OK, San Antonio, you win. I’ve officially run out of shit to talk. Those Jeremy Martin voodoo dolls you’ve been poking must’ve worked, because after this issue, I’m leaving my post as infallible judge of all things local music and film to mooch off my wife and get my dreams crushed old-school in Clichéville, California, land of foreclosed movie-star mansions and double-digit unemployment. A few of you (I hope) will be a little sad; a whole lot more of you will probably only be upset that I’m not getting fired or torn apart by attack dogs in a YouTube video. Under my tenure (I tell myself) the local music scene received increased scrutiny, revealing both the highly satisfactory and the improvement needed, but also teaching me that most everyone hates getting graded unless they get an A-plus-plus. Even then I’d say I genuinely appreciate some aspect of about half the bands who think I straight-up dissed them, and really respect most of the musicians who’d shove a broken Coke bottle in my eye if they thought I was worth a nickel in Michigan. There’s some real talent here that deserves more exposure, so make it easier on Callie Enlow, successor to my throne, and keep her updated at email@example.com. Whenever you tour the West Coast, look me up. I’ll be in the papers, sleeping under a big old pile of them. Can I have that empty bottle?