August 4, 2004

Class of '89, like, totally reunites

By
Herald Editor

      Time to dust off the Sonny Crockett sports coat and squeeze into those parachute pants without bursting a zipper or two dozen - the Class of 1989 is reuniting.
      The Flock of Seagulls haircuts are coming home to roost; albeit with a few less follicles on top. Nearly two decades ago, 67 teenagers tossed their royal blue mortarboards into the air and walked out into the real world. Although we survived Pac Man fever, I wonder how we faired with the pains of adulthood.
      I guess the only way to find out is RSVP ASAP and BYOB.
      Like most 80s kids, my high school years were not a John Hughes movie. No Molly Ringwalds, Emilio Estevezes, or foreign exchange students named Long Duk Dong. My school was light years from Fast Times at Ridgemont High - we had to drive 80 miles to even encounter a Mall Rat. Skipping school in a one-stop light town meant hanging outside at the gas station with the mullets or watching "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" on laserdisc.
      School-skippers nowadays no longer loiter outside the gas station - they kill time and burritos at the Taco Bell inside. Ah, the forward march of progress.
      Like it or not, our class knew each other on a first name basis. So it seems odd that I might have to wear a "Hello, My Name is ..." inside the same township hall where I won the Pinewood Derby and snuck my first stale wedding reception beer. However, unlike yearbook pictures, people change - although a few 34 year olds might show up in Tuxedo T-shirts.
      Prior to our class reunion, attendees were asked to fill out a questionnaire. It was full of the typical inquires: occupation, marital status, children, accolades, prison time served. I'm curious if life imitated the artful class prophecy my friend Shaun and I crafted in 15 minutes. Perhaps our class valedictorian really did ditch those full-ride college plans to race his Chevy Luv against Bigfoot on the monster truck circuit.
      Admittedly, I haven't written one word of my foretold first book, "Termites: Friend or Foe?"
      High school class reunions fall under the category of accident-by-the-side-of-the road-rubber-necking morbid curiosity. We know not to stare at his Trump hairpiece or her Smurf tattoo, but we can't look away. Just like we know that the guy who pulls up in a Ferrari left the exotic car rental agreement in the glovebox of his minivan. If I feel like putting on airs, I'll break out my old-school red and black Michael Jordans.
      Reunions are also a time to relive the past; mainly those moments you hoped were dead and buried. Once the BYOB starts flowing, the talk will turn to swirlies, bus backseat makeouts and who wore Members Only jackets. My memorable moment: flushing a baggie of Epsom salt down the toilet during our senior trip to California - too many episodes of Miami Vice mixed with my father's unknown gesture of packing my suitcase with something to soak my inflamed big toe.
      At least I won't have to worry about what my wife thinks of me after the reunion. After all, she'll be the one telling the Epsom salt story firsthand.
      Overall, it should be an interesting evening - dinner will be at a tavern where a "No Guns" sign once hung from the front door. Perhaps they'll have Run-DMC in the jukebox so I can breakdance on the pool table. Hopefully, in all my pop-and-lock exuberance, the friction from my parachute pants doesn't catch my Crockett coat on fire.
      After all, like the Class of 1989, we're talking about irreplaceable vintage items.