Originally, I was going to incorporate this ‘thought’ into the previous musing. Then realized it was too cumbersome of an idea. It deserved its own post. Besides, the underlining tone would’ve totally offset the humor of my ‘hoody moment. For this read is about everyone else in the neighborhood who’s NOT having an exchange student leaving sale. You know, those neighbors who truly do have the manicured lawns with every creature comfort the Joneses own. And, one more, of course.
The song Pleasant Valley Sunday came to mind the other day. Unfortunately, the damn tune just wouldn’t go away. Carole King wrote the music and the version of which I am familiar. The Monkees made it famous. The song is a salute, so to speak, to suburbia. And, the illusion of what that living is ‘about’ in all of its misconstrued satirical grandeur. Some people really need the assurance that every Sunday will be … pleasant. And, the answer to inquiries about personal business is a cliched salutation of well being.
The facade that everything in a perfectly manicured lawn is perfect isn’t necessarily the case. If it is, good for them. More often than not, imperfections are hidden in various closets around the house. Go to the local pharmacy and see who’s walking out with an arsenal of prescription medications. Then we’ll really have something to talk about, eh? I’m not saying my neighbor with the stove is perfect by any means. Let’s not even go there. But, he … tries. Even if those efforts are a bit misguided.
A few posts back I promised that everything would be hoppy. And it will be – very soon. I got distracted. A stove appeared in front of my neighbor’s garage…. . What is a blogger to do? Quality material is sometimes hard to come by. A stove covered in an ugly as fuck brown tarp AND Carole King are inspirational to random nonsensical writers like myself.
Since this illusion is way bigger than I could ever address in a single post. I created my MasterCard moment. Poking fun at that fucking Jeep is so much more fun than psychoanalyzing the functionality of suburbia. Nowadays, there is no ‘normal’. And those Joneses have no fucking clue what they are doing. Hell, they probably have more debt than I do. Hmm... , probably not.
Well, I’m unsure whether this rambling was philosophical or just phil o shit. Regardless, I’m done. I need to … cut the grass.
