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Cult of the Dead Cow 349
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...presents... High School Reunion:
The Nardcore Adventures of Reid Fleming
by Reid Fleming
2/15/1998-#349
__///////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\\__
\\\\\\\/ Everything You Need Since 1986 \///////
___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___
|___heal_the_sick___raise_the_dead___cleanse_the_lepers___cast_out_demons___|
It just so happens that when I got home last night from the reunion I
took notes. So here goes.
It's true that as Reid Fleming, World's Toughest Milkman and cDc
plenipotentiary, I have fame, fortune and in the snap of my fingers, I can
have fly-girlies on my jock in any major metropolis. But this story doesn't
take place in a major metropolis. It takes place in Ventura (Oxnard's fairer
sister), after all, and there, I am merely reid fleming, my lowercase self,
a graduate returning after some years.
I had expected a big, well air-conditioned place, and the overall
atmosphere to be refined. We would sit back, quietly reminisce, and
raise toasts to missing and departed friends. I guess I'm saying I
expected it to be somewhat contemplative. It wasn't.
When we checked in, the lady at the table tagged us with a huge,
blood-red handstamp that said "Party!", which pretty much set the mood.
For most everybody, the reunion was a chance to get drunk and dance. I
did neither. In fact, I barely even took two bites of dinner. At the
time, I supposed that my anxiety had eliminated my appetite, but it turns
out I was coming down with a cold.
Most people were working hard at getting drunk. Getting drunk is usually
not one of my objectives, and especially not that night. And I'm SO GLAD
I didn't bring any drugs. I'd considered bringing some ecstacy with me
and greeting everyone while looped. That would have been bad. Things
were weird enough sober, plus I would've come on to most of the women at
the party. It would've been a bad thing.
Almost all the guys wore ties. I didn't. Many wore blazers as well. I
didn't. But I was sweating anyway, and a tie would've killed me. So I
didn't feel underdressed.
Mike Hunt came up and talked to me. He was drunk and looking for
anybody who would recognize him. He spent a year in Chino for an
undisclosed felony. Now he works for Unocal or something. Mike was
the only guy to ask me if I was gay or bi or what. He saw my tongue
piercing, learned that I lived in SF, and put two and two together. I
think other people probably drew the same conclusion, but were too
gutless or polite to come right out and ask me.
Right after dinner came the awards show, which bordered on demeaning. I
wouldn't want to win a "Least Changed" certificate, for instance.
About half of my friends from high school were there. That means roughly
7 or 8 people that I actually wanted to talk to.
I was surprised at how many of my friends were especially happy to see
me. It was gratifying and strange at the same time. I somehow forgot
that in high school I'd earned a reputation for having a bizarre sense of
humor. I'm the same way now, except that my friends have the same taste
in jokes. So my current friends and I are all on the same wavelength.
It's been a while since I mixed with normal people. Seemed like all of my
current friends are atheists. I heard lots of people talking about their
church, or bible camp, or various ministries. A woman at our table
volunteered to say grace before dinner. It's been a long time.
Nobody had extracurricular piercings, apparently. Surprising. I'd
always imagined Ventura to be full of trendy people, and piercings are
trendy. But seeing everyone here made me realize how much closer Ventura
is to Omaha than to San Francisco.
Practically all the hot girls I knew in school are married. And my high
school sweetheart is now gay.
A photographer took a picture of me and Gabrielle. I'm sure they'll use it,
because I showed my tongue piercing. We would've won "Most Changed", if
there had been one. Me with bleached hair, goatee, and tongue piercing.
Gabrielle as butch dyke.
Before the reunion, the only thing I was really dreading was having to
meet my ex-girlfriend's husband. But as soon as I saw Gabrielle with her
VERY short hair, slacks, and long sleeve dress shirt buttoned all the
way up, I knew he wouldn't be there.
Gabrielle is working on a computer animation sequence for some wannabe
digital effects house. What's funny is she's in my domain now. She's at
chapter 4 in the _Renderman Companion_, which I've already read. She
described her graduate thesis to me, and I knew enough to ask if she
plans on using a spline-based or polygon-based modeler. This never
happens between us. I'm always at a disadvantage, but not tonight. It
made her seem even less like my ex-girlfriend.
An overgeneralization that got repeated often was that everyone lives in
a) Ventura, b) San Diego, or c) San Francisco. This neglects the 8 or 10
attendees from out of state, and other people who didn't show up. And
quite a few people live in Los Angeles, as you'd expect.
Yvette Aardman lives in SF. Before I took off, she asked for my business
card and told me that we should hang out. Then she talked about how when
Mark Evans came to town, she took him out to the best bars in town and
fucked him. But he never called her afterwards. Then she reiterated
that we should hang out. Yvette's not half bad looking.
I drove Stephanie Boyce home, which is good, because I like Stephanie and have
always enjoyed hanging out with her. And it's also good because maybe
people will get the impression we went someplace for a tryst. I want to
keep people guessing.
-- Reid Fleming
[ Editor's Note: All names have been changed to protect the innocent, the layme
and the slootish. ]
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/lucky 13\ / \ / `-(' ')-' \ / \ /lucky 13\
\ / `-' (U) `-' \ /
`-' the original e-zine `-' _
Oooo eastside westside / ) __
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\__/ ) / Copyright (c) 1998 cDc communications and the author. \ ) \)(/
(_/ CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered trademark of oooO
cDc communications, PO Box 53011, Lubbock, TX, 79453, USA. _
oooO All rights reserved. Edited by Grandmaster Ratte'. __ ( \
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\_) xXx BOW to the COW xXx Oooo
