A recent foray into the kids school yesterday to return a book bag overlooked by its rightful owner upon exiting the van while hastily headed to stand in a magical line.  Said book bag in hand I signed into school and applied my sticky name badge identifying myself as non-hostile.  It was then that I noticed an unusually large number of kids standing in line around a corner, a destination somewhere unseen, and sound decibel levels near rock concert pandemonium.  Earlier the kids were excited about purchasing a special pencil at the book store before class so I figured Piper, the rightful owner of the abandoned book bag, would be in line somewhere.  Searching, I was passed by kid after kid, each with a pencil in hand, or tucked up under their nose, all sniffing heftily.  The line continued down a hall and around a corner and at the end I saw the destination of each of the queued – an ordinary looking table, attended by ordinary looking teachers, selling ordinary looking pencils.  But wait.  The kids near the front of the line were vibrating with joy and excitement.  Looking past each ahead with both envy and hatred that they might reach their destination first and by chance deplete the stockpile of tabled treasure.  I heard then from the peddlers up ahead, a dreadful announcement, “Only three left”, followed by a roar of elementary curses and a crushing push from those in line trying to rush the table in a last ditch effort to get their clammy hands on the last of the vehicles of their writing desire, the type of rush you would expect when Great White uses pyrotechnics on stage.  It was at this moment that I learned of the connection between this now hysterical line and what our kids had been robbing piggy banks and having lucid dreams for.  Smencils.  These crafty little gems things are drugs but for entry level fiends.  These magical little rolls of graphite surrounded by wood and topped with a squishy colored eraser might as well be laced with Florida Snow or Fatty perfectly disguised for private consumption for the level of obsession they insight.  The line alone to purchase one of these was on par with how the Mac-ites enthusiastically lines up days ahead to offer paper donations to their fruity deity.  I finally caught up to my bag-less princess and her brother skipping their way to class from the now broken line of envious onlookers.  They were not in the lucky bunch to get a hit but both were optimistic that the next time the peddler came to bear gifts that they too might be able to fly.