Dogging It In The 1980s: My Year at Wienerschnitzel

Der Wiener Dog, the lovable 1980s mascot for “The World’s Largest Hot Dog Chain”, along with a friend (not me).
Fast food employment for menial wages is a time-honored teenage rite of passage, and my early career proved to be no exception. I spent an entire year during high school, circa 1984–85, scooping fries, pouring Cokes, cleaning grease traps and counting out correct change for thousands of the hot dog-lovin’ customers of San Jose, CA’s Wienerschnitzel “restaurant”.
$3.35 per hour was the wage I extracted for my toil. If take-home pay ended up being a bit wanting, there were ultimately some good stories smuggled home that perhaps made my efforts worthwhile.

Admittedly, my first choice for fast food work in 1984 was at the Princeton Plaza branch of McDonald’s, also for $3.35 an hour, which was the era’s bottom-floor minimum wage. After straight-up hiring me during my initial interview — warm, pimple-pocked bodies always welcome — McD’s, alas, only gave me three hours of work per week for my initial month. My weekly gross of $10.05 just wasn’t going to cut it, even in that Reagan era of low taxes and high margins, so I quit McDonald’s before I’d even scraped my first grill or wrapped my first Filet-o-Fish.

Wienerschnitzel were more than happy to bring me aboard the team, however, and they threw me as many evening and weekend hours as I could handle. The chain, some of you may remember, was once called Der Wienerschnitzel. This is the place my dad used to take us to in the 1970s in Sacramento, a hot dog palace with a massive triangle-awning design (much like the old International House of Pancakes) and yellow-and-red color motif (representing mustard and ketchup, one presumes). The company did away with the “Der” in 1977, it is said, because their German conjugation was stupefyingly incorrect; it would have been rightly called Das Wienerschnitzel, but the place I toiled at seven years later was merely christened “Wienerschnitzel”, as it is to this day.

chili cheese dog
The Chili Cheese Dog.

They were, and remain, “The World’s Largest Hot Dog Chain”. While they kept several varieties of hamburger on the menu, including a rye-bread-meat-&-cheese delicacy known as the “Patty Melt”, Wienerschnitzel was all about the dogs, and for what it’s worth, those dogs were fairly tasty, as harmful calories go. There were 5 core dogs during my day: the simple “Mustard Dog”, as no-frills as you’d imagine; the “Kraut Dog”, a nod perhaps to the company’s mangled faux-German ancestry; the “Chili Dog”; the extremely popular “Chili Cheese Dog”; and my hands-down favorite, the relatively healthful “Deluxe Dog”, which included mustard, onions, two tomato slices and a bun-length dill pickle tucked behind the meat. We had fries, we had drinks, and that was about it, save for a gross batter-dipped “corn dog” on a stick that only a handful of children very rarely ordered.

My first exciting day on the job — on any job — nearly got me canned before my 4-hour shift was even done. I was shown how to man the “french fry station”, in which my responsibilities were to pour frozen potatoes from a plain brown bag into a basket, then drop the basket into a fryer for two minutes, then salt the resulting fries profusely once cooked. More importantly, I had to listen to the audible orders called out by the cashier (“Three chili-cheese, two large fries, one patty melt”) for my lone cue word — fries — then scoop them into either a large cardboard holder (you know the kind) or a flimsy paper bag.

fry scoopAs you’ll see from the image to your left, french-fry scooping is totally and unfairly a right-hander’s game. I happen to be left-handed, and I’m embarrassingly uncoordinated with my right. Within minutes I was slowing down orders and angering customers as I fell way behind in my scooping, prompting the mealy-mouthed boss, a balding, middle-aged nincompoop named Dave, to patronizingly swoop in to “school” me on how to properly shovel french fries into a bag. I was trying to do everything with my left hand, and it wasn’t happening. “Is this even going to work??”, an exasperated Dave asked, rhetorically. Luckily mercy — or the pain of having to fire and hire yet another teenaged moron — intervened, and Dave hrumphed and mumbled his way into an immediate “lateral transfer” of me over to the drink station, which is where I wanted to be anyway.

Ah, drinks. Working the soda machine was home for my first 4–6 months at Wienerschnitzel, and it was glorious. I stood immediately to the cashier’s left. She’d slide over the paper receipt, I’d eyeball the various requested sizes of Dr. Pepper or Coke or Sprite, and I’d then position the appropriate cup under the nozzle after filling it halfway with ice. That’s it. Self-serve drink stations hadn’t been invented yet, or rather, were only situated at places like 7–11. It was way better than working “in the back”, flipping burgers or squirting mustard on hot dogs. I got to interact with the customers, too, and it turned out I kinda liked that.

Granted, my interactions with the hoi polloi were usually of the “a little less ice/a little more ice” variety. San Jose has a heavy Mexican immigrant population, and one time a young Mexican guy came in and looked me dead in the eyes & said with the utmost gravity, “Give me lots of ice”. I duly responded, yet when I handed him over his cup he retorted, “I said lots of ice, homey — I don’t want no snow cone”. Still one of my favorite customers of that or any other era.

w
The Wienerschnitzel that I worked in, 1984–85, as it looks today.

We moved a great deal of high-fat caloric product, especially during meal times. Wienerschnitzel’s “rush” was an all-out war to quickly feed legions of people, and it could get really stressful. Thus, those of us who “closed” — working until the store shut down at 11pm, plus another hour to clean up — relished the relatively peaceful late nights for all sorts of hijinks and shenanigans. There was a oafish guy whom we worked with named Ralph who told the assembled crew one night that he’d actually drink the grease trap — the accumulation of hamburger drippings and fat runoff — on a dare. Not for money, merely on a dare. I believe I actually made the initial dare, which was rapidly seconded by all 4 of my remaining co-workers, at which point he loosened the metal contraption from beneath the grill, hauled it outside behind the store, tipped the contents into his mouth, made one swallow, and promptly barfed. And yes, his name was Ralph.

Late nights were also when the drunk-driving customers would stagger in. One night the cashier position was being womaned by a sassy Latina named Deena, and I was again working to her left, pouring drinks/snow cones. Two disheveled alcoholics shuffled in, and one proceeded to order, “One cheeseburger, dropped on the floor”. We both engaged in some customer-friendly double-takes and polite clarifications — “Sir, can you please repeat your order”; “Sir, that’s not something that we serve here”; “Sir, are you sure that that’s what you’d like” and so on. Once he’d confirmed his demand, we were absolutely going to ensure that supply kept up; or rather, Deena was, as she first loudly announced the exact order on her microphone to the entire staff and all Wienerschnitzel patrons, then proclaimed “I’m going to make this motherfucker myself”. She then strolled back to the hamburger station, grabbed a waiting cheeseburger with the flipper, lifted it high above her head, and slapped it down hard onto the disgusting tile floor, the same floor that Ralph, myself and others had been striding across all night. After putting it on a bun and dressing it just so, she then delivered it directly to his table, rather than calling him to the counter, which was truly customer relations above and beyond the norm.

I, like Deena, used my burgeoning skills to eventually graduate to direct customer relations, and for a time I was the only male cashier on the Branham Plaza Wienerschnitzel staff. My winning personality and customer-centric charm may have been a factor; more likely, I had not yet succumbed to any graft nor embezzlement outside of the odd Deluxe Dog, and therefore could be trusted handling small bills. I had a high school friend also named Dave who’d come in after football practice, and he would routinely proceed to order (and eat!) 2 hamburgers and 3 hot dogs in one sitting. I may have occasionally cut him a deal or two on that extra chili-cheese dog, but I think manager Dave found me to mostly be “on the level”, even if I couldn’t scoop a fry to save my life.

dwI bungled the biggest opportunity presented to me, however, and it’s something I deeply regret to this day. As McDonald’s had its clown and Burger King its king, so Wienerschnitzel too had its mascot — “Der Wiener Dog”. One Saturday it was announced by our new manager Kim that Der Wiener Dog himself was going to be spending the day waving at cars on the corner of Pearl & Branham in San Jose, which meant that an employee of Wienerschnitzel at Pearl & Branham was going to be spending his or her day holed up in the Der Wiener Dog costume.

The only criteria for the role was that you had to fit into the thing, and as it turned out I fit into it perfectly. Immediately overcome with a rash of hormone-surging teenage embarrassment — “this is so lame” etc. — I announced that I wouldn’t do it, no way. Thankfully, my co-worker Debra was another person whose shape filled out the costume as remarkably as mine did, but I proceeded to watch her with envy from my cashier station all day as she handed out lollipops, danced with children, and flagged down Camaros to pull into the parking lot for 2-for-1 chili cheese dogs. I was so instantly filled with regret for passing up this golden opportunity to break from the norm that for years I told a “white lie” (OK, a bald-faced, straight-up lie) to friends that I, indeed, had been the Der Wiener Dog for one unforgettable day. But no.

Around the time I was going to the Valley Christian High School Senior Ball with my co-worker Cheri (more about that here), I came upon my one year anniversary as a Wienerschnitzel employee in good standing. My reward for my year of service was a raise — a whopping ten-cent raise from $3.35 to $3.45 per hour. As would become my annoying stock in trade in subsequent jobs, I immediately argued to Kim that my immense contributions to the firm were outsized relative to those of my slothful co-workers, and that I deserved at least a twenty-cent boost in my hourly enumeration. Rebuffed, I quit Wienerschnitzel without so much as two weeks’ notice, choosing to meekly call in my resignation from the comfort of my familial home rather than bombastically give it face-to-face to my exploitative corporate overlords.

I never worked in food service again. Perhaps Kim blackballed me. More likely, once I graduated to lucrative $4 per hour phone soliciting jobs, there was no looking back. Wienerschnitzel, including the location at the corner of Pearl & Branham in San Jose, survives to this day, although as a lesser light in the pantheon of American fast food. I dropped by there a couple of years ago for old times’ sake (and because I was hungry as hell) after visiting my parents. They still have all the same hot dogs, and a whole lot more. They’ll now even put chili on your french fries — something we didn’t have the gastronomic foresight to even suggest to management! I excitedly told the young man at the drink station that I’d once held his job, over 30 years ago (!), in this exact same location, in that exact same spot, doing the exact same thing behind the same Wienerschnitzel counter…!

He told me “that’s cool”.

My Freshman Year Roommate

San Nicolas Dorm UCSB

In September 1985 my dad parked his car on the lawn of the San Nicolas dormitory at the University of California — Santa Barbara, then loaded in my stuff, and drove back up to San Jose. I was a mere three days away from starting my first year of college, and essentially had a three-day weekend to get my bearings and meet the people I’d be living in close proximity to for the next nine months. I was excitedly anxious, as one might imagine.

Several months before this, I’d filled out a form indicating my preferences for a roommate. I don’t remember precisely what I said, but having been an absurdly music- and record-obsessed high school student, it was probably something about alternative music, post-punk, punk, new wave — whatever. As long as my roommate could tolerate my music, and I his, I truly didn’t care about much else. I waited in the microscopic 15’x15’ dorm room for a couple of hours, carefully arranging my side of the room, in anticipation of who’d be showing up that afternoon. As it turned out, it was Mark — and he ended up being a human being more than “interesting” enough to merit his own story some 30+ years later. He was also a certified nutball. Allow me to continue.

UCSB ended up matching us up pretty well on the surface — two 18-year-olds, both with blonde hair & blue eyes, and both totally into “alternative/indie” music. After some initial awkwardness, Mark and I hoofed it in his car to the McDonald’s in Goleta for dinner, which I remember vividly as my “first meal on my own”. A big deal!

I liked him instantly. Totally funny, charismatic and cool, with an impish smile and a great transgressive sense of humor. More myopically importantly for me in 1985, his favorite bands were The Dream Syndicate, Black Flag, The Minutemen and the Velvet Underground. He was quite a bit more clued-in than I was. (Mine were, at the time, The Jesus & Mary Chain, The Cramps, Simple Minds and Siouxsie and the Banshees). He played guitar, he skateboarded, & he was a clean-cut, all-American kid with a hefty dose of strange that I very much gravitated toward.

That night, during our baptism into college partying, Mark ended up sleeping with the only female on the floor that had her own room. This totally discombobulated me, and not simply with jealousy; was I going to have to spend nights sleeping in the dorm’s hallway all year because he had a girl over? Turned out, he didn’t even care about her, actively disliked her even, and the two of them barely spoke again the whole year. Turned out as well that everyone on our floor was starting to hate Mark by mid-October, about six weeks after we all got there.

san-miguel-dblThe second floor of the San Nicolas dorm from 1985–86 was an incredibly close-knit group — except for Mark. He showed his true colors that very first week, when we all learned that there was an open and proud homosexual male on our wing of the floor. Such openness was unusual for an 18-year-old; in fact, two of our closeted brethren on the floor, one of whom I did a radio show with that year, only came out as gay later on during the 80s. Mark crudely wrote up a “No fags use this stall — I don’t want AIDS” sign, and taped it to one of the communal bathroom doors. That would be a hanging offense now, but regrettably in 1985 it just made a few people temporarily mad. A harbinger, however.

Mark was funny, after all, and more than a little weird. He’d play the Velvet Underground’s “European Son” at lethal volume, so you could even hear it on the girls’ wing of the dorm, and during the chair dragging/feedback portion of the song, he’d screech an ear-deafening “Whooooo!!!!” at the top of his lungs, deliberately out the door so everyone could hear. He’d repeatedly do the same with “The Black Angel’s Death Song” during the day when people were studying. Whatever would get a negative reaction from the neighbors, he’d do it.

Richard NixonMark had an irony-laden obsession with Richard Nixon, and, trying to curry favor with this guy whom I thought I probably should be friends with, I ripped out a full-page Nixon headshot from a priceless two-volume “Presidents of the United States” encyclopedia set my parents had bought me when I was 9 and gave it to him. My folks still have this set, and I’m going to give it my own son in the next couple of years — and I’m totally pissed at myself that the Nixon page is gone. Mark used to ask that we call him “Milhouse”, and this was long before The Simpsons had aired an episode.

He also had a set of slang that he claimed he & his buddies used back in Ridgewood, CA — a tiny mountain town out near San Bernardino. A hot girl was called “scrut”, as in That girl is total scrut. An unattractive girl was “shul”. Dude, what are you thinking, she’s totally shuuuul. This and other language mystified most of us, and he upped the usage of it during those first months to be deliberately oppositional. It worked.

Those early weeks of everyone eating together at communal tables in the dining hall quickly morphed into everyone still eating together — and Mark eating by himself. Yet he was still my roommate, and I had to be with the guy every day. I asked him to join us, but he told me that everyone on our floor was lame, that all the girls were lame, and that he had started to go to parties near Santa Barbara High School because he “felt more comfortable” with high school girls.

One time I had a cold, with a runny nose and all, and he absolutely flipped out. I couldn’t play my records on his stereo, the only music playback device we had — which was tantamount to torture for me. He actually threatened to fistfight me because I wouldn’t agree to open and close our door by putting my hand inside the bottom of my shirt, and twisting the knob that way (to keep germs off the doorknob, you see). Had I been a slob or a nose-dribbling pig, I’d admit it to you & the world — but then, and now, I was/am the sort of neat & tidy weirdo whom you’d almost certainly give the benefit of the doubt to.

liquid_paperBy January, Mark and his Ridgewood high school pal Ron were spending Friday & Saturday nights getting wasted on whatever they could find, and as far away from us in the dorm as possible. One night, after bragging about it all day, they poured multiple bottles of liquid paper into a paper bag to huff it. (You suck the chemical-laden air out of the bag, in and out, really fast until you fall over — or so I learned from them). Over a beer, I and some others tried to talk them out of their plan to no avail. I distinctly remember Ron, his eyes watering as his upper torso weaved, grabbing me on the shoulders after a big huff & sincerely telling me, “Thank you man, wow, thank you — you’re so cool — wow, I really appreciate how much you care, thank you”. Later that night, around 4am, Mark burst into our room and told me his Dad was outside with the car: “Don’t come down, there’s one angry asshole down there”. Campus police had stopped Mark as he was doing something stupid — tipping garbage cans or something — and called his parents back in Ridgewood, who then had to come get him & take him home for a talking-to that weekend.

The rest of 1986, I barely remember interacting with the guy and did whatever I could to not have to talk to him. I did most of my studying — such that it was! — in the library, and spent the rest of my time at the radio station or in other people’s dorm rooms. The rest of my time at school, up through 1989, I only remember two interactions — one, bumping into him on campus, to tell him he might like the rock bands Soul Asylum and Squirrel Bait (he did — we both did), and another awkward time in an Upland, CA parking lot, when we were both there to see Soul Asylum live. We never spoke again. I don’t even know if he graduated. The only thing that endured from my brief time with him was the word “scrut”, which my radio station pals & I would use in jest from time to time.

The thing about college that’s striking is, for all the talk about it being “the best years of your life”, it’s only true for some people. I had a great time in college, but some of my friends and acquaintances were absolutely miserable. The jarring adjustment away from the protective home/womb of mom & dad and the forced transition to adulthood is too much for many kids to take in that first year, and there’s no doubt that many of them just aren’t ready for the oppositional forces of “You’re a responsible adult now, here to learn” and “Let’s party — there are no adults around!”.

Mark had a much worse time than most. I hope for his sake, and for the sake of the teenage girls of Santa Barbara High, that he figured it out shortly after our nine acrimonious months together.

(this piece was originally published on my blog The Hedonist Jive in 2012. I’ve made a few edits here and there in order to publish it again)

Senior Ball

Dawn CollinsI didn’t even want to go to my high school’s “Senior Ball”, but I ended up going to two of them — mine, plus a bizarre, Christian-themed non-dance at Valley Christian High that turned out to be even more demoralizing than my own.

These blessed events occurred during the Reagan-era 1980s, somewhat after the values of traditional male/female courtship had started to crumble, even while the codified rituals of mating remained. I had totally bailed on attending my end-of-year Junior Prom the year before, in 1984. I told myself at the time that this was because I was too much of a self-identified “outsider” to actually care about what the normal kids thought was important. Perhaps there’s even a bit of truth there, yet it’s much more likely that I either couldn’t identify a likely date, or I was too chicken to ask one to accompany me.

What I mostly remember about the Spring of 1985 was how much I thirsted, yearned for high school to be over with. Matriculating from San Jose, California’s Gunderson High and getting the hell out of town and high-tailing it to college had reached a fever pitch, yet there was the informal yet significant pressure of the vaunted “Senior Ball” to contend with. Alas, I didn’t have a girlfriend, nor any likely candidate to become one at that juncture, and this caused me much internal consternation, frustration and even embarrassment. Perhaps college might bequeath the debut of my inner lothario, as I was mere months away from embarking on a move to Santa Barbara to attend the University of California (spoiler alert: it mostly didn’t).

As Gunderson’s Senior Ball approached, I contended with some very gentle parental pressure to attend (“It’s your last year — why not attend? It’s a tradition” etc.), which my internal teenage guilt and shame thereby magnified into some pretty intense pathos, forcing me into a tortured corner of my own making. I was going to have to do this thing, because damn it, I’m worth it. I’m a totally normal late-adolescent. Totally normal. I can take a foxy girl on a fabulous dress-up date. Oh, but girls mostly ignore me. I’ll probably be laughed at when I ask someone. Wait — what if I’m mocked by dudes for whom I’ve chosen as my date? Then what?

This sort of ping-ponging internal monologue was a shining hallmark of my adolescence. With hindsight, I’ve learned that this certainly was in no way unique to me. By the time I actually gathered the gumption to ask someone out, the 12th grade gossip mill had already churned out many of the names of whom was taking whom. Like a baseball draft, we were already down to the 42nd round. Virtually every girl I personally knew was “taken”, and those who remained either couldn’t hit the fastball, only had three of the five tools, or were too frequently fooled by the off-speed pitch. Or I was too lame and superficial to see the “lady” hiding inside of the girl.

But wait! Dawn Collins. Dawn was a junior (i.e. an 11th grader), the sister of a classmate and sort-of-friend of mine, Brian Collins. At this writing both reside in the where-are-they-now files, and appear to be completely unfindable on social media or the internet writ large (I tried really hard, for about five minutes). In 1985, Dawn Collins was an out-of-my-league beauty who, unlike most 16–17 year-olds, actually smiled at me in the halls and laughed at my rare and feeble attempts at humor in the infrequent moments that the two of us socialized.

I grappled with a massive bout of nervousness regarding how I might be perceived for inviting a mere junior, let alone Dawn Collins, to go with me, which reflected the tyranny of small differences in numeric age that are endemic to young people in my culture. Overcoming this, I somehow phoned to ask her to accompany me to the 1985 Gunderson High School Senior Ball, and to my delight and terror, she politely and immediately said yes.

Honestly, that’s pretty much the high point of this part of the story. Any ideas I had at all about what I was supposed to do in this scenario — the boutonniere, the suit, the etiquette of appearing at Dawn’s house and meeting her parents — all came via careful coaching from my parents. All I remember is the tension. Dawn and I pretty much ran out of things to talk about during the 20-minute drive it took to get to the hotel where this thing was being held, yet she was extremely gracious and cool in the face of what was clearly not destined to be the proverbial Night To Remember for either of us. The theme of the dance, in fact, was “One More Night”, after the recent Phil Collins hit of the same name. Indeed it was merely one more night.

There was some awkward 80s dancing, some fancy food on my plate that I didn’t eat, and this lone picture that you see at the top of this page. I recall sitting at a circular table with fellow students who weren’t my friends or even acquaintances. One of Gunderson’s few African-American students, a funny dude named Derek, broke a Hoover Dam-sized wall of tension by loudly complaining to a waiter about the rare meat he’d been served by proclaiming “This thing is still mooin’!”. Those seconds were the first, and possibly only, time I actually felt comfortable the entire night.

If Dawn and I talked again during my last two weeks at school outside of brief pleasantries, I really don’t remember it. There was no after-party, no chugging wine coolers in the parking lot, no rented limo to take her down to Santa Cruz to make out on the beach, nothing like that. My lasting impression of her was that she was a hell of a “good sport” for accompanying me to something I had no business attending, nor any true desire to attend.

CheriHowever, there was yet a second Senior Ball to take part in! In the week before mine, I was demurely asked by my Wienerschnitzel co-worker, Cheri, to accompany her to hers. Cheri — whose last name I’m sure I knew at the time, but don’t recall now — had the stones to actually ask me to my face, unlike me, who resorted to nervously calling Dawn, despite seeing her repeatedly at school every day.

Now I don’t pretend to know how it really all went down, but given the lateness of her invitation — the Valley Christian Senior Ball was only two weeks away — I got the sense that this time it was me who was the godforsaken 47th-round draft pick. Never mind asking out a junior, how about the dorky guy not from your school, from the greasy fast-food restaurant you worked at – a guy whom you’d never even flirted with before? Cheri was a shy, pretty, sweet and very Christian girl, and I have to believe that she too was suffering from the same internal torture/pressure I had.

I liked Cheri, I really did, but I was thrown totally off guard by her invite — which I of course accepted immediately (hey, I’m not a total heel). Perhaps I didn’t spring into action right away, or maybe it was her fault for asking me so late, but by the time I made it to the rented-suit store to grab something to wear, the only thing left was a foul, loud burgundy suit. Ashamed, I rented it nonetheless, hoping against hope that others might show up at Valley Christian’s soiree with the same color suit. (One other doofus did, but everyone else kept to smart & classy gray or black suits).

I’m able to call up even less about this event than my own, save for one jolting surprise. After the initial hors d’oeuvres were served, my extensive Senior Ball experience had trained me to expect that this was when we’d begin our dancing, likely to the Prince, Michael Jackson, Madonna and Eurythmics hits of the era. I hated (um, hate) dancing, but you know — at least I had a little bit of recent background in Senior Ball dancin’.

Instead, a motivational speaker climbed up to the podium, and proceeded to deliver a stem-windingly unbearable thirty-minute speech about accepting Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior Into Our Hearts. As if these poor urchins weren’t suffering enough! Having been an atheist from the age of five, albeit a terribly naive one who didn’t expect such a performance at the Valley Christian High School Senior Ball, I quickly lodged a muffled complaint with Cheri about this turn of events. She didn’t exactly scowl at me, but she was decidedly less than pleased. I was not the Dawn to her Jay. I was, unfortunately, the Jay to her Cheri.

There was a dinner, I believe, and then a disturbingly quiet car ride home. Cheri never talked to me again at work (sensing a trend here?) aside from grunts of begrudging recognition, and then the summer was upon us. We both quit Wienerschnitzel right after the Ball and got on with real life, getting ready for college or to better ourselves with one last summer job.

I’d have passed on both of these things had I foreseen both my eventual discomfort and the anticlimactic nature of these Balls. I hold few regrets from this time, aside from wholly normal longings of the “if only I knew then what I know now” variety. I’d have brimmed with self-confidence, charm and outstanding sartorial choices. I’d have rejected the dog and pony show of the Senior Ball, and invited Dawn Collins — and hell, probably Cheri too — to drink Rolling Rocks behind the Oakridge Mall with me instead.

Maybe if they ever turn up on the internet, someday I will.

Graduation 1985
Gunderson High School Graduation, 1985 – San Jose, CA