Going to School at Paula’s Parties
The boys grew Beatle hair to look cool and hide their pimples. The girls started growing the parts that made the boys act very un-cool and realize how much less mature they were than the girls. We weren’t old enough to drink alcohol but at 13 our bodies and minds were starting to go through the hell called puberty, intoxicating us with thoughts of adult pleasure, or at least a decent makeout session and maybe copping a feel.
It was 1965. We were in Junior High School. Specifically, JHS 172 in Queens, N.Y. It was a rough school in a suburban neighborhood. Every classroom had at least one broken window and for those of us who passed the test in 6th grade allowing us to skip from 7th to 9th grades, we risked getting the crap beat out of us by jealous 8th graders and 9th graders indignant their ranks were poisoned with younger “maggots,” the term used at the time to describe overachieving pre-teens—at least in our neighborhood. Indeed, when the announcement was made on the PA that beloved woodshop teacher Mr. Feuerstein passed away, our science teacher, “Killer” Kowalski deadpanned, “better him than me. Go to Chapter 7.”
There was a girl in our little group named Paula. She was too independent to go steady. Popular, but not snobby. Just cute enough for guys to covet her but not developed enough for the tough guys to hit on.
Paula threw parties in the basement of her house. They were fairly civilized with soda, chips, records playing and a little bit of dancing, although most guys our age were either too shy or clumsy, so the girls mainly danced with each other.
At some point we played a kissing game called “School.” The boys sat in chairs along the wall. The girls got in line and one by one they sat on a boy’s lap and kissed…on the lips! If the boy liked the kiss he’d say “fail” and the girl would have to keep kissing him. If he didn’t, he declared, “pass,” and the girl moved on to the next pimple puss. The problem, besides being very demeaning to the less desirable girls (in the eyes of the idiot boys), was when it was Paula’s turn, none of the guys would let her pass. She was that good a kisser. At some point she would simply tell the horny boy she was dropping out and moved on to the next guy. This really held up the line and the poor girls stuck behind Paula would get pissed off and attempt to “fail” to not only get their fair share of action, but to put some space between them and Paula. Eventually the game ended and so did the party. Most of the guys knew they wouldn’t even get close to kissing a girl on the lips until the next party and the forced lip-locking of “School.” In case you’re wondering, we did not play “Spin the Bottle.” It simply left too much to chance.
I don’t know what pre-teens do at parties today. I’m guessing it’s a lot of texting with everyone’s noses in their smartphones. Maybe video games and tossing down snacks from Trader Joes, washed down with an energy drink. Oh sure, there’s probably some fooling around courtesy some helpful hints from the Internet.
For us, 50 years ago, it was simply enough for our libidos to learn from our dad’s Playboy magazines, dirty jokes….and spending some time at Paula’s parties, when “School” was in session.
I’m not one for looking back at the outgoing year and not naïve enough to think I can predict what will happen in the incoming trip around the sun. What I do spend a lot of time thinking about is that 60 second period between the Times Square ball starting its descent and the moment it hits bottom marking the new year. It’s the purgatory of time. I call it New Years Eve-entually. Yeah, sure, the old year is in its final seconds but let’s face it, you said sayonara to that after seeing the first promo for Kathy and Anderson’s Obnoxin’ Eve. The new year isn’t quite there but that’s where your head is. So what thoughts do you cram into those 60 seconds as the old year dies and the new one’s head is popping through?
As I was writing this I stumbled on the craziest calendar yet, and one which I must have. For 2016, Russian President Vladimir Putin is going topless for a calendar produced by “Stars and Advice” magazine. A pub evidently popular with the “devoted to depraved despot” set. It’s called 
The development of autonomous vehicles…cars and trucks that make a driver a passenger…is all the rage. I’m all for it, especially if it has the effect of moving some horrible drivers from behind the wheel to a warm place in the trunk.
When I left my desk Friday, it was the last time I’d do so in 2015. I made sure the wastebasket was emptied, coffee pot unplugged, piles of junk on my desk thinned to a few spare Post-it notes and the last crumbs from all the holiday cookies, cakes, brownies and peanut brittle deftly swept to the nether reaches of my 12×12 cell/office/workspace.
Are you suffering from a syndrome I call “Simulated Holiday Amiability Malady,” or SHAM? It manifests itself in several ways, most notably in the workplace.
First, on behalf of all Jewish kids I want to thank Christianity for being born around the same time as Hanukah is celebrated. See, Hanukah is pretty much a back-bencher in the pecking order of Jewish holidays, down there with Gefilte Fish Grinding Day and Aggravation Oy Vey Days. There were no presents or decorations. BC Jews celebrated by lighting the candles, mainly because there was no electricity and they needed some sort of illumination in order to balance their books.
As you can see in the photo, Bop Baseball was equivalent to the old game of Nok Hockey in that it entailed whacking a wooden puck. The game proceeded depending on which circle the wooden puck landed. There were circles for singles, doubles, triples, home runs and outs. The problems were two-fold. One, the damn thing was so large my poor mother struggled to schlep it from the car to the house. Forget wrapping it. The second problem was the wooden puck was really like a doughnut with a hole in the middle. A couple of good whacks and the puck split in three. Bye, bye Bop Baseball.
This overpriced mistake was made to look like a combination table saw, drill and lathe. But instead of wood, the plastic parts could cut only styrofoam. The problems lay with the fact that Shop King required about a case of batteries which lasted maybe 7 minutes and that the power they provided was so weak the tools barely made pock marks in the styrofoam. Throughly frustrated, I summarily deposed Shop King and banished it to the dungeon below my bed until one day it mysterious disappeared into the kingdom of Dumpster.
It looked very cool in the TV commercials and made enough noise to sufficiently annoy everyone in our 400 square foot apartment in Queens, New York. The glitch here was that was the year my mother decided I should visit Santa Claus at Macy’s in the Roosevelt Field Shopping Center in Westbury, Long Island. Now, I was only 6 at the time and didn’t realize there was no cross-promotional deal between Santa and Hanukah so I took my shot. “What would you like for Christmas?” Santa asked. “Oh,” I replied as honestly as I could. “I don’t want anything for Christmas. I celebrate Hanukah and I’d like a Remco Pom Pom Gun!”
I launched this blog about a year ago as a way to stretch a muscle that’s been too long constricted by my corporate duties, and as way to have a little fun, entertain and sometimes be thought provoking.
Oh Lordy…we give thanks today for our good fortune…good fortune that has manifested itself in many different ways.
edLINES 