Caesar

Iris Macadangdang, gentleman. Iris. Macadangdang. I know two women named Iris from the University of Michigan. If I took a poll, I feel confident no one would care.

Iris Macadangdang is a saint. She is a political scientist who believes that politics really is science, so you know she has illogically unshakable conviction. Her hair reminds me of something awesome. It's black. Because I'm not racist, I'll say it reminds me of black people. I don't think she ever dyed her hair, so she's also natural. And that counts for something in MY pantry. Iris Macadangdang is also very nice. She added me on the facebook, spoke to me, and made up a fairly plausible reason for blocking me. Is there a chance she just left the facebook and didn't block me? Yes. More on miracles below.

Iris Macadangdang is more than a name. She is a thing like Band Aids and the University of Michigan. These are institutions so hallowed their brand name is the name. Got a cut? Get a Band Aid. Want a superlative education? Michigan. Hey buddy, could you suggest a fantastic woman? Iris Macadangdang.

I want you to say her name to yourself. Say it out loud. You will eventually yell it sweetly and mournfully. I know I just did. When I first heard her name, I couldn't stop hearing it wherever I went. I was ordering Iris Macadangdangs with cheese. I was revolving my Iris Macadangdang about the y-axis. I celebrated Iris Macadangdang on Mother's Day. I mowed the Iris Macadangdang, took out the Iris Macadangdang on garbage night, and LITERALLY Iris Macadangdanged while I watched a Michigan game.

Perhaps now I should disclose that I have never met Iris Macadangdang. I have never spoken to her in person. I seldom discuss her vastness without the cloak of anonymity. By God, I haven't even paid her the honor of stalking her. Gentleman, we all have regrets. Please do not judge me.

But I have shaken the hand of a man who possibly fornicated with Iris Macadangdang. He does not admit to what I must call "The Cataclysm." In fact, there is no evidence of this conquest whatsoever. But these denials come swiftly at the defense of his Jewish girlfriend, with whom I am convinced he is actually engaged but not telling anyone. Frankly, if there was ever a time to believe in miracles, it would be so with The Cataclysm.

I am the man who did not meet the man, but met the man who met the Macadangdang. I did not plant the Iris, but I met the gardener. Did I shake Sinatra's hand? No--but that still means something around here. So respect me.

And vote Macadangdang.

Dear Young Man,

You were the means to my first UM football game. Though the Event was very important to me, some friends and I were a little behind schedule. I distinctly remember marveling at how the stadium could hold my entire hometown. And my, the freedom of being around so many unattractive women. How carefree and joyful it was!

In our exchange, there was no need for names. I approached you somewhere on the way to the stadium. My friends had tread this path before and did not feel my apprehension. The remotely illicit nature of our transaction made Michigan's ovular stadium seem an ill-fit for this square peg, but things began anyway. Both your baseball cap and your introduction to puberty appeared new. You found humor in my mammoth beard and ridiculous glasses, but were polite enough to try and conceal it. Thank you for that, by the way.

I do not recall the agreed price for the tickets. I don't remember how much money I brought with me to see the game. But I do remember, after we were swept in a crowd of women who worried their purses were too big to comply with stadium rules, that I recounted my money.

"Jeff Smoker smokes crack!" said the black guy selling t-shirts just outside the stadium.

I had an extra twenty and was missing a George Washington. I shorted you 19 bucks, kid. I turned and looked for you. When I told my friends, they did the same. You were nowhere to be seen and the Brown Jug beckoned.

Yes, it is many years after the fact. And, to be honest, I don't wake up in cold sweats thinking about it. But during long drives, or when I get together with friends who rib and remind me about it, I feel bad. You were not had, child. I am just a clumsy idiot. Please forgive me for the mistake.

Sincerely,

Caesar