The Chieftain
A Literary Magazine of creative writing by the students of
NEWPORT JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL
1965
An endorsed copy of which was discovered in the
bowels of BruAl’s basement over the weekend.
First of all, I do not recall ever having heard of or seen a Chieftain, despite admittedly attended Newport JHS for three gruesome years. Given my prodigious and rather unexpected literary culpabilities, however, I was looking forward to reading my own age 14 poems, essays and, perhaps, even a one-actor I might have thrown up over six cups of instant Maxwell House and a pack of ‘boros. (Oh, wait. This was JUNIOR high school. Scratch the coffee and smokes, and sub Snickers and a vanilla Coke.) Moreover, I was looking forward to sharing the entries from members of this group with you, dear reader, in order that I might later engage in my absolute favorite internet activity, making fun of others.
As they say in the parishes these days, “No way, Jose”.
No one in this e-list of ours submitted dick. Nada. Oh for perhaps 250. Perfect. No Engelmans. No Gormans. ( Well, actually, there were several from Kathleen.) Two from Shalmah Cogdell. No freaking Pelz, no Bransome, no runs, no hits, no errors, no one left on.
I am reduced to sub-optimizing. I begin to read some of the handwritten entries from my friends.
I said, “My friends”.
Who are these people?
“Bruce-
Keep up the hard work and the future will be yours. I am really going to miss your smiling face in room 213 next year, but do stop by to see me.
Have a leisure summer!
Mrs. Clites
‘65”
Never heard of her.
“To a real real real nice guy.
Good Luck
Teresa”
This must be Teresa Booze. I didn’t know I knew her in 1965.
Luckily, some inscriptions were from people most of us knew, including me. The following was from Lisa Cotone as she was in the midst of dumping me.
“To one of the sweetest guys I know!! (I mean it!)
Too bad you’re bald now, but your hair is growing in!
Lubbs ya muchly,
Lisa
P.S. Good Luck. Be good. If you can’t be good be careful, if you can’t be careful tell her to name it after me.
Love ya,
Lisa”
Recalling, as I do, that the root cause of our “breakup” was her unwillingness to allow me to explore her nether regions, I am still today surprised by her choice of elliptical sexual imagery to wish me well in my future endeavors. Anyway,…
“Bruce”
(Remember, BruAl did not kick in until Alcindor’s first title at UCLA in 1966.)
“You should take time off and let everyone else have a chance at the girls. See you next year in the 10th grade”
(See you next year? You live two doors down, you freak! And Christo was, at that time, a sexual Mensa, experienced, fearless. His ribbing me, the sexual invertebrate, this way was, as always, a little close to the bone.)
“Your friend
(I think) [Parens his, not mine.]
Jay “65”
Mr., later Dr., Mike Bransome had, in his usual clever manner and good penmanship, written my name in the space he had gained crossing out the words Potato Bug in the last stanza of Charlie Morden’s hugely unreadable poem entitled “ Midnight Murder”, as follows:
And there upon the damp cold ground
Lies a murdered Potato Bug Bruce Allen—
Good Luck, Osgood Boy
Mike Bransome
The signed original of this next entry includes crude, hand-drawn graphics, which I will try to replicate, in order to continue what has been, until this moment, a futile attempt on my part to understand exactly what the poor guy was really trying to say.
MR. COOK FAN CLUB
BRUCE ALLEN
------|
Dwight Pelz | 1. I promise to go to the office.
| 2. I will SHUTTUP.
|
“Best Wishes
Lyle Padgett”
Huh?
What happened to, “Gimme yer fuckin’ lunch money.”
“To a real neat neat guy.
Paul Gurewitz”
Just think, one of our classmates, undoubtedly serving hard time today, thought I was really neat neat.
“To one of the sweetest guys I know.
Luv ya,
Denise”
I hope and expect there came a time in Denise DiMisa’s life, in her twenties or early thirties, when she exacted revenge for her teen years. The years when she had been very pretty, but just too damned tall. Years spent dreading school dances, having to rest her head on the occasional shoulders of boys six inches shorter than she.
I hope and expect that she exacted her revenge by screwing some lucky guy or guys into a fine pulp. Crushing skulls between her thighs, those skulls happily crushed. The mantis, devouring her lover after receiving his spawn. Oh, yesssss, a good way to die.
Flash on some of the names of the contributors to the 1965 Chieftain:
Ned Gray. Jeanne Shreve. Larry Walter. Frank Aker.
Ivy Fine. (Downtown translation to I Be Fine.)
Janet Leder. David Mosedale. Steve Metalitz, Enemy of the People. Robert Staten. Rita Probably A Hottie Giddings. Karla Thompson. Skippy Kriss. Pat Wetmore. Candy “Does This Pink Teddy Look Good On Me?” McMahon. Valerie Barker. Bobby Katzen. Marianna Tcherkassky – Christo had her. The Aforementioned Charlie Morden. Ellen Gottschalk. Jim McClurkin.
William Barrett. Edward Cook. Janet Pak. Suzanne Sheffer, Accused Lesbian. Miss Beman, Accused Co-Lesbian. Ruth Weintraub.
And no one reading this list got one small mention in this aspiring book.
In my case, I came by my limited writing ability late in life, about five years from now. But many of you, I believe, had these aspirations back then, and must have felt terrible at not having any of your work published. Me, I didn’t even know there was a magazine.
Is there anyone reading this who did not attend NJHS? Not having attended gives you a “Not Ignorant” badge if accompanied by a similar publication from your JHS.
Is there anyone reading this who remembers The Chieftain?
Does anyone really know what time it is?
Does anyone really care? About time?
Dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum.