My soap-opera name would be Brandy Kenwood.  Isn’t that great?  In case you don’t know, your soap-opera name is the name of your first pet combined with the name of the first street you lived on.  Brandy Kenwood sounds like a woman who gets things done – mostly for her own benefit, of course.  I’m sure she doesn’t have to clean up dog poop or change the litter box, and she probably never folded laundry in her whole life!  Of course, she has her fair of stress – I’m sure at least one of her ex-husbands cheated on her with her best friend, or her mother, or her mother’s best friend.  And then there was probably a time when the town thought Brandy was dead for a couple of years, when she was actually lost in a far-off town and struggling with total amnesia.  But for the most part, my soap-opera life would be full of exotic, high-fashion adventure.

I (Brandy) might jump on my chartered, or better yet, private jet at a moment’s notice to have a romantic dinner in Italy with my latest husband.  This could possibly happen right after one of us has returned from the dead.  While we’re there, I’d probably become a local hero by writing a zillion dollar check to the local orphanage and then end up adopting the most adorable and charming child in the whole country, who also happens to be a terrific singer.  I’d take the child back to my home somewhere in Middle America, where we would live a posh, high-fashion life.  I mean, really, who among us hasn’t wished for that?

Or maybe I’d live in a penthouse on 5th Avenue in New York, wear only designer clothes, and carry a tiny dog around in my $1,200 purse.  I could buy myself a seat on the board of directors of a huge corporation.  I’d secretly buy up stock in my arch enemy’s business empire, then stage a hostile takeover as revenge for her having stolen my high school prom date.  To celebrate my victory, I’d fly off to an obscure European county no one’s ever heard of in my private jet, where I’d be swept off my feet by the prince of this country.  My current husband would be angry at first, but he would eventually go back to his childhood sweetheart/former wife, who is really his true soulmate.  The prince and I would eventually get married and I’d be known as Princess Brandy.  I’d even wear a tiara.  Fabulous! 

So it’s easy to see why the soap-opera life is so seductive.  Not even one of those scenarios involved doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms, or bad hair days.  But even as I write this, a glance at he calendar tells me it’s almost time to get back to reality.  School will start again before I know it, and there won’t be any more time for soaps.  I may have to put Brandy Kenwood away for a while, but someone that fabulous can’t stay hidden for long.  I have a feeling she’ll pop up again by Christmas vacation.

Carolina Beach or Pleasure Island as it is known, is a wonderful place to go on vacation.

We arrived there after a four-hour trip from Virginia and immediately were drawn into the magical world of sheer pleasure (lazing around on our butts doing nothing but eating and lolling in the sand and surf).

Our cottage was a short walk from the fishing pier and we went there everyday. Not only did they have a restaurant that was open 24 hours a day, but the food was really good and reasonably priced. For the price of a hotdog,  you could sit and watch all kinds of shenanigans. For instance, the old guys who never fished, but would sit nursing a cool drink and talk about all the big fish they had pulled in. You could see them in the morning and go back in the evening and there they were, still at the same table, same clothes,  same fish tales. Same leering looks when a young lady walked by in her swim suit.

Old fishermen never die, they just lie away.

We walked out on the pier and there was a guy cleaning a good sized fish he had caught. A humongous pelican flew up and perched on the rail to watch him. After a while the guy tossed some fish entrails at the pelican. He caught them, shook his head and tossed them right back at the fisherman.

Fisherman tossed them back, pelican caught them, gave them a good shake and threw them back and this time they hit the guy in his face. Seems the pelican didn’t want the fish guts, he wanted a fillet.

One evening I was alone at the cottage on our deck, just looking at the constantly shifting scenery on the beach. I saw a figure come walking down the beach. It had turban like head gear, what looked like a flowing robe and some kind of beach shoes. When it got closer I could see a long cigarette holder in one hand and when it stopped a guy on the beach for a light I could see that it was actually a woman. I never figured out the head gear, but the flowing robe was actually two beach towels artfully tied to resemble a robe. When she drew near to where I was, she stopped, did a slow turn then leaned over and picked up one leg and placed it in front of her; did a few lunges on that leg; then did the same thing with the other leg. She walked a few steps down the beach and repeated the process again. Then as if dancing to music she could only hear, she started dancing in slow circles with her arms moving in time to music only she could hear. After a few minutes, she sorta shook herself and as if emerging from a dream, strode off down the beach. I never saw her again.

Then there was the little boy with the skim board. At least that’s what I call them. You sort of skim it along the edge of the surf and then chase after it and jump on it as it skims along the edge of the water. This little guy would skim his along, run as fast as his short little legs could carry him, jump and miss the board and fall while his board kept on going down the beach. That didn’t stop him, he would retrieve his board and go through the process all over again.

Then his dad decided he would show him how to do it the right way. That was really a big splash when dad missed the board. I give him credit for trying, even tho he only tried it once. I guess he thought it might be dangerous to the health of an overweight, out of condition guy. The next day I saw the little guy and he was doing a credible job of surf skimming. I guess practice does make perfect.

One day a party of nine set up chairs, blankets, etc. right in front of our cottage. After a few hours of swimming and sunning, they opened their beach bags and cooler boxes and pulled out sandwich makings: bologna, mayo, bread,  cheese and chips. This was going well until one loan sea gull saw them. Of course, he did his sea gull call that says to his mates and family, “food at four o’clock high”. Immediately the poor family of humans was beseiged by dozens of sea gulls who swooped and screamed and scared the poor folks back into the water.

Oh, the monkey part. My beach towel had the cutest little monkeys on it and I did see a restored 70 Camaro and once when I went to the pier I even heard some country music. All in all, a most enjoyable trip to a beautiful beach.

I didn’t want to come home, but duty calls.

People are taking pictures everywhere, all of the time.  Even my in-laws are in on it.  They joined us for dinner out one night and every time I got a dripping piece of the deep fried onion to my mouth (and chin and collar) my mother-in-law pointed a camera at me.  Why, I wondered.  What was so precious about that particular moment in time that it had to be preserved in pictures?  She didn’t take that many photos of her grandbabies but suddenly whenever I’m adjusting a bra strap or fixing to sneeze, Ms. New Digital Camera is there.

My church went through a crisis, or knock-down, drag-out hate fest if you will, about two years ago.  The Southern Baptist Association, when a church’s congregants are smacking down big time, will send in a kind of interim counselor/preacher to hear the members’ grievances and to figure out whose Pyrex dishes are whose after covered dish suppers.  The preacher assigned to our church fancied himself a real photographer.  After worship service, when I’d be tired of pinching my youngest son to make him stop giggling and my mascara had melted and the wrinkles in the front of my skirt made me look like I was wearing a Shar-Pei, there Preacher would be, wanting to get a shot of the family.  I don’t take well to spontaneous photographs, but honesty forces me to admit that the camera attacks were not the only reason my church attendance took a dive.  I have to confess that my back-sliding is also due to the music.

I don’t like most contemporary Christian music.  I’ve been told I need to modernize; in fact, I’ve been told I need to get over it.  Contemporary Christian music is here to stay and I could handle that if occasionally the preacher still asked us to turn in our hymnals to one of the old beloved hymns.  Most contemporary Christian songs sound like elevator music.  Listening to contemporary Christian radio is like listening to an all-Richard Marx, all-the-time station.  Plus I must have missed the Southern Baptist Convention where it was decreed that not only should women give up pants-wearing and the right to vote, but that all worshippers MUST WAVE at least one arm, preferably both, overhead the moment the latest Christian tune is sung.  No longer do we turn in our hymnals to anything.  The lyrics are projected on a screen at the front of the church and the fired-up choir director will for some reason shout, “Let’s repeat the last verse!” again and again, maybe for those too simple to get the message the first twelve or so times it is sung.

I miss singing “Amazing Grace” and “The Old Rugged Cross”, squinting to read a waving hymnal held by my attention-wandering son.  I want to hear the songs I remember from my childhood accompanied by an organ, not an electric keyboard.  If I can have that, I’ll let you take my picture.

Classic country music permeated the air as the car screeched to a stop almost running over my pet monkey.  Out jumped my cousins Eugene, Earl, Elma, Elvis, Ebenezer, Efrem, Eduardo, Ernest, and Elvin.  I was so happy to see them all.  I just love family.

They were returning from a week of hunting Bigfoot and they wanted to show me the vacation photographs.  Elma was so excited that she had met Ric Flair on the beach and she couldn’t believe that they spent three days watching women-in-prison movies.

Cousin Earl met a supermodel and discovered on their first date that not all supermodels are women.  Efrem laughed a lot about Earl’s date until he found out that his date was actually a robot.  Elvis never could live up to his famous moniker so he wore oversized pants and carried a hammer with him.  Every chance he got he would shout, “It’s hammer time!”  Eventually he was ignored because no one under the age of 30 knew what he was talking about.

A few minutes later Ernest and Elvin got into this huge fight right in the middle of looking at the photographs.  Ernest said that “Road House” was the coolest movie ever and Elvin said it was the stupidest movie ever made.  Finally in the heat of battle, Eduardo stepped in and pulled out his pepper spray and gave them both a blast.

Elvin told Eduardo that he was going to beat the dog snot out of him and Ernest said an Uzi would do a better job.  Eduardo ran into the woods where he was accosted by my pet Zombies.  He screamed as he tripped over the chicken wire that kept my monkey out of my illegal garden.  I don’t know why my parents only taught me how to cultivate one plant.  Well at least now it can be used for medical purposes.

Finally everyone calmed down and went into the house for some lemonade and beer.  I popped a big bowl of popcorn and we all gathered around my new oversized flat screen.  I loaded the collected works of Burt Reynolds into my old DVD player and sat back on the sofa with my pet monkey Fred perched on my shoulder.  My cousins threw a bunch of pillows on the floor and settled in for some serious Reynolds action. 

Well all but Elma, she was text messaging Ric Flair every five minutes.

There is one family custom that we started a few years back.  Whoever drinks the last beer has to kiss the monkey. 20If some PETA person is reading this don’t get all excited, Fred likes it.  As a matter of fact he likes it so much that he’ll drink the last beer and then kiss himself.  In some other countries this custom may seem strange, but here in my neck of the woods it’s a tradition.

Symptom 1: On the day of college graduation, you’re crying just as hard as you were when you were born.

As someone about to catch the quarter-life crisis disease, you don’t want to leave your college womb and you feel like you’re being forced out, much like a baby being pushed out into the world.  The college had four years of labor pains, and here you are the results of its labor.  You and your friends may have plans and feel like you can go out into the world and show what you’ve learned, but let me tell you, this may just be a cover.  Readers who have recently graduated, beware! This is one of those symptoms that will more than likely lie dormant and rear it’s ugly head as time passes…

Symptom 2: Forget feeling like a baby.  You feel old.

Now to those readers who’ve reached the mark of greatness and have surpassed their twenties, please do not take offense to my usage of the term “old.”  There’s nothing wrong with getting older, but there’s something wrong when you feel like you’re aging much faster than you are.  What happened to being able to stay up until three in the morning? Why do teenagers and college students seem to be staring at you like you’re their chaperone when you walk into a club or go see that hot new music artist in person? Why does it feel wrong to blast hip-hop in your car on the way to an important business meeting? You know you have this symptom when you feel torn between a fun life and a responsible one.     

Symptom 3: You feel like your life plans have somehow completely missed the mark or that somehow the mark of a great life has completely missed you.

It’s bound to happen: You don’t get that dream job right out of college.  You decide graduate school isn’t for you, and you end up living with your parents while you figure things out.  You don’t get that husband by the age of 27 and that child by the age of 30.  Yes, unfortunately this symptom is very easy to detect, and I think we’ve all suffered from it at some point.

So where do we go from here? I’m not sure if there is a be-all “cure” to the quarter-life crisis, but I can say in all earnestness that it’s not a harmful disease.  The quarter-life crisis may make you feel panicked, concerned, and fearful, but it can also make you feel a sense of excitement.  This is a time in your life to explore who you are and what you can be to the world.  Sure, you’ll make mistakes along the way, but some of the greatest findings in history have occurred because of someone’s mistakes.  Most importantly, take comfort in the fact that this is, in fact, a phenomenon, and you are not alone.  So I leave those who are currently experiencing a quarter-life crisis with the inspiration to hang in there and push through.  After all, the mid-life crisis awaits us in twenty or more years, and at least there’s plenty of information out there about that one. 

Thanks to my wife, who is a veteran tent camper, I looked halfway competent setting up camp. The finished product wasn’t so much classic rustic as it was classic New York City tenement.  A makeshift clothesline, groceries stacked high, toys strewn about. In fact this was pretty much the look of the entire campground, which made me feel only slightly better.

Veteran campers view campgrounds as nature’s cathedral, a place where senses are invigorated, and minds refreshed. Somehow the actions of my fellow campers kept sidetracking my search for this nirvana. If you’re searching for the true meaning of “cultural diversity” then let me introduce you to some of my camping neighbors.

Lonesome Joe is a scruffy late twenties man whose large campsite contained the following: a miniscule one-person tent, and a radio. Joe was constantly shirtless, and always on his cell phone, which lead me to believe that the only shirt he owned had been kidnapped and he was in deep negotiations with the perpetrators trying to get it back. A theory that took on even more credence when the next morning he hurriedly broke camp (i.e.; turned his radio off and stuffed his tent into a backpack) and asked me for directions to a destination in Myrtle Beach he was unfamiliar with. When I last saw him, he was walking shirtless towards the west, with the look of a man who would soon be naked no more.

Meet the Sizemores. Two branches of the same family that obviously enjoyed one another’s company very much, as evidenced by the fact that eight Sizemores were able to fit into just two matching tents that would have made Lonesome Joe’s abode seem gigantic. God bless the Sizemores. They are a family who certainly haven’t been cheated by life, especially those parts that fall under the heading of “All you can Eat Buffet.”  Watching them maneuver into their tents each night was a sheer engineering masterpiece, their rhythmically choreographed gyrations re-writing one law of physics after another. I stood in awe at this spectacle, fighting the urge to give what surely would have been the first ever-standing ovation in a campground to a family for simply entering a tent.

Campgrounds are one of life’s delightful oddities. Nothing however left me more speechless than a neighbor who set up camp one afternoon. At first glance her campsite looked normal. It was when I gazed upward that I abruptly stopped and stared in pure bewilderment. Nailed to a tree was a framed photograph of Jacques Cousteau, internationally known oceanographer, ardent environmentalist and, evidently, little known patron saint of South Carolina State Park campgrounds. I kept an eye out trying to catch site of any formal ceremony for spiritual enlightenment my neighbor performed under Captain Jacques image.  If there had been one for deliverance (from my camping trip) I would have gladly joined her.

My ambition that day was to head to a local flea market in search of a photograph of Exxon Valdez skipper Joseph Hazelwood, who I would then substitute for Monsieur Cousteau. Relaxing in the early stillness of the following morning I would wait for my neighbor to arise to her new patron saint.

While I’m not sure my vim and vigor needle moved much at all during my adventure, my fascination with people grew exponentially. I took a camping trip expecting to rediscover nature when in fact I discovered something much more interesting, human nature. And in the grand scheme of life, that’s a discovery that keeps on giving. Just spend a few days in a campground and see for yourself.

Our library’s reference collection sits exactly where the earthly remains of hundreds of our friends and neighbors were displayed for the last time.  Local folks now pass the by the reference shelves as quickly as they used to pass by the remains - too many sad facts of life in print as was the case in caskets, I guess.

The lighting in the building is better today, and the chapel pews have been replaced by bookshelves.  A large mural of the “Holy Land” still overlooks the main room.  On some days, I am sure that our librarian wishes that she could be in another land - and the holier the better.

Working in a building with such a profound past, I have speculated about what our polite librarian might say to some of the card-carrying patrons who find the library’s modest rules to be too much of a burden to bear and to officials who think that libraries are “dead weight,” so to speak.

“Well, teenage Harry, one website that you visited during your internet session yesterday was not appropriate.  By the way, have you seen the old anatomical charts in our library’s ‘embalming room’?”

“Mrs. Varney, you checked out four of our Jan Karon novels three months ago.  The waiting list for these overdue items is three computer screens long.  ‘embalming room’ and displayed in front of the ‘Holy Land’ several years ago?  She liked to read Jan Karon, too;  didn’t she?”

“Yogi, I have reminded you again and again that you are not supposed to stick both arms, or even one hand, into the book drop box.  Just slide the books over the lip and let go.  You know, Yogi, we have some boxes in our ‘embalming room’ that your entire body could fit into.”

“Sammy, chewing gum is not allowed in the library.  When I asked you to dispose of it, I did not want it placed over the outlet on the water fountain.  By the way, did I show you the putty that we have in our ‘embalming room’?  If you spread that stuff over a fresh stab wound, nothing will spray out.”

“Susan and Nancy, please leave your hair brushes and lipstick at home tomorrow. Teenage Harry sat on the sofa that you usually use;  when he got home last night, his mother called me and wanted to know what he did at the library that would cover his clothes with long brown hairs and red lipstick.  Girls, maybe I should mention that, in our ‘embalming room,’ we have several used wigs and some face powder that might interest you.”

“Yes, Mayor Davis, I reviewed the library’s new budget.  I’ll wait until next year to have the brake fluid checked in my Ford Fiesta.  Mayor, would you look in our ‘embalming room’ to see if the stuff in the bottles on the shelves can be used as a substitute for brake fluid, and you know that you are not allowed to park your Cadillac Escalade in the three spaces the hearse used to sit.”

“Thank you very much, teenage Harry, for donating brand new anatomical charts to the library.  But, where did you get….?  You bought them online at Barnes & Noble, and Nancy and Susan thought that they were very educational, and you appreciate my expert reference help.”

“Teenage Harry, I am going to take a break.  If someone needs me at the desk, tell them that I am laid out in a long box with my mouth puttied shut, wearing a used wig and face powder - in our library’s ‘embalming room.’  Make sure that the lever on the emergency brake in my Fiesta is pulled up, won’t you?”

All of a sudden, I nearly tripped as I noticed “Ellie Mae” alerting at something in front of us.  It was a huge depression in the ground, in the shape of a large appendage.  Could it be?  I climbed a tree to get another perspective, and yes, it looked just like those B&W pictures of the Bigfoot beast’s footprints at the grocery store check-out line.  I descended from the tree and got up on a rock for a more solid view.  The setting sun shone through the trees and provided an eeriness that spooked me.  I hurried and got some chicken wire, pressed it into the depression, poured quick-drying concrete mix in there and had a beer while I watched the concrete dry.  My senses were heightened knowing a mythical beast was nearby.

I must have started dreaming, as I had flashbacks of cruising Wards Road in my 70’s muscle car, only to arrive home past curfew and wonder why my parents insisted on grounding me.  That was not the only time I found parental decisions suspect.  In fact, whenever their decision differed from my contrived, I mean well-thought-out, conclusion, their opinion was automatically suspect.  What could possibly be their motive?  After all, I was the honor-roll student.  My hound dog is smarter than most honor-roll students.  In any case, I digress; back to my daydream.  As classic country music tunes played in my mind, I thought of odd customs of our friends in other lands, especially robot worship and late-night screenings of women-in-prison movies.  That led to thoughts of super models and all their drama (including being in prison, or falling in love with robots).  Just then, hunky “Nature Boy” Ric Flair swished across my consciousness.  “Wooo.  Things are takin’ place.  Wooo”, he used to say as he pranced around in a feather cape and tossed his bleached golden locks about.  Wooo.

I was startled back to reality when I heard noises in the woods.  “Ellie Mae” was running in her sleep, presumably chasing monkeys.  I looked to my right and saw goats in the brush.  Gingerly, I touched my big toe to the cement and the track imprint was dry.  Using a tire iron and claw hammer I worked my way around its edge, prying the concrete loose.  Then I hooked a logging chain through the chicken wire frame and began dragging the cement mold back to my truck.

I turned on the Burt Reynolds tunes and hummed along.  I gazed at “Ellie Mae” and she gazed at me, tail wagging.  “You’re such a nice dog,” I said.  As the sun settled over the horizon, the sublime beauty of “Road House” came to mind, along with Swayze’s unforgettable words, “I want you to be nice.”  It was a fitting ending to a lively day.

“Matt”, he said, “I can’t possibly be expected to write two articles in one week.  You are my biggest fan and one of my most trusted friends; you have to bail me out.”

And even though I would never abandon a friend in his time of need I was still perplexed.  I have never met Scott Hollifield nor read any of his articles so I seemed an unlikely choice to cover his journalistic responsibilities while he was away.  After perusing a number of Scott’s columns (that’s right, two is a number), I learned that his preferred material ranged from dog snot to Sasquatch and I realized that I might actually be an adequate replacement.

Not wanting my recruitment to appear totally without merit, I suggested to Scott that he hold a “contest” so that hundreds of others could submit their writings thus making the inevitable selection of my article a legitimate victory.  Scott astutely pointed out that this joke would have been more effective last year during the First Annual Write Scott Hollifield’s Column Contest.  Undaunted by semantics,  I agreed to participate in his clever ruse to allow uncompensated amateurs to perform his professional duties while he was paid to lie on the beach counting the stacks of cash that rural newspaper editors undoubtedly earn.

With no obvious literary skill and even less knowledge of dog snot and Sasquatch, I wondered what would happen if other professions engaged in similar “contests” that allowed untrained lay people to perform a job while a skilled professional went on vacation.  Certainly some jobs lend themselves more to the contest format than others.  I would gladly offer to fill in for a physics professor during her sabbatical even though the most basic introduction to Einstein’s theory of relativity makes my eye twitch like I am having a bad allergic reaction.  Of course, I am sure that, like Scott’s contest, the rules of being a physics professor for a semester would include a handy list of topics and buzzwords that could be scattered throughout a lecture to give the appearance of actual knowledge.

“Okay class, let’s get started.  Last night’s reading assignment clearly disproves the Newtonian notion of absolute space and time while concurrently violating the thermodynamics of Kepler’s String theory.”
“I don’t think any of those are real words, professor.”
“Are you calling Copernicus a liar?”
“I don’t think so.  Where did you say you studied physics, professor?”
“I’ll give you an A if you never return to class.”
“I’ll see you at graduation, professor.”

While it is frightening to think that if you could just pronounce duodenum without giggling you might be allowed to fill in for a medical doctor, I can see these contests offering a brutal reality check for all those people who ever said, “I could do that guy’s job with my eyes closed.”  Those people are patently wrong.  Except for professional umpires and that kid that got an apple shot off his head almost all jobs require you to have your eyes open.

Later, of course, Scott confided in me that he only scheduled a vacation this year because he is suffering from intense writer’s block.  There are simply no more stories tucked away in his prolific brain.  No more tales of renegade monkeys to enlighten and entertain his readers.  Afraid that his complete reliance on an unpaid amateur had compromised his journalistic credibility and professional future, Scott inquired as to whether I could offer any sage advice on a new career.

“I want to say one word to you”, I told him. “Just one word.”
”Are you listening?”
”Yes, I am”, he replied.
”Plastics.”
I could see the entrepreneurial wheels turning in his head.  The path to financial security had been laid out before him.
“That Ann Bancroft. Wasn’t she in a prison movie?” he asked.

Crisis averted.  Professional journalism had triumphed.  Scott Hollifield’s column would live to see another day.

After winning the Best Visual Image in last year’s contest, (which incidentally is framed and hanging in my living room), my life began a downward spiral.  Upon seeing my runner up status my wife simply said “Huh, not as good as that other fella.”  Friends began to abandon me opting to go to the winner’s one man off broadway show simply named “How I Won Scott Hollifield’s Contest”.  Runner up, come on Scott, do you know what that did to me?  I spent an entire year reading columns about goats and dog-snot. I painstaking collected articles from the far ends of the earth on people who train monkeys to hammer empty beer cans into works of art. I carefully crafted a column that included it all.  Do you think that I am going to go through the list again and include words like pepper spray, chicken wire and sublime just to curry your favor?  I mean look, last year’s reference to Loni Anderson covered both Burt and the supermodel requirement.  My literary offering upon review was tighter than a tube dress at the Double Deuce. Who else could have pulled that off?  The column I mean, not the dress.  I really thought it would be you and me.  You covering the weekly column and me stepping in once a year with an amazing witty entry.  You know, you watch my back, I watch your back and we just take out the trash.

My life continued to spiral out of control until I found myself watching news clips of Meg Scott Phipps being hauled off to prison for messing with the State Fair.  I could not wait for the Fair to come to town when I was young, Scott.  My parents would send us off for the day with a pocket full of money which we would diligently spend on valuable merchandise which can only be found on the Midway.  Like the genuine leather Indiana Jones bullwhip we acquired one year after spending an undisclosed amount shooting at plastic monkeys.  The bullwhip may the reason my brother is also a bit jumpy.  It is harder than you think to snap a beer can off the top of someone’s head without hitting them in the face.  After bypassing the booths that promised to show a real zombie or a goat wit two heads, we would move to the rides to finish of the day.  The best of course was the Himalaya.  I can still hear the DJ screaming HIMMMMAAALLLAYAAAA over the top of Sweet Home Alabama.  Later we would try and recreate the experience by slinging my Buick around the parking lot while screaming over the top of South’s Gonna Do it Again.  This may also explain why my brother is a bit jumpy. 

Anyways, I talked with my ma Ermaline (and no I did not rename her for this stupid…. Oh, nevermind) and she finally brought me to the realization that this contest does not encompass my life’s work.  That actually I was really good at lots of things.  Like the fact that I can quote the beginning of the A-Team with out missing any of the words. Or how I how I can do a perfect imitation of Burt’s laugh from the end of Cannonball Run. Ma is good like that. So, I am back on an even keel again with no intent of being sucked into this contest. And even though I actually saw Ric Flair in the airport one time, I am not going to tell you that story.  I’m not putting my creative heart back out there only to have it beaten down like a yeti with a log-chain.

Remember pain don’t hurt, Scott, pain don’t hurt.

“Prepare a book review,” said Dr. Gill, my Freshman English teacher. “An intelligent analysis of ‘The Educated Imagination’ by Northrop Frye, due next week.” Dr. Gill was never one to make life easy for his students. On the contrary, he seemed to consider it his life’s purpose to disprove any ideas that his students could come up with. Every class would always turn out the same: Dr. Gill assigned a story, we discussed the story, the class gave it’s thoughts on the story, he explained why every thought the class had was idiotic, and then he would dismiss the class 20 minutes early in an irritated sulk, muttering about the failing standards of the American educational system.

So, with the thrill of an unspoken challenge ringing in my ears, I began work on the book, pouring over its pages, researching its sources and citations, even going as far as to discuss its points with my peers. Hours of perfectly formed sentences and well-linked clauses flowed forth through a time tested method of constant revision. After three straight days of work, I finally finished forming an excellent review of the book, one of which I was sure that Dr. Gill would be proud.

Then I fatefully brought up one of Northrop Frye’s points to my room-mate, who was a good friend, mild genius, and well-proven person with which to throw ideas around. He listened to my ramblings thoughtfully for a few minutes before stating politely that he considered it to be the most ridiculous thing that he had ever heard. Stunned, I demanded that he explain himself. To my increasing displeasure, he did and made perfect sense while doing it. Stunned and momentarily distraught, I returned to my room to contemplate what exactly I should do.

After much thought on the subject, I began to agree with my room-mate’s points. In a stroke of rebellious insight I tore through my copy of “The Educated Imagination” with a renewed vigor, striking through each unbelievable phrase with uncanny accuracy. My yellow highlighter was a blur as I destroyed Frye’s work, page by page, never resting until my task was completed and every erroneous statement had been exposed. Much later, I sat with my yellow-soaked book on my desk in front of me, ready to move on to the next step.

I opened my already completed essay and immediately deleted it. I had no need for any previous trains of thought; this new essay would be groundbreaking. It would be a landmark in the life of my teacher, who finally had a student with the mental capacity to comprehend the foolishness of the book he had assigned. I was sure that upon his reading of my essay he would either congratulate me on my discovery of his hidden plot to open our minds, or else strike the Northrop Frye book from his list of class supplies from that moment on.

Several hours later, I gazed upon my newly completed work- a masterpiece, clearly reminiscent of the classic authors that had been forced upon students for countless years. I imagined that soon after I turned in my essay Dr. Gill would be approaching me with wondrous applause, excited at the literary prodigy that had been thrown into his class. I printed my paper (and an extra copy, just in case) with confidence that by the end of the week I would have mastered my Freshman English class and begun a fast-paced track to greatness.

With an air of confidence and achievement, I turned in my essay the next day. I added it to the pile with the same mindset as a man attending a ceremony for an award that he’s already won. With a skip in my step, I wished Dr. Gill a good afternoon and went along my merry way. In my delight, I decided to take a different route through the English department on my way back to my dorm room. As I stepped down the left wing staircase I noticed a glass display case on the wall of the stairwell. I stopped to examine it, and then dropped my backpack to the ground in silent horror. Encased on the wall was a brand new copy of “Northrop Frye and the Phenomenology of Myth,” by Dr. Glen Gill.
I have no idea how much time I actually spent gawking at that copy of my teacher’s work…Did he really think highly enough of Northrop Frye to write an entire book about him? Would he be prejudiced against my paper that blatantly regarded Frye as a sub-par author? Was there still time to return to the classroom and rip the paper from Dr. Gill’s hands? 

In a panic, I quickly ripped open my backpack and grabbed the extra copy that I had printed the night before. Every sentence filled me with dread and a nauseas feeling crept over me as I read each new claim.  I began to think, as I read through my slanderous work, that maybe everything would be alright. Maybe he would be compassionate and not give me a failing grade, thus allowing me the ability to make it up to him. Maybe there was the possibility that he would not take any of my foolish ramblings as actual insults to his favorite author. Then, my eyes rested on the last sentence of the paper: “I hope for Frye’s sake that he was not depending on the sale of his book for food money.”

Destroyed and demoralized, I closed the pages of my damned paper and began to ponder whether or not my life was still worth living. Around the time that I decided that my life could still be salvaged from the murk in which it had fallen, I noticed something odd about my paper’s heading. At first all seemed well, proper MLA format, header in its proper place, title centered (“A Mediocre Tome,” by the way). But, under my name, right before the class title, stood the space usually reserved for Dr. Gill’s name. I say usually reserved for because in that case Dr. Gill’s name did not occupy that spot. Instead “Dr. Dill” gazed tauntingly up at me from the paper, a quick thrust that decapitated my already wounded sanity and caused me to drop to a level of distress from which I was sure I could never recover.  I could not imagine my life ever reaching a lower point, and searched wildly for any method of appeasing my distraught psyche.
 
So, I quickly returned to my dorm and struck my room-mate.

“Yes,” she said as she protected her Wal-Mart Yeast Roll with a wave of her fist. Now my wife is not a violent woman, but I think she would go to any means to protect that taste of high school.

In all my years of shopping — and there’s well over 40 of them, way over — in all those paper or plastic moments, I have never before last night bought Wal-Mart Yeast Rolls. That first bite took me back to ninth grade: I’m sitting across from Jenny “JuJubees,” braces and all; with the blue plastic, portion-controlled tray braced between my elbows.

“Hey Jenny, you gonna eat that roll?” my lips uttered in anticipation of another bite.

“You ain’t gettin’ it. If anybody gets my roll, it will be Harold. Monkeys would have to fly out of my butt before you’d get it.”

Harold just looks around for another Harold.

“Huh, when was the last time he did your math for you?”

“You got me an F!”

Oh, yeah. That’s right. I do remember being kind of bad with numbers.

That explains a lot. Maybe that’s why they called me “Stinky.” Yes, I’m sure of it, now that I think about it. “Well, what about your English? Did Harold do your English for you?”

“You got me a D in English,” she said through her candy-coated braces. She was right about that, too. Man, I sure wanted another yeast roll. There’s got to be a way.

“Hey Jenny, Harold’s kissing Madeline.”

“Uh, uh!”  As she turned to look I reached for her shiny, buttery, fluffy, mouth-watering yeast roll. BAM! Mr. Snivel grabbed my forearm with his big, hairy hand sporting a gold bracelet.

“Young man, you’re coming with me.” Oops. One can only imagine what happened next. I got “the chair.”

“No, no, please. I’m only 14. I’m too young for the chair!” I screamed to no avail. Mr. Snivel ignored my pleas, much like he ignored the big giant hairs in his nose. As it turned out, I wasn’t going to die this day. The “chair” was a big wooden seat outside Principal Vandersleethousengudensmite’s office where the kids were brought in for questioning. I was safe for a few minutes because I saw him in the teacher’s lounge during my drag over here. I had to think fast.

Oh yeast roll, oh yeast roll, yummy delicious yeast roll, look what trouble you’ve gotten me into now.  Mr. Vandersleethousengudensmite’s assistant was still sitting at her desk. “Excuse me Miss Um, um…” Miss Um would have to do because I forgot her name under such intense scrutiny.

“Yes?”

I begged and pleaded with her to let me run back and get my bag because all my assignments were contained within the zippers of that bag. “Please, pretty please? Do you want me to get F’s? That’s what will happen if I can’t bag that bag.”

“Very well, Mr. Bun Stealer. But be quick about it. You are to be severely punished for your crime.” Could it really be that easy? Woo hoo. Oh crap, I said that out loud.

“Come back here, you pervert.”

If I could just get my hands on another one of those yeast rolls! It might be months before we have this privilege again. We could be stuck with pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers and spaghetti for the next few weeks. I might not see yeast rolls again until next term!

Now one might wonder why a high school freshman would react this way to some of the worst food known to man — foods proven to be absolutely disgusting in laboratories all across America — consumables that turn the government pyramids upside down of all things.

It’s simply the fact that my mother believes it’s okay to serve crepes for dinner. She believes it is her God-given right to have beans on toast for supper. How can one not yearn for Wal-Mart Yeast Rolls? Now that takes me back to high school…

Things were rapidly turning sour when one of my oblivious buddies decided it was a good time to ask me who I was going to vote for. Politics didn’t seem like a topic that would earn us any points so I had to think fast to salvage the situation.

“I’m not voting for either of them.”

“You’re not voting? That’s just un-American,”

“I didn’t say that. I’m voting for Ric Flair.”

I neglected to mention earlier that all I had been able to think about at that time was Wrestlemania. A palpable confusion settled over the Karaoke Korner. Pitchers that were filling began to overflow, Celebrate continued playing without any poorly sung lyrics, and most importantly a chain stopped being wrapped in midfist. It seemed that my newfound audience required an explanation and as I began to concoct one I realized that my suggestion wasn’t as crazy as I originally thought.

We’ll overlook the fact that Ric Flair is an active member of the political arena, having campaigned with several presidential candidates in the past and focus on the qualities that might actually make someone vote for him. For instance, let’s discuss Flair’s stance on foreign policy. It’s unlikely the Nature Boy would ever take America to war; instead he’d just handle matters himself. While Saddam was distracted by the U.N. Flair would have just put him in his place with a cheap shot. It’s quick, it’s effective, and it’s humiliating.

Electing Flair would end the general disinterest Americans have for their government and in the process significantly reduce the national debt. Ric’s first State of the Union Address would shatter all Pay-Per-View records. I can see it now; the lights will dim, Hail to the Chief will be replaced with Also Sprach Zarathustra, and right at its crescendo The Nature Boy would appear in a pink sequined robe and walk slowly down an aisle of screaming senators to take the podium. After the noise died down Flair will clear his throat and give a stately “WOOOO” before kicking off the evening’s festivities with Newt Gingrich and Nancy Pelosi in a first blood cage match.

Even in the face of my flawless rationale, I’m sure that detractors will arise waving a laundry list of problems Flair has that should keep him out of office. They’ll say he’s too old, he lacks experience holding a major office, and that he hasn’t been sober in the past fifteen years. My integrity as a fill-in columnist requires me to remind those people that none of those reasons have ever stopped us from electing anyone before. In the past we’ve empowered singers, action heroes, and even other professional wrestlers. The idea of Flair following in the footsteps of such great men as Ronald Reagan, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Jesse Ventura should excite the electorate because if he is able to live up to their austere examples it won’t be long before he begins starring in films of his own. I for one would pay top dollar to see The Dirtiest Player in the Game take the title roll in a Hugh Hefner biopic.

I had just consolidated these ideas and was preparing to start a political revolution at Biker Week when the karaoke announcer cut me off to call my friends up to sing their rendition of Eight Days a Week, and as they began I noticed a chain slowly start to tighten around a rather large fist.