Tag Archives: High school

Cha-Cha

Cha-cha: (n) a dance with Latin American rhythm

“Someone talked me into it.”

Those are the words that usually precede every horror story.

When I was in high school, some friends of mine wanted to go to a dance club because there were a lot of girls there and even though they
were not necessarily in favor of becoming “light of foot,” they were very interested in possibly lighting up some of the fine ladies.

So we decided to practice dancing–including the cha-cha.

I am large. I am pretty agile for a large person, but also self-conscious about swaying my hips and “jutting” in bizarre intervals.

My friends insisted that I looked great. They did this because they wanted to go to the club, and I had the car to get us there.

We selected to wear some fancy clothes–at least by the standards of our home town of fifteen hundred people. We arrived at the club, and I came in with the confidence of the Titanic. I mean the Titanic when it started its trip.

I began dancing and soon all those around me stopped to watch me do the cha-cha with this tiny young girl with auburn hair. I thought they were viewing because I was good, but actually they were stunned by the sight of such a portly fellow trying to do such tiny steps.

They laughed.

Is it necessary for me to say that no one likes to be laughed at? Yet running out of the room crying was not an option. Raining down fire from heaven ala “Carrie” was not available. But I got my revenge.

I just kept dancing.

After awhile, people got tired of staring, started moving themselves, and in no time at all, I was ignored.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere. Maybe you can dig it out. Here’s a clue:

It’ll have something to do with “keep dancing.”

 

 

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Cellar

Cellar: (n) a room below ground level in a house

I could probably write a large volume of underground stories about cellars. Many things come to my mind.

One particular fascinating and disgusting example happened the Thanksgiving of my senior year in high school.

I had a girlfriend. That in itself was momentous. We had begun our highschool affair and had progressed beyond light petting to flirting with
 some heavy petting, moving quickly towards petting at will.

So I picked her up on Thanksgiving evening and brought her over to my home. We stood around for a few minutes, talking with parents, though my mind was on bringing her down to the cellar, where we could make out on a couch normally reserved for the dog. (I wasn’t terribly concerned about comfort nor fragrance–really just availability.)

We had agreed not to have sex in the same fashion that teenagers promise their parents that they won’t ride the roller coaster at Disney World.

Trying to stay loyal to our promise of no intercourse, for which we would have no recourse, we just kind of laid there on the couch, rubbing up against each other ferociously. (I realize that such movement has a street name, but it sounds so coarse and really doesn’t capture the full energy and excitement of the event.)

Suddenly, in the midst of a back–or perhaps it was a forth–she pushed me away, leaped to her feet, jumped on her hands and knees and threw up all over the cellar floor.

I was surprised.

Apparently, the gyrations had disagreed with the turkey and dressing or angered some cranberry sauce.

But I learned something about myself. First, I would never be able to keep my promise to not have sex. But secondly, I found out that I cared very deeply for this young friend, because I got down on my hands and knees and cleaned up her throw-up.

I didn’t enjoy it. It felt sacrificial. But I did it.

She was embarrassed, impressed and touched. I was relieved it was in the cellar instead of the dining room.

I don’t think anybody ever knew about the event that night, when my girlfriend threw up…because apparently she was sick of me.

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CB

CB: (n) The Citizen’s Band (CB) Radio Service

The joy of getting older is in accumulating numerous stories you can share via your daily blog.

Yet the first danger of getting older is that younger folks who have no connection with your subject matter suddenly become aware that
you’re ancient.

And of course, the second danger of getting older is obviously that you are nearer to death than you are to high school.

Bravely facing this danger, I will tell you that I was around during the time that gasoline was rationed in this country–in the mid-1970’s–and the speed limit was dropped to 55 miles per hour. At that point, the highways became the Wild West. Truck drivers who communicated with one another through CB radio began to rebel against the laws and drive whatever speed they desired by placing themselves in large convoys, so as to complicate the enforcement by the State Highway Patrol. In other words, it’s a little difficult to stop forty trucks going 75 miles per hour by waving your hand with your radar gun.

So to counteract these highwaymen, the police set up road blocks and pulled over large numbers of trucks, giving them tickets.

Our little traveling band of gypsy musicians did not have a CB radio–but we did squeeze ourselves into these convoys and travel down the highway with our own rendition of “need for speed.”

But one night we got caught in a roadblock, and were pulled over. We sat there at least an hour. Finally a patrolman walked up and told us we could go. I was shocked. I was also young and stupid, so I asked him why.

He said that even though he knew we were driving the same speed as the trucks, the radar didn’t reach us, and therefore he could not confirm that we were actually speeding.

We pulled away, delighted, surprised and somewhat convicted–as truck drivers glared at us with bullets of anger.

We spent the rest of the night driving 55 miles an hour since we didn’t have our convoy, and had no bread to purchase a CB radio.

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Bunting

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Bunting: (n) patriotic and festive decorations made from cloth or paper, usually in the form of draperies,

I was only eighteen years old, and I drove to Columbus, Ohio, to see President Nixon. He was passing through town.

I wasn’t a particularly political teen, but it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity–to see a President of the United States. It also gave me a chance to get off school so I decided to go.

The atmosphere was festive. They had a band from some high school, a female singer to do the national anthem, and hundreds and hundreds of feet of bunting–red, white and blue as far as the eye could see, draped over everything in sight.

From a distance it was very impressive. But being the curious type, I inched my way forward.

As I got closer, I realized that since it was a hot day, the band members had unlatched the top buttons of their uniforms and unfastened their hats, losing some of the magnificence of the visual.

So I moved a little closer.

In no time at all, I wiggled my way within twenty-five feet of the girl in the prom dress and the tiara, who was about to sing the national anthem. She was dripping with sweat–I assume from a combination of heat and nerves. She didn’t look nearly as lovely.

Somehow or another, perhaps because of my honest-looking face, they let me get all the way up to the stage, standing two feet away from the colorful bunting. I inspected it carefully and saw that it was held on by staples, scotch tape and was wrinkled in many places due to being put up in haste. It was not very attractive.

The backstage area, where the President was to come through to give his speech, smelled like sweat with a hint of alcohol. And because there were two or three dogs wagging their tails nearby, there was a whiff of the woof.

I thought to myself, the closer I got to the experience, the less impressive it was. I registered that deep in my soul.

For perhaps the whole secret to our journey on Earth is realizing that the closer people get to us, the more real and genuine it should be.

The bunting was put up in minutes to last for a few hours, to be ripped down and thrown away.

It is frighteningly symbolistic of our political system, and the way we sometimes regard the important values of our culture.

 

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Blazer

Blazer: (n) a lightweight jacket, typically solid-colored

Dictionary B

In my high school days I was in a music group, a quartet of fellows who were very intrigued with the idea of being famous and not quite so intent on musicality.

We spent most of our rehearsals discussing the clothes we would wear on stage, and also whether we could get a good deal on Beatle Boots. It was very important.

Of these four young men, I was the chubbiest.

So whenever we went clothes shopping and they found something they really liked–something they thought was hot and cute, which would get the girls’ attention–they would discover that it didn’t come in “Porky.”

They pretended not to be disappointed–but I knew I was holding them back from being debonaire.

One day we came across some golden blazers.

They were so cool. Everyone tried one on, and each person looked stunning in his own adolescent, awkward way.

There was one extra-large in the blazer. I tried it on, and it covered most of the terrain of my belly but pinched me at the shoulders and looked a bit ridiculous when I stood in front of the mirror.

But the guys were so intent on purchasing the garment that they convinced me I was passable.

Back home, I tried it on again and again and again. Each time it looked worse and worse and worse–especially when I wore it with the accompanying black turtleneck.

I looked like a bumblebee with a glandular problem.

So I set out to address the situation by soaking my blazer in water and then going out to my mother’s clothesline in the back yard, hanging it up with pairs of boots dangling from the inseams, so as to stretch it.

Do you get the picture?

After it dried out, I discovered that it still failed to cover my midriff–but nearly reached to my knees.

For the next year and a half, whenever it was “golden blazer time,” the other guys looked nifty and keen–and I resembled a monk who had recently acquired a beer gut.

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Bibliography

Bibliography: (n) a list of the books referred to in a scholarly work

Dictionary B

It would seem it is necessary in the pursuit of reporting truthful statements, that we find others who agree with us, who have written down their thoughts–therefore supposedly giving these notions greater credibility.

Of course, with the inception of the Internet and freelance writers such as myself, merely finding quotes which confirm your assertion has become easier–and also more comical.

I could probably make any statement whatsoever and produce a list of essays, papers and even books that will confirm my accusations with a hearty literary “amen.”

Here’s the problem: it doesn’t make it true.

Some of the more astute and intelligent writing in American history occurred in the Antebellum period, when it was completely permissible to refer to “Nigger Jim.”

If I were to write a twisted article on my black brothers and sisters and place within the bibliography a considered number of masterful works to support my prejudice, I would have a foundation, yet find it to be constructed on the sand.

A bibliography is a way of proving that a freshman in high school actually cracked a book to crack open his or her brain.

It does not prove that what is being purported is accurate.

Just that we found enough people to concur … to have a small party.

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Banana

Banana: (n) a long curved fruit that grows in clusters and has soft pulpy flesh and yellow skin when ripe.Dictionary B

I have two thoughts that come to my mind when I consider banana: one is a sensation of flavor and the other is a source of inadequacy.

First of all, a banana is a tricky fruit because when it’s not quite ripe, it tastes kind of “green” but is very high in potassium. When it actually begins to rot and has the banana flavor we’re accustomed to, it is high in sugar and you might as well be eating a candy bar.

I like bananas.

However, I do have memories from high school, of sitting at a lunch table with friends, eating a banana and having them all giggle, because in their adolescent minds, it conjured the image of a penis.

Now, here’s where the inadequacy comes in: I’ve never seen or eaten a banana that is actually the size of a man’s penis.

It’s another elaborate ruse from the male of the species, contending that his particular endowment is enriched beyond reality.

Every time I look at a banana and consider myself, I quickly shake my head, hoping to rid my brain of the unnecessary comparison.

Now I know this is childish, and I also realize it’s foolish to watch a beautiful woman at a distance eating a banana, and have unclean thoughts come into your head.

But I am not going to be dishonest with you after all these months of writing and pretend that “a banana is just a banana.”

No–a banana has transforming powers, both in nutrition … and in naughty thoughts.

 

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Balloons

Balloon: (n) a brightly colored rubber sac inflated with air and then sealed at the neck, used as a children’s toy or a decoration.Dictionary B

Merrilee was one of our high school cheerleaders.

If you’ve forgotten, holding that position is similar to being a goddess. So an invitation from Merrilee to come to her home and participate in any activity whatsoever was a shortcut to social Nirvana.

Merrilee was having a birthday party for her friend, Judy. She contacted me to come over and help her blow up balloons. It crossed my mind to tell Merrilee that I had never blown up a balloon before, but fortunately I caught myself before committing high school cultural suicide.

So I went out, bought a small package of balloons from the local five-and-dime, sat in my room and practiced. I actually reached a point where I was able to get to the first stage of balloon-blowing-up–what one might call “the initial plumping.” Reaching that plateau, it gets a little easier.

But you see, here’s the problem: I practiced too much.

It was a hot day and by the time I got to Merrilee’s house, I was already light-headed from balloon inflation.

She smiled at me and said, “I know you’re going to be the best at blowing these up.”

My chest puffed out so much that I was sure she saw it, so I grabbed balloons and started blowing.

I wasn’t even ten minutes into the process when I became so dizzy that I thought I was going to pass out. I broke out in a cold sweat. I knew this for a fact–whatever happened, I needed to make sure that I remained conscious.

Apparently, I was beginning to turn “shades of ill” because Merrilee asked me, “Are you alright?”

I wasn’t, but reassured her that all was well. I started gulping big, deep breaths, which seemed to help my lightheadedness.

I thought I was about to escape the moment, when suddenly, uncontrollably, I threw up.

It was an unplanned vomiting, which I certainly would have stifled if I could. Fortunately we were outside and I ended up merely decorating the grass.

A pall fell over the gathering. At length, Merrilee said, “O-o-o-0-h.”

That was it.

Everyone jumped away, and it was agreed by a consensus of the conclave that I needed to go home.

I did.

It took a solid month for people to stop kidding me about the balloon escapade, and truthfully, to this day … I don’t know if it totally has been scoured from their minds.

 

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Attached

Attach: (v) to join or to attribute much value to.dictionary with letter A

I had just finished up sharing at a book convention.

I was sitting quietly by myself, listening. I like to do that.

After speaking for a brief season, I feel it is my responsibility to shut up and let information come my way instead of streaming out of me.

Not far from me, two men were having a conversation. Actually, one man was talking and the other man found himself inundated with lots of opinions. The talker was expressing concern about the deterioration of the U. S. government and the dangers of the coming “New World Order.”

He was reciting his data.

Do you know what I mean? In other words, it was a meticulous collection of syllables, forming words and phrases he had overheard and was now passing along as if they were part of Holy Writ.

The other man, in the receiver position, was trying very hard to be polite around this yapping friend. I thought it was a very interesting profile for this evangelistic doomsayer to take after he had just left an atmosphere filled with creative ideas, new books and exciting storylines.

I knew better than to offer an opinion.

This man was attached.

Just like the beautiful girls in high school who were already dating the football players, I was fully aware that this man was unavailable. He had married himself to an emotional and psychological encounter with another. Perhaps the relationship he was in was abusive or limited, but I wasn’t going to be able to seduce him away from this lover. He was attached.

I merely sat quietly and thought to myself, “Please be intelligent. Stay unattached so you’re accessible and not committed to too many causes that are destined to go the way of the 8-track tape.”

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Armour

dictionary with letter A

 

Armour: (n) 1. the metal coverings formerly worn by soldiers or warriors to protect the body in battle. 2. (v) provide someone with emotional, social, or other defenses.

In medieval times if you showed up wearing armour, people got the idea that you wanted to fight. Even though many of the knights were proud of the quality of their outer wear, it was usually worn for battle.

I point this out because when I was in high school sitting in a Sunday School class in a very conventional church and a scripture was read which gave direction to “put on the whole armour of God,” I raised my hand and questioned the prudence of such an endeavor.

I explained to the Sunday School teacher that since Jesus told us that we didn’t need to be afraid of evil, nor did we need to resist it, what was the sense of showing up in life looking like you were ready to kill people, seemingly convinced they were ready to destroy you?

The gentleman in charge of the class, probably not wanting to take on the teenage conclave in the first place, cleared his throat, commented to me that it was “an interesting question” and began to move on to the next point.

Possessing the combination of an inquisitive mind and an ass-hole stubbornness, I interrupted and said, “Well, I know it’s interesting or I wouldn’t have brought it up, but what do you think about it?”

His cheeks turned red, he gulped and said, “It’s the Bible. It must be right.”

Well, I wasn’t convinced.

I’m still not.

Christianity suffers from one fatal contradition.

How do we love our neighbor as ourselves and still live the defensive life of trying to kick the crap out of the devil? It’s just too easy to think that the devil is in the people we’re supposed to love.

It’s a great copout.

So even though some guy named Paul thought, many centuries ago, that he had discovered a clever analogy by using armour to describe awareness, I refuse to walk into life clad in metal garments which communicate that I’m scared to death of the world around me.

So I suppose if people want to hurt me they can.

But if they want to hug me, they will get flesh and blood … instead of tin.

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