In our world, alas -- here in the broken and beautiful Middling -- the ways into the peace, the cool air and fragrant grass of Diamond Green have long been lost to us. For a while, as you may know, you could step into Diamond Green through a gall called the Elysian Fields, along the shores of a broad, shining river. It was here, in 1846, that the first game of baseball in the history of the Middling was played. But Coyote unpleached, or cut, that gall long ago. Today an abandoned Maxwell House coffee factory stands on the vanished spot. All that remains of the opening to that fortunate land is one last leafy scrap, a small, modest playground with a swing set and a slide. I once tried to reach Diamond Green from this spot, a big ungainly adult making a fool of himself on the swings; but am sorry to report that I failed completely. Perhaps you will have more success, if you visit one day. Or maybe you will grow up to be the one who finally restores to their former splendor the Elysian Fields of Hoboken, New Jersey.
- Michael Chabon, Summerland

"Garden State"
THE STORY THUS FAR: Zach Braff fed us on little white lies. I have been in New Jersey for a week now, and I've yet to meet any hotties who want me to listen to the one good Shins song in existence, nor have I figured out the meaning of life in your 20s at the dawn of the 21st century in a series of overwritten and heavy handed scenes. The last eight days have neither been "quirky" nor beautifully shot.

Then again, my version of Garden State wouldn't have the indie film geeks lauding my lackluster efforts. It'd be a lot of me sitting at a computer, submitting to monster.com jobs and giggling, or me reading at the Teaneck Library. There'd be that hilarious bit where Granny forces me to take a picture with Santa Claus, despite my constant assertion that I am, in fact, twenty-two years old. The scene where I'm making my own business cards at Granny's urgent behest so I can pass them out at the minority business association's holiday mixer, where I'll be forced to dance with a fifty-year-old fabric saleswoman who doesn't want me to feel awkward hanging out with old folks. (No, not my grandmother. This tiny humiliation was heapoed upon me by a total stranger. Don't try to wrap you mind around it. I've tried. It just hurts.) And who can forget the part where I write this entire blog entry that gets wiped out by the bad internet connection?

I'm worried that there isn't much call for a talented procrastinator in today's wintry job climate. I once was a Daredevil English Major. Now I am, at best, a Starving Escape Artist. Post-graduate life has taking me down off my flying trapeze and shut me up in a box it's setting ablaze. The Big Question used to be Can I get this paper done under the wire? but when I walked across that stage, it was Can I escape? Can I go home? Can I get out of this cycle? Can I leave Columbia? and now it's Can I escape unemployment and debt? Can I avoid more awkward "networking opportunities"? Can I get out of Granny's guest room and get a place of my own?

(Yes, I have read Chabon and Vaughan recently, Mr. Prewitt. What of it?)

...

It's really not that bad here. You know me. I love to complain with a little style. I guess I just miss all my friends. I miss seeing them and knowing that they'd understand. That they accepted me for who I am. I miss the way it felt to hold them. I miss the adventures we'd have as I'd flip through their pages. How easy it was to sleep at night knowig they were all safe in their mylar bags and sturdy boxes in the next room over.

How could they make me leave my comics behind?

NEXT:
Ground Control to Major Tom...