Note: This entry includes several footnotes denoted by asterisks. Please read them at the appropriate time. They can be found at the bottom of the entry.

THE MORELIAN CANDIDATE

In the winter months our common cultural values urge everyone to fill themselves with something we call “the holiday spirit.” Known the rest of the year by the less-festive moniker “grudging, guilt-based obsequiousness,” the holiday spirit plays an important role in our civilization: for if one is filled with the holiday spirit, he will share what he has with the world, and, in doing so, will make the world a better place.*

I now have two things to tell you: First, eggnog is delicious.** And second, I am now filled with the holiday spirit. That being the case, I would like to share something with all of you:

My name is Kevin, and I think I was brainwashed as a child.***

I know that wasn’t what you expected. When I said I was going to share something with you, you probably thought I was talking about something more immediately accessible and traditionally holiday related—like a fruit cake, or a shouting match during Christmas dinner. (Mmmm…equally delicious…) But when I said “share,” I meant it in the therapeutic sense. Because here’s the thing: I think of you—my readers—as family. And family should be there to provide us with therapy from time to time, instead of always sending us in search of it. So let the healing commence:

I think I was brainwashed because I don’t have many memories from when I was five and six years old. I mean, sure, I have some, but they’re all brief images of stuff happening—mostly me washing my hands. So the question, dear family, is this: why don’t I remember more?

I’ve asked my parents about this many times—usually over fruitcake—and they always tell me the same thing: “Kevin, for the thousandth time, it’s normal. Most children around those ages don’t form many vivid memories. Now for the love of God, will you stop giving us fruitcake every year?”

Sadly, in this case, the gentle wisdom of my parents—much like the quality of a convenience store hot dog—is something I just can’t trust. As such, I recently decided to probe the possibility that I was brainwashed in my youth.

First, I had to answer this question: why would I have been brainwashed? The answer to that, I am sure you realize, is obvious: to prevent me from remembering significant, damaging information. And that begs another question: what might this information be?

I can only speculate as to the answer, but after extensive hypnotherapy facilitated by the liberal consumption of white wine, I am fairly certain that I was brainwashed to prevent me from recalling at least two of the following four pieces of information:

1. the identity of my real parents
2. important scientific testimony about the cigarette industry
3. the theme song to Three’s Company
4. addiction to sugary cereal, or possibly meth

Also thanks to the aforementioned hypnosis, I have regained some miscellaneous memories from my youth. (It turns out that I—much like an elephant, or your seventh-grade classmates when you do something stupid—never forget. At least not entirely.)

For example, I now remember vividly the time in first grade when my class raised caterpillars in a old aquarium until they turned into monarch butterflies. For a time I also thought that I remembered a lot of the butterfly information that our teacher gave to us then—like how butterflies are wingéd scourges that silently terrorize Mexican villages at night. But then I realized that those aren’t butterflies; those are (unwingéd) fire ants, and what I thought was information from my teacher was really the vague memory of an episode of MacGyver that I saw when I was seven.

So hypnosis isn’t perfect. Still, remembering all this was a triumph of the hypnotic methods employed—a breakthrough, if you will. And in honor of this breakthrough, Amanda (AKA junior-Junior Detective Virginia; AKA Mac) and I took a trip to Morelia—the kindest, warmest, most wonderful city in Mexico—so that we could see the millions of monarch butterflies that migrate there every year.

Our weekend in Morelia—the kindest, warmest, most wonderful city in Mexico—was quite an adventure. It featured an insane, mulletted bus driver, dangerous roads, corporate fraud, and a pair of woolen booties crafted by the indigenous peoples of Mexico. But that’s all a story for another time. For now, let me just share with you some pictures taken in the butterfly sanctuary, along with this analogy: there were so many monarch butterflies everywhere that it seemed as if we were standing in a snow globe filled with a gazillion orange snowflakes.

As you’ve probably noticed, the pictures don’t really do the scene justice. Oh well. I’m just glad that I saw it, and—on a different note—that hypnotherapy is helping me recover from my childhood brainwashing. I do take comfort in the fact that I’m much too smart nowadays to be brainwashed.

And yes, I promise that at some point I’ll more fully relate the happenings of our trip to Morelia—the kindest, warmest, most wonderful city in Mexico.****

Footnotes:

* And if one is filled with both the holiday spirit and spiked eggnog, he is likely to out-and-out give things away, or at least get a little cheeky under the mistletoe. Illustration of the former: When I was a freshman in college, I was so filled up that I gave away my roommate’s Jimmy Buffet album to a dumpster I later claimed was a Salvation Army bin. Illustration of the latter: My roommate that same year got fresh under the mistletoe with a girl who lived in our dorm. The incident led to his uttering the now-famous line, “Santa gave me coal for Christmas. And by ‘coal’ I mean ‘restraining order.’”

** And by “eggnog” I mean “scotch.”

*** Stay with me. Easy now.

**** This is a great movie.