Memories of the Way You Are....

Downtown Dunsmuir-- The Museum and the Theatre don't really exist-- they keep the signs up to pretend.

Every time I go home to visit my parents--in this tiny town called Dunsmuir-- I hide out. This is because everyone in this community knows your name. Like Cheers only an entire town. They stop you in the stores, the bars, crossing the street, picking your nose, wherever, to ask the same stupid questions: "Where do you live?" "What are you up to now?""Are you President of the United States now?" -- Some people even like to say " There is a rumor going around town that you work for the CIA." Everyone in Dunsmuir is paranoid. Mostly it is the meth they take....but for some, it is the mountain militia attitudes they have adopted over the decades. Live with the crazy your whole life and one day--I promise you-- you will wake up crazy.

So, my friend, Vincent, sent me a link- via email- about some author who is doing a reading (can you DO a read??) at City Lights in SF. The brilliance of this link was that it allowed you to read an excerpt from the guy's novel. (It is comforting to know that some things are still free in this world.) Well, the excerpt was the main character's update to his high school alumni newsletter and it cracked me up! I started thinking about all of the shit I wanted to say to the obnoxious do-gooders and want-to-know-it-alls in Dunsmuir.

I want to tell them: I am so happy that I left that godforsaken town. Every time I go back, I am reminded- by looking at your toothless mouths, half-bald heads, jaw twitches, bottle and rock collections, broken down cars, scabs, attack dogs, crusty nails, limps, and gun racks-- that I made the right decision. Granted, my job is pointless, my rent is high and I am not the President of the United States, but I will always be smarter than you and probably have my teeth until I die--or at least a nice set of dentures.