Bond, James Bond Acton
By Joe Acton
It just didn't get any better. I was 16, owned a 1960 four-door green Valiant, three on the floor with a hockey puck for a gear shift knob, and I was taking a cheerleader to see From Russia With Love.
True, she was from our rival high school, didn't know anybody who knew me, so nobody had told her I was the school's foremost pencil-necked geek. Fine by me — my reputation had already ruined most of my chances for bipedal company at my own school anyway.
I figured it would take her two, maybe three dates — max — to figure out she'd walked into the Twilight Zone with me, but by that time my stock would have sky-rocketed with The Guys.
Besides if the girls at my school saw me out with this leggy brunette, maybe I'd get back in the game — at least until I did something stupid again.
The last really stupid thing I'd done had put me on the dating sidelines for quite sometime. But it wasn't really my fault. Craig Goodrich had dared me to put a whole Sloppy Joe in my mouth all at once at Ann ReSue's birthday party, The Social Event Of The Year.
Craig was one of my best friends who made a career in high school of either getting me into trouble or bailing me out. Anyway, I figured if Craig said I could do it, I probably could. Besides, everyone was watching. Even Ann.
So I stuffed it in and was doing pretty good until it hit that little gizmo that hangs down in the back of your throat — you know — The Food Bouncer. Bam. It was over in a heart-beat. Projectile Sloppy Joe all over the floor and girls running everywhere screaming. Goodrich busied himself consoling the best looking ones.
My dating stock went bankrupt that night and hadn't moved off zero until the Cheerleader From Heaven asked me out after I'd scored a hat trick against her school's team in the hockey playoffs.
So there I was, in the balcony with a cheerleader. I'm talking the balcony here! And I'm with a cheerleader who doesn't even know I'm a geek! And to top it all off, the show is a James Bond movie — Mr. Cool himself. Slam-dunk — I can't lose!
Goodrich had coached me, "Acton, even you can't screw this up. It's perfect. Bond is the coolest guy who ever lived. Women love him. So you make your move when Bond is the coolest. That way they're thinking about him and not you."
Sounded good to me. After all Goodrich was the coolest guy I knew. Well, that's not entirely true. But he was the coolest guy that would talk to me.
So we're at the theater. The Cheerleader From Heaven and I are sitting side by side – almost touching. She's watching the movie. I'm sweatin' bullets.
It started going sour on me when I realized the butter on my popcorn had run to bottom of the bag, and leaked out all over my pants. Never mind, its dark, she won't see it until the lights come up. Worry about that later. First things first.
Bond sits down to a baccarat table. That's cool – even though I have no idea what a baccarat is. He's lighting up a cigarette. Very cool. He takes a lackadaisical puff and says, "My name is Bond, James Bond."
An audible sigh goes through the women in the theater. Goodrich was right! This is it! Time to make my move!
I raise my left arm to put it around her. I start to swing it over her head — I'm nano-seconds away from having my arm around a real cheerleader. Ain't life great!
And that's when I hit her square in the jaw with my elbow.
Teenage boys measure the significance of catastrophic events in their lives with body emotions: they either want to throw up or wet their pants. I wanted to do both and looked like I'd already done one.
Once you clobber a cheerleader — and realize that life as you know it is now over — you've got nothing left to lose. Actually, after you've committed an act of Social Hari-Kari, the pressure's off — you can do anything with the full knowledge that it can't get any worse. But then, you could be wrong.
Aside from the initial jaw rubbing, she'd graciously ignored the attack — so naturally, I figured I'd try again. You know, under the old, "How much worse can it get?" theory.
Bond orders a drink. That's cool. A martini. Very cool — though nobody I knew could tell you what a martini was, we all knew it was cool. Then he says, "Vodka martini, stirred, not shaken — don't bruise the Vodka." No doubt about it, the dude was cool. And having not an ounce of self-pride left to lose, I swung back into action.
This time I got my arm up quickly, and with my elbow pointed skyward there was no chance to hit her with it. I brought it down smartly over her shoulders — and promptly hit her in the ear with my left hand. This kind of stuff didn't seem to be happening to Bond.
Out of self defense she grabbed my hand and put my arm around her, between herself and the seat back. And after she'd been leaning on it for about five minutes, my arm went completely dead and I was relatively harmless for the rest of the movie.
Pretty much the rest of my time in high school was spent in the Dating Dead Zone. Once the word got out, girls didn't want to chance dating me without a helmet and the general consensus seemed to be that helmets messed up their hair too much.
Years later Ann ReSue took pity on me and we got married — moved to Camelot and lived happily ever after. And even though she still hasn't forgiven me for the Sloppy Joe Incident, as long as no one shows her our old high school annuals she doesn't think of me as a pencil-neck geek anymore. But old habits are hard to break.
We went to see "Casino Royale" the other night. Nice new theater. Great big high-back seats. Nice and Comfy – kinda like a Volvo with a wide-screen.
Anyhow, the movie was great, lots of action, new sheriff in town, Pierce Who?
Meanwhile, the lights are out and sitting right next to me – I mean, right there, almost touching – is my trophy wife of 20+ years. She doesn't like to be called a trophy, but let's face it: I bagged her. I married up, she married down. Not my fault.
So now it's time to put my arm around my honey. But, you know, there are just some things that get by you in life. Like the height of theater seats nowadays.
Since Theater Time Immemorial, seats-backs have always been low — thus allowing most adept men the easy opportunity to put their arm around their date. It's an American Tradition. Popcorn, cokes, and low-back theater seats.
So when they change the seat-back height and make them taller, a whole generation of low-back daters are in great jeopardy. Especially if you're out with me.
So, up goes the elbow, smartly pointing skyward and out of harms way. Down over her shoulders it's headed when — POW! I hit the top of the seat with my arm as it's coming down and smash my wife over the top of the head.
Wives, as it turns out, are much less forgiving than cheerleaders, "What are you trying to do, break my neck. Give me your arm, Romeo."
So she put my arm between her and the high seat-back, where, in about 5 minutes it went completely dead and I was relatively harmless for the rest of the movie.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days.
And then it gets worse.
By Joe Acton
It just didn't get any better. I was 16, owned a 1960 four-door green Valiant, three on the floor with a hockey puck for a gear shift knob, and I was taking a cheerleader to see From Russia With Love.
True, she was from our rival high school, didn't know anybody who knew me, so nobody had told her I was the school's foremost pencil-necked geek. Fine by me — my reputation had already ruined most of my chances for bipedal company at my own school anyway.
I figured it would take her two, maybe three dates — max — to figure out she'd walked into the Twilight Zone with me, but by that time my stock would have sky-rocketed with The Guys.
Besides if the girls at my school saw me out with this leggy brunette, maybe I'd get back in the game — at least until I did something stupid again.
The last really stupid thing I'd done had put me on the dating sidelines for quite sometime. But it wasn't really my fault. Craig Goodrich had dared me to put a whole Sloppy Joe in my mouth all at once at Ann ReSue's birthday party, The Social Event Of The Year.
Craig was one of my best friends who made a career in high school of either getting me into trouble or bailing me out. Anyway, I figured if Craig said I could do it, I probably could. Besides, everyone was watching. Even Ann.
So I stuffed it in and was doing pretty good until it hit that little gizmo that hangs down in the back of your throat — you know — The Food Bouncer. Bam. It was over in a heart-beat. Projectile Sloppy Joe all over the floor and girls running everywhere screaming. Goodrich busied himself consoling the best looking ones.
My dating stock went bankrupt that night and hadn't moved off zero until the Cheerleader From Heaven asked me out after I'd scored a hat trick against her school's team in the hockey playoffs.
So there I was, in the balcony with a cheerleader. I'm talking the balcony here! And I'm with a cheerleader who doesn't even know I'm a geek! And to top it all off, the show is a James Bond movie — Mr. Cool himself. Slam-dunk — I can't lose!
Goodrich had coached me, "Acton, even you can't screw this up. It's perfect. Bond is the coolest guy who ever lived. Women love him. So you make your move when Bond is the coolest. That way they're thinking about him and not you."
Sounded good to me. After all Goodrich was the coolest guy I knew. Well, that's not entirely true. But he was the coolest guy that would talk to me.
So we're at the theater. The Cheerleader From Heaven and I are sitting side by side – almost touching. She's watching the movie. I'm sweatin' bullets.
It started going sour on me when I realized the butter on my popcorn had run to bottom of the bag, and leaked out all over my pants. Never mind, its dark, she won't see it until the lights come up. Worry about that later. First things first.
Bond sits down to a baccarat table. That's cool – even though I have no idea what a baccarat is. He's lighting up a cigarette. Very cool. He takes a lackadaisical puff and says, "My name is Bond, James Bond."
An audible sigh goes through the women in the theater. Goodrich was right! This is it! Time to make my move!
I raise my left arm to put it around her. I start to swing it over her head — I'm nano-seconds away from having my arm around a real cheerleader. Ain't life great!
And that's when I hit her square in the jaw with my elbow.
Teenage boys measure the significance of catastrophic events in their lives with body emotions: they either want to throw up or wet their pants. I wanted to do both and looked like I'd already done one.
Once you clobber a cheerleader — and realize that life as you know it is now over — you've got nothing left to lose. Actually, after you've committed an act of Social Hari-Kari, the pressure's off — you can do anything with the full knowledge that it can't get any worse. But then, you could be wrong.
Aside from the initial jaw rubbing, she'd graciously ignored the attack — so naturally, I figured I'd try again. You know, under the old, "How much worse can it get?" theory.
Bond orders a drink. That's cool. A martini. Very cool — though nobody I knew could tell you what a martini was, we all knew it was cool. Then he says, "Vodka martini, stirred, not shaken — don't bruise the Vodka." No doubt about it, the dude was cool. And having not an ounce of self-pride left to lose, I swung back into action.
This time I got my arm up quickly, and with my elbow pointed skyward there was no chance to hit her with it. I brought it down smartly over her shoulders — and promptly hit her in the ear with my left hand. This kind of stuff didn't seem to be happening to Bond.
Out of self defense she grabbed my hand and put my arm around her, between herself and the seat back. And after she'd been leaning on it for about five minutes, my arm went completely dead and I was relatively harmless for the rest of the movie.
Pretty much the rest of my time in high school was spent in the Dating Dead Zone. Once the word got out, girls didn't want to chance dating me without a helmet and the general consensus seemed to be that helmets messed up their hair too much.
Years later Ann ReSue took pity on me and we got married — moved to Camelot and lived happily ever after. And even though she still hasn't forgiven me for the Sloppy Joe Incident, as long as no one shows her our old high school annuals she doesn't think of me as a pencil-neck geek anymore. But old habits are hard to break.
We went to see "Casino Royale" the other night. Nice new theater. Great big high-back seats. Nice and Comfy – kinda like a Volvo with a wide-screen.
Anyhow, the movie was great, lots of action, new sheriff in town, Pierce Who?
Meanwhile, the lights are out and sitting right next to me – I mean, right there, almost touching – is my trophy wife of 20+ years. She doesn't like to be called a trophy, but let's face it: I bagged her. I married up, she married down. Not my fault.
So now it's time to put my arm around my honey. But, you know, there are just some things that get by you in life. Like the height of theater seats nowadays.
Since Theater Time Immemorial, seats-backs have always been low — thus allowing most adept men the easy opportunity to put their arm around their date. It's an American Tradition. Popcorn, cokes, and low-back theater seats.
So when they change the seat-back height and make them taller, a whole generation of low-back daters are in great jeopardy. Especially if you're out with me.
So, up goes the elbow, smartly pointing skyward and out of harms way. Down over her shoulders it's headed when — POW! I hit the top of the seat with my arm as it's coming down and smash my wife over the top of the head.
Wives, as it turns out, are much less forgiving than cheerleaders, "What are you trying to do, break my neck. Give me your arm, Romeo."
So she put my arm between her and the high seat-back, where, in about 5 minutes it went completely dead and I was relatively harmless for the rest of the movie.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days.
And then it gets worse.
