Little Boxes on the Hillside, Little Boxes Made of Ticky Tacky…

Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same. There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one and they’re all made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same…..

I have been introduced to this great television show “Weeds” by a good friend. If you’re in the dark, like I was two days ago, then listen up. This show is a satirical look at life in the suburbs. It goes way over the top having an upper middle class mom who is the local marijuana dealer. My introduction is the lyrics to the theme song of the show and they really caught my attention and got me to thinking about my own mixed thoughts about suburban life.

I spent my formative years in Pacific Beach which is a community within the city of San Diego right on the Pacific Ocean. It’s known as “PB” to the locals. PB is a hip town with a great beachie vibe. I have fond memories of growing up there. PB is a suburb on the beach which gives it a feel and character unlike you’re typical suburban community. Much to my dismay, at the end of the ninth grade, we moved from PB to an inland, suburban, bedroom community called University City. I was horrified. I still remember that long lonely summer between ninth and tenth grade. It was hot. It was boring. I had no friends there. Everything looked the same. I proclaimed one evening at dinner that we lived in “Leave it to Beaverville.” I think my father agreed because he never lived in a similar neighborhood ever again.

The next twelve years I was able to avoid suburbia. I lived mostly in different beach communities in north San Diego county. When you get married and have three children, not all the choices are completely yours. You need to think about your wife and your children and safety and security and the such. I ended up back in the suburbs. The only reason I agreed is because the house does have a great backyard. Otherwise, I could give or take the house (I hope Karen’s not reading this blog!). We have a pool and jacuzzi and barbeque and all of the trappings of suburbia that make it more palatable.

An old friend of mine once told me that the suburbs are a dangerous place to live. If you’re going to get satirical like the writers of “Weeds,” then you’ll bring up the all the hypocrites that live in suburbia. At some stage of our lives have we not met the philandering husband with the wandering eye? How about the mom that only pops her pills with chardonnay? The teenagers doing bong loads in their cars? Let’s not forget the closet homosexual? You’re bound to find these shenanigans in any community whether you’re urban, suburban or rural.

Yesterday, in the car, my fifteen year old son proclaimed, “I love our neighborhood. I never want to move.” I gave him a look and he said, “Come on, dad! You don’t like where we live?” I didn’t answer the question. I’ve been thinking about my answer for the past forty eight hours. A place where you’re with family and friends, where you can skateboard in the street, bike ride on the canyon trails, go swimming, enjoy backyard barbeques, attend a good school and have fond memories of growing up isn’t a bad place to be. I had that in Pacific Beach. Why can’t it be replicated here. I’m going to keep my satire to myself and get my fix watching “Weeds” once a week.

My apologies to anyone who loves UC.

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