Mesa Musings: ‘Three Doctors of Osculation’ full of antics
It became our shtick.
The three of us — Bob, Buddy and I — developed a lame little stunt that we’d break out in front of our fellow classmates in high school.
We were obviously hungry for attention.
The year was 1960-61, and we were juniors at Costa Mesa High School.
By any accepted standard we were average guys. One of us was sports editor of the school newspaper (me); two were members of the drama club; one was a football player (not me); one was a member of the madrigal chorus; and two were members of student council.
We pulled off our routine in public settings around the campus, in the hallway while passing between classes, in the cafeteria during lunch hour and in the gymnasium during assemblies.
It usually went something like this:
BUDDY: (bellowing from 75 feet down a hallway, passing between classes) Ah, doctor!
ME: (in an elevated voice trying to sound like Sigmund Freud, sans the accent) Yes! Doctor!
BUDDY: Have you been busy with the Petries [Petri dishes] in the lab this morning?
ME: Ah yes, doctor. Interesting findings. I shall share them with you anon.
(Farther down the Hall)
ME: Doctor!
BOB: Yes, doctor!
ME: Keep collecting that research data! It’s essential for our report to the Nobel committee.
BOB: Yes, doctor. I’m nearing a breakthrough!
We referred to ourselves as Doctors of Osculation. (Webster’s definition — osculation, n: a kiss or the act of kissing).
It was pure nonsense, of course. We had no earthly knowledge of the subject matter. We were as “un-osculated” as any three young high school lads you could name. None of us even had a girlfriend! But it was our gimmick.
Befuddled students would approach us daily.
“Uh, why do you guys call each other doctor?” they’d inquire. “What’s the deal?”
“Well, you see,” we’d reply, stifling chortles and snorts, “we’re Doctors of Osculation.”
“Is that like taxidermy?”
“Look it up in the dictionary.”
“Oscu… what?”
The word was soon out about us all over campus.
“Those three guys are claiming to be love doctors! What rubbish! They’re dorks!”
That, of course, had long since been established.
But the more rational among us on campus said: “They’re pulling a con. It’s a ruse.”
And a not-too-imaginative one at that.
Times have changed drastically in the intervening five decades. The “Three Doctors of Osculation” bit, I’m guessing, would fall as flat today as a doggy treat floating in a bowl of Cheerios. Not funny.
Buddy, Bob and I soon outgrew our goofiness. The world of the 1960s — which didn’t abide naiveté for long — made certain of that.
We went on to different colleges and lost touch after high school, though we did see each other again a couple of decades later at a high school reunion. We laughed about our artless campus hijinks.
Buddy became a high school teacher, counselor and administrator. Bob moved to Texas and spent his career in the aerospace industry.
I remained in town and became a community college administrator.
We lived rather unremarkable lives, pursued our careers, married and became fathers.
Over time, I forgot our silly osculatory antics.
Until the other day when something unexpected happened to transport me back to 1961. I was in a Newport Beach medical facility, walking down a hallway and paying scant attention to my surroundings.
Suddenly, I heard someone shout: “Ah, doctor!”
I snapped to attention quicker than being smacked in the kisser with a cream pie. Immediately, I was back on my high school campus, passing students in the hallway.
It took me but a microsecond to realize that the person hailing the doctor was in fact an actual patient in a medical building — circa 2011! That patient was hailing his real-life doctor.
Still, I savored a warm memory. I was back for a moment with Buddy and Bob.
JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Tuesdays.