By TED MCLENDON
As an Apache staff writer, I’m always being handed opportunities to do some incredibly cool things. Just last semester for example, it was deemed necessary that someone was to go to Marambundi-Acundi (a small, archipelago off the Mediterranean coast inhabited entirely by young, attractive females who refuse to wear clothing) and do a documented study on their culture. Having somehow been selected, I was honored, but had to turn it down. I just couldn’t see how the experience would add to my music column.
Noting my disappointment, the editor handed me a list of upcoming events that were to be covered by Apache writers. The list was overflowing with interesting opportunities for stories.
One notable circumstance was "dinner with the Pope’s interpreter". Another one that caught my eye was "a week in British Parliament."
With journalistic integrity as my guide however, I stopped at the one that seemed to hold relevance to my column: "The LP High School Fall Band Ensemble."
Well, in time I learned that covering such an event was perhaps below my standards. The high school band members were aware of my over qualification and urged me on to greater things with comments such as "Get out of here, man," and "Dude, don’t think I’m going to talk to you. I’m only here cause my mom’s pissed I dropped chemistry. Now beat it." I thanked them for their encouragement and with bounding confidence, approached the editor with a plan.
"I’ve got it, Randa!" I said as I stormed into the Apache office.
"What do you have, Ted?" She calmly replied without looking up from her newspaper.
"What I have is gold." I said. "This is it. This is the big one." I paused, took breath and continued.
"I want to cover the Grammy’s. Not just write about them, but go there and be part of that whole incredible spectacle. I want to bring that kind of magic to the Apache."
With devotion uncompromising, she kept both eyes on her newspaper, tossed me a stocky roll of cash from the billowing funds, and simply said, "Go".
The few months that followed were host to some mighty anxiety. I wore the proverbial path in my carpet as I paced ceaselessly, wondering if by some remote chance I might catch a glimpse of Brittany Spears or bump into a Backstreet Boy.
Finally, the day came. Predictably, my flight was late and I attempted to compensate by refusing to stop at any red light en route of the theatre. This was to no avail however, as I was stopped by Officer Friendly and given the routine beating. Limping my way into the ornate complex that held the award ceremony, I found that I had arrived just as it was ending.
Swallowing my sorrow, I scavenged the crowd in attempt to salvage any hopes at a potential interview. Here’s what I came home with:
Me: Hey, Brittany Spears. Ted McLendon, Apache writer. Do you think I could ask you a few questions?
Brittany: Ewww. Yuck. Here’s a dollar in quarters. Go play in a car wash.
Me: Hey, Santana. You scored more awards tonight than you ever have before. How’d you do it?
Santana: Man, I just took a look at what was selling big and I’m like "I can sound like that". It was a cakewalk, brother.
Me: Hey, Tori Amos. I was just wondering where you come up with the inspiration for your music.
Tori: I’m a victim.
Me: Of what?
Tori: Men.
Me: I see. So basically, you date jerks cause it provides you with material?
Tori: Screw you.
Me: The Backstreet Boys! I’m dying to know, does the fact that you croon sexually laden and romanticized lyrics to armies of eight-year-old girls bother you?
Backstreet: No way, man. We’re all about the ladies. Besides, we don’t even write the songs.
Me: Wow! Johnny Marr! Granted, you deserve more Grammy’s than anyone here, but what are you doing here?
Johnny: I’m looking for Morrissey. I want to do a Smiths reunion tour.
Me: Hey, I can dream, right?