America’s Treasure

America’s Treasure

To Whom it May Concern,

There are a lot of things that I am not. You see, I am not an athlete or a mathematician. Or a model or working at some start-up in the city. I don’t understand technology as much as most dutiful millennials- I just got an iPhone and it’s 2018! And, though I am a fully-functioning adult, I don’t know how to ride a bike. Calm down.

Now, I know it may sound it, but I’m not entirely useless. Have you ever been in a long line at Disney World or the DMV? Bored to tears, thinking about ways to curb the incessant this is hell repeating over and over in your head? So you open a trivia app or play Heads Up with your friends. That. That right there is what I’m good- no, great at. Yeah, I’m amazing. Looking to play Pictionary? Let’s do this. Need a trivia partner? Pick me! Who Wants To Be A Millionaire lifeline? If it were still a thing, I’d be your gal.

Why, you may ask, just…why? Because it’s fun, you party pooper, and more importantly, it’s something I am good at. Sure, I have a degree and sure, I might very well be good at something else, but I don’t need to be. This is America, and if pop culture isn’t the most important thing to us, what is? Celeb disputes take precedent and you should care.

After watching a movie or show or taking in any sort of new media, I’ll spend a ~reasonable~ amount of time reading about it- reviews, behind the scenes, anything and everything. Yeah, sure it’s not ideal for a movie slash dinner date combo but I make it work. I excuse myself to the restroom and by the time I come back, I know the entire filmography of the protagonist, at the very least. I haven’t always been this on top of things though.

It was just another day at Downtown Disney, as it was known in my youth. Growing up in Central Florida, the parks and stores were as familiar to me as the inside of a toddler’s nose is to them. As a pre-teen, walking through the World of Disney for the umpteenth time was cartoonish torture.

My brother and I were just trying to find a spot to rest our lazy legs and the carpet, hardened with aged chewing gum leading to an assortment of plush Piglets, seemed as good a place as any. We plopped down, only to have our R&R time interrupted by some boy and his bodyguards. I don’t remember his face or clothes. No. That’s a lie. I remember he had a popped collar (what a time to be alive.) I really don’t remember the name people shouted at him or the length of time he was actually there. I do, however, vividly remember feeling like a trash.

Who the hell is this guy? Within minutes of his appearance in my Winnie the Pooh domain, the store went crazy. Teen girls yelling, grown men asking for autographs, and the poor bastard just trying to fill his basket with plush toys. We scurried over to where our family stood and started speculating. My uncle and cousins from Mexico were asking us who he was, as if I had the answer. I should. I’m an American girl with a purse filled with HitClips and clip-on charms. If anyone knows who the heartthrob is, it should be me. There I sat, so close to a real celebrity and I knew nothing. The shame I felt in that moment will stay with me for years to come.

For the rest of the day, the family tried to guess who the mystery man was but we will never truly know. It was then that I decided to dedicate my life’s work to ingesting as much pop culture as possible. In hindsight, I could have just asked and moved on, but who knows if without that spark I would have found my true life’s calling- being really moderately surprisingly decent at bar trivia.

Thank you for your consideration and I hope you choose me to be on your next Geeks Who Drink team.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s