High School Highs

You might not readily surmise I am quite the sentimentalist. I do have my soft, squishy, warm protoplasm. A recent revisit to the beloved Druid Hills High School senior year annual underscores the yearning I have to remain connected to the youthful inspirations and the gallant champions of my past.

I shan't elaborate more because I'll surely tear up, so allow me to transcribe the actual yearbook inscriptions from a few of the fine souls who opened their hearts to me and my legacy, not to toot my horn, but to share their proactive universal humanity, gratitude, and emotion for a life well engaged.

Jim G. writes:
"To the man ... who has displayed the talents of acting like a fly-eating moron [and] who created the first "Cockroach Villa," the all-new, awe-inspiring sensation..."

Keay completes me:

"Question: Do roaches possess the same Constitutional rights as you and me? Is stepping on maggots an immoral act? Is the A-bombing of an anthill 'overkill'? ... Maybe you'll just become some skid row beggar, getting pennies and wooden nickels for your starving wife and children by telling elephant jokes."

K. Cohen shouts praise:

"Mike, knowing you has been quite an experience. I have learned much from you, like I'm Jewish. I wasn't sure until you told me. You sure are a lucky guesser.

"Well, Mike, as I walk through the cobwebs of life and through the doors of my synagogue, and until my dying day, your brilliant words of wisdom, justice, mercy and love of octopusses will ring through my ears: 'Are you Jewish?'"

Frank K. hugs:

"Dear Mike, it's been great getting to know you, even though at times I wish I could put lit matches in your ___."

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