Highland High School Alumni
Albuquerque, New Mexico (NM)
Tim Rogers
Highland High School
Class of 1968
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| First Name | Tim |
| Last Name | Rogers |
| Graduation Year | Class of 1968 |
| Gender | Male |
| Hometown | Neandertal, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Germany |
| Relationship Status | Single |
| About Me | I'm Tim, but you can call me T- Dawg, as most of my friends do. I'll also answer to " Bud," " Mac," and " Hey you" ; and, in special circumstances I'll answer to " Hey shithead !- Watch out for the bus." The preceding paragraph was composed with the assistance of a free-lance CPA, who has much more experience in facebook matters than I, and who led me through the facebook labyrinth with the professional advice " go with the flow." On this CPA's advice, please don't confuse me, from the start, with shady interlopers presenting themselves, while cruising around in a lowered Checker Cab, as census takers whose only intent is to verify my financial liquidity. Tough shit for them. That's called " identity theft," so watch out, whether or not you're a Tim Rogers. Harking back to T-Dawgness : All this reminds of a cruddy, blue-collar job I once worked at which required industrial-strength shirts and pants. This company ( cheap bastards which they were ) shopped around in catalogs and obtained for me, from cheesy factory outlets, half a dozen denim shirts which had " YOUR NAME GOES HERE " embroidered over the pockets. As a blatant exercise in pacifying underpaid blue-collar workers it struck me as being rude to the max, if not insulting. Plus, " T-DAWG" would have resulted in less thread useage, but that's Corporate America for you. Wait a minute : I'm still working at cruddy blue-collar jobs, but it's a relief to know that the economy sucks to the point where few companies have the bucks to fund humiliating embroidered work shirts. Must be the proverbial cloud with a silver lining. Second of all, I'm not the Australian rocker icon TIM ROGERS so, tough beans for you if you're stalking celebs or males between the age of 58 and 75 who might be categorized as Hotties from Australia, with or without self-inflicted bodily mutilations known as tattoos. In contrast with so-called rock musicians and their air guitars, my own hand-crafted 6-string acoustic, lovingly constructed by an ancient family of Sephardic Gypsy Bed 'n Breakfast managers from Taos, owes its mellow tones to the oldest living lifeform on Earth - a Bristlecone pine - and is considerably more expressive than those little wussie derivatives such as ukeleles and mandolins, now near and dear to Australian rockers and their counterparts here in the States, most of whose vocal ranges attract bats and/or hypersensitive dogs. Too bad I can't actually play guitar, because I have the sensitivity and nimbleness of fingers to blow just about everyone away, were it not for being musically-challenged. To further confound the issue, I'm also not the black pastor from Arkansas, who records evangelistic music with his group " Tim Rogers & the Fellas." If born a Linus Pauling or Elmo Lincoln none of this would have happened. HOLD THE PHONE : I just updated my profile pic to tease you with the real me. Hope it was worth waiting for. Forsaking attention-getting intros and bursting your bubble of potential OMG cyberspace relationships, I feel obligated to inform you that Twinkles the Clown thinks that I, and only I, " Am Special," thereby eliminating virtually everyone else on facebook who has the audacity to put himself or herself on the internet as some kind of potential trophy. Dream on : There's not enough of anyone to go around unless you can find the tons of shedded skin and barrels of discarded trans fat from that SUBWAY- sandwich munching putz named Jarred . Anyway, the odds, if not the stars, tell us that, regardless of whom you hook up with, you will within 10 years be reduced to piloting your dreams around in a malfunctioning Piggly Wiggly grocery cart, coated on the bottom with errant, shriveled spinach leaves and greasy out-of-date coupons, in some godforsaken backwater whose inhabitants are engaged in rounding up Piggly Wiggly grocery carts. Getting surreal, a grocery cart may be considered a quadruped, and those who round them up may be considered surrealistic urban cowboys, but that's a little farfetched. Still, as a living, breathing human being - one of whom you've never heard - I can make up the defects of being ordinary ( yet Special ) by doing the extraordinary. For instance, and at the risk of sounding immodest, I can, by leaping high enough in the air, PUT MY PANTS ON BOTH LEGS AT A TIME. Yes, I realize that some of you readers out there are now instantly seized with a compulsion to make me, of all people, your latest love toy or pleasure victim. It could conceivably happen, but not within my allotted time on Earth. Returning to the subject at hand - and even more tough beans for you - is that Australia floats around on its own tectonic plate and, at any given moment, might be adjacent to either Tahiti or Madagascar. Apparently, the canny Aussies have negated the catastrophic effects of subduction, volcanos, tsunamis and the like, by injecting massive quantities of WD-40 into suboceanic crustal seams, lubricating the entire continent to the point where it skims around at ease like a soap bubble. Consequently, airline flights to Australia are routinely cancelled due to navigational errors and the risk of duplicating Emelia Earhart's mishap of losing the continent entirely and having to ditch her plane short of the more conservative, non-drifting, earthquake-prone islands of New Zealand. In a nutshell, it's good not to be a passenger with Emelia Earhart or to be mistaken with rock musicians or other hunks/ hunkettes hailing from drifting continents. Getting even more offtrack, I actually prefer the phrase " cool your jets " to " tough beans for you," both of which were superseded by "chill out," and, then, shortly thereafter, in the anything-goes incomprehensible era of ongoing pervasive pop culture, by " up yours," " fuck you and the donkey you rode in on, " and their ethnic spinoffs " yo mama" and " tu mama." I could go on, but won't. Anyway, I'm the guy formerly on MySpace who distanced himself from all the other gazillion Tim Rogers's owing to the fact one of them characterised himself with irritable bowel syndrome. This individual was so retro and repulsive that his catch phrase was " Your Mother Wears Combat Boots Spit-Polished by a Commie. " Needless to say, that sort of internet invective can only propel more introspective people to seek greener internet pastures, especially those of us who have graduated the 8th grade. Whatever. Speaking of " whatever" : While driving around town not long ago I spotted a classic bathtub-shaped Corvair sporting a frontal license plate emblazoned with " WHATEVER. '' It was doubly cool because it was a New Mexico license plate, which aren't required on the front of vehicles at all.... Suddenly, as if in an out-of-body experience, or through some stream-of-consciousness dealio, augmented by a nearly forgotten pint of " Night Train Fortified Wine" ( amazing what items can be found in a glove compartment), there sprung my quest for LIFE's RICH PAGEANTRY. What is even more spooky and prophetic is that, from the very same glove compartment, there immediately tumbled a badly-folded, coffee-stained, gum-encrusted map of the National Park Service's " MAMMOTH CAVE SELF-GUIDED TOUR FOR THE UNWARY. " That kind of stuff freaks me out, as it would any layman, although some kind of synthesis of Corvairs, fortified wine, glove compartments and forgotten Park Service maps may, in my humble opinion, ultimately explain the Origin of the Universe. The other inconsequential stuff, such as half-chewed Tootsie Rolls, weathered receipts from WAL * MART, and bottle tops from overpriced Easter Island spring water, seem always to be gravitationally attracted to less noticeable backseat floormats, so they might reasonably be interpreted as negligible subatomic particles which play little or no part in LIFE's RICH PAGEANTRY. Maybe, on the other hand, they're like, you know, mutated neutrinos which are yet to be detected, or, god forbid, that stuff which the Mayans predicted would bring about the end of the World in the year 2012, which, amazingly, coincides exactly with the forthcoming HALLMARK CALENDAR For The Year 2012. Creepy. Alternately, the philosophy of UNBEARABLE PITY FOR MANKIND now strikes me as a kind of " tell it as it is " profundity most likely to garner a maximum of two or three profile views a week, and those from inveterate and insomniac internet surfers who think they're hitting on that Australian rocker dude, black pastors, or who have some morbid interest in irritable bowel syndrome. Seriously, if you try to twitter the standard airhead babe-of-the-day with the come-on of UNBEARABLE PITY FOR MANKIND you are screwed true and blue. Just a suggestion. Better luck with twittering dead people, such as Amelia Earhart and Engelbert Humperdinck ( that's the " Humperdinck " who was a classical composer and not the pop singer who found out that the name Elvis Presley was already taken ). Anticipating the advent of the internet, these canny publicity seekers stragetically positioned proxies well in advance of the Computer Age, and they're quite capable, in their graves, of ignoring your internet onslaughts without so much as a " how-do-you-do?" Music-wise, I thoroughly enjoy " ? and The Mysterians " and "The Partridge Family," perhaps owing to a combination of being tone deaf and of having the fillings in my teeth constantly receiving random, phantom radio waves, some from as long ago as 1920 ( Rudy Vallee really sucks, by the way). Insofar as books go, and a la Dan Brown, I'm currently deciphering the cryptic and arcane clues presented in the children's classic " Toad in the Road." For instance, on page 13, by the solution of an elementary letter/number substitution, a seemingly prosaic phrase can readily be translated into " hie thee to your nearest purveyor of meat loaf." Unfortunately, that was the easy part, and the rest of it would require unraveling by a Cray Supercomputer. So, for me, it's back to perusing POLICE GAZETTEs and THE AUTO TRADER in dimly-lit waiting rooms, replete with neglected coffee pots. The added bummer to these waiting rooms is that they're inhabited exclusively by pot-bellied guys in stained t-shirts and sandals, and they relentlessly expound upon planetary gears, air-to-fuel ratios, and punctured oil pans. The Sacred Feminine is never in sight. Hey! What the heck is up with these "fave" categories, anyway, which are always limited to MOVIES, MUSIC, TV and BOOKS? It's as if webmaster dweebs are totally out of touch with mainstream America. Surely, there's enough worldly experience out there to inspire, like, sections in which you can broach WILDERNESS AREAS WITH THE CLEANEST NONEXISTENT BATHROOMS; MARSUPIAL-AID FOR MARSUPIALS WHO HAVE LOST THEIR CAR KEYS IN THEIR PURSE; POISONOUS MUSHROOMS TO AVOID AT ALL COST, UNLESS THEY'RE PICKED BY YOUR FAVORITE UNCLE, WHO KNOWS WHERE THE GOOD ONES ARE; HOW MUCH I'D PAY TO HIT DONALD TRUMP IN THE FACE WITH A PIE; EXAMINING RELIGIOUS TOLERANCE AND THE WAY THE WORLD ACTUALLY WORKS WITH PAT ROBERTSON BY ATTACHING HIS TESTICLES TO A CAR BATTERY; or, RETRO MOTELS UNABASHEDLY PLASTERED WITH FLOCKED WALLPAPER, ORANGE SHAG CARPET, AVOCADO BATHROOM FIXTURES, AND AN EXTREMELY NOISY, DRIPPING, IN-WINDOW AIR CONDITIONER, ALL OF WHICH ARE INTEGRATED TO INTERRUPT YOUR SLUMBER ALONG WITH INVASIVE MEGA-TON SEMIS, RUMBLING A MERE 10 FEET FROM YOUR TEMPORARY ABODE. Seriously, as a living, breathing, cognitive yet standard-issued human being, I seldom have the faintest glimmer about what the heck is going on anywhere, at any particular time, with anyone, so I kind of fake it. But, who doesn't on facebook. Far out. Except for being bombarded with crappy home-grown videos, it's a rare and royal treat to be on facebook. Really. It isn't as if I'm espousing whacked-out concepts in the realm of worshipping the 18.6-year occurence of the Lunar Standstill, or getting down and dirty with 25 Ways to Stretch Leftover Bread Pudding. It's good to be earthy and prosaic and not to agonize over whether a glass of water is half-empty or half-full. Cut me some slack here. Oh: Since facebook is now prompting me to " share experiences," I was once attacked by a family of 'possums, at dusk, somewhere in western Kentucky - luckily, they weren't rabid. Also, everytime I've run out of gas it was when pulling into a gas station : Go figure ( again, tough beans for Amelia Earhart). Then, at a former residence, a magnificent itinerant hawk volunteered to reduce the annoying local population of flying rats, AKA pigeons. My gnarly raptor hero, whom I dubbed " A Really Nasty Feathered Fucker," would snag its vermin prey and pick its bones in a backyard Ponderosa pine, up to the point where the tree was liberally festooned with bleached pigeon carcasses, some of which, when the wind blew, would be dislodged and rain upon trendy visitors promoting People For the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Milking the whole Experience Thing to its fullest, and pinching off further consideration of feathered friends, I have to admit to once foolishly purchasing a "whole cut-up chicken" which had three legs in the package. This was no ordinary chicken, but an "organic chicken," according to the radio commercial which suckered me in. Being slow on the uptake and while driving away with a polydactyl organic chicken, I could only wonder whether the alternatives to organic chickens were those composed of styrofoam or even marshmallow, such as those cute little PEEPS chicks which appear around Easter. Needless to say, I shitcanned the polydactyl organic chicken and threw on one of my stovetop specialities : T-Dawg's Righteous Gringo Green Chili Stew, with Browned Bison Meat. That's about it. Except for never having been abducted by aliens. By the way, facebook wouldn't allow my inclusion of " Spin-the-Bottle with Megan Fox, Katherine Heigl and Madame Curie" under the GAMES section. Too bad. Maybe I'd better submit " Spin-the-Bottle with Deceased Viola da Gamba Makers, " so that facebook won't get all hot and bothered over copyrighted junk. Similarly, my fave movie pick of " TITANIC," as being a total surprise in that we all thought the passengers would make it to the Caribbean and then die of food poisoning, was nixed outright. My submission of a second favorite fantasy GAME, " Releasing Lindsay Lohan Into My Cognizance, Under Which I Would Subject Her To a Thrice-Daily Rigorous Program of Spanking" only generated thinly-veiled threats from humorless facebook keyboarders. At the risk of sounding both ungrateful and computer illiterate I also can't, try as I might, make any kind of entry in the facebook subcategory PEOPLE I ADMIRE, which falls under the PHILOSOPHY section - It obviously isn't organized in accordance with the Dewey Decimal System. Maybe the whole format requires a little tweaking. My nominees for PEOPLE I ADMIRE generally settle out, through LIFE'S RICH PAGEANTRY, as people who compose their own funny tombstone epitaphs, parade in gorilla suits at street corners with placards enticing you to a Jiffy Lube Grand Opening, or those who can put their pants on both legs at a time. OH, again - This is odd: The Albuquerque Bucket List just appeared under the heading of " people who(m) you might know." They, or it, feature 365 Things to do in Albuquerque Before You Die. Going them one better, and presenting my own personal list of 365 Ways to Avoid Kicking the Bucket in Albuquerque, I offer 1) purchasing a can of MACE and a shrill whistle in order to thwart serial killers intent on dumping your abused corpse on the west mesa. 2) answering the doorbell while equipped with a sawed-off shotgun, regardless of whether the visitor is a Girl Scout or a Jehovah's Witness. 3) avoiding traffic lanes wherein you're sandwiched between an amateur monster truck and a lowered 1972 Chevy Impala which has a mattress strapped to its top, a mongrel dog drooling out the driver's side window, and assorted illegitimate children raising a ruckus in the back seat. 4) never ever, in the presence of the Albuquerque Police Department, displaying a weapon of any kind, while philosophizing upon the pros and cons of suicide. 5) riding a bicycle well off a designated bicycle path, no matter how remote the bicycle path is from other vehicular traffic, even if it extends into wilderness areas lacking bathrooms. 6) admitting that you were once involved with a University of New Mexico athletic program, particularly women's soccer and men's football. 7) there is no 7 because it's lucky and, although Albuquerque has clover, no New Mexican has yet to find a lucky 7-leafed clover, notwithstanding the trailblazing efforts of our Africanized killer bees, which really dig clover, and can sting your ass into oblivion at the slightest provocation. 8) pontificating about the absurdity of chupacabras, one of which, after sucking the bodily fluids from your chihuahua, remains lurking behind your walnut entertainment center. 9) the mind boggles over being trampled to death at the grand opening of the Folsom Culture Gaming Palace, so, stay alert, since shit does indeed happen, and Albuquerque has more than its fair share of it. Next in line as a place to die for is the Clovis Culture Gaming Palace : Presumably started by a born-again-Comanche, this casino has only a post office address, an illegal cock-fighting pit, and really crappy non-taxed cigarettes from Asia. Rumor has it that the Frank C. Hibben SANDIA MAN Gaming Palace, an easy drive form Albuquerque, will presently be in operation and feature slot machines whose arms mimic atlatls. Also, the leggy hostesses are said to be costumed as either saber-toothed cats or giant ground sloths, so keep the impressionable kiddies away. And, to further alert you, the planned chic bistro-restaurant will boast of its mastodon filets, extracted from Canadian permafrost, authentically prepared by local anthropology grad students over a firepit fueled with armadillo dung, and served in a congenial setting overlooking the scenic Rio Puerco Valley. While this sort of ambience will certainly beguile out-of-staters intent on a quickie Georgia O'Keeffe experience, let it be known that mastodon filets are high on the FDA's list of " Lean Red Meat Which May Result In A Tummy-Ache." 10) the total avoidance of weekend garage sales, especially those advertising first-edition lava lamps and beanie babies - fistfights and even the exchange of gunfire normally occur. Well, that leaves about 355 items on the bucket list. I'm not running out of room here, am I? Tell me I'm not running out of Whew, I didn't run out of room after all. Facebook takes care of these things. Regarding PETS WHICH I OWN ( don't hold your breath on this one, not only because it's not a facebook fave category) : An ideal pet can dress itself, relieve itself in a toilet, operate a microwave oven, change a lightbulb, make ice cubes, mix a passable martini, and converse in reasonably understandable English. In extremely rare cases, ideal pets equipped with opposable thumbs can manage telephones, and cellphones, and be trained to respond to telemarketers with preconditioned responses such as " I'm not here right now" or " piss up a rope, dufus. " It may be expecting too much for an ideal pet to select coordinated pajama tops and bottoms for itself, but what the heck. Doing the math, you might find a lamentable shortage of lower life forms which fit the bill, so have fun with a stinky ferret or albino python which has an evil eye or y...(read more) |
Class of 1968 Alumni
→ Reunite with 109 class of 1968 alumni that have joined.
Sakonh Phonhthydeth
Class of 1992
Amy Thompson
Class of 1994
Robin Mankiller
Class of 1995
Joshua Deuto
Class of 1990
Marie Smith
Class of 1979
Alex Romero
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Class of 1998
Charles Serns
Class of 1967
Robin Brazil
Class of 1983
Jerri Jerri L. Elliott
Class of 1959
David Garcia
Class of 1997
Daniel O'connor
Class of 1961
Patty Rye
Class of 1985
Norma Llamas
Class of 2009
Jason Bowers
Class of 1998
Jackie Ruess
Class of 2000
Maya Warren
Class of 2010
Juanita Beard
Class of 1964
Recent Class of 1968 Reunions
Plan a Class of 1968 Reunion for Free
HHS Boys Basketball--1st game of season
Invited Classes: All Classes
Date: Dec 02, 2019
Description: This is the kick-off of the first home basketball game of the season. We are asking as many alumni of HHS to share in t...(read more)