Something else from the lost & found

I found something yesterday that I'd forgotten I had. And it kind of excited me.

But first, a little backstory.

My 20-year HS reunion happened last week. And me being the rock star that I am, I naturally chose to deprive my long-lost companions -- especially the TWINS, right JellyGirl? -- of dear UCM's charm, wit and unconventional appearance (compared to all that big Texas hair and caked on makeup).

Turns out, though, that thanks to the blessings -- from the Lord Jesus-Jesus Christ and his Hallowed Holy Father, Zeus -- that we all call digital cameras and the Internet, I was able to see how a fair share of those those snotty-snots, punks, jocks and the rare decent person or two have turned out over the years.

JellyGirl sent me a link to a site and in her e-mail asked me if I could please identify the transsexual hanging on JD's arm. I found the photos in question and promptly could not say just who the hell that was. But, oh yeah, no question a male-to-female conversion was either underway or ... someone was simply in drag.

Maybe you'd find such situations out here on the West Coast, but I'll make a sweeping declaration here and say that people do *not* go to high school reunions in TEXAS in drag. Puh-leeeeze!

Anyway, a third party -- the Jewish girl, who along with the Jewish boy, composed all two (out) Jewish students in my high school with a population of nearly 5,000 drunken, groping, ecstacy-dropping, Mercedes-driving CHRISTIANS -- ... so, uh, the Jewish girl (and surely there *must* have been more than two Jews) was able to identify the tranny for JellyGirl.

Armed with a name -- and at JellyGirl's pleading -- I dug into the trunk in my storage closet, looking for a yearbook to see what "Jamie" used to look like in high school. Alas, it turns out I only have a Freshman yearbook, and "Jamie," Jesus love her, was a year behind me in school.

(Personally, I think it's a lot more freaky to attend a reunion of the class that graduated the year *before* you than it is to show up at said reunion as a different sex than you were in high school.)

It was a bit of disappointment to move all that stuff out of the closet just to get to the trunk -- and turn up no useful information about the transgendered person. But it wasn't a total waste of time.

Rather, all of this has been a huge, grotesque digression on the way to talking about what I discovered. In removing my sleeping bag from the closet, I heard something heavy fall on the floor in the back corner. It turned out to be a box of Nike's "Mojo" golf balls.

The design of the box is bright orange and green in psychadelic striping. The word "Mojo" is written in embossed metallic, with orange flames licking at it. Among some of the marketing text on the box is the following: "Mojo is the yaqui way to golf, built to bend your brain with a costmic brew of flight, shape and length. If you're ready to break on through, ride the Mojo, man." If you know anything about golf balls, you know that this is, in and of itself, pretty fucking weird.

I opened up a sleeve, wondering if I'd find orange- and green-striped balls. They were white balls, with the word "Mojo" written on them in some funky font.

BUT, turning the ball over, I found they were personalized. Specifically, they spell out what the "UCM" acronym stands for -- and, curiously, the words are followed by an EXCLAMATION POINT. (Those few of you who know, know. But even I cannot explain the exclamation point.)

Well, in the end, this may be of no interest to the rest of you, but I think it's quite a find. I have SO MANY golf balls -- thanks to a stint when XGF was doing a lot of work with Nike Golf and when I was actually hitting the links with some regularity -- that I'd totally forgotten there are UCM balls in the world.

In conclusion, I offer this aside. On the box, beneath the word "Mojo," appear the following words, "Get long, get feel, get real." I know that has some meaning in golf (at least part of it does), but it really sounds a lot more like an ad for condoms.

Alright. That's enough. I've been PROCRASTINATING here to an absurd degree, not wanting to dig into a PowerPoint presentation that I need to e-mail to a classmate. Apparently, it has gotten so bad that I'm writing stories about personalized golf balls and the transsexual who prompted me to find them. Time for an intervention... Or maybe just time to vacuum.