I have always wanted to date a debutante. There is something about the daughter of a wealthy socialite on the verge of womanhood that just turns my crank. Unfortunately, my opportunity to accompany a lass to the Southern Belle Ball never materialized. I try not to beat myself up about it; my failure is not from lack of trying. Enshrined around the debutantal system is a framework of complex and intricate mechanisms designed to keep a guy like me from ever scoring a debutante.

This is the story that I have told to every shrink that I have seen. Accordingly, they have all responded to it in the same way: "What the hell is a debutante?" Sadly, I reply in the same manner ever time that I am questioned. "Well, a debutante is kinda like royalty, only slutty", I express. Greeted only with a blank stare, "never mind", I conclude.

It is amazing to what extent this yearning has shaped my life. I contend that it was because of this myth that I accompanied my buddy Seth across the U.S border en route to visit his sister at the University of Minneapolis on the day before Halloween. Seth had never been to the states before. I, on the other hand, was a seasoned veteran of "the land of cheap beer and tobacco". Seth was truly amazed at the tobacco frenzy I had worked myself into at the duty free store at the border. Seth begged me to hold off on the two packages of plug clenched between my fingers until he knew if we had enough gas money to get to Minot. This was surprising since Seth has a talent for calmly involving himself in situations associated with excess and sin. Truthfully, Seth can accurately be described as "Satan's Cabana Boy". He fears neither death nor incarceration and scoffs in the face of guys much larger than him.

We were asked for ID when we bought beer. The guy had no choice. As soon he rang in our purchase of 24 Hamms and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire as " twelve fifty", Seth started laughing hysterically. It was partially a laugh of glee and the rest was made up of self-loathing for living so close to the "land of cheap beer and tobacco" and not comprehending its potential. For the next hour Seth bombarded me with questions about U.S. law and his perspective on its culture. By the time we reached the sign that said "Why not Minot?" Seth had decided on purchasing a pistol to shoot road signs. However, I refused to stop at K-Mart. I may be cursed with chronic poor judgement (I was smoking Philly Blunts with a six of Hamms in my lap while driving) but I am not stupid.

It was a long ride past countless Piggley Wiggley stores and Hooters Restaurants into Minneapolis. It began to rain. We followed Seth's directions to his sister's residence on campus very closely. Seth's sister was a university track star. She lived in a dorm room with two debutantes-I mean roommates (sorry). We arrived quite drunk from the long drive.