Not A Dollarshort

Hawaiian pizza and the meaning of life.

After the events of September 11th, I didn't think I could ever blog one of my childhood stories again. They were all too silly. I kept on thinking: Big deal, kids picked on me. So what?

There was one story, however, that I kept thinking about.

It's not heart-wrenching or tragic. It's just a little tale about me finding myself at the tender age of eight.

This is the story.

Have you ever had a moment like this?

But I'm a cheerleader.

Give me a "L!" Give me a "O!" Give me a "S!" Give me a "E!" Give me a "R!"

I present Adventures in Cheerleading.

If only I could digitize my performance at one particular painful cheerleading competition. It's really quite embarrassing to watch. Out of sync and out of touch of what's it like to be cool, I stumble along, trying to prove to myself that I'm really not that bad. At one point, I'm trying to do the Arsenio Hall "whoop, whoop, whoop" hand motion. Instead, it looks like I'm having some sort of nervous fit and hitting the air.

I think our coach was a bit sadistic.

She made me do a solo cheer.

I had to say "help put the eagles where they belong," and the other girls responded "in the sky." I begged Mrs. Hagar not to make me do it because I'm really not that good at shouting. My voice cracks and is all wobbly at any volumes louder than a whisper.

But I had to do it, and now it's a Memorex moment.

"Mommy, you were a dork, weren't you?"

The worst part of the pep rally experience documented in the strip is that I'm pretty sure the chanting began with the boy I had a crush on since the 4th grade. If you guessed that my liking him was a source of embarrassment for him, you win a prize.

I guess that the best way to prove that the crush isn't mutual is to publicly humiliate them.

The last I heard of Steve, he was arrested for chaining himself to a Redwood in Humboldt County.

Camp Hell.