Every once in a while I'm sitting, minding my own business, watching something on TV I usually don't watch or reading some paper or part of the paper I usually don't read, when all the sudden, I see my old high school girlfriend, the now sort of famous in certain circles Lauren Weedman, who has been compared to everyone from Bob Newhart (New York Times) and Gilda Radner (Seattle Weekly) to Robin Williams (LA Weekly).  Hmm, from the überlugubrious Bob Newhart to the hyperkinetic Robin Williams.  Now that's versatile.  Seriously.

And whenever she pops up on TV or in the papers like that it always takes me back to being parked outside the burnt-out hull of her parent's house in her Malibu Classic getting what still has got to be the best head ever, lucky dog that I was, pretty much every night of my senior year.  Every one of those Indiana nights was like a Johnny Cougar song.  You could've called us Jack and Diane.  

I'll never forget the first time she popped up in my newspaper.  I was in the SwissAir lounge at Logan waiting for a near-deserted flight back to Europe ten days after 9/11.  I picked up a Times, and though I never read the Metro Arts section, that day, with all that time to kill, I did.  It's probably the only time in my life I have.  And there she was.  Not only was her one-woman show Homecoming glowingly reviewed, but there was a big picture of her, too.  

I held up the paper and called across the deserted lounge to another passenger.  "My ex-girlfriend!  From Indiana!  In the New York Times!" 

The guy was like, "What happened?  She get murdered?"

I was proud of her, I guess.  I mean, in a local-girl-makes-good kind of way.  But, honestly, there's something about seeing an ex—even a long-ago ex—getting public praise like this that feels a little like, um, being stabbed repeatedly in the eyes with knitting needles.  It's like Gore Vidal's observation that "whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies"—only instead of a little something, it's probably a medium something. 

To her credit, she is the second-funniest person I have ever known, after myself (it's not my fault if you don't get it). But now I know she gives better head. 

I was living in Budapest when she was working with Jon Stewart, on The Daily Show, so she didn't pop up without warning anywhere I was for a few years. 

Next time I saw her  I was back in Indiana, looking after my dying dad.  One day, we were watching TV together, and I happened to switch on Comedy Central.  They were running this ad for Reno 9-1-1.  And there she was, playing some crazy crack-whore flashing her tits at the camera.  My dad was like, "That Lauren!  She's up to her old tricks!"  They ran that spot all summer.  We never missed it.   

But since then all's been quiet on the high school girlfriend front. 

Until Tonight.  

I was channel-surfing and—boom!--there she was again!  This time on VH-1's "40 Dumbest Celeb Quotes Ever," one of those countdown shows where snarky lesser-known comedians comment on the celebrity hijinks of the day.

I had a little pang when I saw her this time, too.  She's lookin' smokin' hot these days.  But she still wasn't as funny as I would have been.  Not that I would waste my priceless celebrity quips on VH-1's "40 Dumbest Celeb Quotes Ever."  They asked me to come on the show, in fact, and I was like, sorry, I'm painting my toenails that night.

Anyway, I went and googled her, of course, and found a recent interview.  (People interview me all the time, too.  No big deal.)  So she's based in Seattle nowadays, divorced, and apparently still using the period of her life I was a part of as fodder for her autobiographical performance pieces.  Reading about her takes me back. 

I think the last time I saw her in person was a hazy weekend in the Dordogne Valley—nearly fifteen years ago now—where I think I must have behaved very badly.  However, I did finally reciprocate on the oral pleasure. I was just trying to be friendly.  Give a little back, you know.  Turned out to be too little, too late, though.  She just rolled her eyes at me (not quite the reaction I was going for), and cackled. 

"Where'd you learn to do that?" 

I could not answer, seeing as I had a crick in my tongue.

The magic was gone. 

Of course, performing cunnilingus on your very-ex-girlfriend in the South of France is très, très sophistiqué, but there's nothing like getting some good old-fashioned, uncomplicated heartland oral lovin' in your slutty high school sweetheart's '78 Malibu Classic out in front of her parents' house on a school night.  And no one can take that away from me. 

...A little ditty 'bout Jack 'n' Diane:
Two American kids growin' up in the heartland...