Truesday: On Getting The Band Back Together

The purpose behind a reunion of any variety SHOULD be to reacquaint oneself with an ever-distanced but cherished piece of your past. Some portion of your personal history which you would be remiss to one day find that you are completely and irreparably separated from. Forever more.

Like, that one coming-of-age week you spent at that coed summer camp. You know, the one where you showed up at the cabin with tear-tracked cheeks, duffle bag bursting with random shit you threw together at the last minute, and you realized you’d be suffering through this nightmare in the company of some dozen strangers in some remote woodland setting. Like Friday The 13th. It was obvious that no one knew each other beforehand, but based on the matching cheek slug trails, you all shared a sense of abandonment because all your parents had obviously dropped your soul-sucking asses into a lakeside hell for a week so that they could indulge their mid-life crisis by hitting up key parties, rekindling their sorely missed cocaine habits, and dabbling in loud ass play.

That week turned out awesome.

And not just for your parents’ neighborly sexual relations.

You bonded with all those other kids like cholesterol. You either gave or received your first hand-job, learned to worm the phrase “mother fucker” into everyday banter, and discovered that coffee and tequila were never meant to coexist under any known civilized circumstance.

Then the summer ended. Perhaps some periodic letters passed between you and some of those who shared a few Stand By Me moments that summer. Maybe you even called each other long distance for a spell. But years blew by and you grew hair down below, then started losing hair up above, and eventually wished you could revisit that nasty ass cabin in the woods where everyone probably beat off in unison every night but never realized it.

And that’s a memory, a time and place which may deserve some sort of scheduled effort to revisit in order to keep it fresh. Otherwise, time will wear it all away, covering those memories with newer, potentially lesser ones involving the birth of your children, the Red Sox taking any series, and your several failed attempts to finish various twelve step programs. Then, on your death bed, in between fouling yourself and accusing everyone of steeling your toothbrush, the attending nurse will be treated/confused/horrified by your rambling recounts of that turning-point summer and how you got your braces tangled in pubic hair or some weird shit.

Don’t be that person. Don't let it fade into the forgotten shadows. Keep the memories alive with a regular reunion.

Other potential life-scenarios involving a close-quartered, extended existence with other humans, which may require some reunioning to stave off a complete loss of connection:

1. Short stint at a Federal supermax penitentiary facility.
2. Jury duty for OJ trial.
3. Flight from here to South Africa on Hooters Air.
4. Active Khmer Rouge membership back in the 70s.
5. A weekend trapped in Gary Busey’s bathroom with a Czech hocky team. And a goat.

But high school? You’ve GOT to be fucking kidding me. I can understand a yearning to revisit youth, because it’s so fetishized in our culture. But tenth or twelfth grade? What the hell was so special about that chemical disaster? Acne? Not knowing which hole matched which purpose? Thinking Coors was delicious?

Fuck that shit.

I’m going to shuffle my overly opinionated self ever-further out on a hyper-judgmental limb here for the last two paragraphs, because I sometimes get my opinions clouded-up with broken literary devices which do nothing to clarify my (typically asshole-ish) point.

Which, this time, is that:

If those un-guided*, socially awkward, factory-robot-like years end up being the most golden of your life to date here on the big blue ball, well, shit man. You should seriously look into hiring a life coach, perhaps call Dr. Phil, or take up competitive karaoke in order to squeeze some higher meaning out of your contemporary existence. But in the meantime, I guess something as morbidly lame as a high school reunion might be just what you need to keep from murdering yourself. I know of no kinder way to phrase it.

Otherwise, dive further into the internet and track down anyone you’d like to see again! It’s easy! Criminal records, wedding records, myspace, the google, jdate, FBI watchlists. Cast a broad net! Make your journey to get reacquainted a personal one. They’ll be flattered that you stalked. They might even remember that embarrassing pube incident with as much nostalgia as you do.

But that’s a long shot.

*I don’t mean MISguided, because that can be more awesome than anything imaginable.