Back Where I Come From

Most people are unfamiliar with the small Ohio town I spawned from. To those people, I would happily narrate my picturesque upbringing in a place where children could run rampant through the neighborhood long after dusk without any fear sexual predators or serial murderers. Where every mom had lemonade at the ready, and where neighbors even gave kids permission to TP their house because it kept them busy and out of any real danger. Lush green lawns and perfectly manicured hedges, streets as smooth as silk where bicycles, tricycles and scooters outnumbered any motor vehicle 9 to 1. That's where I come from.

This week, record flooding has devastated many areas of my hometown and wreaked indescribable havoc. After making several national newscasts and monopolizing statewide coverage, my hometown was on the map. For the first time ever, my friends and coworkers knew all about the quaint and now waterlogged little place I called home. And after a collective outpouring of care and support, they all had one thing to say:

"So dude--you are totally white trash!"

Wha?? That's absurd. Take note of this Lacoste polo, guy. I'll even pop the collar for you, if you like, because I am so clearly the antithesis of white trash. If the vending machines sold Pellegrino here, I'd jam a fifty dollar bill in the thing and chug one right here in front of you and God and everyone. Because I am NOT white trash.


That's when my friends started sending me pictures from the news. The perfect little hedges, the shiny scooters, the lemonade-pushing mothers were nowhere to be found. Instead, there was this:





Oh...Sweet...Jesus.

Okay, first things first. I feel terrible about the flooding. Many of my favorite restaurants, bars, bookstores and hangouts will never be the same. The flood affected people rich and poor, black and white, thin and...well, you know where I'm going with this. And my heart goes out to all of them.

But here's the thing. Everybody knows that nothing puts a town on the map like a disaster. And the only thing that descended on my hometown faster than the flood water was the damn photographers. Look, I know that bailing water out of homes requires a relaxed dress code. But if you're just sitting around for the world and the flippin' Associated Press to see, how about a little decorum?

Like, if it was me, for example, I'd immediately don a bandana, baby-doll t-shirt and some old jeans, and get down and dirty to show the Associated Press that I was committed to restoring the place to its original charm. My kids (completely hypothetical, don't have any of those little bastards yet), on the other hand, would be on the front porch wearing crisp school uniforms and reading Keats, pausing only to offer the boats full of rescue workers--you got it--ice cold lemonade.

It's about appearances, people. All of the stories of my childhood have been laid to waste, thanks to the press. Now my friends think I was raised by a couple of derelict spam-eaters in a hovel filled with garbage and second-hand smoke. No amount of pique polos and Pellegrino can repair this kind of damage.

I'm just saying--things aren't always what they seem. A mile in the other direction and you'd see a slightly different story. Children filling sandbags. Families donating food and dry goods. People with shirts on. And maybe, just maybe, someone with some God-damned lemonade.

With that, I'm done. I'll be writing my next post from the special part of Hell reserved for utterly vain, soulless bitches who still talk about "popping collars." Tootaloo!