Sorry BB...we had a little mix up at headquarters. We don't claim to be infallible over here.
The suburbs. Well, not so much The Suburbs I grieve against this year, as really, anybody and everybody has and can bitch about the sprawl, excrutiating freeway commutes, endless tracts of McMansions, unsustainable community plans, a looming peak oil apocalypse, and the general ennui of multiplying strip malls and pervasive homogeneity. Yawn. Keep reading.
I could be at peace with the 'burbs. In fact, we had a pact for awhile; I don't go there, and it doesn't come here. Well, this year, that pact was broken, and I have a lot of problems with that. So it begins...
Every city has them, every summer. Festivals, events, parades, ad nauseum. Sure, they can be fun, and much like overt patriotism, religion, and Christmas music, they serve the purpose of helping the masses feel good about themselves. However, like an island-full of depraved teenagers in a death-match over a case of whippits, these 'burban hordes storm the city – an onslaught of Landcruisers and Docker's, set to the Starbucks' "Hear Non-Music," neo-jazz arrangement of "Flight of the Valkyries." They come throughout the summer, but The Big Event is special. The Big Event is a parade, which seemingly, requires these caustic crowds to show up a day in advance, and either set up camp on the sidewalk, or mark off "their plot" with duct tape on the sidewalk. The result of this Mani-festering Destiny? A veritable Jansport shanty-town, fueled by Doritos and Code Red, with it's overweight residents bickering over whether their claim ends at the parking meter or the mail box. After this twisted, ritualistic bacchanal of nothingness (Floats? What the fuck purpose do these serve? By what social conditioning does one come to appreciate one festooned platform-on-wheels over another?), they evacuate, empty feed bags left blowing in the wind, taped-off territories in an asphalt wasteland. Nigh on six months later, I walk across the city to work, and the remnants are still there. Embedded into the concrete by a half-year of foot-traffic and weather, duct-tape boundaries, occasionally marked with the clan's name. Williams, says one. No doubt these Williamses are cozying around their fireplace with their 2.3 children right now, in complete bliss, for they know that an entire city isn't going to descend on their street, block traffic, howl at manufactured unexcitement, and exit as soon as corn-syrup withdrawal sets in; the only trace being the detritus of over-indulgence, selfishness, and complete disrespect for a fellow human's neighborhood. Can't wait 'til next year, 'burbanites! Stay classy.
Damn son, I'm feeling it- the 21st century is alive. Great 'tribe- keep it rollin'.
Posted by: Eli | December 20, 2007 at 11:02 PM