The spirit of '71
(drunk at grad night again)

In my quest to spend the entire year in the company of the elderly, I attended my 30th class reunion.

The reunion was split into two sections. Friday night's portion -- called Grad Night -- was held at the Festivity Room of the Windsor Golf Course and open to grads only (although some misguided fools brought their significant others anyway -- no flirting for you, Marcia and Lynne).

As I do at any party, I looked around for the lowest common denominator so I could then raise my behavior a notch and blend in. Unfortunately, Bill didn't show up this year. But Jerry did, and alongside his nametag he stuck another label to his shirt that read, "Homosexual." Translation: "I'm drunk and I'm harmless. No matter what I do to you."

Shit. That was my idea. I felt I needed to do something to make the 30th reunion memorable, so telling everyone I was gay seemed like a nice touch, especially since no one in our class had ever come out. Besides, it wasn't like I was going to get laid, not even by Carmen (yes, the ex-cheerleader's still hot). None of the senior girls fucked me way back when, and they sure weren't going to fuck me now. I don't know if it's out of heartfelt conviction or mere force of habit.

And even though the homo label on Jerry was a joke (I'm pretty sure) it made me wonder: Where are the gays and lesbians? Out of a class of more than 400 people, someone has to be queer, especially since Santa Rosa High is a northern California school. Why hadn't they come to the reunion and announced it? Maybe gays and lesbians just aren't reunion people. Or maybe they figure coming out to a bunch of rah-rahs is just as bad an idea now as it was 30 years ago.

Beats me. Even Gordon turned out to be straight. Go figure.

Speaking of rah-rahs, I should confess that I was senior class president (I know. I can't believe it either). Apparently, senior class president is a lifetime term, so some of my old classmates expected things from me, such as Debbie, who suggested I take the microphone and welcome the class. Fine. I'll be Mike Eagan for five minutes.

Although I had changed my last name to Jasper when I was 20, I made the mistake of not becoming famous enough for my old high school classmates to notice. So my nametag read, "Mike Eagan Jasper." At least it didn't say Michael.

I grabbed the mic and stood on a chair.

"Hi. It's Mike Eagan Jasper -- is that a stupid name or what? I just want to welcome everyone to the reunion and remind you that it's okay to eat the food. You only have to pay for the drinks. By the way, I want to explain why I ran for class president. You see, I went to the county fair in the summer of 1971 and collected 20 "Reagan for Governor" bumper stickers. I discovered if you cut off the "for Governor" part and then cut off the "R" it spells "eagan." So you see, I had to run for something. The bumper stickers were way to cool to waste."

It was just like high school. I spoke and they didn't listen. Whatever. Better to mix and mingle anyway.

I pride myself on remembering names, even though it's not always the case. "Great to see you, Ralph," I said to George. "Man, has it really been 30 years since I've seen you, Ken?" I asked Kent (I was getting closer, anyway).

Then I improvised.

"Man, you look like James Taylor," I said to Richard. He glared at me. I suppose I had just said, "Dude, you're really fucking bald."

Then I ran into Joe. He's never forgiven me for missing the bunt signal on a squeeze play in junior high baseball, so every time I see him I feel compelled to apologize. If you had seen his face as he ran from third base, you'd understand. He was sooooooo out.

"Sorry, I missed the signal, Joe."

"You should be," he said. Damn, brother. Get over it.

Sandy stood next to Joe. She looked great, a lot like Katie Couric.

"Do I detect a Texan accent?" she asked.

"Yep, maam," I said, milking it. "I've lived in Austin, Texas for ten years now. But don't worry. I had nothing to do with George Bush."

She measured her gaze. "I like George Bush," she said.

Given it was a few weeks after the 9/11 bombings I said, "Well, I guess we all do now."

Sandy wouldn't let it go. She's so Joe that way. "Well, some of us liked him before."

I wanted to say, "Look. I know he's the fuckin' President and we have to rally around the flag boy for now, but he's still nothing more than Dan Quayle with a famous father and a coke connection." Opting for peace and harmony, I just mumbled, "Uh-huh," and made my way to the bar to buy a four-dollar Corona.

Five Coronas later as the crowd thinned out, I decided it would be a good idea to lay a wet one on Terry.

"You're a good kisser," she said. Cool. Then I shall spread my wonderfulness everywhere. Next was Carol. After that, Carmen. Finally, I turned to Diana.

"No way," she said. Ahhhhhhhh. Playing hard to get, are you? I followed her to her car, but she still refused.

"Is it because I'm overdressed?" I asked.

"Yeah. Something like that," she said.

I made my way back to the Festivity Room only to discover no one remained. Fuck! I was the last one to leave. Not good.

One of the catering women spied me and said, "All of your class is gone."

"Never had it in the first place, baby," I said as I headed out under the Sonoma County moon to the redneck, blue-collar company of Eddie's Bar ($2.75 Budweisers, every night).

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2001 by Mike Jasper.