Last night, after eating "freedom falafel" my brother, friend and I headed downtown to watch fireworks. We actually found a parking spot in downtown Akron—without shelling out cash to opportunistic people controlling parking lots.
We went to the lime spider, where we could watch fireworks on its rooftop patio. I thought the bar would be a refuge from Akron's finest, who populated Main Street in all their red, white and blue tube top and wife beater glory. Unfortunately, there was a dearth of black spectacled, tight t-shirt wearing guys.However, there was a nice man who sat shirtless, with the kind of burnished skin achieved only by sitting in the sun in one's backyard double-fisting beers.
My brother and friend were purposefullythose guys while refulgent orgasms graced the skyline. Like hypermasculine bar patrons during the superbowl, they hollered and hooted at the fireworks. I thought this would irritate fellow, sweltering watchers, but many joined in their enthusiasm. One girl clapped. It all reminded me of Fourth of Julys of my youth, at which we non-mockingly oohed and aaahed, when it really was magic. Now, cynicism prevailed, mitigated only by beer and wine.