A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"Grab a shovel. I'm one skull short of a Mouseketeer reunion."

Okay, so...I went to my 20th high school reunion last weekend. I suppose the sense of dread that had been simmering in my gut for the previous couple weeks could be considered a normal reaction in anticipation of reconnecting with a number of people I hadn't spoken with in two decades, most by mutual unspoken consensus. Exacerbating this was the fact that a number of folks I had been looking forward to seeing had to bow out for personal reasons. That left the aforementioned Peenman and Seadogs, who were shooting in from the East Coast for a drive-by visit. They flew in Saturday morning, and we drove up with The Wife and She Who Shall Not Be Named to College Station that afternoon.

Going up on Saturday meant we missed the Friday happy hour (sorry Tim). At...Wings N' More. The only novelty about that particular gathering was that this particular wing joint had been built less than half a mile from the house I grew up in, which probably would've led to a number of arrests as a group of us drunkenly traipsed through our old neighborhood, angrily (and loudly) pointing out whatever alterations the new homeowners had made to our childhood domiciles.

But like I said, that didn't happen.

We also missed the tour of our old high school and the family picnic. The former might have been interesting, but I wasn't keen on leaving my daughter in the care of some kids handpicked by the guy who keyed my Buick senior year, and while it would've been just peachy to meet the spawn of several dozen Baptists, none of us were really prepared to go into this without the help of alcohol.

Having skipped the happy hour, that left Saturday night's dinner/dance. SWSNBN was left with Gran and remained oblivious to our departure while Beauty and the Beast played and she sat in a roomful of puzzles. Meanwhile, we headed to the Veranda, a banquet facility near Messina Hof winery in Bryan. The Wife, knowing our likely post-party condition, took driving duties, and helpfully swung us by a convenience store on the way there so we could secure warm-up beers. We also had an agreement that, should any of us become unable to continue, we'd bail and reconvene at Duddley's Draw with whomever we could convince to join us.

As it turns out, we stayed quite a bit longer than expected.

Missing the previous festivities meant we weren't immediately recognized and set upon as we arrived, and actually saw some friends we still keep in touch with as soon as we got there. This allowed us to form an observation post of sorts, strategically located near the bar and as far from the band as possible. From there, it was a matter of availing ourselves of the free booze and getting caught up. I won't name names, partly because I don't want to misquote anyone, but mostly because I don't know who reads this and I want to avoid any repercussions involving me getting physically assaulted. A few general observations:

1. For being 20 years older, the general trend in physical appearance was surprisingly positive. Some people had gotten fat, and several of the girls who had been merely slender in high school were nigh cadaverous. I retained some comfort in the fact that I still had all my hair, gray as it might be. Also, it is possible to look 50 when you're only 38, but it helps to have gotten started on the vodka and Marlboros when you were 16.

2. The number of people who actively discussed their "blessings" or Jesus with me became tiresome after the first one. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking one of the saved if she'd found god before or after that party where she blew a guy for coke next to the pool at Treehouse Village Apartments.

3. I apparently grew taller after senior year. That or a couple guys who used to bully me shrank. This was gratifying.

4. Three out of our class of 300 died. 1% is probably pretty low, and I only knew about one of them. Another girl died of cancer, and one guy was someone none of us could remember talking to, or being in school to begin with.

5. The assholes are still assholes. It never failed to amaze me that - for every time I found myself thinking about a classmate, "Wow, how cool that he/she became successful/straightened out, I'm really happy for him/her" - one of the half dozen or so jagoffs whose skulls I always wanted to crush Roy Baty-style in high school would yell something and I'd be right back to wanting to stick my thumbs in their eye sockets. Fuckers.

6. One girl - a cheerleader and member of the homecoming court, among other things - apparently dropped off the face of the earth. Even those of us too lazy to fill out the questionnaires (*cough*) sent in contact info. Not so this person. The only thing listed was her name, and even her fellow cheerleaders had no idea what happened to her. I chose to believe she cast aside her shallow, materialistic ways and joined Doctors Without Borders and is fighting the good fight in Darfur. But then, why should she be any different than the rest of us?

7. Everyone had three kids. I'm not kidding.

We stayed until...oh, midnight or so. Then we apparently went to Duddley's anyway, though my recollection is hazy. The drive back to Houston on Sunday wasn't much fun, but I have to say I'm glad I went. If nothing else, it was entertaining.

I'll probably be up for more entertainment in, oh, another 20 years.