I just received an evite to my high school’s 10-year reunion. It’s in August. With a little luck, and just the right break in the GED testing schedule, everyone I enrolled with freshman year will graduate in time for the party. Maybe.

As a result, I’ve been giving high school much thought lately. At odd moments I think of Tater Tots, floor hockey and model U.N assemblies, where the girl who wrote non-linear, non-rhyming poetry was always France. “To be French/To shudder/To laugh like neon daisy cupcakes on the moon/Vie France/Vie.”

My final verdict on public high school ten years later? Let’s just say I’ve developed the following definition: High school is the place where I was forced to sit still in small, windowless rooms filled with people I would never have chosen to associate with if not for Johnny Law. It was like prison, except with Glee Club.

Of course, high school wasn’t all bad. I made friends. I had a few good teachers. I learned that one should drink Mad Dog in moderation and never as a McNugget aperitif.

Most important, I learned not to trust any organization that has a “spirit coordinator” or “pep rallies.” Hitler and Stalin had spirit coordinators and pep rallies, and neither of them ever fielded a football team that took conference. Bottom line: gossamer paper and sparkle paint are the devil’s playthings.

So, how can we improve the high school experience? What can we do so that the smart and dumb are not penalized for lack of mediocrity? When will we learn that you can’t sparkle-paint over failing schools?

Thankfully, one state has an answer: strip clubs.

In Texas, the Gov. Rick Perry (R-Evil) wants to pay for schools by taxing every person who enters an adult entertainment facility $5.

Think about that. What does it say when the state relies on strip clubs in order for children to receive an education? What it says is that strip clubs are much more efficient than the state.

And that gives me an idea. Instead of taking money from strip clubs, which ultimately solves nothing, what if the governor ran his schools more like the financially sound strip club industry?

Before you flame me with e-mails regarding Operation Strip Club High School, hear me out. These are merely suggestions that would have given my high school experience a happier ending. They involve very little, if any, nudity.

Start with voluntary participation. Like patrons at a strip club, let high school students decide if they want to be there. If a student does not want to be in class, why force him _ and those around him _ to suffer? No teacher likes to shake her academic groove thing for a bored audience.

Next _ merit-based pay. Good strippers make major bank. Bad strippers serve drinks. The system works. In most schools, the best veteran teachers make as much as the worst veteran teachers. Shouldn’t some of those worst teachers be serving drinks?

Add a big, burly bouncer dude. Put four of his buddies inside with pool cues. Security problem? What security problem?

Rotate the talent. Bring in a headlining teacher now and then to reward the good students. Send a bored teacher to another district for a year. Everyone wins.

Open at 1 p.m. Close at 3 a.m. That’s the average teenager’s schedule. Why not?

I’m like you. I look forward to the day when our schools are so successful we need to have a bake sale to support the local strip club. But until that day comes, I say we put a two-drink minimum in the teacher’s lounge and see what happens.

(Originally published 4/28/04.)

Click here to read the previous column - “Guide to Finding Love.”

If you have a comment, e-mail me at joedonatellicolumn@gmail.com.

Have you “had it” with looking for “the right person” to spend the rest “of” your life with? Are you tired of watching “American Idol” alone while your roommate goes to her boyfriend’s house to watch him play video games? Do you feel the sudden, inexplicable urge to buy a cat, or cats?

Then we’ve got the solution for you.

Welcome to the “First Annual Spring Guide to Finding Love for People Who Don’t Want to Die Alone.” Consider this handy article your first step to a life filled with the permanent enjoyment of temporary fulfillment.

(Cue the sad piano.)

It’s a fact of life. Every day in this country thousands of people die alone.

Let’s face it. Most of them deserve to.

If they were better people, they would have found someone. Clearly there was something massively wrong with them.

So say a team of scientists in silky pink smocks at the University of Romance in Loveland, Colo., who recently determined that most singles suffer from the same flaw that’s keeping our space shuttle grounded _ high standards.

The solution?

(Cue the “Deep Thoughts” music from “Saturday Night Live.”)

Guideline No. 1: Lower your standards

If modern intellectuals have taught us anything _ and they haven’t _ it’s that compromising your values is a surefire path to happiness. Remember how you wanted to be a baseball player as a kid? And now you work for a PR firm that does work with a minor league team? That worked out great. You’re as happy as Derek Jeter, right?

Take our advice. Don’t look for someone smarter than you _ look for someone who’s not stupid. Don’t look for someone ambitious _ look for someone who’s gunning straight for the middle and intends to stay there. Don’t look for your lifelong best friend _ look for someone you don’t mind seeing a movie with.

Marriages are built on such compromises. And even though I haven’t checked the statistics for the last 40 years, I’m pretty darn sure most marriages still turn out all right.

And that leads us to our next rule.

(Cue “Here Comes the Bride.”)

Guideline No. 2: Set an arbitrary age to get married by (and stick to it)

This guideline only SEEMS insane. Ignore the little voice in your head that says, “But what if you haven’t met the right person by then?” That little voice wants you to be single because that little voice eats the part of your brain that tries to think of pickup lines at bars. We hate that little voice.

Tell yourself, “I’m going to be married by the time I’m 30.” If you’re dating someone when you’re 29, that person is your spouse!

Don’t let little things like lack of communication, arguments over money or rampant infidelity get in the way of your goal. Ignore friends who think you’re making a mistake. They’re not proactive like you are. Keep your eyes on the prize.

And there’s only one way to land the kind of psychopath who will gladly go along with such a plan.

(Cue the porno music.)

Guideline No. 3: Sleep with everyone

We can’t stress this enough. Casual sex is a great way to meet new people. Don’t be fooled by people who tell you this is a mistake. Try and sleep with those people. It’s the right thing to do.

(Cue “Amazing Grace.”)

Think about it. Do you really want to die alone? Wouldn’t you much rather leave a grief-stricken spouse behind, someone who’s so overwrought with pain that his or her life without you is a living hell? Come on, the choice is obvious.

(Originally published 4/21/04.)

Click here to read the previous column “Halt the Spread of Time Banditry.”

If you have a comment, e-mail me at joedonatellicolumn@gmail.com.

Everyone does this.

You’re listening to your friend, relative, parole officer _ whoever _ and you stop paying attention. This person might be your best friend since third grade. This person might be married to your sister. This person might be the only one keeping you from going to prison _ again.

Yet no matter how excited your friend is to tell you about the dream she had last night _ the one where her ex-boyfriend is run over by a train (“Does that mean anything?”) _ you can’t help but feel your involvement in the conversation is incidental. So you stop listening.

Your brain says, “That’s it. I’m shutting down all conscience thought. Put the flying toasters screensaver up. It’s nap time.”

Your mind actually tells itself not to think. This is like your dog saying, “It is inappropriate to lick my nether-regions when company is over. I shall wait.” Or like Christina Aguilera saying, “Many sex symbols attain their status through mystique, not fashion harlotry. Today I’ll wear a sweater.” These things just don’t happen.

By now the ex-boyfriend is a train conductor, and the train is skimming the ocean. (“Does that make him a Christ figure?”) You nod. You smile. You pretend to listen. And the moment you see a break in the conversation you look at your watch, frown and say: “Look at the time. I have to get home to make sure the furniture is still there. Bye.”

By the time your bottom has registered a victory on Operation Enduring Davenport, you’ve forgotten the conversation.

Your mind wisely pushes the useless information to the back of your brain where it rots with your sociology classes, the lyrics to “Hanging Tough” and any advice your dad has given you about leasing versus buying a car.

So anxious are you to resume the normal course of your life that you never stop to consider the totality of what just happened.

You’ve been robbed by a Time Burglar.

You might be wondering, what is a Time Burglar? Is it one who burgles watches and alarm clocks with AM/FM radios?

No. A Time Burglar is anyone who steals your precious time and leaves nothing of value behind. Cliff Clavin from “Cheers” was a Time Burglar. Others include George W. Bush, John Kerry and, well, just about anyone for whom saying something of interest is a career liability or intellectual impossibility.

Why bring it up?

Because there is no more destructive force in America right now than the Time Burglar.

You might say, “What about terrorists, serial murderers or the Colorado football program?”

To which I respond: They are all evil too, but we don’t invite the Taliban into our homes to watch basketball. We invite Time Burglars to dinner. We meet them for happy hour. We sit beside them at work.

And that is precisely the place a Time Burglar does the most damage _ work.

How many hours of productivity has the economy lost because Ted from marketing wants to give you a blow-by-blow of last night’s “Fear Factor?”

The average American worker makes $15.49 per hour. If my math is correct (and it should be _ I majored in journalism) that means that every four minutes you talk to a Time Burglar the economy loses around $1 in productivity. If all 139 million American workers lose just four minutes a day, that’s $695 million a week or $36.1 billion a year.

My advice?

For the economy’s sake _ and for your sanity’s sake _ the next time a Time Burglar begins stealing your time, walk away.

Odds are they will not notice.

(Originally published 2/17/04.)

Click here to read the previous column “I Just Called To Say I Love You.”

If you have a comment, e-mail me at joedonatellicolumn@gmail.com.

A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my friend “Nick.” He was at work. I was at home. We were talking about what all men talk about on the phone: nothing.

He told me about his acting class. We made plans to see a comedy show. Then we performed our daily in-depth, “Pentagon Papers”-esque critique of the previous night’s 6 p.m., 7:30 p.m. and 11 p.m. “Simpsons.”

Only men appreciate the subtlety of the dance, because only we can properly sidestep ever saying anything remotely meaningful. Blah-blah Browns defense blah-blah stupid Flanders blah-blah might rain this weekend, then again, might not. First guy to let an actual emotion slip dances alone.

And so it came as a shock when, in mid-sentence, Nick cut me off and said “I love you.”

Click.

I was stunned. Sure we were friends — I was the best man in his wedding — but I never knew he felt this way. He had completely bypassed every intermediate step on his way to the Big One. No “I like you,” or “I enjoy spending time with you,” or “You complete me.”

I love you.

The words hung in the air like a Hello Kitty fanny pack in the Oakland Raiders’ locker room.

Clearly he was joking, I reasoned. He’s giving me the Tenacious D friendship test. He’ll call back any minute, laughing.

So I waited. And waited. And waited.

(For the record, I now know how it feels when a man says he loves you and never calls. It just hurts — so much.)

Finally, I called him back. He wanted to know if I noticed what he said. Like if I said no, maybe we could both deny it ever happened. Sweep it under the rug. The temptation was overpowering.

But there was no way I could let him off the hook. This type of situation comes along maybe once a decade, and it can and will be used against him until we are old men.

He quickly explained that his boss had burst into his office and surprised him. Because he’s new at his job, he didn’t want the boss to think he had been on the phone with a friend for 20 minutes. Even though he had.

So Nick pretended that I was his wife. (For hopefully the first, last and only time.)

Well, I’m happy to say that today our friendship is stronger than ever. We have overcome what was nearly a friendship-destroying profession of love by forthrightly acknowledging the important lessons learned from this incident.

If you’re on the phone with your best friend and he says, “I love you,” it’s probably because his boss just walked in. In these situations, it’s best to hang up the receiver calmly and begin calculating how much beer he now owes you.

Secondly, straight men should say “I love you” only if: (1) You are both running backs for the Chicago Bears and one of you is dying (2) It will keep one of you from getting in trouble at work.

On all other occasions — birthdays, weddings, NFL playoff victories — it is best to use the less-controversial “Dude, you complete me.”

(Originally published 3/17/03.)

Click here to read the previous column “Disco Dopes.”

If you have a comment, e-mail me at joedonatellicolumn@gmail.com.

Guys, has this ever happened to you?

You and your best friend are out on the town with your dates. You have a nice dinner. You drink a few drinks. You hit the dance floor. This is your night.

Then it happens.

In mid-song, for reasons that are never fully explained to you later, your dates turn and say, “Stay here. We’ll be right back.”

Like that, they’re gone.

Caught in the momentum of your joyous evening, you keep dancing. You gaze up into the disco ball, hands out, palms up as you twirl in circles. Your best friend does the same.

And in mid-twirl, just as you’re about to bend into a ballerina curtsy, it dawns on you.

You’re dancing with a guy. To a Justin Timberlake song. And there are people watching. Not just any people. These are cool people who look like they just stepped out of a Maxim magazine ad after beating up the people in an Esquire magazine ad.

All eyes are on you.

What do you do?

What DO you do?

As a frequent victim of Awkward Female Dance Floor Desertion Syndrome, I think it’s high time we opened a national dialogue regarding what I have designated as “Straight Male-Male Dance Protocol.”

I will open the dialogue by reviewing conventional options.

One obvious solution is to just keep dancing. That’s a good lad, pretend the girls are still there. No one will notice two men dancing to a Justin Timberlake song. Right. Keep believing that as the dance floor parts in a crop circle around you.

Clearly this is an unacceptable option. The only thing most straight men fear more than appearing gay is becoming gay. And we all know that nothing turns you gayer quicker than dancing with another man in public.

It’s not unlike that moment when you’re walking next to your friend and your hands bump and there’s a silence and you know that if one of you doesn’t violently stick-punch the other in the clavicle in the next three seconds you’ll never be friends again.

It happens more often than you’d think.

If you don’t want to keep dancing, you always have the option of fleeing immediately. By doing this, however, you run the risk of appearing homophobic. And as conventional wisdom goes, most homophobes are not comfortable with their own sexual identity.

Bottom line: Both options turn you instantly gay.

If you don’t want to dance with your buddy, yet you don’t want to confront your confused sexuality either, you do have the option of finding other girls to dance with.

The upside: You appear more manly than ever. The downside: Most women do not like returning to find their date grinding on another woman’s badonkadonk. Date over.

If none of those options appeals to you, I do have a secret ace up my sleeve that never fails.

Do this exactly: Stand and sway, half-dancing, half-acting like you’re talking to your friend, half-looking around, half-bobbing your head to the beat, half-nodding hello to imaginary people who in imagination-world are nodding back at you.

It doesn’t look pretty, but it gets the job done.

Where are the women during all this? I think they’re sitting at the bar laughing at us, watching, waiting and praying for the DJ to play a slow song.

I open the floor to you, America. E-mail me at joedonatellicolumn@gmail.com with your comments. Only together can we eradicate the nationwide dance floor scourge that is the Awkward Female Dance Floor Desertion Syndrome.

(Originally published 12/3/03.)

Click here to read the previous column “Brush your teeth, Courvoisier!”

If you have a comment, e-mail me at joedonatellicolumn@gmail.com.