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November 8, 2004

Strangely, Minnesota’s Where Wolves Live
You don’t see the roots until you dig up the tree. Books are going in boxes and I’m starting to see that it’s less about going and more about leaving. By the time I figure it out we’ll be eating peaches on the porch and drinking iced tea.

(It’s better if you read it out loud.)

Big, heaping armfuls of thanks to all of you who’ve come out of the woodwork to congratulate me. It’s much appreciated. If you want to be really helpful, you can recommend me restaurants, movie theaters, booksellers, and used record stores in the Atlanta area, and pardon my split infinitive. A lot of you are owed emails from me; I’ll play catch up after I’ve laid eyes on my new city and found a home for my new bride.

By the way, we can add prophetic to the many adjectives which describe the adroit Hite (the fella the Hitites named themselves before). At my wedding he commented that I’d worked for White Wolf long enough that I’d actually read a quote to lead into my vows. True, Ken, but the order of operations are reversed; it wasn’t homage, but invocation.

Note that he’s not a prophet, exactly, as much as he’s prophetic in much the same way that Woody Allen is Jewish.

Land of the Feral Pigs
Georgia, so you know, was the thirteenth colony, the fourth of thirteen states, and the last of the Confederate states to be recollected into the Union. It has more counties than any other state, save one (Texas). Atlanta is the fifth city to serve as Georgia’s capitol, after the likes of Savannah, Augusta, Louisville, and Milledgeville. Georgia’s the largest of the states whose radio stations begin with W. The state’s representatives in the US Senate have excellent names: Saxby Chambliss and Zell Miller (who you’ve probably heard about lately). Did you know Georgia borders on North Carolina? I didn’t. It’ll be the oldest state I’ve ever lived in. We can give Georgia native Ray Charles credit for the state’s song, “Georgia On My Mind,” which means I’ll probably see Ray before it comes out on DVD.

A few months ago some guys in Georgia claimed to have killed a huge feral pig, twelve feet long, with a head the size of a car tire. They call it “hogzilla.” I think the picture’s using forced perspective to Faulkneriate things a bit, but there’s no denying that they’ve got themselves one big motherfucking pig there.

In the coming weeks, I’ve got to watch Gone With the Wind, learn more about William Tecumseh “Cump” (Seriously) Sherman, read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, listen to what Sarah Vowell had to say about the Trail of Tears again, and dig up whatever I can find on Confederate submarines, just because I find them interesting. Also, I have to find out if there’s such a thing as feral bacon.

I Have OCD and It’s My Sweater’s Fault
Can’t get out the car, touch a doorknob, or pump gas now without first tapping my keys three times on everything suspect. The shocks I get are audible and horrible, the kind that taverse the gap from the car door to your fingernail before you can get off your preemptive strike.

The fear has dug so deep inside that I panicked while watching Sports Night over dinner the other night; the way Josh Charles casually reaches for a metal door handle in a carpeted room full of wired equipment scares the certified bejeezus out of me. He might as well be groping for his lost flashlight through a crack in the wall of a haunted subway. You can keep your Grudge and your meowing boy; I know what scary is.

Noise: The Decemberists, “Shanty for the Arethusa”

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