Expatriation to Canada sounds daunting, but the one thing that I like aboot the idea is that it would presumably have less of an effect on my citizenship as a Californian than expatriation to, say, the fart-savoring layer of smug covering “Our Valley,” which shares a county line with California. Fuckheads on both sides of the line want to merge far Northern California and Southern Oregon into the State of Jefferson (or, as they unctuously call it on JPR, the “mythical State of Jefferson”), but for obvious constitutional reasons that won’t happen for as long as the United States endures as a sovereign nation. There’s that other fuckhead in Silicon Valley who proposed the six-state solution with everything but the groovy shit (Jefferson and Silicon Valley) still called some form of California, which is even less viable because it would require at least five constitutional amendments, or at least major acts of Congress. It’s late, and I’m not fact-checking that shit because I’m driving to Yreka tomorrow (morning, if the flesh is not embarrassingly weaker than the spirit) to renew my California street cred with the DMV. I don’t exactly live in Rancho Cordova, but I don’t definitively not live in Rancho, either, which is unfortunate, but the Extended Stay place in Del Paso is even more expensive than the Crossland. I stayed there for a few nights once when an airshow at Mather Field had the Crossland booked solid, but that’s it. Claiming residency there would feel just a bit fraudulent. That’s not to say that I’m not keeping an eye out for opportunities to aver that bitch, I’m a Sacramentan and that bitch, I’m here to vote against Mayor Kevin Johnson and First Lady Michelle Rhee (she’s pretty much self-explanatory, but she explains a lot about him). Do I give a shit about Rancho politics? Of course not. It’s just the only dump I could afford as a transient quasi-Sacramentan. As it happens I’m still registered to vote in Humboldt County, but really only because it took the Sacramento voter registration clerks three weeks to send me a notice that I’d failed to sign my voter registration affidavit–in August. As the authentic locals say, that’s hella fucked up.
That was a mess of a paragraph, but as the authentic locals also say, I’m still a hecka better writer than David Foster Wallace. He isn’t topical to this screed, either, but I read some of Vox Day’s stuff about him this evening, and I haven’t forced any gratuitous Commodores references into the storyline yet, so I’m doing all right. You do realize, I hope, that I’d go batshit crazy from physical and mental exhaustion if I edited this shit. I hardly even have time to write it.
Anyway, I’ve been living in varying degrees of fear since 2011 that some Kafkaesque administrative nightmare would befall me and Shanghai me into Oregon residency. My parents act like this wouldn’t be objectionable, but they aren’t the ones who’ve had to put up with the noxious narcissism of Oregonians for a plurality of their adult lives. I don’t really have much against Oregon in practice, but I’m very much opposed to Oregon in principle, and to a somewhat lesser extent to the Pacific Northwest. Whenever I see horseshit like Haggen’s Northwest Fresh taking over a bunch of stores from Safeway (a California company: Pleasanton represent!), I feel a faint need to vomit. Market of Choice is worse, of course, since it bizarrely manages to combine bog-standard Oregonian narcissism with preppy-ass khaki uniforms of a sort that I hoped to have fled by leaving the East Coast. It’s one thing for high-hat Mid-Atlantic seaboarders to dress like that; even worse is traditionally expected of them, sartorially and ethically. For grocery clerks on Nantucket to dress like that would be an aesthetic atrocity, but an understandable one. For grocery clerks in Oregon, or really anyone at all west of the Appalachians, to do so is incomprehensible and truly barfworthy. Hearing Market of Choice advertised on JPR or KLCC’s “NPR for Oregonians” with Annnngela Kelllllnerrrr in one of the the two or three approved versions of the local house voice is just gross, a perfect storm of highbrow left coast yuck. It’s unimaginable that the normal people in the state haven’t turfed out every politician who goes along with that shit, until you take a look at what might pass for the normal part of the electorate in some of these places (Jackson County especially) and realize that it’s no less narcissistic than the unabashed crunchy eccentrics.
We have obnoxious people back in the homeland, too, like Sacramento’s hordes of flatbillers. The difference is that middle-class Sacramentans clearly consider them pathetic, if not contemptible. They aren’t all like, “oh, cool, you’re wearing a bear flag hat!” If the hat is that stupid, and it usually is, they don’t humor the bro tool or cholo wearing it in the interest of Golden State chauvinism. Bear flag swag is generally low-class, although not always. Oregonian fart-sniffing swag knows no bounds of class among the diaspora Californians who wear it, because they hardly have any class themselves.
These are the asshats who spent years trying to assimilate me, Star Trek-style, into their civic life. Fuck them. Bitch I lived in Palo Alto until I was almost ten. Now I live in Rancho, if I live anywhere. Oops. I must’ve fucked up somewhere down the line. If I still lived on the Mid-Peninsula, I probably wouldn’t have been called sir, boss, dawg, man, and bro within ten minutes–by the same chav staying next door to me at the Crossland. That dude was hell on wheels; my first interaction with him was when he apologized for nearly starting a brawl at the Sunrise light rail station because the dude he was beefing with had sold his sister drugs. He told me he named his son King David. There’s worse than that in tacky Sac’s hella muhfuggin wigger community, too. But at least they don’t pull that shit in the name of California. There are limits to their civic profanity, usually because they’ve never in their lives heard of civics. The problem with Oregon is that it’s full of grandiose moral busybodies, usually from out of state, who are constantly trying to conform the entire state to their own collective image. It’s harder to do that in a state that has to be shared with Bakersfield and San Diego, or with the Mendo-Humboldt interface (yuck).
A lady from Tuscaloosa told me that the Canadians she met in Alberta and BC were rude as hell, and I imagine some of them are smug about having Canada’s version of good weather. They aren’t all as hot as Dagmar Midcap, or possessed of such a charming persona; it’s definitely a good idea to be careful about meeting guys from Port Coquitlam on Farmers Only. I know about these things. But at least none of them can bug me to register to vote in BC if I’m not even a citizen. I also have trouble believing that BC is as utterly narcissistic as Oregon until I’ve witnessed locals fart into their own wine glasses. I’ve never seen Washingtonians act so full of themselves and their state, or Nevadans do so more than a tiny bit here and there. It really is an Oregon problem. God forbid I become one of them.
It’s bedtime in America, so this screed is over. You’re welcome. It’s still better than what I’ve skimmed of DFW, though. I try, sometimes. But really, brevity is the soul of pretty much everyone but Karl Ove Knausgaard.