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MIRTH
IN YOUR MAILBOX! |
Is it worse to be ignorant or apathetic? I don't know and I don't care.
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I'm
hardly an expert, but I think I
can say with a reasonable amount
of conviction that high school
reunions exist for two purposes:
to remind you how far you've
come, and how far you still have
to go. Like as far away from
these people as you can possibly
get. That's
mostly because the kinds
of people who
pathologically attend
reunions are the same
kind of people I have
been trying to avoid
since kindergarten.
These are the people who
bought high school rings
with their names
engraved on them, people
who send out Christmas
cards to people they
don't even like, and
who, one way or another,
made your life hell
during the period you
have been called
together to
celebrate. Maybe
I'm just bitter. After all,
during high school, I had
haircuts that looked like I had
been in a lawnmowing accident.
And my dating life seemed to
coincide with comet fly-bys, with
about the same
duration. Perhaps
I'm forgetting the good stuff,
but that's beside the point here.
The point here is to tell you
THINGS I LEARNED AT MY HIGH
SCHOOL REUNION. A
Disclaimer: The stories you are
about to read are true.
Everything contained within
actually happened at my five-year
high school reunion, and is
completely devoid of
exaggeration. Only the names have
been changed, to protect me from
frivolous lawsuits, death threats
and alien abductions.
Okay.
Number one: YOU'VE COME A LONG
WAY BABY... I
used to walk around with this
idea in my head that I have
essentially remained the same as
I was when I got my diploma from
Principal
Bob
five years ago, although when
pressed I'd be forced to admit
that I do have less hair. It's a
psychological security blanket, I
guess, the same kind that makes
some women lie about their weight
even when they are being rescued
by secret agents. However,
I came into direct conflict with
this concept the moment I walked
through the door of the bar that
had the unfortunate status of
reunion headquarters, a place
called Wheelies. (A
quick aside: Originally, the
event was to take place in a park
adjacent to the high school, but
I was called at the last minute
by a different girl than had
originally contacted me and
informed that not enough people
had RSVP'd and it -- the reunion,
not the park -- was moved to
"Wheelies," which evoked images
of men on Harleys who communicate
in an elaborate system of grunts.
I was sure I was being set up for
a practical joke of Bill Gatesian
proportion, but everyone else I
spoke to got the same call, so at
least I would be humiliated in
good company.) I
was blitzed by the reunion
organizer, who we will call
Muffy. Muffy flashed several
pieces of paper in front of me
(release forms?) for me to sign
before informing me that the beer
was free and that I was entitled
to one free mixed drink, no more.
Mission accomplished, she
successfully ignored me for the
duration of the
evening. Eerily,
apart from hair styles and weight
fluctuations, a large majority of
these people appeared not to have
changed in the intervening years,
and I was forced to come face to
face with the fact that I had, in
fact, undergone a major
personality overhaul in the past
60 months. No longer a
fresh-faced, irresponsible waif
of a lad with bad hair, I was now
-- and ever shall be -- a
grizzled, mostly irresponsible
weasel with a good start on a
spare tire and barely enough hair
to keep the glare off of my
head. ...BUT
NOT LONG ENOUGH Maybe
five years isn't long enough for
a reunion. I haven't had enough
time to accumulate "gloat."
(However, when cornered, I still
had the "I Worked on a Movie With
Claudia Schiffer"
story.) I
was tempted to invent
fantastical lies about
dating Heather Graham,
but resisted as proof
would have inevitably
been requested, and I'm
not willing (yet) to
resort to faking
autographs on headshots.
As
it stands now, I
resemble a taller,
younger George Costanza:
perpetually single,
balding, unemployed and
living with my parents.
Fortunately, I was able
to bill myself as a
"writer," and most
people seemed willing to
accept that. NO
MATTER HOW LOW YOU GET, THERE'S
ALWAYS SOMEONE
LOWER In
spite of my current status, I was
surprised to find that I had
nothing to be ashamed of. I had,
after all, finished college. Some
of my classmates hadn't even made
it that far. Some hadn't even
left the parents' basement
(theirs, not mine) in the first
place. The
stories were just sad. One fellow
spent the night insisting that he
was a professional pool player,
and, to add veracity to his
story, asked everyone he
encountered for directions to
western Nebraska, the site of a
big tournament the following
week. I figure if you're having
trouble finding anything in
Nebraska, the home state of
boredom, there's something
seriously wrong. I
also think that Principal Bob
would be disturbed to learn of
the considerable percentage of
students employed in the "adult
entertainment" industry. And
while the class a year ahead of
us had produced a Penthouse
centerfold, all our class could
boast was a DJ at Beach Girls and
a bouncer at Teaser's
Palace. Not
everyone was that bad, but
strangely, they're not the ones I
remember... OLD
HABITS DIE HARD While
one guy just behind me drunkenly
slobbered on an engaged woman who
was trying to find a diplomatic
way to escape, I had the first of
an increasingly bizarre series of
encounters in a night filled with
them: A snobby girl that was too
good to talk to me in high school
AND college said hello to the
girl next to me and made the most
acrobatic move I've seen this
side of the Cirque Du Soleil to
avoid eye contact with me and say
hello to the guy next to me. I
was just proud to be worth that
kind of effort. ALWAYS
COME PREPARED FOR A
FIGHT Perhaps
the highlight of the night came
from the most unexpected source.
Due
to a grudge dating back
to junior year that
neither of them could
adequately explain, two
guys decided that there
was no time like the
present to pound the
snot out of one another.
While one of them got
himself properly psyched
for the bout, the other
one WENT HOME TO
GET HIS BROTHERS AND
CHANGE HIS
PANTS. I am not
kidding. As
if it wasn't absurd
enough to run home and
get your three brothers
to pound on this guy, he
took the time to change
from his khakis into
what my friend Mike and
I came to call his
"fightin'
pants."
As in, "Them's fightin'
pants, pardner...
Draw!" MURPHY
WAS REFERRING TO
REUNIONS Things
degenerated from there. One chap
that no one could remember
talking to during high school
took full advantage of the free
beer, and got so hammered that he
shared the contents of his
stomach with us, all over the
bar. He proceeded to give his
health insurance card to the
nearest person, and walk
home. The
bartender justifiably kicked us
out, after only three hours of
reunion -- though they were an
eventful three hours. The party
shifted to a second bar, where
this time the bartender himself
got into the action and had to be
restrained from getting into a
fight with one of my
classmates. Unwilling
to let the disastrous events of
the night deter us, eight
survivors retired to a nearby
Perkins, where we all squeezed
into a single booth and threw
gossip around about the 150
people who hadn't bothered to
show their faces at the
festivities. And frankly, I'm
having trouble blaming
them. The
artist formerly known as Patrick
Keller will be headlining at Big
Earl's Goldmine all this week.
This article is 1999 Patrick
Keller, Gern Blansten
Productions. You may redistribute
this piece, provided the text is
unaltered and it contains this
notice. As always, if you know
someone sick and twisted who
might like this stuff, let me
know. Blah blah blah e-mail me at
blansten@iname.com
blah blah blah
Also
featured in the not-so
latest: All
contents of this web site -- even the
periods -- are TM & © Patrick
Keller, Gern Blansten Productions, so
don't try to steal 'em. Any unlawful
distribution, copying or non-educational
use is highly frowned upon, and will be
prosecuted when I get enough money to hire
a lawyer. Violators will be spanked.
Shoplifters will be persecuted.
Prosecutors will be violated. |
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