Getting Hip with Geographic Nomenclature

It's not called Nostalgia. It's called hating the place where you live and wanting to return to a locale not nearly as disgust inducing. It is wanting to return to the place that jived with your misanthropy like Jesus jived with man sandals. And it is longing to forever leave the place whose citizens claim American Chop Suey is food. A delicacy all New England-fied. Me? I'd rather be purging from both ends.

The aforementioned hell is called Maine. It is a place of diseased lobsters, high cancer rates, and obesity stats that desecrate the proverbial roof to such a degree they've started calling it living art and airing "Exercise is Excellent AND Exciting" PSAs. So while these walking installations go about their business, looking like creativity's infected pancreas, wafts of American Chop Suey fill the air and then someone shouts "I love ketchup!"

I'm not the betting type, but I guarantee my organic fecal pancakes taste two to three times better than Maine's best American Chop Suey. The latter phrase is a logical fallacy, I know. But just let it ride for comparison's sake. I understand the error in implying that a "best American Chop Suey" can even exist. It's like you're judging an amputee burn victim beauty contest and then crown the one that can blink the winner. Claiming irregular eyelid movement put the victor in a league of gorgeous all her own just doesn't fly. It doesn't fly in the way plastic chew toys don't fly and in precisely the same manner that American Chop Suey as food doesn't fly.

But we're in Maine, where the natives like their food just like they like their social services: lacking any nutritional (or humanitarian) value, but consumed in such great quantity that Maine's women all start to look like science experiments gone horribly awry. Like Dr. Moreau crossed a balding office supplies salesman with two-week old London broil from the clearance section, then colored it plaid.

Food as high art is a foreign concept to Mainers. Foreign in the same way they don't understand the trouble with having children with one's siblings and first cousins. Foreign like the idea of graduating high school. Not at all familiar like a family tattoo session. Warner Brothers Cartoon Character meet Cherry Blossom. Cherry Blossom meet Jumping Dolphin. Jumping Dolphin meet Calvin Peeing on Ford Logo meet oh my god how the hell did I end up here?

All I want is to be back in the place that nurtures my cynicism without nurturing homicidal daydreams. You go back to Seattle, I'll go back to New York. Residential style. I just want to return to the place where anonymity is valued and where cultural enlightenment jives with personal happiness like HIV jives with AIDS.

This is not Nostalgia. It's not some piece of cotton candy memory puff glitter whereby you fancy yourself street frolicking while a sappy pop tune neé commercial love garbage plays in the background. This isn't that at all.