Books by Aaron Karo

-I was born and raised in a place that’s often misunderstood by the outside world.  A strange place that’s equal parts beloved and hated.  A place called Long Island.   Though I haven’t lived on Long Island regularly since I left for college a decade ago, all natives are permanently branded with certain stereotypes (starting with the fact that we often pronounce it “LawnGUYland”).  And, strangely enough, since I moved to Los Angeles, I’ve felt a stronger bond to Long Island than ever before.  This month, as I return home for Thanksgiving and my ten-year high school reunion, I thought I’d reflect on the place that deftly shaped me and a generation of fellow Long Islanders into a nice, tidy little cult.

-Since this column is read around the world, first here’s a brief geography lesson.  Manhattan is an island.  Just east of Manhattan is a much larger island, comprised of Brooklyn, Queens, Nassau County, and Suffolk County.  Nassau and Suffolk together form what’s known as Long Island.  We have some of the best bagels and public schools in the country.  Our primary export?  Hordes of overly well-dressed, frighteningly bitchy, petite-framed chicks who are simultaneously hot and annoying.

-I think that twentysomethings are often overly sentimental or overly cynical about high school.  Now don’t get me wrong, by the time senior year rolled around, I was ready to get the fuck out, but for the most part I enjoyed high school.  Sure, I took enough AP classes to earn a year of college credit when I should have been trying to get laid, but I didn’t quite have my priorities straight back then.  My friends and I still partied the best we could.  Though what more can you really expect from the suburbs than drinking in a park on weekends and running from rent-a-cops?

-Interesting tidbit: everyone from Long Island does in fact know each other.