from March 23, 2008
Nothing good comes in the mail. Wanna prove it? Go to your mail right now. Look what comes in the mail: credit card bills, pre-approved credit card offers, American Teacher magazines that you throw out unopened, coupons for restaurants you don’t go to and leave on a neighbor’s doorstep, draft notices, etc. Now, the good stuff comes over the internet- emails from friends, spam, notices of my new blog, spam, spam from friends, spam spam spam, and sometimes an interesting link. And lots of unsolicited spam. OK, so email may be worse. But you don’t have to walk to the mailbox to get email. And nothing good comes from walking to your mailbox. I live on the fourth floor of an apartment building. So if I go to get my mail that means that I am OUT OF MY HOUSE and can POSSIBLY RUN INTO A NEIGHBOR. (Motivational caps, btw.) Notice that I didn’t’ say “run into someone I know,” I said “run into a neighbor.” I don’t know my neighbors, they move out too fast. I’ve had old neighbors, young neighbors, short neighbors, fat neighbors, the whole deal, but none of them spoke English. I’ve had one of these neighbors offer me an “all-access” date with his daughter, if you know what I mean, (I blogged it, go back to my brush with marriage) and I’ve had neighbors who stole my garbage. (Yep, garbage.) (I once had a very cute Russian neighbor who lived upstairs on the sixth floor. She was young-ish and took care of a baby. I don’t think it was hers. I’d always run into her in the elevator. I’d be coming home and she’d be going to the park with the baby. I don’t think she spoke any English but we had a nodding acquaintance. I’d get on the elevator. I’d nod. She’d nod back. I’d say hi. She’d nod I’d smile at the baby. She’d smile and nod. (The girl, not the baby.) I’d get off the elevator. She’d nod. I’d say goodbye. She nodded. I nodded. She nodded. Somewhere along the line the baby nodded too. Like everything else in my George Costanza-like life, there had to be something off about her. Something that made her “wrong.” (Aside from the fact that she spoke no English and had a baby that may or may not have been hers.) Every time I saw her, and it may have been anywhere from 30-40 times, she was wearing the exact same short orange skirt. Now I’m not complaining because she had the legs for a short skirt- and did I mention that it was shooooort?- but it was always the SAME short orange skirt. Didn’t end up mattering one way or another because she (and the baby) moved out soon anyway. I’m still sorry I never got the chance to nod goodbye. We were so close.)
[Now “why,” you are wondering, “did he write such a short and meandering paragraph? He’s an English teacher. He knows that’s crap. And besides, I know his style by now. Short paragraphs separated by a skipped line. So what’s up with that? And why the brackets?” Wonder no more. The brackets are to show that this is an aside having nothing at all to do with the main point of the blog. As if I have one. The long paragraph is because that paragraph has nothing to do with the point of the blog, which can be read below and has in common with the first paragraph only the fact that it has to do with something that came in the mail. And since I know what you are all wondering, and can read all of your minds, I won’t blow up your game, but I know that one of you is thinking some very dirty thoughts about me.]
So in the mail I got a notice from the Brooklyn Technical High School Alumni Association. It is time for the twentieth anniversary reunion of my class.
I usually throw these things out. Brooklyn Tech is always looking for money and they won’t get it from me. I had a totally lousy high school experience. I hated every day of it, from the train ride downtown to the students to the teachers to the classes to the size of the school to the train ride home. So naturally I became a high school teacher. My chance for revenge!
Anyhow, the first time I walked through Brooklyn Tech I was not impressed. For a school whose middle name is literally “technical” this was a dump. As we walked to the swimming pool we were directed to walk against the wall opposite a panel of exposed wiring. Exposed LIVE and SPARKING wiring with no technician in sight. We also had to walk up four or five floors because the elevator was out. I later found out that Tech has an old-fashioned foundry spanning the top two floors. Yes, a foundry, like in the 18th century. I dug dirt and put stuff into hot kilns, like the sort of deal that Upton Sinclair railed about in the turn of the century.
At this point I will not- WILL NOT (man I like those caps tonight) point out that it is the twentieth freakin anniversary of my high school graduation. Twenty years! OK, I know that I am 37 years old, but mentally, let’s all face it, I’m still about eight. I like fart jokes and Godzilla. Ladies, any wonder that I’m still available? (Hint hint.) [37 year old English teacher, likes Larry, Moe and Curly, staying at home, seeks woman…… you get the idea.]
So. The Eighties. Here’s some stuff from the 1980’s, when I was a teen and, well, just read on.
These were among the top songs of the Eighties:
Come on Eileen, by Dexy’s Midnight Runners.It wasn’t until, like, last year, that I found out that “Dexy” was a drug reference about Dexedrine.
Pour Some Sugar on Me, by some annoying hair band.
Africa, by Toto. In summer camp, back in the seventies, I got into a fight with a kid named James Toto and that totally colored my view of that song. I’ve since then gone back and re-listened. Shouldn’t have bothered. Song blows.
When I was in junior high, Mark Twain JHS won some silly radio contest and Duran Duran came to our school. “Human Numan” or some other radio tool from Z100 hosted the event. Nothing got done that day since the appearance was a total secret, meaning everyone knew. We were herded into the auditorium, 80’s music blasted, the Duran Duraners came on stage, the kids went nuts. Everyone stood up, jumped up, and screamed . I pointedly complained about all the noise, stood up, faced the back and made a show of how little I thought of the whole thing. What a friendless tool I was.
These were among the top movies of the Eighties:
The Breakfast Club. I have never seen this movie all the way through. In the eighties I was the quiet loner type who was anti-whatever everyone was for. Just like now. Everyone liked this film, so I automatically hated it. Now I won’t see it out of pure stubbornness.
Dream A Little Dream. Never heard of it, but it stars three or four guys named “Corey.”
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Another film I never saw all the way through. What did I like about that film? The Beatles song Ferris sang. Even then I was a man out of time.
Raiders of the Lost Ark. OK, one of the BEST FREAKIN’ FILMS EVER MADE (in your face Kathy!)
Platoon. Gave us the immortal line “Me so horney! Me love you long time!” and just for that deserves it’s spot in history. BTW- It is about some little conflict called Vietnam or something.
Back to the Future. Just to prove that Raiders wasn’t the only good film of the 80’s, here is an absolute classic by anyone’s standard. What, you disagree? You are wrong. I love this film!
And finally, Star Trek II, the Wrath of Khan. The best Trek film ever!
These were among the tip TV shows of the 80’s:
There are only two TV shows worth mentioning here- The A-TEAM! and some show called Dallas where somebody shot somebody else shot named JR but it was all a dream or something?
And world events of the 1980’s:
Well, I don’t know, but I do remember parachute pants and MC Hammer. Or was that the 90’s?
Now that I have wandered through the 1980’s I don’t need to go to my reunion.
This is from the BTHS Alumni website:
THROUGH THE POWER OF TECH ALUMNI, THE BROOKLYN TECH ALUMNI FOUNDATION SUPPORTS THE EXTRAORDINARY EDUCATION AND TRADITIONS OF BROOKLYN TECHNICAL HIGH SCHOOL AND STRENGTHENS THE COMMON BONDS SHARED BY AND AMONG STUDENTS ALUMNI AND STAFF.
This is from me:
HATED YOUR SCHOOL. HATED THE EIGHTIES. GOODBYE.
What did I like about the eighties?
Bill and Ted’s Excellent Cereal. Totally not bogus, filled with marshmallows and sugar. Mmmmmmmmmmm.
Mr. Blog's Tepid Ride 
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