For a moment, I began to wonder why Tupac’s “All About You” suddenly felt somewhat poignant. “Every other city i go…” Then I realized that I am still located in the region of the country voted “Most Likely To Suck – Unless It Gets Blown.” I’d bitch about Rita, but I have to say that it’s the displaced children and their families who have the rightful monopoly on that one (and who doesn't love a good game of Monopoly?)
Anyway, I’ve been looking to take my mind off the general shittiness of regional weather by indulging in a couple of good books. The list includes some quality humor picks like Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs as well as Dave Egger’s A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Both are epochal examples of modern writers after my own heart, but Eggers embraces the stream-of-conscious expository style that is inherently me. Now that I mention my stream-of-conscious writing style, I’d also like to extend a heartfelt “fuck you” to anyone devoid the attention span needed to warm a pop-tart and read paragraphs. I’d apologize for thinking faster and more often than you do, but that’d be like saying sorry to quadriplegics whenever I walk by one.
In other news, I keep finding cryptic greetings whenever I get back to my computer. I don't mind them being cryptic, but try leaving some clues (and/or an actual message!) if you leave anything at all. Picky, I know. For instance, “My friend, I have some advice.” was the entire message awaiting me after taking 3 tests and officially making up three weeks of work here at Sam Houston State – Home of the Fightin’ Mediocrities. You may not have any recollection of such a university unless you’re a Texas Tech runningback checking your shoes for what you just ran over. For those Bearkats reading this, I possess no apologies. My Greenwave failed to produce in their big game as well, but I’m proud that they actually managed to show up to the game in the end. The third quarter is not too late – unless you planned to beat the traffic out of the 49ers game. Yikes. The last time I saw a pounding like that it involved a low-lying coastal region and (coincidentally) non-cyclonic chick named Katrina. (I really wasn't kidding when i mentioned her before.)
But speaking of whirlwind affairs, I’d have to say that my time at Sam Houston has certainly presented an opportunity to “Marco Polo-it” across east Texas. I also note that many things are, in fact, bigger here in Texas. Sadly, I’m detached a bit from appreciating the ladies of The Lone Star State. My mind and heart is extended across the country and over seas to all of the displaced Tulanians who have become family to me. Though I’ll admit that while I have slept with some of these Tulane “distant-cousins,” not all of them are from the South. There. I made the reference so you don’t have to. I’m like the John Henson of humor – oh, wait – isn’t he supposed to be a comedian?
And lastly, for anyone reading this out of mere abject pity for Katrina evacuees, it’s really okay. My column isn’t about “cornering the humor market” on natural disasters – much of that market is saturated by Beech’s typos. I need your guilt-based pity like I need another goddamn tree in the middle of a city literally named The Woodlands!
-To my Non-Texas Readers: yes, there is such a town (sadly).
-To my Texas Readers: Jesus, the-Tap-Dancin’-Christ! Who the hell settled this place, lumber lobbyists?