What the suburbs mean to me:

The incessant drone of leaf blowers.

Morning noon and night.

Backpacks, push models, electric and gas.

They join together to form a background cacophony.

A discordant harmony that sits on your ears, weighing down your brain.

The full effect only truly realized when it stops for a moment

and blessed silence returns just long enough to fall in love with it again.


It's always there, this anti-Buddhist chant.

Defining the suburbs for us along with SUV's, luxury cars and boring restaurants.

Oh, and the Italians! Don't get me started on the Italians!

Everybody here is an Italian, even if they're not Italian.

It's like they judge one another on who would make the best Sopranos extra.

I can picture it now: Tony Soprano pulls into his driveway and briefly exchanges pleasantries with my neighbor, who stops blowing leaves for a few merciful seconds.