The New Zealand Chronicles: Part 1 – Leaving Home

*** First written June 12, 2002***

There is something to be said for not accumulating “stuff” in your life. You never really know how much you have until you have to move it somewhere far away.  I think this goes worse for Jennifer and myself because we had to pack up not only a house, but also a business — and we had to prepare enough equipment to keep our business alive even though we are not physically in the country.  So — along with numerous heavy boxes and shipping crates that we shipped over two weeks ago (which should be arriving anyday), we had the joy of carrying around 10 heavy bags and 5 carry-ons.

Now, the rules of flying are:  2 bags per person to check, 1 carry-on, and 1 personal item.  What this personal item IS is not made clear in the states, but abroad, they consider this to be things like “reading material”.

So, here we are with 5 bags a piece to check (which — BTW, has to be under 32kg each — thats 70 lbs to you and I), and Jennifer with a computer bag and purse (which is NOT on the “personal item” list), and I, with a computer bag, another computer bag carrying miscellaneous reading material and a case with DVDs (just in case), AND a tripod (which is also NOT on the personal items list).  What the hell do we need a tripod for?  I have no idea, but we have it for when we spontaneously need to have a steady camera.  Jennifer goes to the check-in counter while I help the Skycap with the bags.  As a sidenote, I am no good at getting people to accomadate me when I am pushing the rules that they have set down.  Jennifer, on the other hand, generally balks at the rules and can convince people that pushing the rules is not only acceptable, but also will somehow be beneficial to them.  So, I let her deal with the negotiating and I handle the grunt work of moving 70lb bags from here to there.

At Sea-Tac Airport, they have made it policy after Sept 11 to hand check every bag that is going onto the plane — checked or carry-on.  Given that we only have 2 hours before the flight boards, I convince the Alaska Airlines counter boy that we should get on with this security check sooner than later.  He agrees and send the Skycap and myself to the security checkpoint to the wide-eyed security personnel who have never had to check 10 bags for two people. They open and poke and prod and wipe and jostle each bag to make sure that there is no contraband.  We get through without a hassle except for maybe the incessant questions and jokes about whether we are moving to live (this remains constant throughout the trip, regardless of the country — indicative of the fact that there is nothing unique in the world). Bags are on there way.

Security checkpoint #2 — pre-gate.  Jennifer is stopped because she forgot to remove her cellphone and place it in the gray Tupperware tray. So, she beeps  They have to do a full search.  I walked through without a second glance.

Security checkpoint #3 — pre-board.  We are randomly chosen for another security check.  They open each of our bags and rifle through them.  Still no contraband.  It interesting that no one has questioned that we have a seemingly substantial amount of carry-on luggage.

Takeoff and Landing.  2 hr 4 minute flight from Seattle to Los Angeles.  Flying back to the place that we just spent 20 hours driving away from.  Take a brief stroll from terminal 3 to the International terminal.  For those of you who haven’t been to LAX’s Tom Bradley International Terminal it can be equated to a suped-up strip mall with Daily Grill and Wolfgang Puck’s and a Sunglass Hut (just in case you forgot your sunglasses back home and needed to spend $380 for a new pair in sunny L.A.).  Basically, everything that you could possibly need before a security checkpoint.  After the checkpoint though (which we got through without a hitch BTW), its a desolate wasteland with very little food and an occasional bathroom.

Star-sighting (depending on your definition of “star”).  Actor Brad Dourif is spotted waiting for the same Qantas flight going to Auckland, New Zealand.  Dourif’s best screen work to date was Billy Bibbit in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. However, other may know him better as the “crazy guy” in films (Billy was told that he was crazy in Cuckoo, but all he really needed was to get laid). He was the “crazy” priest in The Exorcist III, the “crazy” gas station attendent in Urban Legend, but most importantly, he was the voice of the “crazy” Chucky Doll in Child’s Play.  With all of these credentials, it looked like the flight could be very unpredictable.

It wasn’t.  I mean, it could have been — but we would have had to have been in First Class to participate.  Actors, Directors, and Directors of Photograph fly FC — visual effect people fly coach.

It doesn’t hit me until we are at the Auckland airport that our “crazy” friend Brad is coming to Wellington for Lord of the Rings shoot pickups.  After all, he is playing Sauramon’s “crazy” sidekick, Grimer Wormtongue.  For non-industry folk, pickups happen when during the editorial process, the director says “Oh fuck, we forgot to shoot that!”  You gather a list of OhFucks, and you schedule a shoot.  On a film that took 18 months to shoot, the pickups are somewhere between 45 and 60 days of shooting.  Thats longer than an average film shoot.

The flight is a bearable 12 hours (much less than the 18 that we originally thought it was).  Lots of sleep involved.  Since we are flying west, we are outrunning the sun. We were basically in darkness for the entire duration of the flight.  May not sound weird, but it feels weird. You fall asleep and wake up and its still dark.  You watch a movie.  Still dark.  Go back to sleep.  Wake up.  Still dark.  Watch another movie.  The night doesn’t even think about ending.  Its not until two hours afer we’ve landed that the sun comes up.

Landing in Auckland we have to pickup our bags at Baggage Claim and bring them through immigration security where they have to X-Ray all the bags.  Not as bad as handchecking, but we have to endure the same jokes.  We are told that we can check our bags at Air New Zealand (located right after the security check point).  This is good news, because otherwise we have to take our 700lbs of luggage to the New Zealand domestic terminal.  I should rephrase that — it is now bad news because Air New Zealand needs 45 minutes prior to boarding to get the luggage over there.  So — its off to a completely different terminal with our two carts of luggage.  We ask a taxi to bring us over to the terminal.

“Nah, you can take the free shuttle”

????

So, basically, a cabride to the terminal is too much of a bother.  Fine I don’t want to give you our dirty American money anyway.  Jackass.

We wheel over to the bus stop.  Its now 6:15 — we board at 6:25.  The bus shows.

“Looks like it’d be easier to just walk over to the terminal for you.” the bus driver quips. “Otherwise you’ll have to load all those bags and then unload them again.  Its only a ten minute walk.”

Sigh.

Jennifer and I begin to walk.  In not too long we pass a sign. “Domestic Terminal. 900 metres”.  Mental calculation — thats just short of a kilometer.  U.S. Conversion — thats almost a mile!!!

25 minutes later…

We arrive at the Qantas terminal.  (10 minutes. Pfft!, if you’re a speedwalker without 700 lbs of luggage, 5 carryons and a tripod). We rush in, knowing that we’ve bound to have missed the flight.  But wait!!  They say it hasn’t left and they can get the luggage on.  Fantastic!  I heft the luggage to the counter attendants and they heft it onto the belt.  And we rush to the gate (pausing briefly for security).  And we wait.

and wait…

Brad sits in the corner and rehearses his lines.

and wait…

“Due to mechanical issues the Qantas flight to Wellington is cancelled.  Passengers please go to baggage claim and take your bags to the Air New Zealand terminal”

!!!!!!

After RE-loading baggage onto the carts and pushing it to the next terminal (which was much closer than a mile this time) we finally get our bags checked and get seats on the next flight out…. leaving in 2 hours.

A young, blonde woman approaches us and speaks to us in an American accent. “Don’t let this get you down.  Usually everything is very cool and laid back — even at the airport.  Today, everyone just seems to be cranky.  So, don’t let this taint your view of New Zealand.”  Stacy (as we found her name to be), is from San Fran, but has been living in Wellington for the last three years.  Email is exchanged — so we have an American friend in NZ.  Observing Stacy after our conversation, she appears to be able to speak to anyone and everyone that she is near.

Jennifer and I play Scrabble.  This time with no foreign words or proper names.

Flight uneventful — despite the presence of Brad Dourif — but very full.  Commuters, I’m guessing.  Exhausted from the trip, I get in a brief nap after watching the green, mountainous terrain below.  I wake at the plane banks to the left to come in for landing.  Due to extreme winds coming from Antartica, we get a ton of shearing and turbulence.  Lots of people bouncing around in their seats.

Wellington Airport runways, like San Francisco and JFK, are built on a spit of land next to a body of water.  This make for very exciting landings where you look down and all you see it water. 1000 ft — still, water.  500 ft — water.  250 ft — you can see the waves cresting. 100 ft — you can see the height of the waves.  50 ft — THERE’S land!  You can’t help but tense up…just a little.

Mike, the WETA runner, is waiting at the gate.  He doesn’t wear shoes.  When Jennifer notices, he claims that they are hobbit shoes.  I don’t laugh — probably because I’m tired.  Actually, I probably wouldn’t have laughed anyway.  I hope thats his personal preference and not some weird Lord of the Rings gimmick.  I should have asked him what a hobbit was.  Stacy knows him though (not surprisingly).

After getting our 10 bags, weighing in at 700lbs — which now actually weigh 320kg.  We load some into Mike’s station wagon and the rest into a cab.  I ride with the cabbie.  He’s from Figi and drives a Ford Falcon.  He is surprised that we have Fords in America.  I think I’m more surprised that he his surprised.  I’m thinking that that would be like asking a Frenchman if they also have crepes in France.

After the bellhop takes our bags in, I go out for a walk around the city.  Tarantino was right in Pulp Fiction that its the little things that are different in other countries. 

There are no “exits”.  Its the “Way Out”

“Restrooms” are “toilets” (Which, in my mind, isn’t a substantial leap).

No ketchup (at least not in the first day).  Its straight tomato paste.  Now, after living for 33 years with ketchup (or catsup, if you prefer), tomato paste doesn’t really cut it.  I need that familiar sugar and vinegar to make me happy.

TV screens are measured in centimeters, but computer monitors are inches.

Lots of motorcycles.  But what’s weird is that I never saw anyone RIDING them. They always were just parked.

The biggest difference for me I will find out tonight — the starry sky is going to be completely different.  There won’t be a Polaris. or a Big and Little Dipper. or Orion.  It’ll be a subtle difference, but probably the most indicative of being somewhere that is not home, and not familiar. Alien.

————–

But some things don’t change.

People use crosswalk lights as more of a suggestion than a law.  So, thats not really much different.

Teenage girls are still catty about their classmates.  But here they can’t rag on each others clothes because they all wear the same uniform.

Activists stand outside of the government building picketing the development of new highways.

——–

So, to wrap up with my Doogie Hauser journal entry…  I found that packing light is the best way to travel.  I haven’t been here long enough to have deep insight into the psyche of the Kiwi, so you will have to wait for later journal entries to have anything more substantial and meaningful.  Tomorrow I go to WETA to get introduced to who I’m working with and what I’m doing.  Also talking with the housing coordinator to get an idea of whats out there to rent.  I don’t actually start work until next Wednesday.  WETA likes to give there incoming people a week to get acclimated and let the jetlag pass.

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 12 – The Journey Home

The following day is dedicated to recuperation.  Days will little sleep, little food, and lots of social expenditure will drain a man of all his precious fluids.  How do you spend a day like that?  Sleep?  That would be too easy.  Relaxation?  For pansies.  Try spending the day with a four year old.  Yeah, yeah.  All you parents out there are all, like “Shut the hell up, man. One four year old…pfft.  Try a nine, a five, and a two at the same time.”  I concede to your stamina.  The thing is, I’M not used to it.  My body and mind togther as one are a refined machine tailored to harsh deadlines and moronic clients who can’t make up their minds.  It is not yet been forged in the fires of parenthood.  So, cut me some slack.

My mind was on the downside of the slope after the second (and faster) reading of Fox in Socks, followed with How The Grinch Stole Christmas as an encore.  Me, as the narrator, doing his best Boris Karloff.  What can you do?  Holland is a demanding, yet appreciative client.  The whole day is a blessing with my brother, cousin Kelly (who might as well be a brother), and their wives, along with a toddler, and two infants.  And Mom, of course, aka Grandma.

That night, I pack my bags for flight.  The bag is heavy by man standards – enough clothes if surprise occasions for dress-up cropped up.  But light enough to fit in one bag.  I unload my photos to the laptop from Mom’s Secret Auction Camera, place the photos of her setting the table back on to the card, and leave the new SD card in the camera so she can use it.  Mom’s need gifts too, on occasion.  Double check the inventory so I’m not leaving any of importance behind.

My flight boards at 6:45am.  Way too early for a nightowl like myself for me to attempt to fall asleep and then wakeup.  Best to simply push through to morning.  No one in my family wants to drive me to the airport at three in the morning.  Hell, neither would I.  But fortunately, I have Mom.  She’s a problem solver.  Stems from being damn smart and thinking on her feet.  Being an OR nurse in Vietnam will do that to a person.  Or being a Colonel.  Or a counselor. Or a teacher.  Or a Mom.  She’s been a lot of things to a lot of people, but being my Mom is the most important — she has the solution.  “You can take the airport shuttle from Lakewood…it goes right to the airport.  It leaves at 3:32, and it arrives at the airport at 5:03”  I really can’t ask for much more precision than that.  This is really rather an odd statement coming from Mom because she’s habitually late.  Ask any other member of the family.  And I seem to have received the same Scarlet Letter regardless of evidence otherwise presented.

I agree with the plan despite having to ride on a bus for two hours in the middle of the night.  The ride starts off on a good foot.  I’m the only one onboard.  The driver is cool and lets me eat my Moons-Over-My-Hammy-To-Go, but with the caveat “I normally don’t let people eat because then EVERYONE wants to eat”.  The image of a 2^nd grade teacher saying “Did you bring enough breakfast sandwich for everyone?” crosses my mind.  But, its just me and driver, so I have certain freedoms not granted to the masses.

The trip has three or four other stops on the way to Sea-Tac, filling up more and more with the kinds of people that I usually never witness – those ones getting up in the wee hours of the morning to go to work at the time that I’m usually climbing in bed after getting home from work.  They seem like a cranky bunch. Except for one guy, who sits near me who may have chosen to eat a bowl of Crunch Berries and a gallon of Aunt Jemima for that extra bit of sugar.  He evidentally is not a favorite of the bus regulars.  His legs bounce up and down on the balls of his feet and he carries is stuff in a backpack that resembles a 3rd grader’s Strawberry Shortcake carryall.  I think about asking him if I can see his Trapper Keeper, but that would require starting a conversation, which I could see continuing until our arrival at the airport.  So I close my eyes to feign sleep and avoid eye contact.

At the next stop a group of students climb onboard.  I guess students because of their baggy dirty clothes, backpacks, unwashed hair, and the glazed look of young people who have been wandering searching for something, but aren’t sure what.  They are no match for Trapper Keeper though.  In their weary state, they look over and nod a “hello”.  And he strikes.  “Your not from around here.  Traveling?  Students?  Where from?  Pennsylvania?  Wow, that’s far, huh?”

Poor bastards never knew what hit em.

I check my bags with the friendly and lovely Virgin America attendant, Lisa.  And go through security, without so much as a chocolate cake wrapped in foil to slow the process down.  Nothing is open in the airport yet, but people are lining up outside the Starbuck’s looking through the chainlike gate.  I guess as an attempt to survey the situation inside and gather information about when the gates will open.  I mosey past the lines.  I don’t need coffee.  The Moon-Over-My-Hammy is now the Moon-In-My-Belly, and if I chose to drink coffee, it would probably be rerouted to my pancreas to accommodate overflow.

I arrive at the gate and look around for seat availability.  In one row of chairs, I see…Almond, slouched back, wearing huge sunglasses.  I walk up and stand next to her.  Her head tilts slightly.  I can feel her eyes behind the glasses. She turns to look back straight ahead.  Her facial features stoic.

“Mmmmm.Mmm.  That is not Todd standin next to me”

Then she starts laughing.  I join her, and we sit together to chat for a couple minutes.  She gives the rundown of her biker weekend which included the BBQ being cancelled on account of rain. (shock!) I give her a bullet point presentation of my weekend. But, both of us are so exhausted from the weekend that conversation subsides to looking out the window as the black sky slowly becomes gray.

Boarding the plane – after the children, elderly, and handicapped – I scoot through line.  Lisa, from the front counter, takes my ticket.  “Hey”, I say “Did you check my bags just now?”  “I certain did!” she answers.  I continue “And you did an amazing job checking those bags.  I’ve missed you since the last time we saw each other.” She smiles “Aww, I missed you too”

I board the plane, the black light glowing interior lighting my way.  I slump in my window seat and gaze out the window to the sun rising over the Cascade mountains.  This area is always beautiful.  Despite the gloom and the rain that outsiders (and occasional insiders and/or comedians) talk about.

A young, black kid wearing a huge jacket with fur lining sits next to me.  I watch him check out the LCD on the back of the headrest.  He starts pushing buttons emphatically.  Tries to play a video game.  Checks out the movies.  Each time he presses a button on the screen, its as if the immediate response time isn’t quite fast enough for him.  So, each time he presses harder.  I want to tell him that no matter how hard you press, no food will ever come out of the seat.  I know from experience.  But, sometimes, you just have to let kids learn on their own, or they simply won’t appreciate the knowledge.

To wrap up the story, because your narrator is tired…almost as tired writing about being tired as I was when I was tired in the story – I taxi home and catch about 4 hours sleep.  I walk into work, and back on the project that I left behind.  There remains a lot to be done in a short amount of time.  I spend the next three days at work, or rather, I spend the next 72 hours at work.  Not a record, but an admirable try at it.  Long story short.  My supervisors loved it.  The clients loved it.  It aired last week on ESPN’s Sunday Night Football to evidentally rave reviews from the people who review title design work for sports events – a small niche if I’ve ever heard one.  So, a success on all fronts.

As I stated in the last chapter, but it bears repeating, I look back fondly on the people I spent time with in school.  And that’s school in general, not just high school. But it was high school classmates that I have the deepest feelings for, and the deepest regards.  Even more than college.  High school is made up of the formative years.  Centuries, or many millennia ago, those are the years that couples coupled and families began — when we would contribute to perpetuating the genus.  Women could bear children. Boys became men.  In nearly every culture on Earth, there is a rite of passage from childhood to adult hood – and that rite took place in the teenage years – not the mid-twenties or the thirties.  But, the teenage years.  Shit, back then you were lucky to reach thrity.  That age is magical.  You test the waters.  You test the authority of your parents. You test where you belong in your social circles.  You test your sexuality.  How can you not form lasting relationships with the people who are close to you, going through the same process, the same changes?

I made a grave error after leaving high school.  And that was failing to keep in contact with this group.  Sure, I’ve gathered twenty years of friends in the meantime – some of them extremely close, but for the most part, I don’t get the same sense of warmth.  Now, as those of you reading this now, and have been since I first started writing, each time I hear from you, whether it relates to the story or not, I relive that bond.  Every mail is an indication that we will always be friends, no matter how far away, or how long before we see each other again.

This comforts me.

 

I’m going to maintain this blogsite after this last chapter.  Doing this was an exercise in writing that has brought out a writer in me who has been dormant for a quite a while.  Believe me, I have many stories to tell.  Every day in Los Angeles brings another one – from large movie premieres with crazy parties to a bleach blond 58-year old dude sitting out in front of a Venice coffeshop every single day wearing black leather pants and a wifebeater.  And if you choose to look at it with new eyes?  There is something interesting in that and everything in between.

 

This is TSP, signing off.  Stay tuned for the next story… its either from New Zealand, New Years Eve, or sneaking into an Entourage party last night. 

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 11 – Engine House No. 9

The hardcore reunionites stroll over to Engine House Number Nine, or E-9, if you want to appear to be a local. An official historical landmark, E-9, sports everything you could hope for in a brewery/pub/bar: beer, people and firefighting paraphernalia. And as we approach, I notice that it has one more thing that I didn’t anticipate – karaoke. Sigh. I have nothing against karaoke, mind you. I don’t perform it because my talents lie in creating art and not performing it. However, I was hoping for an environment that conversations may continue.

I meet up with Rob E outside of the gate of the outdoor courtyard. He presumes that I might want to join a number of other people to smoke some around the corner. And he would presume right. However, as I explain to him, if I smoke out, I get WAY too introspective and begin to watch people intently, which makes me no longer the fun guy, but rather the creepy guy. So, in my old age, I’ve made a conscious choice to not do that when I’m in social situations. Fortunately, Rob is a friend and we aren’t in high school, so there is no sweat off anyone’s back. Furthermore, and I just realize this now, Chris P. is with our group, and he’s a Brooklyn cop. Granted, he’s TOTALLY out of his jurisdiction, but it adds a sense of irony to the situation. The remaining people join us, straggling in from Masa – Lee G, Rose F., Matt H., Darcy H., Shanna K., Jim B., Paul W. and Lori E.

Everyone heads into the bar where some Tacoma young gun belts out Bon Jovi’s Dead or Alive in the wrong key. Lori and I hang outside to catch up. She hugs me again. It’s a comforting hug. In the same way the feelings of crushes and first loves linger, the feelings of friendships do the same. There is 20 years of missing shared experiences, but the warmth and comfort of friendship has not dissipated. At least, from my perspective. I presume from others as well.

Lori mirrors the conversation I had with Pete the evening before. She gushes with how proud she is of what I’ve done. I blush. I may play at being confident and secure and occasionally arrogant, but inside I don’t place an extraordinarily high value on how I contribute to the world. So, I still get almost embarrassed with sincere compliments. I would never overtly show it, but its there. She tells me that when I win a Grammy that I have to take her to the ceremony. Again, like Pete, I let her know that I wouldn’t be winning a Grammy, but I had already gotten an Emmy. She looks at me with mouth open. And she hugs me with an “Oh My God! Really!” And she hugs me again in only the way I remember Lori hugging – with love and sincerity.

We walk in. The doorman looks at my passport photo, then up at me, then back at my passport. He points sideways with his head with an implied Yeah-alright-go-ahead. Lori takes a little more time with an ID that was expired. She has lost her current one. We are kindred spirits.

Inside, our group has already scouted a table, but someone had yet to hunt and gather for adult beverages. I spy others in line approaching the bar. I slide up next to them to assess the situation. Numerous people are in front of us. But, a stool opens up next to the door and adjacent to the ordering station. No one moves in to take the position, so I place it on myself to take advantage of the opportunity presented. I step up and sit down, trying to make eye contact with the bartender, the more subtle version of snapping your fingers at him, which, in my experience, doesn’t make friends nor does it get you served.

The bartender is a busy guy, however, throwing together drinks like Tom Cruise in Cocktail without the spinning of bottles, big teeth, or Elizabeth Shue. My efforts are not immediately met with success.

Next to me, a tiny bleach-blonde girl with bad roots pushes her way next to me. I turn, “Really? Are you actually pushing your way in front of me?” She turns back, “Did you really just cut in front of three other people?” Nice, I think. She’s got spunk, but no where near the bitchiness of a Hollywood chick on Cahuenga Blvd on a Friday night who doesn’t have her name on the invite list. “Awww, whose been tellin’ tales out of school?” I say with a charming smile. “Those girls back there.”, is her reply.  I turn to look. Two young ladies stand in a back stance with front leg planted. Arms crossed. Chewing gum with conviction. Obviously not pleased with my alpha maneuver to get drinks. An old adage about a woman scorned crosses my mind. I smile and wave. They chew their gum louder.

I turn back to my first hurdle. “And why should you take the front of the line?” “Cause its my 21rst birthday”. “Fair enough, “ I say, “then you deserve a drink, don’t you?” She smiles “I think so…don’t you?” “Indeed I do, and what would you like?”

She gives me her preference, a Washington Apple shot, and smiles with her twenty one year old lips, then goes into how she just broke up with her boyfriend and is so upset about it, but not really…like…you know? I turn and introduce myself to the gumsmackers in line. Their hardcoated exterior still impervious to my wit. “What are your names?” The first one is Abrothail (which is a new one on me) “Abrothail, that it an amazingly unique name, and one that I won’t easily forget.” She bites her lip and blushes slighty, her hand remains in mine just a little longer than required. A chink in the armor. “And yours?”, taking the next girl’s hand. She’s Megan. “Megan, not as unique as Abrothail, but lovely none the less, pleasure to meet you.” She responds with a facial expression that can’t quite decide on a smile or a pout. “What would you like?” I ask them. “What do you mean?” I mime drinking. “To drink?” “You’re going to buy us drinks?” I smile again. “Of course. Only seems fair, right?” I get their preference – gin/tonic, and a vodka/RedBull.

Back to bleach-blonde…”And your name is…”. “Michelle, nice to meet you” I see a guy on her other side with wavy hair and a Kevin Bacon-ish Footloose look. “And your friend?” He reaches over to shake hands “Kevin…” , “Ahh, Kevin. Makes sense.” I say. I download the drink order to the bartender which has grown to at least 12 drinks, including the couple of pitchers and a few specific pints for our crew, some of who have gathered behind me. I pass out the drinks to everyone and wish Michelle a happy birthday. Abrothail raises an eyebrow. “Looks like you got on our good side after all” I look back in her eyes while handing her the gin and tonic. “I always do, my lovely Abrothail. I always do.”

For a total of the cost of a night out at the movies with a date and a pizza dinner, I made a birthday girl a little drunker, diffused a potentially negative situation, flirted with young, beautiful women, AND got drinks faster for the rest of the team. In terms of life, that would be check and mate.

I turn and pour my Chimay. A litte bit of a sidetrack here, just because. If I can get a Chimay at a bar or restaurant, I’m the happiest person in the universe. Its my favorite beer not only because of the taste, but because of the alcohol content is higher than normal, so more bang for the buck, and the fact that its usually served in a glass goblet specifically designed to bring out the aromatic flavor and hold the carbonation. You drink anything from a goblet and you are automatically propelled into a different time where you feast on mutton and imbibe mead. Its brewed in a Trappist monestary in Belgium, where all proceeds go to the care of the monks and the grounds. And honestly, folks, if you can choose to support a huge conglomerate beer manufacturer that brews subquality beer, or a group of monks – which one would you choose? Since Bellarmine is a Catholic school, you should know that if you choose wrong, you are going to Hell.

Darcy comes up beside me to question the Chimay as I finish pouring. I explain the backstory and offer her a sip. I look down at the beer which still has a substantial head on it. “Probably should wait. That might get messy…and suggestive.” She laughs. Immediately, I mentally pull up the drawbridge on this line of conversation. I met Darcy a half hour ago. I only have minimal grasp of her sense of humor (which seems like she has a lot of). And Matt is lucky to have her. Therefore, I command myself, drop flirtation down to a minimum, or at least redirect it to safe targets.

Jim, Darcy and I saunter back to the group bearing pitchers of beer. Multiple conversation have been going on while we were gone forging for brew. I greet everyone sitting down as the pitcher is emptied into everyone’s glasses. I wrap my arm around little Rosie to give a comfortable squeeze. She fits like a puzzle piece. Rob E, Lee G, and Chris P all kick back with pints. Someone in the front of the bar attempts to sing Blondie’s “Call Me” – I’m impressed with the span of time that out barmates have reached. Then I realize I’m pigeon-holing the people in the bar like the DJ at Masa was pigeon-holing us. So I stop – being one who doesn’t like to be holed in any type of fashion.

I notice that Tori and her beau have arrived, I must make the best of Tori-time, so I excuse myself to join her. As I said in earlier stories, Tori and I seem to be able to be open and honest about anything and everything, so that conversation is riveting and delightful, and I’m not even distracted by her expensive and well-worth-the-price breasts. Seriously. We lean against the popcorn machine, moving from idle chit-chat to some really deep shit. But as her friend, and someone who cares about her, I listen intently, simply because that’s what friends do. Her man is contently distracted with conversations with Matt H. Bar attendees break our conversation periodically, but nothing without amusement and humor. Michelle, the birthday-girl, pushes her way through. I yell “HEY!” She stops. I smile, “Happy Birthday”, she smiles and returns to give me a kiss. Then leaves. I turn back to the conversation. Tori stares at me. “What?” I say. She shakes her head.

Lori and Darcy make their way into the circle. Evidentally, Darcy was Lori’s roommate in college up at Western Washington University, located in Bellingham, Washington, which is equally far away from civilization in any direction. A geographical oddity. Definitely, a beautiful place. I don’t think I could live there.

Anyway, Darcy tells me that Lori is her girlfriend. Matt is her husband. But Lori is her girlfriend. I have no issues with this. I don’t judge. Lori confirms the allegations. I feel like I am now in-the-know. Darcy brings me up to speed on her past. She was, indeed, athletic and tomboyish because of having brothers. Bonding happens fast with Darcy – she really is a fun human being.

Someone in the karaoke line bravely chooses Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody – a challenge to people with talent, much less drunk people from Tacoma. Darcy and I continue our involved conversation until the Rhapsody hits the climactic guitar riff assault on the senses, where we head bang Wayne’s World style and scream out the lyrics – not so much to show our singing prowess as to drown out the horrendous voice of the woman with the mike. At that moment Darcy and I meld into one.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” she says. “That might be a little problematic because you’re married.” Lori steps up “He can’t be your boyrfriend, because he’s my boyfriend”. “No no no,” Darcy rebuts “ I’m your girlfriend, so he can’t be your boyfriend – and Matt’s my husband, and Todd’s my boyfriend” I think, Dear lord, why didn’t thisi kind of thing happen in highschool? I agree, “Alright, I’ll be your boyfriend, but only if our responsibilities are understood. Matt, as your husband, has a certain range of responsibilities. Lori, as your girlfriend, has another. And I, as your boyfriend, have a third, which I will readily live up to. As long as the lines don’t cross, all shall be good in the world. Agreed?” She shakes my hand in agreement and gives me a hug.

Its getting late, and its been a long weekend of excitement and shenanigans at this particular hootenanny. But, I have no ride. Tracy and Holland I’m sure are in bed, and if I called Tracy, the idea of waking up and driving to North Tacoma from Lakewood is problematic at best and go-fuck-yourself at worst. Fortunately, Lori lives in Lakewood and isn’t against the concept of taking Todd home. I’m such a lucky guy to have such accommodating friends. Lori is ready to motorvate, so I make my rounds of goodbyes who, in addition to the list of the classmates, include my new girlfriend Darcy, birthday-girl Michelle (who has by now forgetten her ex-boyfriend and perhaps the existence of mass and time), and the gumsmackers from the line. I do this because its ingrained in me to do so. I shake Rob and Lee’s hands. I give Rosie a kiss. Its habit. Shake the guys hands, and kiss the girls – unless I’ve know them for only three or four minutes.

Jack W walks in, invading my goodbye session. “Dude, I was almost home when I realized your clothes are in the back of my car!” Did I happen to mention how good of a guy Paul W is? If I didn’t, or maybe you missed that part of the story, Paul W is THE most amazing human being. I walk out to the car with him to get my stuff and I swear he walked on top of the puddles. Not only did he remember my stuff (eventually), but he turned around, came back to E-9, and found me in the bar to inform me that my clothes were in his car. He’s a rare breed.

On the way home, Lori and I have deep, meaningful discussions. About her fiancé, About my lack or a wife or fiancée. Why I didn’t try to hit on anyone in high school – which is because I had a girlfriend through high school – and its not in my soul to be able to cheat on the woman I’m with – therefore, “no asking anyone out” was an unspoken rule. I mention to her that in retrospect, I see the telltale signs that some of the girls were interested in me. But, dopey me, I was in love. A silly concept in high school.  And I was totally oblivious to any kind of interest from women — a handicap that I didn’t overcome until recently.

Lori drops me off and I hug her goodnight and give her a kiss. I have a deep mourning in my heart because I’m flying away in the next 12 hours, and I don’t have specific plans for coming back. I DO have intentions of coming back, but nothing is planned. I miss this group of people that I called friends, and still do call friends. I miss the laughter and the stories. I just miss….them. For a lot of people I talk to, the class reunion is a source of consternation and pain. A reminder of the horrible times they had while maturing through the teen years. You know what? Fuck those guys. My high school years were some of the best years of my life. Its not because I was popular (I wasn’t). Its not because I had sex with all the hot girls (I didn’t), and its not because my brain was excited by all the wonderful knowledge that Bellarmine was instilling in me (read as much sarcasm in that as necessary). It was because of my friends – the people who showed up this weekend – and some who didn’t.

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 10 – Hasta Masa

A-Ha’s “Take on Me”, permeates the air, hovering just over the voices of the cackling and gaggling that we’ve been doing for most of the night. Obviously, the DJ has decided that since we are old and grew up in the 80s that we are unfamiliar with contemporary music. The drinks and food flow freely. Rachel and I are of the mindset that we are just not in the mood for food. We don’t know why. Food and talk don’t mix well. They use the same orifice at the same time. One action for emitting and one for injesting. Things can’t go in and out at the same time. Just a matter of physics.

I mosey around the groups finding a place to plant myself. I sidle up to Rosie F. a diminutive red-head with a sweet smile. She was a brain back in school with the rest of us brains, but somehow didn’t run with the math brains. She was a more literary brain. She seemed to be one who was taken advantage of by the less-brainy. If we were in a John Hughes 80’s high-school film (which we essentially were), she would be the kid who did the homework for the rest of the kids. She had that talent. Comparatively, my talent that others utilized was not so much offering homework to copy from, but rather forging parent and teacher signatures. There was one point where Curt N. (who surprisingly wasn’t present this weekend) had me write an entire letter from the Physics teacher, to his parents. The ruse was a success, but I had to draw the line. I didn’t have time to painstakingly rewrite letters in other people’s handwriting to save someone’s ass from detention. I had work to do – like sneaking off campus with Seniors to go eat pizza, answering questions on Chuck Woolerey’s Scrabble during lunch when we didn’t sneak off campus, and refining my ping pong game.

Anyway, Rosie and I were in Anstett’s class together – the same class where Josh P. nearly lost his soccer career with a bat to the knee. Anstett gave out a bonus assignment. The task? Interpret Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. The prize? You get an A in the class. Well, fuck me running, I thought. I’ll get this out of the way, and that’s one less class to worry about. I read it, do my research, and come back to class all prepped and ready to go. Rosie was also ready. Between the two of us, we nailed the interpretation. Anstett agreed…we did a great job.  Fantastic! For the rest of the semester I don’t do squat for the class. Sure, I show up, but what the Hell? I have an A. End of semester. Anstett gives me a B-. What?! I don’t think so. I swing by after school, and have a little heart to heart. Anstett reasons, “Just because you did that one assignment correctly doesn’t meant you didn’t have to do any work for the rest of the semester.” “Ummmm…well”, I reasoned back, “That wasn’t stiplulated in the original deal. You said ‘If you do this, you get an A in the class’. End of story. No addendums. Period.” I received an A-.

Back to the present… Rosie sports a white dress with black polka dots which exaggerates her red hair. We share a warm hug and start catching up. Sara W walks up and I snap another photo. She immediately accuses me of taking pictures of her boobs – which happens to be where her name tag is placed – not in the normal place on the dress, but sitting just under the collarbones on the apex of her cleavage like a billboard. If she’s going to place that much emphasis and have them holding her name, then obviously the next step is to specifically take a picture of her breasts – or at least the cleavage created by them. I explain my rationale to Rosie, who finds no flaw in my logic. I’m glad that Rosie has a sense of humor.

I feel something in my hair. Kathy G. brushes my hair back with a “I’m sorry, I just dropped a straw in your hair.” “Oh Kathy, I’ve waited 20 years for you to drop a straw in my hair.” “Pfft,” she giggles, “will you stop?” followed up by Diane D. (I think) “See, I told you!” Frankly, I don’t even know what that all means. I don’t even know what I said means – or even implies. As if the Straw-Drop indicates a sign of a courtship process that I was unaware of in high school, or even now. I consider using the Straw Drop line on future women. Evidentally it has weight.

I check out the remaining classmates. We are thinning out. Rachel cut out already, having had enough excitement for one weekend, but iterated that she had a surprisingly good time despite not remembering anyone. We make plans to get together for dinner back in L.A. and I bid her adieu.

I turn to chat with Chuck H. who is the guy my friend impersonated 10 years earlier.  He’s with his soon-to-be-wife Heather.  Chuck is an amazing guy who exudes positive energy.  I couldn’t ask for a more devoted cheerleader. No matter where I was, or when I was, Chuck would pump me up to whoever was in the conversation. We were at a party at Josh P’s house. I was fuckin around with Josh’s guitar and playing a bit of Zeppelin’s Black Dog.  Chuck comes bursting into the room, beer in hand. “Oh, fuck man, I thought we were playing some Zeppelin Four.  I mean the album.  Shit, that’s sounded awesome.”  I couldn’t ask for a better compliment.  Tonight, Chuck was talkin me up to Heather. “This guy…he heard me say I liked the Charlie Brown theme…you know the Charlie Brown theme?” “Yeah, I know it.” she says.  Chuck starts da-da-ing the theme, pantomiming the piano motions. “Yeah, Charlie, I know it.” she says.  Chuck continues doing it. “Next party we’re at..he knows the goddamn song.”  Chuck does the air-piano more, for emphasis.  I love this guy.  His energy is contagious.

During my conversation, I spy Lori E. Really, I had seen her earlier, but hadn’t had a chance to greet her. She walks by, and I perform a signature move which is to not acknowledge her as she walks by, continue the current conversation, but reach out once she’s passed, take her hand, and pull her back into the circle for a hug. Four out of five dentists support this maneuver.

Lori is warm, kind-hearted, and if I were to be asked who embodies all the components of a “friend”, it would be Lori. And I know, I’m not alone in my sentiments. She, too, has been close since Freshman year, as she was Amy H’s locker mate, and hence, also my neighbor. But I really didn’t get to know her until Junior year – when I really started hanging out with my fellow classmates. Every party with Lori was a delight. Every adventure, a joy. And tonight would be no different…however; it would have to continue into the night as our party became infested with young people. Masa was having Salsa night downstairs, and the Tacoma-ites were beginning to bleed up the stairs. The “Bellarmine Reunion” sign at the landing probably translated to something like “Free drinks upstairs. Come one, come all.” I notice classmates grumbling. A sure sign that its time to change venues. I take the lead and tell everyone to evacuate this den of youth, and bounce next door to Engine No. 9 – a beer hall filled with beer and more youth – but a least it would be subdued enough to chat with one another.

People try to get last minute photos or each other. Some folks are dancing. Lisette turns to see someone really getting into the music. “Wow, who is that? She’s really getting into it.” I look, “THAT is Rosie Foster, and yes, she definitely seems like she loves to dance.” Beside Rosie, Tori and her man grind away on the dance floor like they’re seventeen without a chaperone. Who can blame them? Young love isn’t just for the young.

I give Lisette a So-Nice-To-See-You-Hope-To-See-You-Again-Soon hug. Tricia gives me a goodbye kiss. I notice she looks over my shoulder and rolls her eyes. I turn to see Lisette’s husband and Tricia’s husband taking photos. Of each other. In poses that could be considered fashion shots, but since they are not fashion models it comes across as a bit…well….unmasculine, lets say. I turn back to Tricia biting the side of my mouth to avoid laughing and I raise a questioning eyebrow. “Do we need to have a talk?” I say to her as she points out the event to Lisette, who rolls her eyes like Tricia…only moreso.  Unbeknownst, you any of us, the ruse of the fashion show photoshoot was to get photos of Tori’s firefighting chest.  Boys will be boys — even when they are men.  I can’t fault them.  I have my own photos.

A new person steps into our circle. A lovely blonde woman with a slight tan and a body that indicates that she was an athlete in the not-so-distant past. “YOU!” I point at her. “Are not part of our group. Identify yourself.” She identifies herself as Darcy H, wife of Matt H. “I see, Darcy. So you have already been let into the circle.” She laughs. I can see we’ll get along.

Lisette and Tricia walk by toward the door. “Where are our men?” Tricia exasperates. “They are probably looking for better light.” I answer.  She laughs. I already know that we get along.

We plow our way through the youth on our way out, taking in some of the Salsa dancing as we go. A line streams out the door, waiting to get in, presumably because they saw the Bellarmine Reunion sign.

The Engine House is mere steps away. Steps away to a nice beer and quiet conversation.

I thought.

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 9 Masa Classa

New night. New people. New experience. My social gears were already primed. But how long could I maintain this level of energy? I wondered. I had been awake on my gig back in LA for 48 hours even before I arrived at the reunion. Add drink, high-level socializing, flirting, and a half-eaten 4am omelet to the mix. Lather well and top with some Ruffles and a Fat Tire to taste and you get an idea of where my mind was. For all intents and purposes I had not eaten much since I left Los Angeles International Airport, and that was a $500 chilidog that caused my stomach to bounce around like a Jack Russell.

I snap a couple photos, stopping time in a blast of light. Looking at them, I decide I’m going to have to get these people’s attention first. I’m used to taking photos with a long lens, allowing me to be outside of the moment, yet capture the expression of the subject. With Mom’s Secret Auction camera I can’t even hope for that. I begin to see the difference between taking photos for art and taking photos for Facebook.

Rachel walks in, eyes smiling. Not only did she have fun the previous night, but she’s back tonight for more classmate shenanigans. We compare notes, and our insightful impressions of the people we lost some time ago during the process of living and growing up. I express my consternation at hearing other peoples adventures and not being able to be part of them. Knowing my penchant for being a workaloholic, Rachel latches onto that comment. “Where are you’re clones? Are they back still working in LA?” I smile softly. “No, no. I had to put ‘em down. They were starting to become self-aware and began to discuss individuality and self-actualization. Once that happens, you simply can’t control them.” She laughs. “You know me better than that,” I say. “Don’t feed me material like that, I’ll run with em all night.”

Introductions commence and we keep track of the ratio between how Rachel has changed completely or not at all. Evidently, I haven’t changed much in the minds of others, despite the perception in my own mind that I am far more personable now than I was in school. Who knows? Maybe I’m wrong about that. Or maybe I just am better at hiding my insecurities now than I did as a pimply teen. Its amazing how well sparkly blue eyes and a sense of humor can hide all that angst.

The upstairs of the restaurant is a simple but interesting configuration because of the fact that there is only one way in and out. So, arrival of new people has a metaphoric clarion call. And the place is filling fast with new arrivals. I try and maintain focus on the people I’m speaking with while at the same time paying attention to the top of the stairs. Rachel and I are in the middle of a conversation with Kirk L. whose energy level in high school was somewhere between a Chihuahua with ADHD and Robin Williams on a coke binge. He’s mellowed out substantially, but the conversation dealt with lots of words intermixed with projectile shards of tortilla chips. Over his shoulder I see a friend whom I’ve been waiting to see all weekend.

Tori R I considered a good friend way back when, and I still consider her a good friend despite not having seen her for years and years. Some months before the reunion, I found her in cyber space and we’ve been bantering back and forth ever since. Nothing I could say would ever offend her, and nothing she said could ever offend me. In other words, I was filterless around Tori. She was a soccer stud, bordering on star. Her legs could crack your head like a walnut, if in fact, you ever found yourself with your head between her legs. She’s all muscle, but still gorgeous with a raspy voice that Demi Moore is jealous of. In the 20 years since graduation, she’s had four kids and an ex-husband. I look at her now and I’m baffled. Four children would cause most female bodies to go into a permanent state that could only be hope to be wrapped in a moomoo/housedress. Tori looks as astounding now as she does in the memories holed up in my neurons. How does she do it? Diet? Situps? You might ask? No, she fights fires, running around in 180lbs worth of gear in 200 degree burning highrises with a hose that probably weighs more than a ’65 Buick – and that’s before the water is jetting out of it as 8 billion gallons a second.

I swoop in around her, and she gives me a powerful hug which is as strong and warm as one could possibly hope for. She introduces me to her boyfriend of a few months. He looks like he can curl my bodyweight on one arm, but that doesn’t stop me from being flirty. Like I said, I can say anything to Tori and she won’t take me seriously – and if this guy knows anything about her, he’ll know that too. Our circle is joined by Mike OB, and Kevin McN. Classes are compared. Who did you have? Were we in this class or that class together. I hear the clarion of another arrival and look over to see Andrea P and Amy H turn the corner onto the second floor landing with husbands in tow. They both smile and I acknowledge the smile with a smile of my own – basically saying, “I see you over there, and I’m gonna get over to you. Cross my heart.” – a lot can be conveyed with the right smile. No?

Then Tori asked me “We were in pottery together? Right”. “Mmmnope” I respond. “Yeah, I think we were”. “Honestly, we weren’t. I never took pottery.” “Well, then, what the fuck did we have?” The real answer is that we had had no classes together. We became friends simply by being classmates. I smile sideways at her. “My dear, Tori. We had us. And that’s all we ever needed.” She pushes me back. “Oh stop!” she rasps in her raspy purr.

I’m worried about my friend, Tori, cause she just recently injured her back. Probably when she was jumping out of a burning twelve story building with two children and a goldfish under her arms. Maybe not, but it was some kind of activity that would crush a normal guys legs into jellied cranberries. Not Tori, though.  She can take out Aquaman in a fist fight…and that’s WITH a hurt back.

I had been close to Amy H since Freshman year. No, really. We had been in close proximity to one another for four years, beginning with being my locker nextdoor neighbor. I adore her, primarily because she’s adorable. My memories of her, however, are not like other members of my circle where I will recall entire events. Amy Memories are like snapshots, and each one should be a Kodak moment that is embedded for all eternity in picture frames at Target.  Some of those snapshots:

Standing in line during Freshman orientation when I ask her the time (despite knowing what time it was).

The upperclassman with his eye on her, who sat on my head while I tried to get books from my locker – I mean, my friend’s head.

She turns around in Mrs. Tennison’s Honors English class during a lecture on Homer – I roll my eyes. She giggles.

She breaks down laughing during a game of suck-and-blow at a house party.

She enjoys a deep neck massage after a day of skiing in Whistler.

And the image of her, warmly sidelit from a bonfire with a Corona in her hand, while she asks me how I feel about my girlfriend returning from living in California for the previous year.

Along with Amy in our circle is the woman she arrived with, Andrea P. Andrea is one of the reasons why this chapter is a little delayed. I’ve been trying to pinpoint what it is about Andrea, and what is was about Andrea that struck me that night. And I think about it now, and it still remains slightly elusive and intangible. Andrea is a tall and slender woman with an immediate resemblance to Shelley Duvall, ouside of Shelley’s role as Wendy Torrance in The Shining. I’m guessing that she normally stands pretty close to 6 feet, and tonight she was in heels…which she doesn’t need. At the 10 year reunion she was pretty far into a pregnancy, and wasn’t feeling too sure of herself in the feminine beauty department, even though she had and has nothing to be concerned about. Andrea, like Tori, had four children, and still looks as if 32lbs of infant couldn’t have possibly gestated in that frame. So, I’m baffled for the second time of the evening. But there was something about Andrea that was different. Different from all the other women from the class who have families and children (which are most). I sit back for a few minutes and simply watch her – enthralled. She emits motherhood. The way she moves, holds herself, gestures, looks at you, expresses herself – everything is motherly, mother-like, mother-ish. Some may view this as a potentially negative thing. But no, my dear readers, nothing could be further from the truth. Andrea presents herself as a strong woman…a sure woman…and a smart woman…doing well whatever she chooses. And, she has chosen to be Mom – and therefore does it well. I smile at myself.

The night progresses. I’ve gotten to know our bartender. He accuses me of having fun. I plead guilty, and further declare that I would continue to commit the crime.  I’ll make fun wherever I am…out of nothing if need be.  I can’t make gold from straw, but I can sure make fun from thin air. It’s a tough world out there, we agree, and that there is no point in getting down on the people and places that may or may not be fun. The burden for having fun it pretty much on you.

We drink to that thought, and I give him a good tip – which will contribute to him having even more fun.

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 8 – Masa

Paul drives. I ride. I don’t navigate so much because I’m out of my element. North Tacoma is a vast wasteland to me. A labyrinth of concrete and mothers pushing babies in strollers. Even when I lived here, North Tacoma wasn’t a common destination for my circle of friends. Lakewood was our territory. We like the woods, lakes and grass fields adjacent to the quiet one post-office town of Steilacoom. Therefore, without my assistance, Paul works his way to 6^th Ave, a main arterial that cuts across the peninsula that houses the city.

We talk quite abit about Paul’s older brother, Jack. As class or two ahead of us, Jack is the type of guy that God smiles down on. Everything goes his way. To celebrate his high school graduation, he and some classmates went down to Los Angeles. You know, just because. Not only did Jack get chosen to be a contestant on the Price Is Right, but he won the Showcase, was given the keys to City Hall, and married Vanna White. Actually the last two events I made up. But. You get the picture. When I was a mere two years living in Los Angeles, I had started working as security for special events – Oscars, Red Carpet Premieres, the re-coloring of Dennis Rodman’s hair. One night I’m working the Golden Globes, making sure the fanatics and autograph junkies don’t flood the doors and trample Neve Campbell. As a sidenote, these autograph hounds are SCARY. They are smart, methodical, organized, and they will not stop. EVER. They carry around backpacks filled with headshots of celebrities, alphabetized for easy and fast access in case of a siting. They put the highschool debate team to shame with the information they have at their immediate fingertips. At my position, which was the main route to the Vanity Fair afterparty, there was a set of glass doors that separated myself from a cache of these fanatics, their noses against the window like children at the shark tank of the local aquarium. Each time a celebrity walked by, one of them would push the door open and the hall would become a cacophony of shouting and yelling. It didn’t matter who the celebrity was. Kristi Yamaguchi? Come on…why is she even at this event? There’s no ice.

Honestly, everytime that door opened, it was like the 1964 arrival of the Beatles at JFK International, but in micro. Not as many screaming female teens, but just as much energy.

I had just run interference for David Duchovny – not that he needs it standing at 6’3”, but, hey, its my job. I turn, and Jack W. is standing there in a tuxedo, looking around with a tangible sense of purpose.

“Jack! What the hell are you doin here, man?!” I shout with sincere enthusiasm.

He smiles and greetings me back. He leans in close. “Dude, I’m crashin’ this party. Totally crashing it. No ticket. No nothing. What the hell are you doin?”

I smile back and indicate for him to come closer. Playing up the inevitable drama to the hilt. I whisper, “I’m security, trying to prevent people from crashing this party. Shhhhh.” I lean back and look around to check if anyone’s watching.

Jack looks me, his mouth agape. Speechless. “Ummmm….”

I stare back at him without cracking a smile.

“Ummmm….” He continues. I can see his brain whirring behind his eyes.

I grin a sideways grin. “Don’t worry about it, man. You’ve gotten into the inner circle. I’m not gonna be the one to turn you in.”

His shoulders drop in a sigh and a Whew! “Dude, I thought I was totally busted.”

I send him on his way, and to my recollection he had a great time at the party.

Anyway, Paul informs me that Jack is doing video work in San Bernadino or Burbank, he’s not quite sure on the details, but recommends that I get a hold of him – which I had intended to do anyway.

We wrap our convo as we pull up to the restaurant.

Masa is a quaint restaurant managed by Chris P.’s brother Jeff specializing in Mexican culinary delights. The hostesses indicate to us without much fanfare that the reunion party is upstairs.

This is going to be a whole new deal. Same as the night previous, but it’s a new clique of people. There are some of us making a repeat performance, but its like two circles of people intersecting with one another, where only some are common factors. I have no preference for once group or the other, but it was extremely interesting to see who showed up the previous night and not tonight – and visa versa.

Two of my partner’s in crime from the night before are present, Lisette and Tricia Pete isn’t around to bring the band back together. Tonight everyone arrives with their significant others, so can get a look at the husbands of the sirens I had spent the previous night with until the wee hours of the morning. Tricia’s husband is undoubtedly a good looking guy. Chiseled, hawk-like features. But I have to go through the male ceremony of sizing up the competition for the does in the herd – even if there is no plan for the bucks to lock horns. I decide that he’s a cyborg and incapable of love. I’m probably totally wrong, at least on the love part, but hey, I’ll deal with reality in my own ways.

I begin my mingling by meeting the bartender and convincing him that I could benefit him by giving him money if he would, in turn, provide, a Negro Modelo. We come to an agreement, and I go out into the swirling room of classmates with a beer in one hand and my camera in the other. Yes, dear reader, I wasn’t going to be caught not taking pictures tonight.

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 7 – The Next Day

I wake up about 2-ish the next day. Its not unusual. I’m a total nightowl-vampire-creature of the night. This is my sleep cycle anyway, being on a pretty intense deadline for a project that is still going on back in Los Angeles while I was eating horrible omelets with beautiful women. So two o’clock in the afternoon isn’t an outrageous time. However, for a precocious 4-year old niece, two o’clock is plenty late for Uncle Todd to sleep in. And no force in the world is going to prevent her from waking me. I shuffle out of bed and down the hall, my hair spiralling out of my head like a retarded anemone. Product in the hair works well the night you put it in, but it works fantastic the next day, after its had time to solidify your hair into place for 8 hours like pottery in a kiln. But I’m gonna have to shower it out. I can’t walk around Tacoma looking like Reverend Jim from Taxi. Los Angeles? I could totally get away with it. The tiny suburb of Lakewood? Perhaps, but not without whispers.  I know, based on my observations, that some people aren’t going to be feeling all Sunny-D this morning.  I’m feeling fine though.  I’ve never been much of a huge drinker, and I know when to switch to water and rehydrate.  Plus, I was up late eating eggs that absorbed any residual alcohol in my system along with the digestive acids, stomach lining, and healed an ulcers that may have been lingering.  Again, thank you Marge…for just being you.

Tracy and Holland are my escorts in an encore performance because they love me, and because Mom was doing something or another in the community that would be exceptional and super-human…because thats how she rolls. On the trip, Tracy and Holland create a whole story having to do with three friends who fall into a hole while walking in the forest. Holland creates the plot points of the story while Tracy fills in the details. They are able to get help by calling for help. “HELP!” Tracy cries. “No, Daddy!  Don’t be silly. They use their cellphone!” Holland informs us, matter-of-factly.  Silly us.  This group of friends get rescued, go home to shower, get ready to go to work, and end up falling in the hole again.  These kids just can’t catch a break. Tracy may have gone outside of Holland’s reach when he mentions spelunking gear. But I don’t know, Holland is a sharp cookie, I’m sure she catches on.

Paul W. is having a few people over before the main event that night which is a catered dealio at a restaurant called Masa. Paul lives only a few miles away, so I feel that it was a good plan to hang for a bit, and chat one on one with people before an encore presentation from the previous night began at the new venue.

Tracy and Holland drop me off at Paul’s house. Holland hopes that I have fun at my birthday party. After all, it’s a party. It must be somebody’s birthday. Why not Uncle Todd? The previous night was also my birthday. I grab my change of clothes from the car and Paul meets me at the door.

I can’t say enough about Mr. Paul W. He should be a role model for all of mankind. Years previous, he had taken a fall while climbing. Bad stuff. Coma. Brain injury. The works. Paul worked through years of physical and mental therapy – is that a term? Mental Therapy? It should be. When I saw Paul, he was exactly as I remember him being. A miracle in my book, and one fortified by Paul’s strength and determination.  Numerous people have told him (including myself) that he should go out and talk to people going through the same trials.  To be an inspiration to them. He already has a transcript of his life for a book that he’s going over.  Everyone, support Paul in this endeavor to get his story out there to help others.

Its raining outside. I know, right? Tacoma? Seattle? Rain? What is that all about? Its August for Christ-sake. My thoughts drift to Almond at her barbeque with all her biker friends trying to ride around the steep streets of Seattle with newly wet streets on there way to cook slabs of meaty protein over an open grill. I grimace. Totally sucks for her. At least, we’re gonna be inside to take refuge.

I glance across the housetops of Tacoma and witness a most spectacular rainbow. Intense. Bright. Complete. Arcing from one side of the horizon to the other. I pull out my camera, which now only has enough space for 1590 more pictures. I must be selective about my photo ops. Could this portend good things to come for the evening? I take in the beauty thinking what it means.

Jim G and wife, Rebecca show up along with Mark M. and wife, Emily. Murphy M. was supposed to be there, but hadn’t even left Seattle yet when Paul makes a courtesy call to find out Murph’s ETA. Based on Paul’s reaction, I suspect that Murphy often runs a little behind.

The small group has time to catch up. Paul and Mark were part of the previous night’s events, so the three of us update Jim and answer any questions with the help of a nearby class yearbook. Lots of What is he doing? Where is she? Was this person there? Do any guys still have their hair? Oh man, Doug S, was he there? I remember him having a head full of hair that he parted in the middle! I respond, “Yeah, Doug was there. He still parts his hair in the middle.”

Paul talks of his adventures after shutting down the Swiss. I’m thinking, “Awww, I wish I was there…” but then I remember that I had adventures of my own, and I cannot be everywhere at the same time. So I live vicariously through the tales of Paul and friends. Frankly, I think I had the better after-Swiss stories. But, I’m biased toward me and my experiences, and I upped him because he ended up eating Jack-In-The-Box with beautiful ladies and Murphy, while I ended up eating Shari’s with beautiful ladies (the hottest chicks in the place according to them, which I can’t disagree) and Pete. So we were pretty much equal except for me eating an omelet off of a plate, rather than a large #6 from a foil wrapper.

Paul and I discuss pixie-like Maureen S. whom we both spoke with the night before. At the time she was ambiguous about the next day reunion, trying to use the “I-have-to-work” ploy for getting out of it. Wendy S flew in from China, making her spectacular in my book. So, don’t give me “I have to work.” Paul calls her and leaves a message. I text her with a message to call in sick and forget about this work nonsense. Our peer pressure utterly fails. Neither of us get a response. Either we aren’t peers. Didn’t apply enough pressure. Or, we just aren’t as damned charming as we think we are. Actually, I’m throwing out the last option because that’s just silly. Of course we’re that charming.

After a Jim G-provided Fat Tire, some chips, a couple rounds of the Chinese Olympic gymnasts on the parallel bars (who look like they just dismounted out of the birth canal and into their leotards), I go and change for the evening, given that early-afternoon-gather-with-friends-for-a-rain-cancelled-BBQ apparel isn’t on par with reunion-Mexican-restaurant apparel. And I wasn’t quite sure what to choose, so I got all girlie, and gave myself options.

 

Time to head to the restaurant for the next wave of social activities.

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 6 – Late Night Meals

The night gets late. Rachel bugs out about 11 o’clock. Her carriage is a pumpkin and her coachmen are now cute cartoony mice with colorful hats. I catch up with latecomers and start up conversations with people I hadn’t yet caught up with. Remember how I mentioned that people (usually women) really open up to me with thoughts and feelings. I was dealing with this at an extreme level. Classmates who I knew, but barely, were having close discussions – and close meaning their nose is touching mine, holding my hands in theirs, talking about deep stuff. Really deep stuff. Which I can only say “How does that make you feel? What do you think you’re going to do about that?” and other therapist type questions that I probably learned from Mom, the counselor.

 

A couple more people I notice. Kelly B, our basketball champ who was tall and skinny before. Now he’s tall and think and is also a member of the 2008 Kojak Reunion. He resembles Governor Jesse Ventura, and is just as intimidating – and I’m not necessarily a small, intimidated kind of guy. He stands side by side with his basketball co-hort Vu N., The two of them a contrast by every definition of the word. At, I’m guessing, 6’4” and a conservative 295, Kelly would be more appropriate in a kilt running beside William Wallace, brandishing a broadsword and crying “FREEDOM” at the lines of British soldiers. While Vu is at a nimble 5’2” in platforms… I flashed back to The Princess Bride seeing Fezzik (Andre the Giant) lumbering along with miniscule Vizzini shouting “This is incotheivable!” I feel I could have been a dashing Westley in search of my Princess Buttercup.

 

I glance over my shoulder and my Terminator vision stutters for a moment. I see someone I recognize, but can’t place the face. He’s part way to the Kojak crew, but hasn’t made the commitment. A ring of hair still orbits the head like the rings of Saturn. Not to say that is doesn’t suit him, I’m just sayin…I need to process this. Terminator vision clears to focus on the problem. The man’s visage remains. My brain swipes out different hairdos to try and place a name to the face. No match. No match. Ping. Click, Whirrrr. Match. Doug S. Twin brother to Wendy S, who I had spoken with earlier that evening and graciously provided a name tag for her without sarcasm or tom-foolery. Nice guy all around. Seems to be doing well in Orange County. Quite near me. I make plans to get in touch with him when we get back. But, the night has been going on for a while now. We forgot to exchange digits. I make a mental note to get those from Wendy.

 

The bell clangs for last call. That late? Jill whips by with a random guy in tow, visibly confused and upset. I take her by the shoulders despite Mr. Random’s frosty look. “Hold on there, Tigeress. What are we doin here?” “Oh my god, my phone is in Tricia’s purse, and I don’t know where she is. I think she might have left. Do you think she left?” I look at her, trying to get her to focus. “I don’t think Tricia would have left with your phone. Or without you for that matter. Let’s go find her.” Jill looks around, and I think she comprehends. Mr. Random watches from a position and posture indicating that I’m somehow a threat to the rest of his night. Whatever.

We weave through the rivulets of people stumbling their way to the exit. The crowd floods onto the street and sidewalks. Chaos. I lose Jill, but quickly pick her out of the crowd discussing things with Tricia in firm tones that I wasn’t really interested in hearing.

I see Chris, Lee G., and Rob E. and make a beeline over to them. Rob informs me that some peeps are going over to his room at the nearby Sheraton…at least I think it was the Sheraton. Maybe I just assumed it was because it was so convenient. Great! I thought. I can catch up with some folks I haven’t yet spoken with. And more than likely tetrahydrocannabinol will be involved. A win/win situation if there ever was one.  Furthermore, I haven’t gotten a chance to talk with Rob and Lee, yet.  Both are artists, like myself, so we’d have lots to discuss.  Rob was also in Wetlzer’s homeroom and sat behind Tanya and myself, and next to Kelly B (aka Gov. Jesse Ventura). Kelly liked metal. Rob liked punk. Oil and Water.  Totally, not the little bit of Country and little bit of Rock and Roll that Donnie and Marie liked to convince their audience was such a good idea.

 

I hear my name called, off in the distance like a feather on the wind. I tell Rob I’ll be right back. I follow the call to Pete, Lisette, and Tricia, who are getting into Josh’s truck. Tricia calls and waves at Jill who is across the street getting into Mr. Random’s truck. Tricia rolls her eyes and climbs into the cab with a “What the hell is she doing?”

I get pulled into Josh’s truck, well aware that I told Rob I’d be right back, and well aware that the Soccer Jock is the natural enemy of the Punk-Rock Artist.  There is no fighting nature.  Its hardwired. Josh turns back to Pete and the girls in the backseat. “I say we go back to my place, drink a little more, get into the hot tub.” Pete and I look at each other warily. Tricia and Lisette look at each other warily. Josh looks at everyone with pure and utter conviction that this is the best plan of the night. Lisette pipes in “We should just get something to eat.” “Taco Bell!” Tricia chimes. “Oh man,” Josh complains, “That’s lame, man. We can get food at my place. I promise it won’t be a sausage fest!” Pete laughs a snickering laugh. I laugh my own laugh. Lisette sneers “a sausage fest?” I do some quick math in my head – ‘cause I took two years of calculus, which qualifies me to do so – We already have three verifiable sausages in the car. Tricia and Lisette are both married and therefore sausage-by-proxy. That makes a total of five sausages out of five people. In my mind, the equivalent to a “sausage fest”.

Josh takes off driving, with still no verifiable plan, ultimately giving up and bringing us back to Lisette’s SUV so that we can carpool and meet at a Shari’s for a late-night meal. A debate ensues about the best Shari’s to attend. In my mind, a Shari’s is a Shari’s which is a Denny’s with a girl’s name. So I could have given a shit which Shari’s we would be soliciting. Lisette has one location in mind. Not only does Josh feel that another locale is the better one, he denies the very existence of Lisette’s choice. Now, I haven’t been back in Tacoma for about eight years, so Lisette’s Shari’s, which is located down the hill from our highschool, COULD have been swooped away in a freak tornado, torn down to make way for a Bed Bath and Beyond, or simply replaced by a Denny’s. I couldn’t be sure, but I remember one being there at one time, and the conviction in Lisette’s eyes sold me. “Fine”, Josh exclaims, “I’m going to the right one”. He takes off, leaving us four to climb into the SUV to make our way to the evidently “wrong” Shari’s.

The trip is filled with topics ranging from what have you been doing, to have you seen this person how is he doing, to why are you single? The standard fare.

Ten minutes fly by and low and behold, a Shari’s appears on the horizon. Exactly where I remembered it being, and exactly where Lisette said it would be. Moral of the story? When a woman has that kind of conviction in her eyes… do not doubt.

We strut inside, with Lisette proclaiming that Pete and I are lucky because we left with the hottest girls in the joint. I retort “Well, you left with the hottest guys in the joint!” – Touche. Lisette concurs…which frankly catches me a little offguard.

Mandatory urination break before being seated. Pete and I have manly conversations about manly topics which are sponsored by the Manly Handbook of things that men may discuss while urinating in a public restroom.

We join the girls in the booth. Pete somehow managed to get a tennis visor that looks like it had made a trip through the jungles of Belize (which I think it did).  Its torn and shredded and the once red tint has become a fuschia or salmon.  Pete wears it with undeniable confidence, which is really the difference between being judged or admired.

Our waitress, Marge…at least that’s what I’m going to call her, because no other name is as fitting… Marge comes to offer us coffee. She’s old craggly, walks like Harry Potter’s giant companion, Hagrid, and has a voice that sounds like she’s been smoking cigars since she was six. Tricia still wants Taco Bell, which isn’t a step down or up from Shari’s, its more of a sideways step toward the Border. We are still in the midst of deep topics when Marge comes by to see what we’d like to order. I make a quip to her to lighten her mood. Her face doesn’t move, stoic in a manner that implies that she hasn’t smiled for 55 years, and doing so might be painful. She doesn’t blink. She just turns away to do some other Marge-like task, which you would think would be help other customers. But there are no other customers. They are probably at the “right” Shari’s having a blast with Josh.

I push a menu toward Lisette and Pete, while Tricia and I share another. Orders made: Lisette and Pete are sharing some kind of bacon concoction, and Tricia and I will be sharing a vegi omelet with hash browns. Thank you Marge, for being the best waitress ever.

Topics continue, but this time a little more deep. Marriage, fidelity, kids. All topics which I can sympathize with, but not directly contribute to. I’m the hypothetical guy in the group. “Well,” I would say “What if this happened? Or what if that happened.”

Food arrives via Marge’s magnificent handling of the plates prepared by the short-order cook. And, as suspected, the food is about right at the Shari’s-level caliber of food. Rating just above Denny’s and just below Marie Callander’s – and, as established earlier, parallel to Taco Bell. I don’t even know why I’m eating. I’m not really hungry. The night has been exhausting. Lisette graciously covers our meal, despite numerous protests from the group, and provides Marge with a generous tip…maybe they’ll use it to purchase some fresh vegetables for the next omelet they make.

Fortunately for everyone involved, we all live in Lakewood (well, Tricia, lives in Oklahoma or Ohio – some O state – but she’s staying with Lisette). So Pete gets dropped off, and finally I am dropped of at home. With a hugs and kisses, I’m out of the car, and plunged into darkness as Lisette turns down the driveway.

“Fuck,” I sure hope Mom left the door open. Its only five in the morning, not too late to wake the house up. Yeah…house is all locked up. After five minutes of deliberating internally on the repercussions of climbing through a window – which could be a bat to my skull at best. I opt for the reasonable plan of ringing the doorbell. Fortunately, Mom wakes up with one ring and isn’t upset. I almost believe she didn’t remember.

I prep for sleepy-time and pull the camera out of my pocket. I took ten photos the whole night.

Anatomy of a Reunion: Part 5 – Crushes and the Dynamics of Teenage Hormones

Tanya walks by. Without turning from my conversation, I slide my hand around her waist to stop her. She smiles and coos a “Hello”, tells me she’ll be right back and gives me a kiss.

This is the part of the story where I get introspective and vulnerable. So, no judgement from you, my trusted reader, as your heroic narrator looks into himself rather than safely assessing those around him.

I scarcely believe that I’m alone in these thoughts. No matter who you dated, crushed on, had feelings for – requited or unrequited, I’ve found that those feelings don’t die easily. One doesn’t thrive on the memories of being in high school. One thrives on the emotions. Bad or good. When an upperclassman sits on your head while you’re trying to get books from your locker, you remember the event. Sure. But what your body responds to is the anger you initially felt, and then the embarrassment that follows when you realize the cute girl in the locker next to you was watching, and worse yet, she was interested in this Junior Neanderthal. It doesn’t help at all when she smiles an apologetic smile – apologizing both for his behavior and that she likes him. Not that this happened to me…its just…an example…that happened to…umm…a friend….The same holds true for when you first talk to the person you have a crush on. Or the first real kiss. The first makeout session where you kissed until your mouths were chapped. First sexual encounter, no matter how clumsy the two of you were. The list goes on and on. And yes, you feel these every time it’s a new experience, if it’s with someone new. But there is nothing like the strength of those feelings when we were in high school. Back then, it was the first of the first. Our hormones were ramping up in preparation for procreation. We didn’t know what to do, how to feel, confused with our confusion. It left an indelible emotional image in our psyche. I recognize this. I see it in myself, in how I respond to seeing friends for so long. I see it in the people who used to be couples way back when. I spoke to numerous people throughout the night who haven’t gotten over the person they were in love with during those years. Doesn’t matter if they are married…have kids…been through numerous relationships. The emotions they felt back then are still alive in them today, and given a chance, those emotions would take over all rationale and reason. Believe me, dedicated reader, I’ve seen it happen. That night people were pining for each other, asking people on the phone if their sweetheart was there and what did she look like, declaring their love for people they had never expressed to before. This mix of emotions-run-rampant and alcohol is a dangerous brew indeed.

So, on with the story…

I’ll preface the coming chapter with “I crushed on Tanya” In fact, that’s what the name of the chapter should be. And if she ever gets a hold of this story, I would be incredibly surprised if she were surprised. If she didn’t know this in high school, thanks to my girlfriend’s mouth at the 10 year reunion, I’m about 99% sure that Tanya is aware of it now.

Its an oft-told tale. I share the journey with many other guys in our class, in classes before us, in classes behind us, and I’m sure throughout her life. By no means am I trying to place her on a pedestal, or say that she’s infallible. I’m just pointing out that I’m not alone. Furthermore, it stands to reason that I crushed because not only was she gorgeous, but she was the first girl I saw on the first day as a Freshmen in Bill Wetzler’s homeroom. Tanya had just sat down next to an open seat that would be the place for her biology lab partner has we been in Biology. I’m in a new school, new people, new environment. A perfect time for a change of personality. I’m gonna be confident. I’m gonna be personable. I’m gonna be the man. I’m in high school now godammit! She will be my lab partner and we shall do experiments together. I sit down next to her, “Hey, I’m Todd”. She smiles her smile, “Tanya, nice to meet you”. Her reciprocation was like a right hook to the jaw. In my inexperienced youth, I had no response and no recovery. And right there started a four year friendship. Yay! And you know what? Totally my fault for not stepping up. Actually, I’d like to blame upperclassman and woman-charmer, Jay Huck, but ultimately the blame comes down on me.

Fast forward twenty some odd years. Tanya takes my hand in hers and pulls me over to have a conversation. Honestly, I can recall the entire evening, detail by detail. Moment by moment. I cannot for the life of me remember the subject of this conversation. The long-dormant emotions of the past envelope me, and I was swimming in it. There was no agenda. I had no thoughts of somehow wooing or seducing her. For five or ten or however many minutes we were talking I had her full attention and affection and she had mine. All my adolescent feelings wrapped up into a ball, and planted into the shell of a grown man.

The moment breaks temporarily when Pete walks by, calling out “You shouldn’t use your Emmy to get chicks, Perry” to which I immediately respond, “Oh Pete, my friend, my gold isn’t only in my statue…” At the time it seemed like Pete was simply cockblocking, but Christ, I’m from LA. I deal with ninja-level cockblockers. In hindsight, though, maybe he was acting as a wingman rather than a block. Maybe he knew that I wouldn’t overtly bring up successes or awards…being that that would be trite, tacky and on the cutting edge of douchebaggery. He throws it out there so I don’t have to. It’s a theory….

After laughing, handholding, and redlining the flirt tachometer, Tanya and I part ways. I don’t recall the reason. We have one another’s contact info. Nothing will come of it. And nothing should. She’s married, presumably with a family, and she flies all over the place in her jet for heavy-hitting corporate customers. But for a brief moment, I felt the satisfaction of a feeling that eluded me back in high school. And that’s enough.

However, I won’t pass up climbing in her cockpit if invited onboard.

Anatomy of of Reunion: Part 4 – Conversations and Ruminations

 

For obvious reasons, the people who had grown up together through all of school had the tightest bonds. Kids from St. Charles. Kids from Annie Wright. The Federal Way kids. I was a Charles Wrightian. There were maybe 30 people in the class. We spent our childhood together. How could we not be close?

Steve, Lisette, Tricia, Chris, Peter O., Dave P. (making a surprise appearance after stating that he wasn’t going to make it, but was scolded by Steve for being a douchebag), Kevin S., Missy, and Jill. We had some no shows, but fuck ‘em. They missed out.

I berate Peter O. for not getting in touch when he lived in Santa Monica for a number of years, while I was in Venice, a mere 3 miles away. We’d been going to school with each other since 1rst Grade. Not continually the best of friends, but not enemies. He went through his jock-ish stage in high school bordering on being an asshole. But hey, it was the thing to do, right? Peer pressure is a strong current to swim against. He has gotten past that phase in a big way. Incredibly cordial and complimentary, proud not only of what I’ve done with my life, but really all the people we’ve grown up with. We’ve seemed to all do really well for ourselves. He brings up that when I win a Grammy, that I’m obliged to bring him to the ceremonies. I correct him that even though I play music, I wouldn’t be receiving a Grammy anytime soon. However, I would, and already have won an Emmy, so he’s a little late. Anyway, why would I bring Pete along with me to an awards ceremony, when I could bring some delectable arm candy. Tricia and Jill for example. Obviously Pete thinks highly of himself. I don’t fault him that – I think highly of myself.

I flit and flirt throughout the evening chatting with different circles of people, all of whom I know well, or know well enough to talk with. My eyes always scanning the venue for new arrivals. The whole evening ending up being one peregrination, both in time and space.

I check back in with Rachel. She is accidentally having a good time. Kinda like when you are forced to go to your wife’s best friend’s wedding. You end up meeting cool people, harass the band, and end up spilling Cabarnet on the bride’s train.  Basically, you have fun despite yourself. We celebrate with another couple of drinks that Holland could have afforded with her allowance. Other people approach to say hi and ask how things are going. I always make sure to re-introduce them to Rachel with a “You remember Rachel, right?” “Yeah…yeah,” they say, squinting their eyes, as if that will help dredge up the proper memories. “You haven’t changed a bit.” Or they say “You’ve completely changed. I didn’t recognize you, because you hair was….longer.” Either way, everyone made an attempt. Nobody wants to be the asshole who says “No I don’t remember you at all.” –read to mean “You had not enough significance in my life to bother.”

I turn to place my drink on the bar, and turn back to Josh P. Josh was a soccer stud way back when. He also had the badboy attitude that oozed “I-could-give-a-fuck”. I remember one day in English class the teacher/basketball coach Mr. Anstett standing at probably six foot eight and who carried a bat with him in class, actually clocked Josh in the kneecap with said bat either for being a smartass or not paying attention. Smart money is on Josh being a smart ass. I like Josh because of this attitude, which is something I strangely admired back then – the ability to not care. I got the feeling that we had a mutual admiration. Why he would admire me, I can’t say. Could be one weekend on a non-chaperoned class trip to Ocean Shores when I stacked a six pack of empty Corona bottles neck-to-neck bottom-to-bottom making a glass Corona tower six feet high. Josh had declared that if I was to place the final bottle that I would be a God. Evidentally, I am a God. That may not be enough to deserve admiration, for two two stoned kids 20 years ago, its seemed plenty. Josh and I catchup briefly and I reconvene with Rachel.

I let Rachel know that I’m going to once again be Social Butterfly, which she’s totally cool with, now that she in the groove and has four Gin and Sodas in her – which is more than she’s had at one time since … well…since we graduated probably.

Gwen R. catches up with me, and along with James B. we have discussion of flight and pilot’s licenses and things that are common between us.  I’m the low man on the totem because I have hours, but haven’t yet received my pilot’s license.  I blame my work.  But I chose my work.  So who is really to blame, really?  Gwen moves onto another topic.  The 10th Year Class Reunion. I smile knowingly.  Back then, I arrived not only with my girfriend, but with one of my best friends, who not only didn’t go to our highschool, but didn’t even graduate the same year.  As we are walking in, he says “Give me a name of someone you know isn’t going to be here”  I think for a moment.  “Chuck Hunter…” I say.  He goes in and puts on a Chuck Hunter name tag and is therefore Chuck Hunter for the night. For the people who knew Chuck a little – or even quite a bit – the ruse was pulled off with deft cleverness. Those who knew Chuck as a friend, weren’t fooled for a second.  Evidentally, back then, Gwen had a full conversation with my buddy before realizing that he was not, indeed, Chuck Hunter.  She smiles as she tells the story, but I’m not sure if she was very amused at the time.  I feel guilty.  For about a minute.

Switching to water now. There has to be a point where you plateau, so that socializing doesn’t metamorphose into slurring and drooling – and so that you can remember the events of the night. What good is enjoying the night if you don’t remember half of it? I rarely, if ever, hit that point. And as much fun as I’m having now, I don’t plan on it now.

I gather in a small group of guys. I don’t remember the topic of conversation because I was zeroing in on Tanya R. She has been chitchatting with all the guys throughout the night, which isn’t a surprise at all. But I don’t want to infiltrate the conversation. For one, that would be rude. For two, I’d have to share her. I was willing to do neither.