It turns out I actually knew the guy. Not the one who doesn’t live here, but the other one. The one who does live here. He’s a friend of friends. We’ve never hung out together or had a conversation, but we’ve been introduced and have shaken each other’s hand, probably. But that’s the extent of our physical interaction. We’ve spent literally less than 5 minutes, total, in the same vicinity. So I was confused when he complained that I was “timid outside of Twitter”—implying some sort of duplicity on my part—because there was simply no way for him to know what I did or didn’t say anywhere elsewhere.

I’ve spent too much time trying to piece together why he would see things this way, what the exact misunderstanding was. In the end, there’s not much use trying to figure out what was going on behind the eyes on this one. What’s more interesting to me is the assumption that there is a dichotomy to be drawn between who I am on Twitter and who I am anywhere else.

His complaint seems to betray a kind of 1998 view of the Internet as an exclusive domain of ubergeeks and MMORPG addicts—people who lose themselves in the web. It shows a fundamental misunderstanding of how most of the world works in this Internet age, and I don’t think he’s the only one who sees things this way.

In the past, there was a stark differentiation between Internet Life and Real Life. The Internet was a hobby, a curiosity. In the early years, “social web” meant meeting and cultivating friendships with cyber pals you’d never seen or met (and probably never would). But now social web is built on friends you already have and staying in contact with them. The web now augments real life, and vice versa. Facebook, et al, is more about communication than it is about exploration. Sure, new friends and colleagues may first encounter one another online, but this isn’t some totally separate world.

The days of hiding behind obtuse screenn4mes and avatars with pictures of Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft Tomb Raider are done (except for some emotionally stunted individuals, like YouTube commenters). It’s just not how things operate anymore. In 2010, the fact that social transactions occur online renders them neither anonymous nor innocuous. It’s a necessity of living and working in the modern age, and it’s only going to become more necessary.

For most young adults, including myself, there is no transition between Internet life and real life. It’s all life. Yes, perhaps I take an extra moment to compose a thought into a 140-character online update rather than stuttering through it in face-to-face conversation. But the thought communicated is the same.

The idea that I’m deceiving anyone though some “online-only” persona is ludicrous. I prominently display my real name. My phone number and email address are readily accessible. For criminy’s sake, my giant ridiculous face is rubber-stamped next to everything I publish online. If I’m somehow hiding behind a detached, unaccountable online persona, I’m not doing a great job.

Whether we like it or not, who we are online is, unavoidably, who we are. If you doubt it, try explaining to your boss why that Facebook picture of you urinating in his coffee cup shouldn’t be a problem because that’s just your online self.

Lately, in my role helping out with local concert promoters Love The Captive, it’s rare that I get to simply watch a cool show. Because we’re in charge of most of the cool shows I attend, which means there are always odds and ends that need doing—ticket-taking, facility issues, or just the tension of knowing you might be called away at any moment (and I’m not even the one with the real responsibilities). This usually results in being distracted while the bands are playing, or missing out on it altogether. It can be a bit of a bummer, but it’s nice knowing I’m helping in some small way to showcase great talent in an underserved market.

That being said, the idea of a night off was appealing. And tonight, I was all set to go enjoy a relaxing night of great music without the responsibilities.

The awesome local band Fierce Creatures was having an EP release show. This wasn’t a Love The Captive show. We had helped them secure the venue (Frank’s Place, where we’ve been having most of our recent and upcoming shows) by acting as a liaison, but were otherwise uninvolved. The band was handling their own ticketing, sound, the works. It should have been a laid-back night.

Cue the two drunk girls.

The opening band hasn’t even started yet, but these two stumble through the crowd, arm-in-arm, bumping into chairs and people. They’re obviously under the influence of something, even though no alcohol is being served at this show. They arrived this way.

Even better, it appears they’re underage.

This is a problem. I don’t know the exact legal issues at play here—whether the venue can be held accountable for the presence of idiots—but I do know what’s at stake from a public relations standpoint.

Love The Captive is trying to establish something good. By partnering with this new venue, we’re aiming to be in a position to bring to town the mid-size touring acts that usually bypass Fresno. By essentially handing over control of the venue on these nights, the non-profit organization that’s in charge of Frank’s Place is taking a big risk. We’re doing our best to ensure their trust isn’t misplaced.

The headlines flash through my mind.

Underage drinking at Love The Captive show

Police respond to drunken brawl at new venue

Stupid girl falls and cracks her head open at local concert

Forgive my lack of faith in the reliability of gossip, but I doubt any of these scenarios would highlight the fact that LTC wasn’t really in charge here, or that no alcohol was served to anyone, or even that 99% percent of the attendees were perfectly behaved.

No, it would simply be, “See? Those damn kids and their rock music. Who’s letting them have these orgies of blood at this place downtown?”

We’ve only held three shows at this place so far. It’s not hard to imagine some bad press persuading the venue’s board of directors to terminate the relationship with Love The Captive.

So we’ve got to do something about these two idiots.

The girls stagger into the ladies’ room. When others enter and exit, we can see the drunk girls sitting on the restroom floor.

I convene with Turtle, an LTC colleague, about what to do. Like it or not, we’re the ones responsible. The bands hadn’t planned on having security (which they shouldn’t need to), and any problems will reflect directly on LTC anyway, which means we need to take care of it.

We decide to give them one warning: quit being idiots or you’re out of here. We have to send a girl into the restroom to tell the drunk ones to come out. Turtle talks to them. It turns out only one of them, apparently, is under 21. The underage one is the girlfriend of a guy we know (she seems to think this will impress us). It also turns out they weren’t bumping into anyone. All the witnesses and people they knocked into were mistaken. I’m not sure they aren’t high on something. Turtle explains that they are a liability and can get us in trouble if we let them stay, acting stupid. We can’t have this going on. He gives them the ultimatum. Shape up or ship out. They say they understand.

Within 10 minutes, we see them again. Laughing, bumping into each other, then they go in the men’s restroom. Turtle and I look at each other; that’s it, they’re done.

I follow them in. I tell the 21-year-old they need to leave. She asks why. I say they’re wasted and in the men’s room. They’re just going the bathroom, she says. What’s the problem? A guy washing his hands helpfully tells her, she’s in the men’s room.

I bring them out. We tell them they must leave. They say they have to go to the bathroom. We graciously allow them to go (the ladies’ room this time) before leaving the building. They go in and don’t come out.

We send in another of our female friends to bring them out again. We tell them they had their chance and now need to leave. They’re incredulous. What did they do wrong? I explain that they went into the men’s room. I’m mistaken, the older one says. They were just in the ladies’ room. I explain that they were in the men’s room before they went in the ladies’ room. Why would they do that? she says. No they weren’t. I explain that I was there when they were, other people saw this take place. They didn’t go in the men’s room, she says.

They can barely stand up without leaning on each other.

I’m done arguing. You need to leave now, I say. They tell us, “Fuck you,” flip us off, and leave. This is a victory, although they remain just outside the entrance. It’s not over.

The opening bands have started playing by now, but I’m hanging around by the entrance, far from the stage. Ten, twenty minutes pass. Turtle goes backstage to deal with other issues. In walk the drunk girls.

I intercept them just inside the door and remind them they’ve been kicked out. They want to know why. I give a brief rundown of why, but explanations don’t seem worth much to them, despite their insistence on them. Next, she tells me that Turtle told them they could come back in. It’s hard to tell where the lies end and the delusions begin. No, he didn’t, I say. And they need to leave now.

I may have mentioned calling the cops. I really wanted to call the cops. The thought of these two 90-pound tarts spending the night in the drunk tank was beginning to seem just about perfect. But, like I said, that probably wouldn’t be good for appearances.

Throughout the whole thing, the poor 19-year-old is looking very confused. When we tell them to leave, she says OK and starts to lead her friend out, but when the 21-year-old stays put and talks back, the 19-year-old changes her posture and joins in with the “Fuck yous.” This happens over and over.

When it’s clear I’m not going to let them in, they curse at me again, flip me off again (one of them may have flipped me off with her index finger, I’m not sure), and walk out. They’re just as wasted as when they first walked in an hour ago.

Soon, they try to come in again. The 19-year-old tries to make the argument that her boyfriend is “in charge of all this,” referring, presumably, to Love The Captive (which he’s not). At some point, Alise, the young woman taking money at the door (herself a tiny girl around the same age as the idiots), talks to them, expertly guiding them outside before explaining, again, that they’ve been kicked out. The drunk girls continue to have difficulty understanding this, as well as difficulty standing up of their own accord (when anyone tries to keep them from falling over, they yell, “Don’t push me!”).

While they’re outside, reports trickle in though the door from others. People who step out for a smoke mention the drunk girls insulting them, peeing in the street, pushing people.

When Fierce Creatures finally take the stage, I agree to watch the door so the friends-of-the-band who had been handling it can go watch the show. From where I am, I can’t see the stage. This is not the relaxing fun show I had anticipated.

The drunk girls rush in again before I can stop them. Because I’m alone at the door with the cash box, I can’t go after them. I flag down my pal Joey, but the drunks are already lost in the crowd. Rather than hunt for them and make a scene escorting them out, we decide to let them stay. The show will be over soon, and hopefully we’d scared them enough to keep them from misbehaving.

We hadn’t.

After a song or two, I see the two idiots being escorted toward the exit by a couple Citizens On Patrol (i.e., regular concertgoers). When I ask what happened, the citizens say the drunks were “doing drugs.” I don’t know if this is true, but I do know (I learned later) they had climbed on stage and momentarily stopped the show.

I think they tried to come in again after that (it’s all blurring together by this point). This time Joey intercepts them. The older one complains that she’s 21, so there shouldn’t be a problem with being drunk and disorderly. And the 19-year-old helpfully explains that it would be legal for her to be drunk if she was in “Candada [sic].” Next, the 21-year-old eloquently explains how this shit would never happen in LA where she would be treated as the belle of the ball, and might I add, “Fuck you Fresno.” (Somehow they’re still as wasted as they were 3 hours before.) They leave for the last time, finally, to hopefully go choke on their own vomit somewhere.

At 12:30, I’m taken off door duty in time to catch the last couple songs of the night, which are fantastic. It would have been nice to catch the whole set, but I’ll take what I can get. And, despite having my night ruined, disaster was averted, so I guess there’s something to be said for that.

Anyway, the moral of this story is, Don’t be a piece of shit like these two.

Update 7/13/10: In the interest of full disclosure, I want to note that I’ve since received apologies from both girls (one directly and one indirectly). I hope they’ve learned from this.

Arguing about which city is better is like arguing which pizza toppings are better. Are you going to convince your uncle who loves Hawaiian that it’s intrinsically inferior to Meat Lovers because “pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza”? It’s doubtful. Hell, you could make a really good argument about how he likes linguisa way more than Canadian bacon, but guess what? He still wants the Hawaiian. And—if you leave aside the hackneyed snark—we all have to admit, that’s just fine.

Because pizza, like cities, is always—always—a matter of pros, cons, and priorities. In a word: opinion.

Even “objective” measurements like crime rates boil down to personal experience. Go ahead and comfort Jimmy of Blogsville, MI—whose car has been broken into three times in three weeks—with the fact that the rate of car vandalism is four times higher in Tweetsburg, PL—where his friend Johnny has lived for 20 years without once becoming a victim.

Subjective experience plus priorities is what it’s all about. It’s pointless to try to convince people who like their city that they shouldn’t (and that’s what your complaining is; if you’re not trying to improve it and you’re not trying to convince someone, then you’re just whining, which nobody likes).

Just the same, it’s pointless to try to convince people who have decided to not like their city that they should. And I say “decided to not like” because if a person isn’t sure yet if they like their city, you can direct them toward aspects they may enjoy; if you direct them toward things they won’t enjoy, you’re a sociopath.

“Trapped”

Listen. I have a minor in psychology, so let me break it down for you.

If you really hate Fresno, you’ve got some issues. I’m not saying it’s unreasonable to dislike Fresno. After all, it’s just an opinion. But if you find yourself hating a city—so much so that you create an unfunny anonymous Twitter account to call attention to the fact—we need to take a look at what’s going on under the surface.¹ (Same deal if your hatred of BBQ chicken pizza reaches these levels.²)

It no longer surprises me that so many of those who hate Fresno respond to the obvious question—”Why not move?”—with a variation on the following.

“I would, but I have to take care of a sick relative here.”

Or, “I would, but my baby’s mama is here.”

Or, “I would, but my boyfriend doesn’t want to quit his job here.”

Or, “I would, but I’m on house arrest for selling drugs to school children.”

What do these things have in common? Hint: nothing to do with a longitude or latitude.

We interrupt this blog post for a TICN exclusive interview. We’re here live with Charlie Grumble, who has been rescued by federal agents after his abduction and twelve days’ captivity at the hands of some bad people. Charlie, tell us about your harrowing experience.

“It sucked, dude. The rope around my wrists and ankles was just really shoddy quality. It was real itchy. Oh, and the lighting conditions in the basement were subpar, at best! I could barely see the notches I marked on the wall to keep track of the days. And the dust down there did a number on my allergies! The entire setup left a lot to be desired, let me tell you.”

Yes, but what about your captors? The ones who locked you up? Those who are actually responsible?

“Oh, them… well, whatever.” [shrugs]

OK, back to our regularly scheduled blog.

You don’t have to have a minor in psychology to recognize the classic displacement defense mechanism. If you’ve ever observed ten or twelve minutes of human interaction, you’ve seen people taking out frustrations on some less threatening scapegoat, rather than the source of the frustration.

It’s cool, I can dig it. When I lived in SF and was hating life, it would’ve been easy to inflate my daily irritations into full-blown animosity.³ Luckily, I had no problem blaming my job and myself (that stupid asshole!) for my discontent, so I bear no ill will toward the great City by the Bay.

As I said, I’m not going to convince anyone who hates Fresno that they shouldn’t. If anything, I’m just offering myself as another target for their displacement. That’s alright.

My goal is just to point out why I don’t want to engage in any more “Does Fresno suck?” debates. If anyone wants to have some thoughtful conversations about improving the community or discovering the cool things that are already here, I’m all for it. On the other hand, it’s OK with me if you want to leave. Perfection is impossible, but if you find a city you think is perfect for you, by all means move there and enjoy.

Subjective experience.

Priorities.

Opinion.

Pizza.

1. There’s also more to it if you find yourself absolutely wet-your-pants in love with a city. It’s more likely that you just love your life while you’re there. (If you love a city you don’t live in, well, that’s not love. As with people, you can’t really know what love is until you share a bathroom.)
2. Although, a Twitter account dedicated to bashing BBQ chicken pizza actually could be funny. But the humor would come from the fact that it is an obvious overreaction. It would be funny because we’d recognize that a person would have to be pretty screwed up to be sincere about such a thing. It wouldn’t and couldn’t be observational humor, as some city-haters have attempted.
3. “I’ve been waiting 45 minutes for this supposedly every-15-minutes bus. Oh, thanks, Sixteenth Street BART station: now I have human feces on my shoe. Please don’t smoke crack on my doorstep, miss. Rain-soaked grocery bags break open on the bus spilling my shit everywhere–with plastic grocery bags outlawed, only outlaws have plastic grocery bags. What is that smell? What is that smell?!“

STUPID:

I never thought I’d say this, but… Snurp flam piguna nyipe nyipe charoooo!

But very true.

WORDPLAY:

If I gave you the option of either a ladder or a stepstool, would you choose the former or the latter?

This one is a classic joke I made up that doesn’t work in written form. Also, I think maybe my friend Matt made it up, not me.

WORDPLAY:

What if I sweetened the pot by adding a little Splenda to the marijuana?

Sold.

STUPID:

Thinking about getting a tattoo of my face on my butt.

And vice versa.

Sold.

WISDOM:

Superlatives are like laxatives. If you use them too often, you shit your pants.

This is not strictly true. It’s probably a metaphor. I think the pants are your soul. I think the shit is shit.

WORDPLAY:

Superlatives are the worst.

This is pure gold.

WISDOM:

People say “follow your heart” as if we don’t already do that all time. How about following your effing brain once in a while?

“No, because then I’d just be looking up and spinning in circles.”

WORDPLAY:

Insult: you smell like a cocker spaniel.

Compliment: you smell like a bloodhound.

This is a joke.

That concludes this episode of This is Twittering: Meta-Commentary Digest.

[Shallow observation]. That’s stupid, huh?!

A few months ago, an anonymous Twitter account was created that described itself thusly: “In a town where we think we are a progressive city, but in reality we are idiots.”¹ It was called @failfresno. The comment timeline included the typical tools of the anti-Fresno zeitgeist.

There’s nothing to do in Fresno. Someone got shot last night…only in Fresno! Anyone trying to do something interesting in Fresno is an idiot.

Pretty standard stuff. It was clearly presented as if the writer felt he was providing funny, incisive commentary. In fact, it was pretty banal crap.²

But I don’t want to put words in his mouth. I skimmed through and found what I think is the guy’s best joke (link added).³

Dear KMPH, Great Day could of be a decent show if this was still 1978.

Not quite up to “open mic night” standards, but if someone said that in a group of people, I might chuckle. The idea of Kopi doing his schtick in the 70s is kind of funny.

But that’s the cream of the crop, and it’s not too creamy. Most of the comments are along these lines:

RT @FresnoBeehive: Roe shooting a “fresno” eye for local nightlife // replaced black w/ Fresno

Tee-hee. He “replaced black w/ Fresno.” So now it says it was a “Fresno eye” not a “black eye.” Get it?

Or this:

Fresno…Evidence that there are no Earthquakes in Hell

Ooohh, because there was an earthquake somewhere other than Fresno. And Fresno is hell? Yes, I see now.

As you can see, pretty bargain basement stuff. @mikeoz and I and some others had some fun laughing at the guy on Twitter. @failfresno did his darnedest to offer a retort. One thing most everyone agreed on: the dude wasn’t funny.

Then today. For some reason there was an explosion of Twitter activity surrounding @failfresno and a few people actually came to his defense. Some even said that he was funny. People who actually knew the anonymous @failfresno claimed they enjoyed his comments. Unsurprisingly, these people also share @failfresno’s anti-Fresno attitude.

Either these people have very underdeveloped senses of humor, so that the mere act of complaining is considered comedy, or there was something else going on. I would submit that those who believe @failfresno is funny—or say it’s not supposed to be funny but simply provocative—are overlooking the shortcomings because they agree with the sentiment. It is along the lines of those who judge the humor of a political joke solely on the basis of whether its political slant reflects their own.⁴

The Twitter conversation that followed turned into a somewhat productive discussion on what was good or bad about Fresno compared to other cities, and how people viewed it (a discussion in which @failfresno did not participate).

But something else came to light about @failfresno. It’s something that has changed my whole view of the situation. It turns out the operator of the @failfresno account lives outside the area (presumably a former Fresnan). With this new revelation, the entire episode takes on a decidedly pathetic mood.

Here is someone who was bitter towards Fresno for some reason.⁵ Then this person finally gets their long-held dream of moving somewhere else. Somewhere, we presume, that fulfills their soul in ways Fresno never ever could. So what does this person do? Does he embrace his new, contented life, finally free from the bitterness that once ruled him? It seems he doesn’t. Whatever else he does, he also spends time monitoring the news of his old hometown (perhaps troubled that it doesn’t seem to miss him?) and then make comments about it, like, “So Foursquare is in Fresno? too bad everyone will check in Walmart or from their home cause all they do is just watch tv”. ZING!

You can imagine how this realization affected me. My scorn has turned to pity. Whatever compels this poor guy to maintain such an existence, I can only assume it has roots deeper than perhaps even he realizes.

As of now, I will no longer mock this poor little guy. Whatever the neuroses that manifests itself in this behavior, I hope for everyone concerned that he gets it sorted out.

Until then, all the goodness in me salutes all the goodness in you.

1. Never mind that I don’t think anyone, supporter or opponent, would categorize Fresno as a “progressive city” without qualification.
2. In fact, when all is said and done, if I were him I’d argue that the whole deal was planned meta-commentary on how Fresno sucks so much that even its self-hating population can’t hate themselves properly.
3. All quotations are verbatim and sic.
4. I suppose this perspective is valid, although I would never be so beholden to an ideology. Comedy is my only mistress.
5. I’ll ignore for now the implications of singling out and blaming a city for one’s own discontent with life.

It was a sunny day in ATLANTA, GEORGIA [pause for applause] when Tommy’s 1972 Mercury Bullet High-Life pulled into the parking lot of the Busty Blonde Diner in Pro-bowl, Utah. Tommy, who was the driver I may have forgotten to mention, walked into the diner and sat at a booth. The green vinyl seat was strategically duct taped in a few places, but all-in-all it was no big deal.

The waitress, who was brunette, poured a steamy cup of coffee for him. “Do you need a minute to decide?” she asked. She was, in fact, fairly busty, but she was also a pretty large woman so Tommy didn’t think it really counted (from a marketing standpoint)¹.

“No,” Tommy said. “I like babies. I’m totally serious.”

“And what kind of toast?”

“Wheat.”

The waitress left to put in the order, and Tommy removed his gas mask and set it next to him on the seat. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

“Excuse me,” said the woman at the booth behind him. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you like babies, you’re totally serious.”

“Why, yes,” said Tommy. “Yes, I do. My name’s Tommy.”

“I don’t care,” said @brightcaroline.

THE END

1. Not because large women are not attractive, but because the extra body fat usually translates into larger breasts. It’s biology or something. I’m not insulting anyone. If anything, it’s a compliment.

The rumors are true.

You’ll notice a number of exciting updates in the new version.

Release notes (2.0):

• Simplified user interface
• Now with 85% more beard
• Numerous bug fixes and enhancements

It is a very nice button. Just listen to this REAL TESTIMONIAL from Travis Sheridan: “Wearing the @thisisconlan button makes me moe (sic) popular…and you can quote me on that.”

If you would like your very own “This is Conlan: The Button v2.0″, please come find me, then ask me for one. Alternately, if you live far away (i.e., New York), please utilize the “donate” button on my awesome website and contribute some amount for postage and handling, then email me your address. Then I will send you a couple.¹

Act now. While supplies last.

1. You can even donate if you don’t get yours through the mail.

Why am I never allowed to own a cat?

Thank you for your question, Doug. This is a very interesting situation requiring the requisite non sequiturs (and therefore non sequitees, for argument’s sake), but what—inasmuch as there is such thing—does this actually preclude? The answer to that is simple: Don’t buy a bucket of butter when the squids aren’t squeaking, am I right? What this means, in context, is that there’s no one specific instance by which all others must be prejudged. The “jury” is, when it comes around to it, out.

And yet, the feline aspects of the equation remain in play (as it were). For example, don’t expect much help from the U.S. Supreme Court on this one.¹ It’s a matter of onion. I wonder if that’s where the onion came from. Onions are like assholes: everybody’s got one and they all make you cry when you chop them up.

But I divergess. The answer to this question, Dob, lies in the idiosyncrasy of it, itself. What we are dealing with here, then, is, of course, not a viable option. It is an enviable option. Gosh, I wish I had that option. (Do you see my point?)

All living things hate you.

1. Not true.

Here are some sample conversations that would occur after the name change.

SCENE 1

EXT. After the UC Irvine graduation ceremonies, two graduates converse.

NATHAN: What are you plans now?

BETH: I’ve got a job lined up in Great Valley.¹

NATHAN: Fresno? I saw the story on CNN about them changing their name. Yeah, ‘Great Valley’ makes the smog smell like tulips. Losers. Anyway, good luck.

FADE OUT.

SCENE 2

INT. San Francisco cocktail party overlooking the Bay Bridge. SUSAN and ANNIE chat over cosmos.

SUSAN: …So that’s why I moved out here from Chicago. Where are you from originally?

ANNIE: I grew up in Central California.

SUSAN: Really? What part?

ANNIE: Um, Rancho Sierra.

SUSAN: Hm. Is that near Sacramento?

ANNIE: Well, it’s more south. It’s actually bigger than Sacramento.

SUSAN: Oh, I can’t believe I haven’t heard of it. Are you sure?

ANNIE: Yeah. Well, it used to be called Fresno.

SUSAN: Ohhh. That’s odd.

FADE OUT.

SCENE 3

INT. Car driving up 99 towards Yosimite.

WIFE: I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat in Fresno.

HUSBAND: You know they changed the name, right?

WIFE: Name of what?

HUSBAND: Fresno. It’s called Muir now.

WIFE: Why?

HUSBAND: They thought it would give them a better image or something. It’s ironic; the city went into massive debt just to change all the government letterhead and repaint police cars, not to mention the university and the businesses.

WIFE: Why would it give them a better image?

HUSBAND: I guess because people think of ‘Fresno’ as uncool.

WIFE: They think a new name will fix that?

HUSBAND: I guess.

WIFE: That’s the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard. Look, Kingsburg. Let’s eat here.

FADE OUT.

SCENE 4

INT. High school gymnasium in Phoenix, Arizona. A college fair. Booths are set up and students mill around.

MALE STUDENT (approaching booth): CSUBT? Where’s that?

RECRUITER: In beautiful Blossom Trail, California. Most of the time we call it Blossom Trail State. Let me show you some–

MALE STUDENT: I’m a football player. I’m sure as shit not going to play for ‘Blossom Trail State’. See you in hell.

(Student walks off, another walks up.)

RECRUITER: Hello, there. Thinking about college in California?

FEMALE STUDENT: Blossom Trail? Isn’t that the city that changed its name because it sucked so much?

RECRUITER: Well, not exactly. But we’ve changed more than our name. Since then the city of Blossom Trail has reduced crime by almost 40%. And we’ve got a thriving downtown entertainment district where, by the way, our fantastic new BTSU satellite campus is located.

FEMALE STUDENT: What was it called before?

RECRUITER: The city? It was named Fresno, but let me tell you about the job opportunities that have been created for our graduates. Nearly 80 percent of–

FEMALE STUDENT: Frez-no. Why’d you change it?

RECRUITER: Um, well, it wasn’t really up to us. I just represent the university. Did you know our business program, in conjunction with the Blossom Trail City government, provides opportunities to–

FEMALE STUDENT: That seems… dumb.

RECRUITER: Yes, but–

FEMALE STUDENT: Don’t you guys have pride in your history?

RECRUITER: Funny you should say that, because–

FEMALE STUDENT: It’s kind of disgusting, if you think about it. If a student writes a shitty essay at your college, can they improve their grade by just changing the title?

RECRUITER: Of course n–

FEMALE STUDENT: Yuck.

(She walks away.)

FADE OUT.

SCENE 5

CLOSEUP of TV screen. Opening titles of late night show play.

ANNOUNCER: It’s the Conan O’Brien Show! Only on Fox! And now, here’s Conan O’Brien!

CONAN: Thank you, thank you. We’ve got a great show for you tonight. But first, did you hear about Dakota Fanning? Seems this time she’s really screwed up. Meth, orgies, dead puppies. Yikes. Hollywood insiders are saying this might be the end of her career; her reputation is ruined. Although… she could always try…. changing her name to Vineyard, California!

(Audience erupts with laughter)

FADE OUT.

THE END.

1. Actual possible proposed names.

It’s not very often I, being Conlan, have a chance to see what life is like on “the other side”, by which I mean the desert. I don’t even really like dessert. Just desserts is a thing, but it’s actually “just deserts”. Not many people understand this.

There’s not much understanding in the world today. We, as people, then to overlook the why?s and the whatnot?s in favor of the wow!s and whereboob?s. This has led to what I like to call “The Great Treacle Debacle”. Ironically, this is confusing (in a sense) because treacle and debacle do not sound alike. They are, in grammarian terms, sousaphones. That means they’re words that produce a high, brassy peal whenever you blow them.

Speaking of which, I attended a recent burlesque show during which a fire eater made a number of double entendre-esque comments that I found offensive. I don’t like sports, but I watch the Superbowl sometimes and I know what that sort of thing looks like. Very few people do, you know.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, smart is smart. The next time you see your Uniter States Postal worker, say hi. You might be surprised.