Flight of the Schuman  

Oh, hey, look, I’ve assembled a New York montage of summer’s “end” just for you. We have: a bunch of rich assholes passive aggressively trying to kill each other on the LIE as their prepubescent spawn grow progressively more estranged in the backseats of gargantuan cars. Simultaneously: we have you regular people wringing the grimy sweat out of your undershirts in an effort to get another week’s use out of them, having just gotten hit with your first electric bill since you started using the AC. And then: there’s me, thousands of miles away. Yes, I am just that important because it’s my own fucking montage; you want to star in a montage, then you imagine one yourselves, as soon as you finish wringing out your skivvies. Me, I can wash my drawers in the washer/dryer belonging to my parents, at their house, here in Eugene, Oregon, where I have spent the last two months in the world’s most scenic purgatory.

Allow me to clarify: everyone else is coming back to the city, either literally or metaphorically, except for me. While summer-house fuckers return after three months rediscovering why they hate their spouses and fear their children, and the rest of you rediscover closed-toe footwear, I am confronting the notion that this year, I will not return to the city at all, because I moved away.

By the laws of semantics, this means I’m not coming back. However, I am also not staying here in Oregon, which is fortunate for those residents who wish not to be killed by me even though their cars display bumper stickers that say THERE IS NO FLAG LARGE ENOUGH TO COVER THE SHAME OF KILLING INNOCENT PEOPLE.

Mercifully, I am not staying here; instead I’m moving to a mythical enemy land called “California,” where apparently people are obsessed with their appearance and spend all day having insipid conversations about carbohydrates (i.e. it is exactly like New York in every way, except not all the beaches are covered in broken glass and urine). So, instead of pummeling my readership of five slightly-unstable guys in their late 30s with self-absorbed petty tirades from the grilled-cheese-crust hermit cubicle of my apartment in Brooklyn, I will issue self-absorbed petty tirades from a carpeted McApartment in Orange County.

Luckily for everyone involved, when I was in New York I never left my apartment, did anything interesting, met anyone new, had any torrid love affairs, got into any cool parties, learned about fancy shit like art, or took advantage of the greatest city in the world in any conceivable way — unless you count buying a massive chunk of mozzarella cheese and then watching my ex-boyfriend consume it, in its entirety, with his hands.

So because I am an enemies-list-making, borderline sociopathic, thick-legged shut-in, the alleged material I choose to write about doesn’t seem to presuppose any specific location. Therefore, despite my far-flungedness, my benevolent and slightly deranged editors have allowed me to keep this column for the time being, mostly because I would be so intimidated by the idea of having a potential replacement who was the Jon Stewart to my Craig Kilborn that I would abandon my dreams of academic grandeur and move back to the city and kill that person by way of strangulation with a bumper sticker that said A DAY WITHOUT FAIRIES IS A DAY WITHOUT SUNSHINE. And I realize that is totally self-absorbed and doesn’t really have any larger point, but see, this is still just a part of the montage I composed for you (it’s a very long montage, probably belonging in some sort of art film by that Vincent Gallo fellow), and since it’s my fucking montage, that’s allowed.


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