My High School years at RFH were 75-79. A time of Three Mile Island, Animal House, and reconciling the death of a classmate. Those stand out to me as moments or events that I remember well. It was also when I would meet my first real girlfriend and get in a car accident in the time between passing my driver’s test and receiving it in the mail.
I traveled in the shadows of an over the top sister who scurried off to Colgate with the Borden Scholarship money. I was known as Karen Farber’s little brother with all of the expectations and disappointments that would bring for me. Those who expected something good to happen from the association liked to give me a second shot only to be disappointed again. My interest wained in organized sports as I preferred the no rules freedom of surfing. My grades were just that, and heroes included Bluto Blutarsky and the passed, Jimi Hendrix.
I suffered from and would hide the OCD that owned me having attained a skill Houdini would have been proud of. I rarely slept for four years. I found alcohol, weed, and how to hurt people with words and actions that follow me to this day. I never believed anyone gave a shit.
Other memorable moments for me were pushing a friend’s car onto the pitcher’s mound during free time at school, seeing my name painted on MCcarters bridge, and having an actual food fight in the cafeteria. But streaking over the Sea Bright bridge takes the cake as the dumbest and the most fun. There was one nameless person who liked to streak within school hallways, but that’s a story for another time.
Back in the day, you could drink in Sea Bright at Oceanfront or Donovans until 2 am.  Then we would shoot to Long Branch to pick up an extra hour at Nums and Pier Pub before driving back home. Today, you wouldn’t make it out of Vals before getting pulled over. The place where so many nights started. One night, we stopped at Regan’s Dock and dropped our clothes and ran over the bridge bare-assed before being picked up by Barry Grady in his station wagon. There were a half dozen of us running over the bridge, drunk and stupid as people blew their horns and shouted encouragement.
The Wolfpack was alive and well.
Peace, chris
%d bloggers like this: