Wednesday, February 15, 2006
A cause and defect relationship
• 1982: I was sitting in Rheta Buoy's required Washington state history class in 1983, along with a couple dozen other people, reading about some historical thing silently to ourselves. We had no choice but read in class, the district only owned as many history books as chairs in the classroom, not one for every student in the nineth grade. One of the kids from the Title I [read: special ed] class, who wasn't 'differently abled' but just lazy and stupid, decided to skip class and work on his belching skills. And he chose the end of the other building to this one as a place to practice. That building was parallel to this one, and there was a narrow courtyard between the two, so he's basically burping into an echo chamber. We can see him right there, he wasn't as hidden as he thought he was. He's standing there going "uuuuuuurrrrppp. uuuuuuurrrrrrppp. uuuuuuuurrrrrrppppp." We're breaking a sweat... Ms. Buoy was the frostiest turd in the school, someone who could have used a huge phallus in her private life to take the edge off; no way were we going to let ourselves laugh lest we be punished, and it was difficult. And it was harder still when we watched the vice-principal walk out the end of the building we were in and patiently stride over to where the dimbulb was standing, seemingly unaware of what was coming in his direction. And speaking of stress-testing in Ms. Buoy's classroom, there was one afternoon that three dogs were in that echo-chamber corridor; one was copulating with another, and the third was calling cadence. Arf! Arf! Arf! Arf! Right outside the classroom window, in plain view of several classes and earshot of half the school. I don't recall any adults going out there to break up the party, but by the same token, I think this was the only class resembling sex ed I ever attended the entire three years I was in junior high. (Which is probably why that town had such a high teen pregnancy rate: not enough information at the time the fruit started ripening, and no one keeping time, "Pump! Pump! Pump! Pump!") Ms. Buoy looked agitated by the copulation and barking, and closed the curtains, but that didn't mute the cadence. I recall eating Nerds candy in her classroom, the box secretly in my right front pocket, only because I knew it was wrong... I didn't eat them anywhere else but gym class.
Where Is She Now? She married some foreign cock, moved to California, and is high up in the multi-level marketing (MLM) community as a health foods dealer. From teacher to renowned scam artist.
• 1983: Doug Pace was this guy who went to the high school I was sent to after getting out of junior high. I do not know what he did to piss people off, but apparently he succeeded because one day I came to school and there were hundreds of these slips of paper with that image (photocopied out of a Time-Life book about the evolution of upright hominids) stuck everywhere. I thought that was pretty darn mean, and hilarious at that. I carried this picture in my wallet in the plastic display window usually reserved for one's driver's license. Admittedly I didn't know the guy, but... one day I was sitting on the back lawn at Ike reading the May 1984 National Lampoon while eating lunch when a bunch of upperclassmen walked by. One of them saw fit to fling his Big Gulp ice at me, and they all laughed. A friend informed me that the dickhead with the cup of ice was none other than Doug Pace. Suddenly I understood why he was portrayed as a neanderthal.
Where Is He Now? He became a small town/special-interest newspaper stringer and the leader of a Quarter Midget [drag racing for 5-15 year olds] racing club, still living where he grew up. Being a family man with a modest income and an expensive hobby doesn't mean he's not still a prehistoric putz.
Coming someday: Tweety & Sylvester, the shop class and life science teachers [respectively] from my high school, who used to live together in Sawyer, WA and insisted that they were straight (okay, because they were, and never shyed away from being seen in public with hot chicks). Or maybe not; I've never had a beef with Sylvester, he was my cross-country coach and a hell of a guy, and I never had a class with Tweety so I can't confirm if he was as big a twit as he seemed.
"could have used a huge phallus in her private life to take the edge off"
I'm at the point in life where I looked up former schoolmates. One (I'd heard from my mother) was just elected to the school council. Another, a genius geek who I used to hang out with in my high school's computer room, is now a system administrator somewhere. And has a crappy website. It's the same with the cats I used to work with at IBM. Why is it none of the brilliant programmers of pre-internet days ever got into java script or html or webdesign? (well, neither have I)
My 20 year reunion is this summer. I've not been awed so far by anyone else's achievements (save one who had the sense not to go to the 10 year) and I wonder if they say/think the same of me in where I've been since school. The geek-god isn't a programmer, he does his webpages in Notepad with no Flash-and-bang, and after years in the fast food industry he's a support monkey, not an IT professional or CTO of a Fortune 500 company.
And I know it's a bad stereotype, that some people who are terse or unsocial are said to be sexually frustrated, but if the shoe fits...
Indie: A good man is hard to find, and a hard man is good to find.
(Answer: Porn site web designers are like the piano player in a whorehouse. It's all around you, you might even see something interesting, but you are not involved in the fun part of the business.)