Messege from Julianne Heckert:
[pal-uh-nohd]
əˌnoʊdShe wrote me a poem
A long loving ode
But now she's recanted,
I'm wounded and lowed.
Will this be the last I
See that Pal I Know'd?*
8^P
* This is what we poets refer to as a 'horrendous groaner'.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Thursday, June 13, 2013
THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS
Two weekends ago was my 30th college reunion.
Latent dormant memories and experiences were remembered, refreshed and resurfaced.
Sometime the truth is even funnier than a well writ joke.
THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS
A sunny Saturday, and I’m walking out with a friend.
Across the college green there were coeds end to end.
Boys sitting under trees with books, girls sunning on the grass,
A pastoral late autumn day that shall too quickly pass.
“There’s talent on the quad today,” my friend then warmly said,
“And everywhere is tail in play, a good day to come out.”
As we passed by the all girls dorm, he stopped and gazed above,
And smiled almost pruriently as he peered up in love.
“Now I have heard,” he said to me, “Though maybe not first hand,
Of secret goings on in there, the tales I’ve heard are grand!
Some Senior girls, some Juniors too, will befriend Freshman girls,
Who naively, or knowingly, will fall for tricks they play.
And when the Senior girls have worked to gain a freshman’s trust,
They’ll make a move to reel her in, say,
‘Hey, come to my room.
My Freshman old School sweater’s shrunk,
But it should fit you well.
You look so thin, you’re so petite,
And no you’re not too drunk.’
It’s a game that they all play up there, to catch new girls undressing!
She’ll watch her change her sweater then, from one into the other,
And if she likes what she has seen, she’ll move in then to get her.
She’ll say like;
‘By the way, you’re cute,
And I like what I saw.
I’m lesbian and proud of it, and there’s no shame at all.’”
I interrupted “No!”
“Yes! I’m telling you. And then they totally put the moves on them.”
“Oh, no way, come on! You’re making that up!”
“You’re a freshman!”
“Yeah but really. No one, not even the dumbest freshman, would fall for a lame move like that!”
Then he said;
“There’s something in my room I need, come with me for a minute.”
We walked back to his dorm room just like guys will often do.
We smoked some righteous weed he had, and heard some Grateful Dead.
And when the joint was just a roach, all that was in my head was;
Girls!
Dorms! Filled with girls. And girls!
To tease, to please,
In need.
“I’ll go back there,” I dreamt.
My friend stood up and walked to where his closet had no door,
And held before me bespoke pants like I’d not seen before.
“I bought these at a charity thrift, but they’re too long for me,
But you’re a little taller, dude, I think they might fit you.”
“What, you want me to try on these pants?
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’ve never seen tightey-whiteys before,
And then he turned around and said, “I will not look at you.”
So I stood up and I dropped trou, and stepped into his pants.
Unknowingly, yet trustingly, an innocent on view.
They seemed to fit.
I turned around.
“Now those look good on you.”
“Really,” I said, “They seem a little tight in the front.”
“I don’t mind. ”
Then he said, “Listen, I’m Gay, and I like what I saw.”
“Wait, what just happened?”
(June 2013)
Two weekends ago was my 30th college reunion.
Latent dormant memories and experiences were remembered, refreshed and resurfaced.
Sometime the truth is even funnier than a well writ joke.
THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS
A sunny Saturday, and I’m walking out with a friend.
Across the college green there were coeds end to end.
Boys sitting under trees with books, girls sunning on the grass,
A pastoral late autumn day that shall too quickly pass.
“There’s talent on the quad today,” my friend then warmly said,
“And everywhere is tail in play, a good day to come out.”
As we passed by the all girls dorm, he stopped and gazed above,
And smiled almost pruriently as he peered up in love.
“Now I have heard,” he said to me, “Though maybe not first hand,
Of secret goings on in there, the tales I’ve heard are grand!
Some Senior girls, some Juniors too, will befriend Freshman girls,
Who naively, or knowingly, will fall for tricks they play.
And when the Senior girls have worked to gain a freshman’s trust,They’ll make a move to reel her in, say,
‘Hey, come to my room.
My Freshman old School sweater’s shrunk,
But it should fit you well.
You look so thin, you’re so petite,
And no you’re not too drunk.’
It’s a game that they all play up there, to catch new girls undressing!
She’ll watch her change her sweater then, from one into the other,
And if she likes what she has seen, she’ll move in then to get her.
She’ll say like;
‘By the way, you’re cute,
And I like what I saw.
I’m lesbian and proud of it, and there’s no shame at all.’”
I interrupted “No!”
“Yes! I’m telling you. And then they totally put the moves on them.”
“Oh, no way, come on! You’re making that up!”
“You’re a freshman!”
“Yeah but really. No one, not even the dumbest freshman, would fall for a lame move like that!”
Then he said;
“There’s something in my room I need, come with me for a minute.”
We walked back to his dorm room just like guys will often do.
We smoked some righteous weed he had, and heard some Grateful Dead.
And when the joint was just a roach, all that was in my head was;
Girls!
Dorms! Filled with girls. And girls!
To tease, to please,
In need.
“I’ll go back there,” I dreamt.
My friend stood up and walked to where his closet had no door,
And held before me bespoke pants like I’d not seen before.
“I bought these at a charity thrift, but they’re too long for me,
But you’re a little taller, dude, I think they might fit you.”
“What, you want me to try on these pants?
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’ve never seen tightey-whiteys before,
And then he turned around and said, “I will not look at you.”
So I stood up and I dropped trou, and stepped into his pants.
Unknowingly, yet trustingly, an innocent on view.
They seemed to fit.
I turned around.
“Now those look good on you.”
“Really,” I said, “They seem a little tight in the front.”
“I don’t mind. ”
Then he said, “Listen, I’m Gay, and I like what I saw.”
“Wait, what just happened?”
(June 2013)
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
THE SHOP MANAGER
Two weekends ago, I attended my 30th college reunion, my first college reunion EVER!. It was fun, except I tore my back earlier in the week and was virtually a constant cripple. But that by-the-way.
Regrettably, a friend of mine from my college days, a faculty member who was a character non-pariel, died last December.
30 years, and tragically I never connected with him again after graduation. I'm not always reall smart.
Also, I regret, I did not get the chance to memorialize while I was there. So instead I wrote this remembrance. I've since forwarded it to the Skidmore Theater Department Heads (Still the same ones 30 years later! Even Rip Van Winkle couldn't ask for better!) t in hopes it can be included in their next newsletter as a memoriam.
We shall see.
THE SHOP MANAGER(for Owen McGehee, in memoriam)
When I was at Skidmore I worked in the shop
Not the coffee or book shop, the Theater shop.
While others hung bright lights, with colors all ‘round,
We’d build all the sets, or we'd strike them all down.
On tuition assistance I needed the pay
Of 5 hours at minimum wage, on Friday.
On one certain workday we were between shows,
With no work to do, he just told me to go!
I said "I need money, I can stay until five."
He said "I’m the Shop Foreman, I’ll sign off your card."
"But Owen, I'm honest, and what if we’re caught?"
"Convenient! There’s one project "special" I’ve got."
"There's buckets of bolts here we have to sort through.
You reach in and take one, now here's what you do;
The bent up or bunged up with threads all stripped bare,
You put in this bucket, that's this one, right here.
But if they are clean, and all nice and pristine,
Then they go in this one, you see what I mean?"
"!"
"Ok, I’ll be back to check up on you later."
"Ok."
But for rioting tinnitus, the Shop sang no notes,
The deafening was quiet as I sorted bolts.
My wish was that he would be proud of my doing,
So next show I’d learn more, perhaps stapling or gluing.
I imagined Department Heads would compliment me
For my effort, my diligence, my thrift and economy.
The second hand swept while no others moved time.
I twice checked the good bolts I’d chose –
They’re still fine!
At a quarter to five I heard him re-arrive,
(And obviously not in condition to drive).
I think he'd been drinking some whiskey or beer,
He did not seem happy to have come back here.
He said "Wow! That’s good work there, look what you have done!
I bet you were just having a great loud of fun!"
Then he poured the good bolts in the bucket they’d come from
And did the same thing with the bent up old bunged ones.
He shook up that bucket and mixed all with glee,
Tossed it back on the shelf, then he turned round to me
And said;
"It's now five o'clock, will you ---king get out?!"
- Ken Johnson ’83, (June 2013)
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/saratogian/obituary.aspx?pid=161623080#fbLoggedOut
Two weekends ago, I attended my 30th college reunion, my first college reunion EVER!. It was fun, except I tore my back earlier in the week and was virtually a constant cripple. But that by-the-way.
Regrettably, a friend of mine from my college days, a faculty member who was a character non-pariel, died last December.
30 years, and tragically I never connected with him again after graduation. I'm not always reall smart.
Also, I regret, I did not get the chance to memorialize while I was there. So instead I wrote this remembrance. I've since forwarded it to the Skidmore Theater Department Heads (Still the same ones 30 years later! Even Rip Van Winkle couldn't ask for better!) t in hopes it can be included in their next newsletter as a memoriam.
We shall see.
THE SHOP MANAGER(for Owen McGehee, in memoriam)
When I was at Skidmore I worked in the shop
Not the coffee or book shop, the Theater shop.
While others hung bright lights, with colors all ‘round,
We’d build all the sets, or we'd strike them all down.
On tuition assistance I needed the pay
Of 5 hours at minimum wage, on Friday.
On one certain workday we were between shows,
With no work to do, he just told me to go!
I said "I need money, I can stay until five."
He said "I’m the Shop Foreman, I’ll sign off your card."
"But Owen, I'm honest, and what if we’re caught?"
"Convenient! There’s one project "special" I’ve got."
"There's buckets of bolts here we have to sort through.
You reach in and take one, now here's what you do;
The bent up or bunged up with threads all stripped bare,
You put in this bucket, that's this one, right here.
But if they are clean, and all nice and pristine,
Then they go in this one, you see what I mean?"
"!"
"Ok, I’ll be back to check up on you later."
"Ok."
But for rioting tinnitus, the Shop sang no notes,
The deafening was quiet as I sorted bolts.
My wish was that he would be proud of my doing,
So next show I’d learn more, perhaps stapling or gluing.
I imagined Department Heads would compliment me
For my effort, my diligence, my thrift and economy.
The second hand swept while no others moved time.
I twice checked the good bolts I’d chose –
They’re still fine!
At a quarter to five I heard him re-arrive,
(And obviously not in condition to drive).
I think he'd been drinking some whiskey or beer,
He did not seem happy to have come back here.
He said "Wow! That’s good work there, look what you have done!
I bet you were just having a great loud of fun!"
Then he poured the good bolts in the bucket they’d come from
And did the same thing with the bent up old bunged ones.
He shook up that bucket and mixed all with glee,
Tossed it back on the shelf, then he turned round to me
And said;
"It's now five o'clock, will you ---king get out?!"
- Ken Johnson ’83, (June 2013)
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/saratogian/obituary.aspx?pid=161623080#fbLoggedOut
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