“Get out of the lake right now, or I will fucking shoot you,” he hollers, staring down an invisible sight and into my eyes, his finger threatening to pull the trigger — a notched branch on the stick rifle he has cocked and rested on his shoulder.

None of us respond, but if heart rates were words, we’d be babbling.

Our silence exasperates him. “I am not fucking kidding. You get out of the lake right now” — he sweeps a dictatorial finger from the lake where seven of us are circled in the water and toward the pebbled beach where he’s tantruming — “… or I will fucking shoot you.”

A few of us turn our backs to him, attempting to pick up the conversation we’d been having before this agitated teen and his friend, high on unaccustomed warmth in the air and whatever’s in that vape pen tucked into that pocket, stumbled into our orbit. The gun-pointer, initially aided by his sidekick, has been yelling at us for five minutes now, a genuinely unnerving bundle of aggression in green shorts. But if there’s one thing this group of grown-ups — parents, partners, queers, professionals, grieving, recovering, regulating, growing — knows how to do, it’s ignore the todderlistic foot stamping of a heckler.

Well, it looks like it’s finally going to be legal to smoke weed for funsies in Minnesota, which is terrific news for all of the people languishing in jail for smoking or dealing weed for funsies in Minnesota. Law is the ultimate example of the abject arbitrariness of reality: we have an entire system of rules and consequences established around the specious assertion that smoking weed, and all practices associated with it are, well, objectively bad. And not just rules and consequences, an elaborate — and until very recently, shared — ethos that avers a deep and persistent truth: using marijuana is dangerous and wrong. What a hoot.

Being a human is such absurdity, most of the time — how does anyone keep a straight face? Like so many of you, I have struggled with some of the more frittersome or idiosyncratic morae introduced as inalienable verities: men do this, women are that, and you’re either one or the other; these are the ways we cover our bodies with cloth, but these ways are terrible and wrong; these animals are great to eat, but these ones are friends … Sometimes, the whole world seems like a very elaborate game of make believe we’re all playing together. Through the right lens, even the houses we live in, with two sinks in the bathrooms, secret refrigerators, walk-in closets — it’s all like some fantastical fever dream.

[Editor’s note: For this week’s essay we’ve once again pulled out a relic from the archive of Slim Goodbuzz, who served as Duluth’s “booze connoisseur” from 1999 to 2009. Twenty years ago the Sultan of Sot visited C’s Lounge, 1419 Banks Ave. in Superior, which today is the location of a Kwik Trip convenience store. The article below appeared in the April 16, 2003 issue of the Ripsaw newspaper.]

Whenever I go to C’s Lounge — and I’ve been known to do that from time to time — I find myself baffled that I’m in Superior, Wis. Hell, I’m baffled that I’m in the 21st century. Walk into C’s and it’s like walking into Hibbing in the 1970s, not that I have any idea what that would be like. Nonetheless, that’s the feel.

The place is dark, in a good way, with amber and red lights hanging from the glittery ceiling. Everything else is either red or the color of wood. In fact, it looks and feels a lot like the Regal Beagle from Three’s Company, except that instead of spotting Jack Tripper and Larry, you’re more likely to spot middle-aged white trash.

The best thing about C’s is that the drinks are cheap and strong. It’s not uncommon for the drink specials to be something different and surprising, such as $2 Manhattans. For the domestically inclined, beer comes in big mugs for under $3. And, for folks like you and me, tap Busch Light is always 65 cents a glass. That is information to be treasured.

A study/position paper by the Institute for the Study of Light and Water.

Any mountain building on the South Shore is to be opposed. A positive feature of Duluth’s view of Lake Superior is that Wisconsin is barely there. Lake Superior takes up almost half your view; Wisconsin (being flat) is just a thin strip between the lake and the sky. So the sky basically sits right on top of the lake. From our quaint hillside, we gaze over Lake Superior and down upon Wisconsin, that piteous, benighted state. Wisconsin presents a thin band of color: green in summer, fall colors in autumn, white or gray or brown in winter. It contains flecks of texture. But it contributes so little to the view overall, one might wish for the visual interest a mountain range could provide.

But there are benefits to Wisconsin being flat. One of those benefits is that on clear days, the sunrise immediately strikes the water with that intense glittering effect, the blinding mirror of the morning lake. But what if Wisconsin had mountains? What if, instead of an unobstructed view of the sky, the South Shore had a mountain range?

Travel days scramble my perspective. Routines, habits, and thoughtless movements slide off my character while I grasp for rudimentary survival gestures in order to hold on to my mental acuity. Or, maybe in my case, find some mental acuity.

This fall my husband and I biked through the Driftless Zone of Wisconsin while small and large events mostly pleasantly surprised us. For example, on our second travel day I was surprised by the delectability of flathead catfish. But there were also unpleasant surprises, like the fact that (future) Secession President Jefferson Davis spent time in Prairie du Chien subduing Indigenous warriors. I was also rudely surprised by a Border Collie who spent his day sitting by the mailbox waiting for just one slow lady cycler to pedal by so he could give chase. I was not completely surprised by Google maps, which couldn’t properly inform the googler on conditions of rural Wisconsin roads.

But in the midst of that day, I received lovely encouragement in the form of a note. It was from a fellow traveler. This was someone on the journey of humanity — I assume simply trying to make it easier for the next person in line. It was forged in kindness. And I noticed.

I’m showing you so you can notice the kindnesses of fellow travelers. Here’s what I saw.

We stand on the precipice of a magnificent achievement in the category of literary endurance. Next week Perfect Duluth Day will launch the eighth year of its “Saturday Essay” series by publishing the 300th essay. Did we think when we launched with the first essay in 2016 it would last this long? Of course we did. We like to write; you like to read. Duh.

At the end of each year we briefly rest our typing devices and look back at some of the highlights of the previous year. Last week we focused on the most read essays of 2022. This week we ignore the numbers and look back at a few select essays of similar quality that might have been missed by non-compulsive followers.

Season seven of Perfect Duluth Day’s “Saturday Essay” series has drawn to close, and it’s time to look back with the usual popularity contest. In 2021, Jim Richardson pulled off an unprecedented sweep of the top-five most read essays; this year he remained the click hog, but holds a more reasonable three out of five works deemed by Google Analytics to be your favorites.

Next week we’ll highlight a few “select gems” judged by attributes other than page views, but this week it’s all about which ones had the most people tap the Read More button.