Rod Stewart was never a man with a handsome face, but always a man with a handsome wardrobe. In part, his style and composure are the very qualities that drew me to buy a CD featuring a curious collection of Stewart's most mediocre work for $1.99 at Sam's Club. In the long run, I feel that my purchase will greatly enhance my social life and boost my somewhat lacking popularity on campus. After all, I assume that most members of my age group are drawn to the soothing noises of Stewart's average-sounding ballads, just as I am. For now, I can only wait and see. The CD has prompted me to rethink whether I am actually laughing at Stewart or with him. Still and all, I am genuinely fond of the song about waking up and saying something to Maggie. The lyrics really hit home for this little lady, and the song makes me think about Rod as a mortal being, not as the deified pop-culture super-human that the general public sees him as. Unfortunately the song is not on the compact disc that I purchased, seeing as it's an actual hit and not an obscure and unknown tune that may or may not actually be performed by Stewart himself. Sam's Club is a little shadier than one would dare believe. There is something sinister about gigantic jars of mustard. There is also something delicious about them. Namely, the mustard itself.

Statistics prove that mustards trigger certain hormonal malfunctions in women who abuse the spread. Be that as it may, I now have the pleasure of saying that I do, indeed, own a Stewart album. I am not lying when I saw that I have actually listened to the CD. Rather, that I have listened to a few seconds of each song on the CD. Nevertheless, those few seconds were such that they accumulated to form the 60 minutes of one of my weakest hours. Move over, Andy Rooney, I'm taking over your one-hour timeslot, and I'm doing it with vengeance in mind. After all, the holiday season is always devastating for society's alienated loners. Thankfully, I'm not one of them. And neither is Rod … neither is Rod.

He came to me in a dream once. Stewart, that is. It was only a daydream, but it was prophetic nonetheless. Stewart reminded me that Saint Patrick's day was but a few skips away on my monthly Star Wars calendar, and that, yet again, I would find myself yearning to be part of a culture that was never rightfully mine. I suppose my holiday blues sweep in with the arrival of leprechaun-embroidered sweater-vests and commotion over feast, drink and overall merriment. So I take to the streets with hopes of feeling the St. Patty's Day jive, only to end up passed out by a fire hydrant, wishing that I could be celebrating Bastille Day instead. "Sweet, sweet Bastille Day," I think to myself as I look to the sky for answers, "man has truly created the most glorious holiday when he invented you."

Last summer I marked the storming of the Bastille by attending a world-renowned waiter's race. The waiters ran (literally and metaphorically) the gamut from looking like pirates, to looking disgruntled, to looking for a good time. They were in competition for a round-trip airline ticket to France to celebrate Bastille Day like they did in the Old Country. Old Country Buffet, that is. It may be all-you-can eat, but this isn't your father's barbecue, fellow peers. Bastille Day at the Buffet is a full-day feast of fine wines, fine cheeses, fresh baguettes, escargot and delicatessens that make the mouth water all shades of saliva. And yes, while berets are a-plenty, I still find that I am among well wishers and do-gooders whenever Bastille Day comes by. The holiday cheer is not merely an old wives tale when July rolls around the corner. Fellow celebrators party until the life-sized chocolate moose is but dust in the wind. So, wake up, Maggie, I think I've got something to say to you. I'm going to eat a chocolate moose this Saint Patrick's Day, and pray that others join.