Dear Thomptos, Hansons, Trunnells, Daleys, Deppes, and everyone else in the vicinity of 121st Ave. NE and Davenport in Blaine, Minnesota during the mid-80s,
Please accept my dearest and most sincere apologies for being so fucking annoying. While I thought it was great fun to stand in the front yard or someone’s driveway and sing quite loudly (and if my present singing aptitude is any indication of my teenage talent that singing was horribly off key and quite shrill).
I’m not entirely sure how often we subjected you to hours of “You Can Call Me Al” interrupted occasionally with fits of giggling. Was that better or worse than when we became obsessed with Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me?” I’m sure it was sheer hell for everyone within earshot.
While I’m here I should also probably just get on with apologizing for how we, Jenni, Ericka, Jodi H, Kathy, Dawn, Vicki, and I, brought the annoying to entirely unforeseen levels of annoying once a male teenage specimen was in the vicinity. I cannot even imagine how often you must have rolled your eyes as you listened to half of our crew turned into coy, flirty, eyelash batters, and the other half feigned disinterest with shouts of “immature” at the flirters.
I am really, truly sorry. Especially if you were a grownup who had gotten up early and worked all damn day.
If it makes you feel any better, I am now suffering a sort of comeuppance at the hands of teenage girls just like me and my friends. They’ve been outside on the driveway next door for five hours now. Intermittently, screeching about a boy named Jason and singing every Lady Gaga song they know more than four words of. And then when I didn’t think it could get any worse, someone’s brother showed up with a friend. I have to admit it does bring me a modicum of comfort to hear that the mating rituals of suburban heterosexual teens has not changed a lick in the twenty-five years since I annoyed our neighborhood. Does anyone worry about maturity more than a teenage girl? I don’t think so.
Currently they are discussing Justin Bieber while one of the boys keeps rapping, “throw my hand in my pants, ain’t nobody can tell me I can’t. Just lounging on the couch.” See? It could have been worse, there could have been rapping involved. It makes Paul Simon seem positively charming, doesn’t it?
I wonder if you, like me, found it easy to resist the urge to go out there and tell them to shut the fuck up because a big part of you remembers what it’s like to be a pre-license teenager on a perfect Minnesota summer night. And you remember how roasting marshmallows for s’mores and talking about music with boys after the sun had set and the stars had come out felt like a very grown-up and mature thing to do.
Anyway, I’m sorry.
P.S. I’m extra special sorry for that one month we were alternately obsessed with “Luka” and “Weatherman Says” too.