Good Evening, San Dimas High School Class of 1989

In this reunion speech I wrote with a friend, the student body president of her class, I like to think I do Peggy Noonan one better, swapping "a thousand points of light" for "You'll recall, of course, that I used to be man."

Good evening, class of 1989. I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight. It's great to see such a strong turnout. I hope you're all enjoying yourselves.

I'm Jenny, your class president. You may not recognize me. I've had a little of that elective surgery that's become so popular in the 10 years since we've all seen each other. You'll recall, of course, that I used to be a man.

            Looking out over this crowd, it looks as though a few of us have gone through some changes. When you think about it, we've seen a lot come and go in the past decade.

            "Saturday Night Live" still sucks, and Bill Cosby, Ted Danson and Michael J. Fox are still on television. But, in music, pop and punk gave way to rap, arena rock rose and fell, grunge came and went – leaving us, now, with Ricky Martin. Oh, for the days when la vida loca was a snack you'd pick up at Del Taco on Arrow Highway after English class.

            George Michael – gay! While the boys from Duran Duran turned out to be straight. Who knew? And did you see this Starbucks thing coming? Now I can't live without my decaf vanilla latte every morning.

            Andre Agassi and Bruce Willis lost their hair, while Elton John found some. Prince Charles is dating again. And we may soon have another George Bush in the White House.

            We declared war on Iraq and dropped bombs on Kosovo. But our long-standing war on drugs has yet to be decided. Most of the narcotics confiscated over the years are being stockpiled right here, in San Dimas, I understand. You know who you are.

            So, I was hoping to do a whole multi-media presentation covering what's happened in thh world in the last decade: domestic and foreign politics; the ravages of war; increased sex and violence on television; our growing fascination with technology.

            However, due to a lack of funds and planning, I'll simply hand the microphone over, now, to Shelley and Tricia, and let you reflect on these issues on your own time.

            And again, thanks to everyone for coming. Shelley and Tricia are going to give away some prizes. Please note that, after they're done, it's your obligation to dance with wild abandon to carefully selected music meant to bring back the memories of your youth.

Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places

Some pray to God for guidance. Others seek the advice of licensed professionals. When a friend assumed an editorial post at the teen chat site eCRUSH, I learned that kids will put their trust in a complete stranger when it comes to matters of the heart. Though my Wonder Years were decades behind me, I had to fire off a few cries for help of my own. Editor Paul Pearson proved to be as insightful as Dr. Phil, until he realized he was being pranked.

Dear eCRUSH:

I'm just 16 and sort of new to the dating scene. I mean, I just got my driver's license. (Thanks. Yeah, it's pretty great.) So I may not be aware of, like, all the details of how these things go. But this I do know: Under no circumstances are you supposed to wind up driving your date and her drunken, 40-year-old boyfriend to the cock fights in Mexico at 1 a.m.

It was, like, the worst night of my life, eCRUSH, and exactly the thing my mother warned me against. (She used to be one of those babes who walk around the ring holding up the card that says "Round Quatro" or whatever.) For sure, it's delivered pizza and in-room cable porn for me from now on.

Hey, can I do a shout out to Clint W. and Rusty Z. from San Marino? Hey, guys, peace. Totally stay away from Christy K.

Davey O., Pasadena, Calif.

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Davey, I'm crackin' up over here. Details, man, I want details! Just in case you go on a date with this magnitude of badness again, bring a notebook. You're just 15 minutes away from Hollywood and we need fresh scripts. I guarantee you that an after-hours cockfight in Mexico with a teenage babe and boozin' guy old enough to be her daddy is primo pitch material.

Your shout-out to San Marino is noted. By the way, did you know it's illegal to park your car in your driveway for more than 2 hours in San Marino? It's the most ridiculously regulated city in the United States, and weirdly enough it's mostly made up of Republicans, who usually prattle on about less government regulation. You crazy kids.   – eC

Dear eCRUSH:

I hate to bother you, eCRUSH, but I don't know where else to turn. I mean, I'd call Dr. Drew or Adam, but those guys are so bitter anymore. And, frankly, I hate it when they bet on callers like me, laying odds as to just how messed up I am. How messed up is that? Forget them, man.

See, eCRUSH, I'm going on a date tonight, and I'm totally afraid it might just be my last night on Earth.

OK, first off, I'm just 16, but I already know that the hottest chicks are the incarcerated ones. I used to be into all that moralistic wrestling, back and forth: Should I do it with this chick, should I not -- you know, like they do on "Dawson's Creek" and stuff?

But then, when I was visiting my mom in prison last weekend, I met this other inmate, her friend Marge. She took me into the towel room, where the big dryers are, and it was goodbye, "Dawson's," hello, Spice Channel.

"Should we be doing this?" I screamed above the roar of the machinery. Even though her ears were blown off in a botched heist, I saw her horribly burned lips twist into a smile. She jammed some crusty linen into my mouth and hissed, "Shut up, Acne Boy. Give us a little kiss, already."

Well, eCRUSH, I'm going back tonight, as Marge's conjugal visit night is Friday. And while I'm definitely going to get some, as she likes to say, I'm also getting worried. See, she told me to bring semi-automatic weapons and rappelling gear. It's glorious to die for love and stuff on the WB. But don't people get killed in prison breaks?

This is the question I'm wrestling with now. My God, eCRUSH, what price love?

Davey O., Pasadena, Calif.

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If all the prank letters we got were this good, I wouldn't even bother to read the real-life ones...   -- eC

The Yellow Jacket War or St. Francis Takes up Arms

I’m a modern-day St. Francis; the kind of guy who, after a rain, scoops up earthworms doomed to die upon the driveway and places them in the flower bed. I know that a bee’s sting costs it its life. So when I see one upon the sidewalk, stingerless and struggling, I quickly put it out of its misery. I’ve saved a lizard’s life by swooping into a murder of crows and plucking it from their midst.

So why was it, then, that yellow jackets in my neighbor’s hedge made war with me? They should’ve gotten on their tiny knees and prayed I didn’t smite them unto death – which I eventually did, the ungrateful little buggers.

Every time I’d go to water the front lawn – which I do to keep the grass alive – they’d run sorties at my head, sending me screaming down the block, waving my hands like a madman. I’d see curtains moving in windows and realize whatever equity I’d managed to build with those living within earshot was gone.

In an attack two weeks ago, I took a sting to the back of the hand. Last week, one of their aces got under my belt. Hit and hurt badly, I ripped off my pants to find it had gotten me in the -- I thought -- protective layer of fat I keep about my waistline. I felt the glare of the neighbors, looking on in horror and scorn, but it was a full minute before I could clear my trousers of the intruder. Sure enough, it had flown off, free to attack again upon the morrow.

It never got the chance. I had turned the other cheek and had it stung. I had come in peace, but it was time now for war.

Snatching my keys with one hand and holding up my pants with the other, I flew to Orchard Supply Hardware. What an armory it was! I could spray their little nest to death. I could bomb to smithereens an area twice that size, taking out surrounding shrubs. I could foam them up close and personal. I could hit them from a distance of 12 feet.

Something in my gut told me to strike from afar and as toxically as possible.

Minutes later, it was over. I felt terrible for what I’d done. I watched in pity as fliers returning from missions elsewhere staggered around their home now dripping in napalm, their loved ones suddenly still as stones. It pained me to see them flit from one side of ground zero to the other, then float slowly, souls crushed, off into the sky.

But that’s just me, St. Francis, friend to all living things.