Master Hollywood, Parakeet Trainer

Hi. I'm Hollywood. But that's Master Hollywood to you.

I just completed an on-line check-in procedure for my cruise next week. It's a four day float out of Los Angeles. The cruise line, Royal Caribbean, asked that I provide basic information regarding my address and passport before I showed up at the boat. The very first thing they asked for was my "Title." The options were, "Doctor, Master, Mr., Mrs., Miss, or Ms.."

I completed the check in for a Doctor Spike and a Master Hollywood. Technically we are a Mr. and Mrs. but I was feeling decadent. I hoping people treat us better as a Doctor and a Master. If anything, they'll be confused as to how a woman could be a Master but if anyone dares call me "Miss" I'll primly correct them and dump hot English tea down their trousers. It may be false glory, but I learned years ago that false glory might just be as good as the real thing.

My sister and I graduated from BYU on the same day. Because we were in different colleges, my parents and I attended her graduation ceremony in the morning, then planned on attending mine that afternoon. She was graduating in Zoology from the College of Physical and Mathematical Sciences. It was going to be a long day. As my parents and I sat in the audience we commiserated about the hours of pomp we had ahead of us. When my sister's class finally began marching across the stage to accept their stock diplomas I had a brilliant idea. I grabbed an old receipt from my mom's purse and on the back I scribbled, "[Hollywood], Sociology." Then I ran up and jumped in line behind my sister. I wasn't going to spend four more hours in a folding chair just to walk across another stage. And I was wearing my graduation robes...

The announcer was reading names off a list as the students marched across the stage. "Tyler Backus, Biology. Cindy Barringer, Astronomy," then I reached the front of the line and handed him my crumpled receipt. He looked at it in confusion and hesitated. I gave him an encouraging nod and he read into the microphone, "[Hollywood], Sociology." I marched smartly across the stage, waving grandly to my relieved parents.

I had barely finished crossing the stage when I realized how badly I'd blown it.

I could have written anything on that piece of paper for my five seconds of fame. I could have written, "Hollywood, Nuclear Physics." Or, "Hollywood, Parakeet Training." But I had just written my boring old major of Sociology. I've been kicking myself over it for the past seven years.

Even though I didn't get the applause of an auditorium for an impressive, imaginary degree, I am thrilled at my second chance for glory. For one week on my cruise I will be "Master Hollywood." Stewards will tremble before me. The Captain himself will place dainty confections on my pillow. I'll get an automatic upgrade to the private suite on the top deck. False glory is glory nonetheless and I'm going for it.

* * * Update * * *

Spike has just informed me that "Master" means young lad, not Master and Commander of the Universe. I am a moron.

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