It's Yearbook Season.

Since it’s that time of year, let’s talk a little today about milestones.

Last night was my fourteen-year-old daughter’s eighth grade “promotion” ceremony. The word “graduation” seems to get tossed around so much these days. Between preschool, kindergarten, elementary, middle and high school, yesterday marked our ninth such ceremony. 

Holy sweet father of T-ball trophies, what's next? At this rate it won't be long before maternity wards start broadcasting “Pomp and Circumcise” through the corridors.

So yeah, the past couple of weeks have been heaped with one everyone-gets-a-badge-uation after another.

(At this point, please insert the inquisitive tones of “Dateline’s" Keith Morrison): But there’s another historic way station lurking in the milky dusk of a bygone decade—

Twenty years ago this week, on June 17, 1994, O.J. Simpson performed his hour-long Ford Bronco infomercial. With his friend Al, a wad of cash and a gun to his head, Simpson took 95 million of us on a slow ride to the intersection of Holy Shit I Never Knew O.J. Was a Psycho Boulevard, and like, Sepulveda.

Along with most of the world, I initially believed the whole situation was a misunderstanding. How could this All-American football-star-turned-actor possess the capacity for such savagery? 

As a kid, I worshipped the guy like subsequent generations idolized Micheal Jordan and Tom Brady. I’m not proud of this now, but check it out—I even wore his shoes:

Originally intending to write exclusively on the Broncoversary and my childhood worship of O.J., once I pulled out that old yearbook, I was instantly distracted. To hell with O.J. Simpson, I thought, let’s talk about something more relevant. 

Think back to those warm, waning June days, when the work was done, and our sole responsibility was attaining as many heartfelt dedications as could be crammed into a 64-page hardbound time capsule.

Every adolescent message you are about to read was written by classmates now in their fifties. Since so much time has passed and most legal statutes of limitation have expired, I decided to include names. You may see something you wrote thirty-six years ago. Let’s just hope you were nice to me.

The following are excerpts from the pages of the 1977-78 Olympic Junior High annual.

I still haven't tried Caryn's recipe because the only place that sells giggles is Whole Foods, and they're organic and really expensive.

Happy yearbook season.

Mom, are you reading my yearbook again?

Last day of school! (Insert high-pitched, adolescent whooping and hollering.)

Even though some of us haven't attended any type of academia for well nigh thirty years, who among us can't still feel those exhilarating pangs of emancipation from all those years ago?

And for those of us who harbor students in our homes, it all comes flooding back with a greater vengeance. Both of my kids have been lounging around the house for the past few days, reading their yearbooks, gazing at pictures and notes from friends, already waxing nostalgic before the year has even concluded.

Since my older daughter is just finishing up her freshman year, and since I had previously unearthed my ninth-grade annual for a post about basketball uniforms, I decided to compare and contrast the types of comments our respective classmates jotted in our freshman yearbooks.

I don't want to embarrass her by quoting actual passages, but suffice it to say that the gist of what teenagers write has not changed much over this thirty-two-year chasm. Here's a little sampling of what I found in my Olympic Junior High, 1977-78 yearbook (all spelling and grammatical errors have been retained for historical purposes):

"I really don't know you to good but I think you are nice."
Hmmm...I guess that's like the pleasant elderly lady you see reading her book on the bus—I don't know her, but she's nice.

"You are a real funny person but a little dirty but a nice person."
Oops, that's actually from my report card.

"I hope you have a great summer, but not so great that you forget everything we've been through."
I don't remember that summer very well, but hopefully I took some time to reflect on those awful times where we had finally made it to the front of the lunch line, only to discover that they were out of mashed potato buds, and we had to eat our hamburger gravy over rice. Profound days.

"Have a good summer and don't get too high."
This is probably the best advice I received, as all that summer, I contained myself to only one tube of airplane glue.

"If I were to rate you on a scale for jocks, youd barely not make it."
No idea.

"Have the best summer ever, and if you don't, here's a great recipe:
1 dash of giggles
2 cups of fun
3 pounds of happiness
and a summer full of sun!"
Oh, wow, I can't believe it...I attended ninth grade with Barney!

Thankfully, my daughter's yearbook didn't contain any drug references, and I'm sure my mom was a little shocked when she snuck mine out of my room and read it.

So to all you kids who have nothing but time on your hands for the next two-and-a-half-months, have a great, safe summer, and please refrain from the two words which drive parents insane: "I'm bored."

'81 rules.