Steppin' Right Along Like It Ain't Nothin' Baby
Will the wealthy, sleeping denizens of the "Hotel Del," as they call it, arise from their vaguely satisfying slumbers to find the bloated, salt water filled corpse of Conor Oberst lain before them, slain by an erratic, unintentional byproduct of malaise: thine own true author?
This is but one possibility suggested to me by one impressive young commenter, straight out of Dixie. Or at least North of Dixie. But as a certain Robert "Robbie" Robertson once suggested, nay, sang, Dixie was driven down.
Ain't no "Sherman High School" in Virginia.
But if there is, I'd like to shake the hand of any man who attends, stare him deep in the eye, and, with bucolic airs of theatrical disdain, grimace, uttering only these words: "Thou art not a man; you forsake your very heritage. Your ancestral pageant shamefully turn their backs, staring silently downward, bemoaning the fate of their own progeny's progeny. "
I once spent time in Richmond, VA, at that time the murder capitol of the United States. Of America. My old friend, an alumnus of the University of Richmond, lived in a three bedroom with four others, one of whom lived in the unfinished basement, on a cot. He ate chicken backs, because they were the cheapest food product going, purchased from the local Grocery chain, Ghetto (community) Pride.
The most common point of suicide in San Diego, CA, is the Coronado bridge. You can see why. To me, I don't know, it doesn't make me want to end it all. But like they say, San Diego may be pretty, but (alledged suicide hotspot) Ithaca is GORGES!
You Cornell / Ithaca peeps are loving that one. Lighten up already. Step away from the gorge. It'll be alright. Might be cold, though. Bundle up.