We have just passed the last day of the last summer of the last 100 years (okay, you purists, I know it’s 99 years, but what’s the big deal with that?). Oh, yeah, to some of you it was nothing other than September 22, 1999, but it sounds so much more meaningful, dramatic even, when referred to in my way. To me, those sixteen words evoke a sense of overwhelming and welcome nostalgia. It is a perquisite of maturity, nostalgia is.

However, depending on your level of maturity (read age and number of functioning brain cells), your nostalgia may take you no further back than last week. I ask that you please join me now in My Nostalgic Daydream and yes, I promise to give the “realists” equal time.

Heeeeeerrrreeeee She Is, Miss Cellaneous…

Travel with me, if you will, along the beach; hearken to the plaintive cry of the Herring Gulls and breathe in the tropical aroma of coconut-scented Panama Jack. Or, you can shut your ears to the wails of sandy-bottomed, blue-lipped kids while being assaulted by the stench of hordes of nearly nude nubile delinquents greasing each other into sizzling peoplesicles.

Stroll by my side on these crisp evenings of Indian Summer, as we perambulate with the puppers under the gentle luminescence of the Harvest Moon. Or glue yourself to the tube for the new season (Are you ready for some FOOTBALL?) and don’t, under any circumstances, step foot outside after dark.

My daydream is warmed by a sun resplendent in the bluest sky ever and framed by a gentle fall of leaves hued in gold and crimson and ochre; yours consists of the sting of cold sweat, incessant sneezing and suppurating blisters, punctuated by an unprintable monologue aimed at an inadequate rake erratically pushing moldering vegetation from one spot of sorry sod to another.

I revel in the neighborhood peace of a schoolday and am filled with hope as I imagine eager, innocent minds absorbing and assimilating the meaning of everything, thus securing our future. You, however, experience a rapid rise in blood pressure as the school bus ahead rolllllllls to a premature stop as the traffic light turns yellow, leaving you facing seven grimacing thirteen-year-olds gesticulating wildly with their middle digits.

I’m really getting into this nostalgic daydream thing now, and here we are, at that one place in the world that gives September it’s raison d’etre, that sets the benchmark for Tacky, boards baked by countless lumins of celestial candlepower and burnished by millions of shod, unshod and shoddy feet, with the history of mankind created from the graffiti of melting snocones, masticated chiclets and gull guano – ATLANTIC CITY! And what happens every September in this Paean to Pulchritude, this Gomorrah of the Garden State, this Arena of Amateur Angst?????

The Miss America Pageant!

We start with the vehicular parade of the contestants, convertible tops down regardless of the weather, practicing the venerable tradition of “Show Us Your Shoes!” My beauty raises her curvaceous calf, three toes en pointe, and grants the clamoring crowd a glimpse of her dark green neoprene muttluks. The throng goes wild, flung into a frenzy of febrile fantasy by the sudden sight of her spotless, silky, silver and cream thigh. She smiles modestly at her admirers, dipping her head and glancing upward through once-lush lashes. (Be still, my heart.)

Inside the now-hushed and darkened Convention Hall, the participants promenade, pondering the potential power of their public persona in this preeminent postpubescent position. None have been married, none have had abortions. Definitely not my entry, my lovely, who never had a sacramentally sanctioned union nor her babes from her womb untimely ripped. Swimsuit Competition? She exercised her prerogative to pass. Talent? A stretch, but her crooooooning placed her tenth.

The final evening has arrived. Grandiose titles have been granted to the least memorable of the hopefuls, kisses and tears have been exchanged and the ten finalists are brought on stage for the final judging. One after the other, nine women vow to end poverty, shelter the homeless, secure world peace, free America from addictions, free Americans from prejudice, promote literacy, feed the hungry, design and produce a new American flag, and remove Jerry Springer and Howard Stern from the airwaves. Whew. Who can top any one of those?

Bert Barks approaches my lady with weighty demeanor and wrinkled brow, his ingratiating smirk dissipating as he brings his face close to hers. “You have heard the other contestants.” he declaims. “You have heard the pledges they’ve made to bring about a better world. Tell us, Suzi, can you add your dream for mankind to the inspiring messages heard here tonight?”

The spotlight on her shining brown eyes, my girl looks demurely at Bert, smiles and replies, “Hell, no, I’m in it for the money.”

Miss Kentucky, Heather Renee French, won.