Leave it to a New Yorker to ruin a perfectly transcendent moment.After completing my last act of mental masturbation – a defense of my research design into the merits of divided state government – it was over. No more dog-and-pony-shows for professors, no more need to delude myself into believing that what I’d done here mattered a whit to anyone. It was a beautiful moment.Even better, by the most fortuitous of circumstances my last breathless gasp of academia also happened to coincide with the last piece I’d ever write for this newspaper. And boy, what a piece it was going to be.As I sat on the bus wedged between a 13-going-on-35-year-old girl loudly discussing the relative merits of crank versus cocaine with anyone who’d listen, and a flip-flop wearing hag clutching a stomped out KOOL in one talon and a radio blaring Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung” in the other, I silently rehearsed the opening line I was going to use when I met New York Times Bestselling author David Sedaris. Humorist, satirist, essayist, playwright, radio personality. The man is a veritable treasure trove of creativity.I’d first encountered Sedaris’ biting narrative technique when, while judging a college drama contest, a student performed a collage of poetry, prose and news stories centered around a startling and somewhat embarrassing subject – Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.I sat, uncomfortable and mesmerized as the bizarre, heartbreaking world of the OCD sufferer was played out in front of me. Far from the gruff-but-lovable posturing of Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets” (which hadn’t yet been released), the performance didn’t sanitize the often freakish worlds of OCD and its impact on both the afflicted and their families. It was absolutely startling.Afterwards I approached the student and asked where he’d found the anchor piece of his program, a short story entitled “A Plague of Tics.””David Sedaris,” he replied. “Check him out, he’s f***ed up.”And so here I was on a crappy city bus, clutching Sedaris’ latest compilation of short stories “Naked” in my hands, his publicist’s confirmation of our meeting marking my favorite passage, trying to think of something witty to say to a man who’s been compared to Dorothy Parker and Mark Twain. I’d wow him with my scathing wit. I’d offer insightful comments. We’d have a drink. Exchange phone numbers. He’d tell me to look him up the next time I was in New York.”Naked” is a very good, very funny, very sad book. Of that have no doubt.As far as Sedaris though, I haven’t a clue.The S.O.B. never showed up.