AA: Well, enjoy your job at Wells Fargo, Mr. UMD business major.
CD: I know people who could buy this whole city!
And as CD disappeared with his posse down the avenue, AA went off on a rhythmic tirade that should be a Top 40 hip-hop hit. He gestured and gyrated for an audience of just-me, the other boys long out of ear shot range.
AA: F-you, F-your mom, F-your people, F-Duluth, F-your degree, F-your sister, F-your money, F-your title, F-your grandma ... All I wanna do is smoke it.
F-your dad, F-your degree, F-your stupid Twin Cities.
It was beautiful. I wish I'd written it down. Later in the night, 15-or-so kids gathered under a street light on the corner, sloshing and swearing and laughing. And across the street, a dozen co-eds smoked cigarettes, listened to country music, and talked about text messaging.
Sometimes real life is better than the Real World.