I attended my 50th high school reunion last Saturday. The turnout for the Class of 1974 was predictably underwhelming. Approximately 35 out of a graduating class of over 400. Even it was actually 40, that’s 10 percent. Well, I don’t know, maybe that’s a good percentage for these things. Or at least average. I’m no expert on reunions.

It just seems like a 50th year reunion is a really big deal. Almost like a 50th wedding anniversary. But in 1974, we’d reached the height of apathy in America. The class of ‘74 was the most apathetic class imaginable. We actually lost pep rallies to the lower classes, something unheard of. It was actually “cool” to not be active in any school activities. I didn’t go to the prom, although I almost asked a lovely girl, but chickened out. I chickened out a lot in those days. I didn’t go to homecoming either, so I missed out on the crowning of the “queen,” who was a big, popular football player. That was our class; not taking anything seriously, no sense of decorum. I guess we were pathfinders; as today, at America 2.0 homecoming dances and proms, you can see biological males crowned as “queens” regularly. The “queen” of the dance was actually at the 50th reunion. I didn’t talk to him. He wouldn’t have remembered me. American Memory Hole: ... Jeffries, Donald Buy New $1.99 (as of 10:26 UTC - Details)

Actually, what I found out to my displeasure was that no one seemed to remember me. At least the ones who came to the 50th reunion. I had looked at the list of those who’d RSVP’d “Yes,” and was interested in seeing some of them. Unfortunately, none of them showed up. I questioned why I had decided to go there. It was a long drive, and since it was at a brewery, it would have been natural to try some of their products. But as I said, it was a long drive, and I didn’t want to get my second DWI. I still bitterly recall the first, in 1978, when I was forced to pay the uninsured motorists fee because I couldn’t afford the increased cost of insurance. I can still see the demented ladies of MADD, who sat in the courtroom to pressure the judge to throw the book at all the young, blue collar drunk drivers like me. They have yet to frequent a courtroom where an NFL player, or an illegal immigrant, is charged with drunk driving.

I don’t know what I expected. I just went through the motions in high school. For the only time in my life, I was somewhat of an introvert. I found it incredibly dull, and struggled to stay awake in my classes. The social hierarchy made such an impression on me that it was a major influence in my writing Bullyocracy. Oddly, none of the really popular kids- the “stars” of my high school class- were at the reunion. Well, except for the football player who was “queen” of the homecoming dance. He and a few others segregated themselves outside, just like they still were commandeering the “popular” corridor at Oakton High. They didn’t mingle with the rest of the common riff raff of ‘74. There wasn’t a cheerleader in sight. I can only assume that the most well known jocks, and the hottest girls, all flamed out after high school. Didn’t age very well. Gained a lot of weight, like almost everybody else. Or still thought they were too cool.

My ego is such that I thought maybe a few of my classmates would approach me and mention my writing. I’m friends with several of them on Facebook, and my avatar and profile make it crystal clear that I’m a big shot published author of many books. One guy did mention that he’d read one of my books, but struggled to remember the title- On Borrowed Fame. Still, he said he really liked it. A few girls I didn’t know said “Hi Don” and hugged me. Maybe that was their way of saying they liked my writing? I was hoping to see the class valedictorian, who you’d think would want to be at this thing. I really liked her, and she was the only one who thought I was going to be a writer. We had many political arguments, but in my immature mind, I sensed there was a mutual attraction amid the tension. I obviously didn’t know what I was doing. As I sat there with my wife, I actually wondered, did I really even go to Oakton High?

Overall, the reunion was pretty disappointing. The “In Memorium” page, always a morbid highlight at these events, was decidedly incomplete. I added a few names that I recalled from the list of the 20th reunion, or heard about on Facebook. So who knows how many of my classmates are really dead? Maybe that’s why the cheerleaders weren’t there. You can’t blame someone for not coming if they’re dead, after all. One girl who I was looking forward to seeing had a mild stroke and couldn’t come. That was a stark reminder that we are getting pretty old. We’re 68, and life expectancy is inexplicably falling in America 2.0. It’s a “science” thing, you wouldn’t understand. I’m sure there were others that were simply too sick or incapacitated to come. I have seen some of these classmates on Facebook, and a few still look pretty good. I was hoping to see at least one late 60s hot babe at the soiree. My wife insisted that none of them looked anywhere near as good as I do. She’s probably prejudiced.

So, I started thinking back, to 1974. As a young radical Democrat, I loved Ted Kennedy, and Frank Church, and Birch Bayh. I was pretty naive. I had just started playing guitar, and writing songs. I had also discovered the JFK assassination, which as you all know would become a lifelong obsession of mine. I was a proud cigarette smoker. Marlboros. Later to become Camel Lights. If anyone had asked me not to smoke, I would have reacted indignantly. I paid 45 cents for these cigarettes! It’s good for everyone that I quit smoking in January 1989. I would not have responded well to the draconian crackdown on a fully legal product. In 1974, you could smoke cigarettes anywhere- stores, banks, even hospital rooms. As a young hospital worker, I would usually have a cigarette dangling from my mouth as I pulled a heavy food or laundry cart through the hallways. You’d ground your butt out on the floor. Any floor.

I was never on time for my blue collar job. Always late. We just filled out our time cards at the end of the two week pay period. I always got paid for the full shift. Now, I did make up for being late by leaving early. Sometimes 3-4 hours early. The supervisors let you go when your work was done. No one argued that this was “falsification of time.” No one lectured us that it was “eight hours work for eight hours pay.” I was really spoiled when I wound up with a better job in IT. I could never adjust to having to work an entire shift. In the 1970s, though, this was commonplace. The WWII generation, which was then in charge, was a lot more lenient and flexible than the grown up flower children would be. The one drawback was tucking my shirt in. I strongly protested that. Little did I know, the world would come around to my point of view. It just doesn’t seem as special when everyone tucks their shirt out now. Hidden History: An Exp... Donald Jeffries Best Price: $9.86 Buy New $14.70 (as of 04:30 UTC - Details)

We smoked dope on our breaks. Sometimes, we smoked dope openly on the job. Understand, this was America 1.0. I paid little attention to any rules or regulations. I was fighting The Man from the moment I got my first job at Wagon Wheel restaurant. The personal liberty we had would astound any Millennial or Gen Zer. Free speech actually existed. I ranted and raved about anything I wanted, to co-workers and management. No one ever suggested I couldn’t. The only snag I ran into was when Safety and Security objected to my getting signatures from employees on a petition to reopen the investigation into the JFK assassination. That’s the only time management ever really said, “you can’t do that.” I chalked it up to the JFK conspiracy being so big that even those who ran the hospital were somehow involved. No one had heard of “hate speech.” There were no such things as “fact checkers.”

As an eighteen year old healthy cisgender, I was like a kid in a candy shop. There were 13,000 employees working for the hospital, and lots of them were young, attractive females. Cisgenders, just like me. I never once worried that some nurse would call human resources on me for trying to converse with her. I don’t know what young male cisgenders do nowadays. Pretend they’re gay so the girl they’re talking to won’t complain? You could compliment women in 1974. Now, it’s somehow offensive if you tell a cisgender female that they look good. In America 1.0, the women tended to look better, anyhow, and were flattered to be told so. Plenty of secretaries were openly sleeping with their bosses. And many of us weren’t above slapping a girl on the butt. I’m pretty sure that would be a crime in America 2.0. So, unaware of the statute of limitations, I’m not confessing to anything specifically.

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