A recent trip to upstate Connecticut, the land of Huskies, steamed cheeseburgers, and most importantly, my birth, has given me a much needed breath of filth-free air, a reminder of why the first twenty-odd years of my life were zenlike when compared to the gonzofied sensory-explosion monkeybomb world I currently inhabit -- and more than a few reasons why I will ultimately return to live out the rest of my days in a kingdom of soccer milfs and weed whackers. I'll list a few of these until the "pizza" delivery guy shows up with a fat bag of "pizza", or until the technology-induced ADHD kicks in, whichever comes first.
- Trees. Yes, Central Park and Riverside Park offer the occasional unspoiled leafy glen, and all the biking, tennis, cross-country skiing, frisbee, and sunbathing options that any urban treehugger could possibly desire. But they also offer more than the occasional glimpse of foaming junkies getting their tweak on, and Puerto Rican hookers having their asses eaten out next to busy playgrounds. Not to mention the major highway that runs alongside Riverside, or the European tourists make the Great Lawn seem like a Great Place to swallow a bucket of lighter fluid. In CT, I went on a 15-mile bike ride through a quaint town center, a primeval forest that has been unchanged since we gave smallpox to the Pequots, a nature preserve, a river that doesn't have a highway next to it, rows of endless tobacco fields, a cemetary with stones from the 1600's, the pristine campus of my prep school, and a dirt road next to a turf farm where my buddies and I used to "study" after school. Not once during this entire ride was I accosted by a crackhead or subjected to the constant ruckus of taxi horns, packs of creepy obese children, garbage-day stink-smells, and crosswalk stagnation. Besides the occasional car and dog walker, this was Nature on my own quiet, bird-call-filled terms. Wide open (if manicured) spaces, the pump of the bike, the empty blue of the sky and my peace-starved head. Transcendence ahoy!
- NO HIPSTERS!!!
- Real dogs. People actually have real, outdoorsy, L.L. Bean Catalogue-worthy labs and retrievers, not the pathetic, yappy punt-worthy rat-creatures I have to avoid stepping on all the time. And the dog in the 'burbs are much happier, free to roam, to chase rabbits, to be actual dogs, instead of crying blankets for miserable 30-year-old single women who get stood up by their match.com dates.
- Pickup trucks with the occasional racing sticker.
- Golf. It's crack for white people (except for the white people who actually smoke crack). I didn't realize how badly I missed it until I played a round. The attraction is simple: Take the Nature idea and add open boozing and swearing and hitting things with a metal stick. There is nothing finer on God's earth. Besides porn. And "pizza".
- Did I mention no hipsters?
- In the suburbs, there's much less room for dissatisfaction. When the choices of what to do on a Friday night are limited to a dozen restaurants and a handful of decent bars, there are two options: either stay inside or make whatever you're doing fun.[Not to forget house parties. Not sweaty, forty-assholes-cramped-into-a-tiny-apartment parties, HOUSE PARTIES. Like "let's go out back to the barn or skinny dip in the pool or be able to have a conversation where I don't have to smell your breath or count the open pores in your face!"] New Yorkers will spend an entire night working their way through 15-20 bars/clubs in one neighborhood looking for the perfect vibe, only to realize that it doesn't exist, and that the search has depleted most of the week's paycheck. Sure, people and places in the 'burbs may be simpler, but that simplicity generally makes happiness a much easier state to attain. I'd rather hang out at the same local, familiar pub with my best buddies night after night than have my brain explode while trying to figure out which of the 85 Thai places to go to within a three-block radius of my apartment.
- There's also something to be said for being able to drive for hours on open stretches of road and highway, letting your arm catch the breeze outside the window, blasting your tunage with the unshakable confidence of knowing that you will never be a slave to the hell-colored stoplights of the All-Mighty Grid.
Not to say that the suburban life is total nirvana. There's plenty of reasons why I stay in Manhattan. Career progression, 4 am last calls, exotic polychromatic women, getting a bacon-egg-and-cheese and a 40 oz whenever I damn well want. And most importantly, there aren't any pizza guys in the suburbs. And like clockwork, as I write this sentence, the buzzer is ringing. I wonder what delicious toppings he'll have today. The suburbs, for now, are only a distant Disneyland dreamworld. And one day I will sleep there in the carefully crafted fantasy that is Connecticut. But until then, I have more pressing business. Lunch is served!
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