Oh Suburbia

We live lives of irony, here in downtown Suburbia. It's the land between lands, for those who can't quite commit to the chaotic relational hotbox of the city, but are terrified that a Thoreauic life in the middle of nowhere would glaringly reveal our blandness. After all, what would we update our Facebook statuses with?

Lest you think I am making mountains out of molehills, let me explain:

A woman in a burka just walked by. I am curious, is she coming to or from the clubs just a block over? A girl wearing less clothing than I sleep in came out of the restaurant across the street. It's 50 degrees out, and windy. The elevation she gets from those heels can't be helping the situation, as, I imagine, it's hard to reach a trot before an ankle is twisted. At least the up and down exercise might fight off hypothermia until Ken doll gets the car. The guy with the blowout hair is wearing a massive silver rosary. How can I see it? Because his shirt is unbuttoned far enough to see the spot just above his navel that he forgot to wax. Maybe he's just out of Mass and couldn't be bothered with changing before happy hour was over at Senor Frogs.

I could go on. Talk about the roving bands of teenagers (where in the hell are you going? none of you can buy booze and nothing else is being sold at this hour...) or the group of 13 girls and 1 guy that just walked past (...make a friggin choice already man!). But I'll stop. This blog post isn't going anywhere. Or is it already there? Mmm...deep...

And all this from a coffee shop at 10:45 on a Saturday night, as the 6'2" guy in a flannel shirt asks the barista for a pumpkin spice latte.