There's something about fluorescent lights that I had forgotten long ago. It's not the schizophrenia-inducing short-wave ultraviolet or the constant low buzzing that's designed to comatose kids into submission. It's the property to display the full atomic spectrum of the basketball-toting guy who was spoon- fed with confidence since day one only to take a dump on kids like us. It's the smirk of an asshole. It's time to re-unite with the class of '98. Only this time I have my mentor with me.

Let's take a moment to assume the tear-jerking position. In it there's no room for social relativism.

During the somewhat lamented socializing the two of us stand back and visualize robberies in Bali, threats by a mob of passing militants, hep C, and lots and lots of wasted stock market options.

Let's long for all the things you and I managed to draft-dodge because we stayed home and took the pain of being who we really are. This inner odyssey of unsung heroics, one you can't buy from a cheap airliner to some troubled continent as your once-rebellious bandmates turn into these hate-filled insurance men with the same hunger in them before their conquests began. Their parents still deal in law, international politics, BMWs, and now they share the same foreign bungalows.

What about the breeders? The salt of the Earth, Mars, and Distant Cluster Z. Without these guys there wouldn't be class reunions, let alone a mankind. It is through their zygotes that we celebrate our continuing existence. Their primordial urges and terminal normalcy set them apart from you and I. It is this grave lack of enthusiasm and karma, this care-free abandon to baby-shit on all forms of the extraordinary and treat regions beyond their A to B with some unfounded arrogance.