From bits and pieces of our scattered conversations that I'm bizarrely replaying in my head, he'd probably paint himself as a white Julius Peppers but with better hops. His reality is that he was a legend or a folk hero. Have you seen Slap Shot? If he'd have played hockey in high school, he'd say that he was the Hanson Brothers rolled into one. If he and I were friends, I'd ask to borrow his Hoosiers and Varsity Blues DVDs.
High school football. High school basketball. Cheerleaders. Away games. Playoffs. State. Circle jerks. It never ceases! The topic could be the racial divide in the United States, and he'd interrupt with a vapid story about catching a pass or shooting a free throw or fingering a husky cheerleader. I'm waiting for him to say, "This one time, at band camp...." I only see him when I'm out getting my drink on. He invariably makes me want to drink more. "How many until I black out? Yeah, I'll risk liver failure just to quiet his prating."
I'll temporarily lift my self-imposed ban on profanity. Holy shit! You're how old? Quit talking about high school. It is so queer. It's as queer as a rainbow over San Francisco. It's uncool. It's uninteresting. It's unbecoming. It's borderline loathsome.
Yeah, talking in glowing terms about your exploits from six or seven years ago may impress your erstwhile shop teacher but it engenders no respect or adulation from your peers. It doesn't one bit. I'm sorry. Someone who cares for you should pull you aside and give you a talking-to or have a heart-to-heart with you. If neither approach cuts ice, I proffer electroshock. Consider it. (I am not wrong, person whom I'd tepidly call an acquaintance. You're in the wrong.) I think I speak for all of us—and by "us," I mean greater Lincoln—when I kindly say that you need to look deep within yourself tonight, pray for an epiphany, and hope against hope that you can conclude this battiness once and for all. Please. Pretty please. Pretty please with a sixer of Rolling Rock on top. Wise up. For the love of Sargent Shriver!
High school, touchdowns, lay-ups, and track duals were not your apotheosis. High school was no one's apotheosis. How could exuberantly screwing off for forty-five hours a week for four years be any clear-headed person's apotheosis? High school wasn't Everest. It was a molehill. The mountain is still heretofore unknown. The actual glory lies in waking up to the uncertainty that tomorrow could mysteriously present the first steps up the real mountain. That's what you should be yapping about, not how, as an eighth-grade football player, you verbally abused another team's cheerleaders from the opposite sideline.
The future is calling. It wants you to zip it about the past. Be a pal. Look forward, or at least become a mute.
Let it go. The sun has set.
You're an addict. Reminiscing about high school is your addiction. Seek help. Call that show Intervention. You'd be doing it for mankind.
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hehe
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