Planes, Trains, and Cell Phone Bills

Through the Villa gate and down the hill, known as “the hill,” there is a bridge separating country and town. 1400 and 2008. If a few of us are walking across it, there’s just enough room for one of those three-wheeled vehicles that look like shoes. So they’re widening the overpass. A crane sits on top of the olive grove nearby, swinging out over the interstate. Everyday a little more dirt is moved and a little more wall is built. Old men shuffle in from Scandicci to line up and gaze at the construction. And everyday, more men move to the bridge and a little more of their hill is changed.

I passed them on my way to Santa Maria Novella. Bus 16 can take you there, or the 27 if you don’t mind the walk—which I do. The bus drops you on Via Prato via the construction detour for the new tram. Arriving in town you get two bars on the cell phone. I shook my international SIM card and gained another. My iPod headphones were tangled around a mechanical pencil so I couldn’t enjoy my new Italian downloads. I passed Dante’s church, I believe. The long shadow from Giotto’s bell tower pointed to 5 o’ clock, which is 17:00 here. The peddlers in the piazza were in my face with magnetic beans and boomerangs. I stopped at an ATM on way to the station. After withdrawing 20 Euros, which is $31.1800 here, I tried to see how long I could wait before my card was eaten up.

The train stations in Italy are over-crowded and under-lit. Numbers flip on the board, echoing off the marble. I put my college education to use by looking up a train. Number 234—overnight to Vienna, second-class, reclining chair. Symbol “R” means more money is needed and the lightning bolt means death is possible. The crossed fork and knife means snacks. The train departs at 21:53, skips Milan (thank goodness), passport check in Tarvisio at 03:52, and cars 4 and 5 split, sending my body to Vienna and my bags to Budapest. After committing this to Moleskin memory, I searched for an internet café.

The internet cafes in Italy are over-crowded and under-lit. I bought the table with a double espresso and a complimentary chocolate spoon. Once online, I found myself wandering webcams from American cities—Times Square, the pier in Santa Monica. Made a few friends on Facebook and declined a $1 digital banana. After checking my blog, Bank account, Skype account, Google Earth, Bank account again, and uploading a hundred pictures of never-before-seen angles of Cinque Terre, I had five minutes to catch bus16 or 27, if you don’t mind the walk.

Back at the villa, I reached for the bronze knob and a light poked my eye from far away. The brilliant tip of the Duomo, golden, was standing on her tip-toes to see me over the hills.

The calling cards in Italy have a map of the U.S. with an American flag over the words “special edition.” I dialed 800 930038, selected 2 for English, and dialed the number. It’s funny how nice it is to type in your home area code.

None of my friends answered, and why voicemail when you can email? But I can’t email granddaddy. And come to think of it, I can’t even text him. So I called my granddaddy Austin living in Hamilton, Alabama (You might have heard about the new Sonic on Highway 43). But would he answer? Would the Ruby-throated hummingbird be too beautiful not to feed? Or would the magnolia leaves be falling and too big not to rake? When he did pick up he was in the hospital room with his mother. She’s 99 years old. I heard machines beeping.

“Hello Granddaddy.”
“Hello?”
“It’s Tyler. I’m in Italy.

I repeated this several times until he believed it was really me. I don’t know if he had ever talked to anyone on the phone in another country.

“I declare,” he said. “The reception is so clear. It’s like you’re right here in the room with me. I can’t believe that. And you’re in Italy.” I laughed. “And you’re in Italy,” he kept repeating.

“You mean it’s clearer than the radios you used in Korea?” I wanted to ask. He was only a few years older than me when the first satellites went up, paving the way for this phone call. There was a sound in his voice—higher and younger—like the sound I had in my voice when I first approached the Coliseum. It was: man did this? Then I thought of the oldest known photograph of him. He’s a baby in the arms of his mother and they’re standing on a sagging, wooden porch. And I was right there with him, in that natural age, and he was here with me, standing underneath the majestic blue dome of the Sony Center in Berlin. My day became a piece of paper that crinkled up, unfolded, and was now smaller. My aha is no eureka. It is a whisper on an invisible telephone of tomorrow between me and my own grandson.

The day when I’m just an old man on a bridge in Scandicci.

Santa Is My Homeboy

Bill Lacovara and his son were fishing off the coast of Atlantic City when they spotted a bag dumped in the ocean. Inside were hundreds of unopened letters to God — some dating back to 1973. Many were still readable, including a man praying to win
the lottery (twice) and an unwed mother praying for the baby’s father to marry her. Lacovara later asked, “How many letters like this all over the world aren’t being opened or answered?” Naturally, he went on to sell the collection on eBay.

This month, 600,000 similar letters from around the world will be sent to FIN-96930
Arctic Cir., Finland — the official address of Santa Claus. In Britain, some children will burn their letters as tradition follows, while children in Latin America fix
them to balloons to float towards the heavenly North Pole. After befriending Santa on Facebook, myself and many other Americans will likely email or text Santa.

Cultural similarities between Santa Claus and God are centuries old. From Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel (where God looks like Santa with a six-pack) to Coca-Cola ads, these two are depicted as jolly, Anglo-Saxon bearded men who punish the naughty, reward the nice and, as Ray Stevens reminded us, are “watchin’ you.” And apparently, Santa battles Satan as well. In a 1959 film, Santa is literally turned into the god-hero when he joins Merlin to fight the Devil, and also in the Cold-War era “Santa Conquers the Martians” — which is pretty self-explanatory.

This decade has found Santa stuck in the chimney of political correctness — rejected by some religious groups for being too secular and by civil liberties groups for being too spiritual. While Santa’s in Australia are currently being told to say “Ha, ha, ha” instead of “Ho, ho, ho” (because it’s derogatory to prostitutes), it is his being a face of Christianity that upsets most secularists. Last month, pets around the country were outraged when PetSmart removed the word “Christmas” from promotions.

As the War on Christmas rages from holiday trees to public schools banning nativity scenes, some foresee a dark liberal day when Santa can’t even say “Ha” (because it’s derogatory to clowns) and he’s censored to the shelves of cyberspace — found only as a toy with highly poseable limbs.

Which is ironic, because the other hero has already been sentenced. At the satirical mcphee.com, you can find an action figure of God, or for $12.95 get the Deluxe Jesus which has “glow in the dark miracle hands” and comes with five miniature loaves and two fish. Jesus’ face has had a recent cultural surge in South Park, Kevin Smith’s “Dogma”, Jesus air fresheners, and Urban Outfitter’s successful “Jesus is My Homeboy” clothing line. Perhaps we should ask Gillian Gibbons about cultural blasphemy. The 54-year-old mother of two was nearly executed by a Sudanese mob last week when her Muslim class named a teddy bear Mohammed. While this offense to Islam was a radical over-reaction, is there any sanctity left in the way we present Christ?

In sharp contrast since being boycotted in 05’ for not saying “Merry Christmas”, Wal-Mart has teamed up with One2Believe, a faith-based manufacturer, and will start selling religious toys this Christmas. In their Battle for the Toybox campaign, they set out to create an alternative to violent action figures, by simply creating violent (Biblical) action figures. A plastic Goliath grips Samson in a chokehold on their site with the caption: “Spirit warriors ($24.99) are big tough toys that boys will love to play with!”

Problematically, the Jesus portrayed in the blasphemous toy market appears no different in the faith-based market. Such is the case with other well-intentioned Christian attempts at staying relevant like Napoleon Dynamite spoofed “Jesus Died For Pedro” t-shirts, the widespread Halloween “Hellhouses”, and church marquees like “Git-R-Done Fer God.” When our dumbed-down presentation of Christianity stoops to what we were fighting to begin with, how can anyone tell the difference? As sermon analogy after analogy compares God to everything from cookies, to maple syrup, to Superman, why should an intellectual think our belief in God is any different than a child’s belief in Santa Claus?

What Bill Lacovara found in the Atlantic is meant for a child’s Santa: some far-off magician to whom we float our wishlists. But God is not our white action figure or our “homeboy,” and when he’s put in a box (especially the kind that include batteries), his existence is trivialized. It sends the message to the world: “God is American — did you know that?” This Christmas let us share true love with every person of every race, without mistakenly creating God in the image of man.

Shake 'Em To Wake 'Em

“If you don’t touch the actors, they won’t touch you.” These aren’t normal instructions to attend church. Neither is paying $5. But standing in line for Searcy’s third consecutive Faith Assembly of God’s “Hell House,” I was embarking on the spiritual adventure aiming to scare the devil out of me—by letting me meet him face-to-face. This week, thousands of churches nationwide offered a moral-conscious “Hell House” alternative to Halloween, leaving many wondering: Are evangelism and scare tactics mutually exclusive in 2007?

Hell Houses, also known as “Revelation Walks” and “Torment Tours,” took off in the mid-90’s when Pastor Keenan Roberts decided to re-gain the attention of teenagers by creating “the most in-your-face, death-defyin’, satan-be-cryin’, keep-ya-from-fryin’, cutting-edge evangelism tool of the new millennium.” The concept is simple: deliver a fire and brimstone sermon in a spook house attraction. Groups are led by a demon, or multiple demons, through short scenes where unrepentant sinners are cast into Hell. Scenarios range from drunk-driving and pre-marital sex to political scenes like 9/11 ground zero and the Columbine shootings. The journey ends with heaven’s angels rescuing the group from Satan and taking them to meet Jesus, where they can respond to their experience and pray for salvation.

Roberts mass-produces Hell House outreach kits (chainsaw not included) which he sells for $299. Included is an instructional DVD, a special effects tape of Lucifer’s voice, and a 263-page manual on everything your church needs to know to run a Hell House, including this prop advice for an abortion scene: “Do your very best to purchase a meat product that will resemble as much as possible pieces of a baby that are being placed in the glass for all to see.” New for this fall were also $45 scripts of a dance club overdose and a gay wedding where Satan performs the ceremony.

The Searcy Hell House was unique in that, after the opening séance where demons circle the group chanting “nobody wants to go to Hell,” the skits build around Abby, a depressed teen, and her suicide. I was too terrified, however, to get the full plot effect and at one point was told by the head demon (possibly Screwtape) that if I didn’t settle down I would have to leave. This really served as my only moment of spiritual reflection: Where do you go if you get kicked out of Hell? The local tour also replaced the Heaven meet-and-greet with a guy handing out the “Book of Hope”—a copy-and-pasting of the gospels into a single “more complete account” of Christ’s life (for those youngsters who couldn’t possibly understand four separate books about him).

Still, not even Hell House can escape judgment. Many continue to criticize this radical evangelism’s gory nature (often including graphic abortions), attempts to scare people into converting, and the literal demonization of homosexuals. A Hell House in Florida featured the coffin on an AIDS victim where a demon joyously proclaims “I tricked him into believing he was born gay.” Pastor Roberts’ justifies these methods by citing 1 Cor. 9:23, “I do all this for the sake of the Gospel.” But how far does this logic go?

Last Monday, I called Roberts—who has appeared on the Phil Donahue Show and in the New York Times—and asked him if the ends always justifies the means in evangelism today. He defended his ministry by saying it wasn’t as if they were walking up to non-believers and hitting them with baseball bats (which I found very ironic since I was chased by a ghoul holding a two-by-four). He likened Hell House to modern day parables with multimedia. “And as these desperate times call for drastic measures,” Roberts said, “sometimes you’ve got to shake em’ to wake em’.”

While I appreciate the motive behind such productions, souls can not be won and issues debunked in 10-minute spook houses to the humming of demon chainsaws. We must be conscious of the fine line between adapting our evangelism and compromising it when trying to stay relevant. Does the gospel have to be an X-rated video game for kids to respond?

Upon exiting my first (and hopefully last time) in Hell, a kind demon held open the door for me and I asked where the baptistery was, to which he laughed and said “God bless you, and watch out for Satan in those bushes.” Satan in the bushes—now that’s something I’d pay $5 to see.

The Great Mall In The Sky

ATTENTION CONSUMERS: The latest conspiracy theory in America is taking place, leaving many robbed of brain cells and big bucks. And it’s happening at 35,000 feet. Somewhere between the flight attendant’s monologue and the second Nabisco snack pack, passengers become disoriented and fall into the ultimate trap: reaching for that SkyMall magazine. Exactly what happens next, no one knows. But three easy payments of $39.95 later, the person looks to their spouse and says, “We now own a Turbo-Groomer Cobalt nose-hair trimmer.”

My first encounter with SkyMall magazine was during a flight to Little Rock on an American Eagle aircraft (which felt more like an American Sparrow). I became entranced by the glossy paper and glowing smiles of pajama models, narrowly escaping the purchase of a marshmallow gun with a range of over 30 feet. Luckily for me, the marshmallows were not included.

SkyMall was created by Bob Worsley in 1989 to allow flyers to order products using airplane telephones. Today, the magazine appears on most major airlines, tempting 1.7 million people a day to buy their very own hand carved statue of Don Quixote. While products seem random, ranging from the children’s ATM bank to the voice activated R2-D2—programmed to “dance while playing the famed cantina music”—themes do emerge, usually involving more travel cushions and ways to survive the apocalypse (see Holiday 2006 issue’s “gravity-defying boots”). Is there anything that can be learned about America from SkyMall? With help from Claxton’s Collegiate Culture Police (the CCCP, if you will), here are the top three SkyMall products.

First, The Motorized Snack Float: In case your R2-D2 isn’t around, this remote control device brings you drinks and snacks while in the pool with “no need to paddle around or get out.”

Secondly, The Runaway Alarm Clock: If you dare hit the snooze button on this alarm, which has wheels, it will roll off your nightstand and hide until you come find it.

Finally, the most outrageous $99.99 ever spent is on the iCarta Stereo Dock. “Perfect for the man who has everything,” this system plays your iPod while doubling as a toilet paper dispenser (I shudder to imagine why it’s “moisture-proof”). Now you can listen to your Elvis playlist as the king of your own throne.

Last week, I decided to test the limits of SkyMall by calling Atech Flash Technology, the people who made the iCarta, to pitch my own product—the “iPet.” I explained that an iPod docking station for small animals would be sensational. Imagine your cat creeping into the room wearing a jacket that’s actually playing Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “CATS.” After two SkyMall operators loved that idea, I was connected to a manager who told me they already had that product in Japan. Needless to say, I wasn’t surprised.

In Ron Rosenbaum’s article on Slate.com, he labels SkyMall as a “techno-porn culture” that directly reflects what Americans are caring about. Leave it to the most materialistic country in the world to create a mall in the sky. One would think that with 35,000 thousand feet of perspective on our tiny planet that consumerism would lose its grip. Unfortunately, the urge to spend $80 on “The World’s Smallest Indoor Remote Control Helicopter” is often too strong. Trends of ultimate comfort and convenience, where we never have to leave the pool for anything, are replacing the natural with the iLife (which, go figure, is a new product from Apple in 2008). How can we preserve our humanity without being forced to rent Will Smith’s “I, Robot” for answers?

If any of the products mentioned above have indeed sounded interesting, please call 1-800-SKYMALL for the newest, quickest, smartest, biggest and all around best-est way to lose your check in three easy payments. The marshmallows, of course, are not included.

The Maybe Challenge

In 1991, Nickelodeon unleashed “Rugrats,” chronicling the triumphs and tribulations of toddlers, as one of its first cartoons alongside “Doug” (produced by Harding Alumni David Campbell). But it wasn’t until season five, episode 54 that “Rugrats” made television history in the controversial “Naked Tommy” episode—featuring Tommy removing his diaper to become more like Spike, his dog. “You shouldn’t take off your clothes. It’s not natural!” pleads Chuckie, Tommy’s conservative friend. With diaper waving in air, Tommy gloriously proclaims: “Nakie is fun! Nakie is free! Nakie is…nakie!” And with that, a generation is defined.

While no one at Harding would ever be so immature or careless as to ever go streaking to, say, the Mabee building at midnight during a session of Honors symposium, it’s important that we as college students are exposed (pun intended) to a range of ideas, including: Why are we so fascinated with being “nakie?” And yes, there is a Wikipedia article on streaking; no, the filter doesn’t block it.

Living in Los Angeles last fall, I read about a local art gallery displaying a photo of a nude person that was free for anyone to take. The catch? If you wanted the picture, you had to become the next person to pose nude. The cycle continued and became a huge success. Sound awkward? A group in Miami didn’t think so. Last Monday, over 600 random men and women posed in a massive nude photo shoot recreating the Tower of Babel. And these displays aren’t limited to trendy beach cities like L.A. or Miami. Restaurant patrons at The Black Frog in Greenville, Maine are upset about police prohibiting the “Skinny Dip” sandwich: sliced prime rib in a baguette roll, served free to anyone who will jump into the restaurant’s lake naked. How did these trends begin? Is this just another liberal conspiracy to put clothing enterprises like Wal-Mart out of business?

Naturism, nudism, and flashing have been around long before Will Ferrell let us all know “we’re going streaking.” The first college “streak” was in 1804 at Washington and Lee University by George William Crump—who later became a Senator and ambassador to Chile. Streaking really took off in 1974, a year after Time magazine called it a fad, when the University of Georgia set the record for the most streakers at 1,549. Erskine College followed by setting the highest per-capita streak involving 25% of their 600 students. That same year, country artist Ray Stevens recorded “The Streak,” a #1 hit ironically preceded by Paul McCartney’s “Band on the Run.” Since then, thousands have run “naked as a jay-bird” through the Olympics, the Academy Awards, the Super Bowl, weddings, funerals, Wrestlemanias, and of course, college campuses.

There’s Harvard’s “primal scream” before finals week, Notre Dame’s “streakers’ Olympics,” Michigan’s “naked mile,” and Dartmouth’s “blue light challenge” where students try to press all the alarms on the blue light emergency phones. Harding is no exception to such traditions with Allen dorm, the nudist colony of campus, the “Mabee challenge,” HUF’s “Scandicci challenge,” and the brand new “Zeedonk Dash” which sends students running to Kensett to feed the Zeedonk oats and sing the alma mater. With modern technology, however, many students are apprehended—as was the case several years ago when Professor Michael Wood bravely unmasked a student streaking through muffin chapel. But realistically, does Harding have a nudity problem?

Let’s first be honest about streaking: it’s not political. This summer’s World Naked Bike Ride (WNBR), an international event that attracted over 1,000 participants, claimed it was “to protest oil dependency.” Basically: we want to ride bikes naked. Secondly, girls must admit that guys aren’t the only guilty ones. Though extremely wimpy, the female “Little Rock challenge” involves a unique car trip to Little Rock and back— just in time for curfew and new inside jokes on Facebook.

For guys, as Robert E. Lee said after George Crump’s first campus run in 1804, streaking is often a rite of passage. A communal experience. Still, with pledge week approaching, the notion that we’re “nakie” all of the time will likely be reconfirmed. So I’m proposing the “MAYBE challenge”: maybe guys can break the stereotype by reducing excessive streaking/going one week without playing nude ultimate-Frisbee. Can we gather as civilized students of higher education and watch one episode of “The Office” without waiving our diapers in the air? True, Harding may be the closest thing to heaven on earth, but let’s remember it’s not the Garden of Eden. Grab some fallen leaves and, as Ray Stevens pleaded, “Don’t look Ethel.”

Honky Tonk Zedonkey Donk

Look past fall’s cool breeze, the new smiles of freshman friendship and those white swings rocking the soon-to-be-engaged, and you’ll see something often overlooked on Harding’s campus – civil war. Both sides of the battle are demanding resolution, leading to graffiti on bathroom stall to Facebook wall. This age-old issue has baffled philosophers since the beginning of time: Are we the Harding Bison or the Harding Bisons?

Inconsistencies in our newspaper, sports teams and t-shirts (featuring the buffalo that resembles a bowling ball with horns) have stirred a long debate over the word ‘Bisons’ being grammatically incorrect. However, while most dictionaries don’t recognize it, ‘Bisons’ can be a rare plural form of ‘Bison’. But try typing ‘Bisons’ on Microsoft Word and you’ll be met with an obnoxious red line that pierces the school-spirit. Before I offer my exotic solution, consider other schools in Harding’s Division II Gulf South Conference.

The GSC contains the most delightfully random mascots in the NCAA: the Monticello “Boll Weevils” and “Cotton Blossoms”, Ark. Tech’s “Wonder Boys” and “Golden Suns”, Southern Ark.’s “Muleriders”, Delta State’s “Fighting Okra” and Western Fla.’s “Argonauts”—a mythical group of bitter Greek sailors. With the generic “Bisons”, we join eight other universities (including that other Church of Christ school in Nashville) struggling with 2,000 hairy pounds of plurality problems. Since 1924, we’ve never been afraid to ask, “Can Harding do better?” So imagine this scene: It’s homecoming 2007 and instead of a bison charging the field endangering cheerleaders and journalists, one brave soul gallops out on Harding’s new and improved mascot—the Zeedonk.

Just four miles from First Security Stadium, a Kensett man owns “Trouble,” Arkansas’ only known zeedonk. Before you log onto snopes.com to crosscheck this with urban legends, drive to the corner of Searcy and 4th street. It’s impossible to pass the extremely rare hybrid between a zebra and a donkey without staring at the striped socks on his brown body. Also known as the zebronkey, zonkey, zebadonk, zenkey, zebrinny, deebra and, my personal favorite, zebrass, the animal gained national attention on Jay Leno’s “Headlines” when he mistakenly corrected a carnival for advertizing “zonkies.”

The Thundering Herd Marching Band will become the “Prancing Zebrinnies,” and other improvements will follow. What better time to correct the Bison/Bisons debate? Harding has new programs starting, a new head football coach, record enrollment, and a new international program in Zambia—which has real zebras. At a university that highly values staying up-to-date on current technologies and resources, it’s time to move on from the bison—a species that hasn’t run wild in White County in nearly 200 years. The close proximity of an actual oat-eating zeedonk is unique and far exceeds the nearest buffalo—living in the Ozarks on a ranch called “Happy Buffy” where they are happily sold between hamburger buns.

With modern emphasis on shock value, much like in this article, the Harding Zeedonks are sure to be a YouTube sensation. After visiting with the local owner in Kensett last weekend, he told me of the radio and television stations interested in “Trouble.” The Montel Williams Show has even contacted him for a segment on wacky animals—the ultimate dream for every mascot. And with the new Zaxby’s Chicken coming to Searcy, they can have an employee stand on Race Street dressed as a zeedonk in a firework-proof suit. The children will love that.

Until then, who are we? Among students, there is usually a stronger connection with the squirrels on the front lawn than the unseen bisons. Watching football on Saturdays, I see (often freakish) devotion to mascots and school-spirit around the country. Is this possible at Harding? Obviously Harding’s emphasis on athletics is prioritized differently than at public universities, but should football school-spirit improve? We are 6,332 with a spiritual bond that is nearly as unique as the cross between a zebra and a donkey—how are we going to show it?

Love Me Tenders

“Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” While Joni Mitchell’s voice filled my car as I drove to Searcy this semester, I became painfully aware of what I was leaving behind. It always seems, as far as restaurant options in Searcy go, that you “don’t know what you didn’t have” until you return home for a summer of great food.

The last time I was in Searcy, a restaurant called Just Ribs had just opened and just closed. In case some of you blinked and missed it, it was where Trail Dust had been, and bit the dust, a few years ago. While I can’t know for sure, one reason for Just Ribs’ short run could have been its motto: “It’s so good it’ll make your tongue slap your brains out!” Any restaurant slogan that ends “…your brains out” is probably more disturbing than appetizing.

Why does Searcy have such a hard time attracting good places to eat?

I pondered this question as I began the 105 mile stretch from Memphis to Searcy—a driving experience comparable to simultaneously watching Charlton Hesston’s “The Ten Commandments” and “Ben-Hur” on mute. And it is in Marion, Ark. that I leave behind my favorite fast-food restaurant for three lonely months—Zaxby’s.

In case you haven’t tasted the Zaxby’s chicken experience, which the mission claims will “enrich lives one person at a time,” it is the only restaurant exception where the Just Ribs motto may be applied. With over 400 locations from Virginia to Texas, Zaxby’s is becoming the In-N-Out of the south. They’ve raised the letter Z’s self-esteem from last to first with their delicious zappetizers, chicken salad zalads, meal dealz, chicken fingerz, zax sauce and party platterz. So as I drove past the banner for the limited-time-only kickin’ chicken sandwich with tongue torch sauce, I knew it was time to do something drastic.

I began my crusade by calling the Searcy Chamber of Commerce. Explaining that I was Zach McLeroy (founder of Zaxby’s), I said Searcy had topped our recent poll of candidates for a Zaxby’s location. But since the entire Chamber of Commerce staff was out playing at a golf tournament, I was told to call back. My plan, however, didn’t change: set up a virtual “blind-date” between an economic developer from Searcy and a franchise contractor from Zaxby’s. Once on the phone with Zaxby’s, I became Israel Moore (founder of Searcy) and passionately pitched Searcy as a chicken-tender deprived college town made of Harding University, ASU: Searcy, and Searcy Beauty College. Their response far exceeded my expectations.

As a profile of White County was pulled up by the representative, she explained that negotiations, ironically, were already in place and that a citizen had begun the application process. Once the license agreement was signed, Zaxby’s would be built in 6 – 18 months. I was ecstatic. I learned all that is needed is $650,000 and one commercial acre. Who knows, if the pharmacy program doesn’t start next year, perhaps their new building could become the nation’s largest Zaxby’s.

To the mysterious citizen of Searcy who is applying to “enrich lives one person at a time”: if you’re reading this, I want to thank you from the bottom of my stomach. While we must all find ways to be satisfied with the options we do have in White County, it never fails to be creative. Some say call your congressman—I say, call your favorite chicken place. Who knows what could happen? Today Chili’s, tomorrow Zaxby’s, the next millennium—Panera Bread.