it feels like forever ago, and maybe it was

my 20th high school reunion is this september. david lee roth didn't feel tardy, and i don't feel old, but the reality of the situation is i am indeed aged.

i spent my teenage years in the small in stature, and mindset, town of oconomowoc, wisconsin. i've little idea what it's like today, but in the 1980's it was the kind of town you went to if you feared the outside world. you supported god, guns, and the republican party, and though you had little interest in facts or world news; you just knew what you felt was morally right. such thoughts led to the reagan deficit, income gap and subsequent recession, just like the bush years have led the country down another path of catastrophe, only this time at the expense of more lives with false war.

(this isn't a push for the democratic party by any means, but some candidates are so awful you wonder how stupid the country you love can be that they vote them into office)

suffice to say, after graduation, i spent little time in the town and haven't visited in years. i skipped my five, ten and fifteen year reunions… but something in me is leading me to attend this time around.

last week, i stumbled across my senior yearbook--the only year i bought (and i almost forwent that purchase, too)--while in my mom's basement searching for other items. looking it over is what kept me away from all previous gatherings, and perusing the pages again gave hints it could do the same once more. except this time, most of the names and faces meant very little to me. a few i recognized, and old thoughts crept into my brain and reminded me of just how silly and stupid a time the teenage years of life can be.

it's strange the way memory works; i generally can't recall much of my high school years, but with the visual prompting of the yearbook, ancient resentments lightly lingered back into my psyche. teens crave acceptance, and i was no different. back then, i watched the rarified air the popular breathed in, and at the time it all seemed so real and important. last week, i looked over the faces of a few athletic heroes, they who were deemed gods above us mere mortals, and i had to smile. i've never heard any of their names mentioned since then; they were never propelled into the elite arena of professional sports. hell, most weren't even able to cut it at the college level. they were enormous fish in a very small pond, but once they left the realm of safety, reality sent stars into their eyes with a quick jab to the nose.

i found it odd, though, that even looking over the pictures after twenty years that i could still feel a tinge of the stings that once upset me. little nothings, like having only two pictures in the whole yearbook: the standard listing photo, and one "candid" shot. meanwhile, every other page is filled with the pledge kids for "up with people."

the two notable omissions that irked me back then were for events that did the most unspeakable of acts: showed the school up.

like any young dreamer, i was in a heavy metal cover band. towards the end of the school year, we put on a show in the upper gym. i took flyers to every school within an hour radius of mine and promoted the hell out of the concert. when all was said and done, we had around 700 people attend, and a decent chunk came from the surrounding area. were we good? of course not, but we capitalized on that ever-present plight of the teenager in a small town: there was nothing better to do. the concert was better attended than a half-dozen school sponsored events, and pulled in more cash than several of them combined. naturally, it was not mentioned in the end of year wrap up, though each failed school idea--winter carnival! madrigal dance!!--has its own display page in honor and memory.

the other item unmentioned by the yearbook was known as a "gimmie," as there was no way it was going to be promoted or even acknowledged. bored with the traditional school newspaper, several students created an underground paper, "banzai," which was humor based. was it genius? of course not. but it was popular, as we satirized the easy targets of any high school--the adulterous teacher, the administrator rumored to have had a facelift--as well as organizations such as the student council and the student newspaper (which went on to honor us with an editorial on how funny we weren't; we were flattered).

was it highbrow, intelligent humor? not a chance in hell. but it was exceedingly popular; the more we wrote, the more people spoke out in anticipation of the next copy. to remain anonymous--and not get in trouble--we would "release" copies by leaving them stacked in bathrooms when no one was around. between classes, they were discovered and passed around. before long, instead of taking one copy and leaving the rest, students were hoarding the whole stack and passing them out to their friends, that they not miss out--as we had no budget, we weren't making thousands of the xeroxed little buggers; a typical run was somewhere in the neighborhood of 100, which left many wanting in a school of around 1,000.

but, as said, those in control like only to leave behind a happy, shiny history, so no mention of the raucous little upstart was time-capsuled. thing is, though i was looking for credit at the time, i have to admit the memories are all that is important anymore. the concert was a good time, regardless of recognition; banzai was done more out of boredom than the history books.

and i do have to own up to my own part in my social standing. while i wanted acceptance, i needed to do so on my terms. i couldn't just smile and act like everyone else, i had to act different. only in retrospect am i able to see how that hampered my social skills. case in point, the candid second shot of me in the yearbook is from "harmony week." in typical "i have no idea how to relate to kids in any manner," the administration created a melding week where students from all social rings and faculty members were to express togetherness. on monday, we all received special t-shirts with the word "harmony" on them, and we were told to wear them on friday for the all-school picture to be taken in the football stand. naturally, i had to alter my shirt slightly. i took it home, bought an iron on decal, and created the universal "anti" sign--a circle with a line through it--to place over the word "harmony" on my shirt. when i wore it friday, students giggled and pointed, and teachers frowned and murmured. someone took a shot of me wearing it in study hall, and somehow it was cleared to go the distance in the yearbook.

and i do have happy memories of the time; some it even took me years to comprehend. my dateless ass didn't officially attend senior prom, but i did get beyond drunk and go to hang out. my friend mark koch and i got separated, then spent the entire night looking for one another. come monday, everyone was asking me, "hey, you ever find mark?" while everyone was asking mark, "hey, you ever find timmel?" and while that makes me smile, i do know i bumped into a teacher or two who had to have known the state i was in, but gave me a pass on my intoxication. i could have been turned in, arrested, fined… but all i remember was having eyes rolled at me.

(maybe they hoped i would kill myself in an auto accident later on that night, heh)

and i remember the burger king parking lot on friday nights. with nothing to do but cruise the five-block strip of town, kids would end up in several parking lots to sit, smoke, and try to look tough while only succeeding in looking bored. one night, crammed into the back seat with tom milazo, while trying to decide whether to stay or leave, a knock came to the window. outside was an attractive girl from another town. ed weirzbicky was in the front, so he greeted the most polite, petite thing you'd ever seen who had come a rapping. she leaned in, said to ed, "could you please pull your seat forward?" which he did. she then leaned across me and said, "hi, could you lean back a little? thanks." so i did. what came next was quite unexpected. this polite, kind, girl let loose a series of swear words like a sailor and started beating the unholy hell out of tom.

added to the hilarity of the juxtaposition, she kept her civil nature going during the assault, both berating tom and asking ed or i for more space: "YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE! GET OUT OF THE CAR! I'LL FUCKING... i'm not hitting you, am i? could you lean back a little further? KILL YOU! GET OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR YOU FUCKING, FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

she dragged tom out of the car by his hair and proceeded to slap, punch and kick him in the sac until he could take no more. i think once he was lying on the ground, she spit on him and left. maybe she threw food or a drink at tom, that i cannot recall. naturally, we all stood around both stunned and amused; there is little in life more funny than watching a friend of yours get his ass handed to him by a random woman.

turns out, tom had attempted his teenage best to perform on her orally, but was so disgusted by the yeast infection he found when he got to the holy hole he threw up right then and there. as if that wasn't enough, he then spread word of the infection far and wide at her school, giving her a reputation she didn't quite appreciate. the beating was a just response, i suppose.


anyhoo, it's been twenty years, and now i wonder. call it a morbid curiosity. part of me is again un-interested in attending this time around, but it's less a prevalent feeling than those that had me skip the first three gatherings. plus, i know a couple people still carting around their teenage issues, and it's not an attractive trait to have. this year, a sign-up website has been created for the reunion, and while everyone is posting the "check out how great my family and kids are!" pictures to remind me why i skipped the other events, i'm still in so far. i don't care how much money anyone has made, who is president of what corporation, who stayed right square in town, popped out three kids and has fierce opinions about the outside world while having never seen any of it... because i do have an ego. i hate my the bugger, and do my best to beat the fuck out of it, but he's always there waiting for me, whispering into my ear.

so as much as i don't care about care about former failures of mine, perceived slights or simple neglects of the past, i do know this: i have all my hair, i'm not fat, and i'll have lyds at my side.

take that, former football stars gone bald and girls who wouldn't date me back then wearing the "i had kids!" gunt.

life is great.




(oh, and i posted a picture of my foot to represent me on the reunion site. it seemed more appropriate than 2.3 kids or a white picket fence)


.

John Mayer Must Die

I wonder if women look at certain others of their gender and think, "If any man slept with her, I'd lose all respect for him and never allow him inside me." I'm thinking of a "rock bottom" sort of woman. Like Courtney Love.

Women know women; I've had female friends give me insight into their peers that took me weeks to uncover on my own, if I ever was able to at all. Sometimes the insight I've been given has seemed so bizarre and foreign I've simply shaken my head and accepted it as crazy.

Likewise, men know men. We can look at another peened person and size him up fairly accurately, and especially so when it comes to the low end of the spectrum: douche bags.

I don't know the name of the song, but I remember the first time I heard of John Mayer. I had VH1 on in the background, and this video with popped collar and sideways hat frat boys jumping up and down to the whitest of white, soulless music, came on. The singer was blathering on about running through the halls of his high school, and after vomiting a spoonful of stomach acid up into my mouth, I changed the channel.

Naturally, every subsequent song has created a similar reaction in me; "Your Body Is A Wonderland," "Waiting on the World to Change…" every time I hear a new Mayer song, I wonder who listens to it, and why. Maybe I'm crazy, but I think music should elicit some sort of emotional pull from the listener, be it joy, sorrow, anger or what have you. With John Mayer, the songs are simply safe. It's the sugar free, vanilla, zero calorie yogurt selection at the custard stand of music that is thousands of flavors deep.

Regardless, in the country of "G.W. for president!" and "Wild Hogs is a hilarious hit movie," it's no surprise the man has made a career of passionless warbling. With that career comes the public eye, and with the public eye comes public dating. And a pattern.

Love 'em and leave 'em is the John Mayer signature style of dating. He comes on strong, acts entirely passionate, then moves on. He writes his songs, is able to look deeply into stupid eyes and trick women into thinking he's romantic, when in actuality he's nothing more than the geek from high school run amok with newfound popularity.

While this was fine and dandy when he was dating those who had already opened their interviewing mouths and exposed extreme stupidity—Jen Love Hewitt, Jessica Simpson—I have to admit that his current relationship with Jen Aniston came as a surprise, and disappointment. Though no one deserves to be put on a pedestal, sometimes you just sort of give people a little more credit than they're worth. Sure, Jen dated Tate Donovan, which was as confusing as the Michelle Pfeiffer/Fischer Stevens debacle of the 1980's, but as Pfeiffer ended up happily married to David E. Kelley, Jen eventually landed Brad Pitt. The elevation of the marriage partner erased all previous mistakes.

Maybe divorce shattered her. It would explain the Vince Vaughn downgrade, but that was a rebound, something everyone is entitled. But it's been years, and this is just a silly mistake, something men see women doing constantly. I mean, apparently no one took Halle Berry aside and slapped her, saying, "Ok, I know you went through a bad divorce with dumb jock David Justice, but if you think marrying a musician who used to fuck women in the ass in Milwaukee bathrooms is a smart thing to do, you can't cry foul when he eventually cheats on you."

Either way, I always liked Jen. I thought her to be a little smarter than to fall for Mr. Mayer. When they break up in a few weeks or months, she better not whine and cry heartbreak, because failure was a gimmie going in.

Oh well.

Maybe women need more male friends, and men need more female friends.

Maybe we'd all make fewer mistakes if we asked for, and listened to, more advice.

And maybe we'd all give better advice if people listened without anger, blame or resentment when the words aren't those we want to hear.

.

Accidents & Attrition

Several weeks back, I had a splitting headache. While I'm not a fan of introducing foreign chemicals to my body, the irritation was so bad I eventually ended up taking a handful of Tylenol. First 3, then an hour or so later 3 more. It didn’t work; medicine rarely works on me. Nitrous Oxide didn't affect me when I had my wisdom teeth removed, Percocet didn’t faze me, and ibuprofen rarely eliminates any pain I have. At times, it pisses me off. When I'm in pain, I'd love to be able to pop a pill and have it go away. Regardless, with my last headache, after a couple hours of severe, constant pain something dawned on me: I hadn't had a soda in a day or two and was therefore in the throes of the dreaded "caffeine withdrawal headache."

I was pissed. Not for having "forgotten" to drink a soda, but that the lack of doing so could affect my physical being so greatly. Right then and there I figured "fuck it." If I was going to have to go through withdrawal symptoms, why jump back on the drug? For the past three weeks I have been soda free.

I became a vegetarian pretty much the same way. Not through pain or discomfort, but simply by deciding on a whim to not eat meat anymore. There was no political agenda, no health conscious reasoning, I had nothing but an off handed decision to do what felt right. Part of me now thinks that by not having any deeper meaning to my actions, it makes them easier to deal with. As there is no agenda to anything I do, I feel no guilt about doing it. If I chose to, I could eat a hamburger without worrying about how meat doesn’t actually help the body and at the same time destroys the environment. I would enjoy it for the simple reason that meat is enjoyed: taste.

Where this is all coming from is: I stepped on a scale the other day. Thanks to my first Midwestern winter in six years, I have gained seven pounds. I still went to the gym in winter, but also probably watched my diet a little less. Brenda Walsh said it best on one of the first episodes of 90210: "I miss the Minnesota winters; you get to cover up in sweaters and not worry about how you look." (I'm paraphrasing; I only saw the episode once, and that was when it originally aired) Winter is simply an excuse, though, and I hate excuses.

There are certain genes with a predisposition towards weight gain, but generally it happens due to neglect or acceptance. A couple days ago, I got to hang out with someone who had gastric bypass surgery. The man was down over 200 pounds, and had about 125 more to go; at his peak he was over 550. He was very honest in how he ballooned to be so big: he never stepped on a scale, and went into absolute denial. He knew he was gaining weight, and would hear about the obesity problem on the news, see the neck-down shots of rolling masses of matter waddling around and think, "thank god that’s not me."

The human mind has the amazing ability to believe what it wants to over what is. People can convince themselves that any action they take is justified, simply because they took it. If you notice your body changing, you can either do something about it, or accept it. Both are fine responses because one of the most attractive traits a person can have is the sweet combination of self awareness and confidence. What's problematic is the person who is unhappy, but refuses to do anything but complain; they are most happy being unhappy and take that out on those around them.

I'm not unhappy, but I am going to start exercising more and eating better. I know who I am, and what I want to look like.

My body, my choice, my life.

.