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My participation in the Superbowl festivities is lame. I drove around the night before the Superbowl Village opened for business. I scanned a few photos of my Facebook friends while they walked around and partied. I probably won’t even watch the game. But I’m glad the Superbowl is here because it’s great for the city. Today I drove the edges of Downtown Indianapolis, and thought, nice zoo, nice park, nice canal, nice museum. I’ve always been lukewarm on the city. At 18, I couldn’t wait to leave. I didn’t apply to any colleges in-state. And I never thought I’d be back. Now that I am, its been easy to find things to complain about. I’ll look forward to leaving this town again, even though I have a good job, a great critique group and family close by. I don’t want to die in Indiana. Sorry, Hoosiers. I made a pact with Erin not to join the granfalloon. I’ve given my word.

Then I read this douche canoe article. John Branch, I can talk shit about my city. But, you can’t. Not without a bit of blogger backlash. If you’re going to write for the New York Times, at least do your fucking research. If you’re going to complain about Indianapolis, act like a journalist and do some digging. You picked the most surface-level bullshit to paint your picture of the city. Grandmas and prison inmates knitting? Really? Eighth graders who want to have a voice? That’s who you pick on?

Pick on the fact that people won’t be allowed to buy alcohol on Superbowl Sunday. Pick on the fact that our public school system found kids that could actually spell. How about how most people will choose Red Lobster over Room Four? We have our faults. You just didn’t manage to actually find them.

Call me defensive. I’ve resisted being a Hoosier my whole life. But, damn, New York Times, you made me want to step in front of my city while you throw stones, and say hey, Fuck you. We’re okay.

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