Bang Bang

Suburbia hasn’t yet paved over my neighborhood. We still are somewhat of a rural community with gunfire celebrating New Year’s Eve rather than middlin’ to pricy wine corks popping in contractor grade kitchens. We do have “Little box” developments rising like tombstones out of formally gorgeous meadows but fortunately we’re not overrun with overdevelopment – yet.

I bring this up because as I was ambling toward the study out under the poplars tonight, I could hear the guys up the road firing at the moon and I was enjoying it. Screw the development. I’ve always hated the same ole’ singsong, ticky-tacky little houses pasted together in rows on streets with idyllic names. “Meadow Brook,” “Oak Wood,” “Maple Grove,” “Deer Run;” all names to give the illusion of what was once there and what the developers want people to believe it’s like living there and people just buy into it. “Well, people have to live somewhere,” and “You can’t stop progress,” are platitudes that I’ve heard over and over.

I think rather than “progress” it has more to do with making money at the expense of the future. I can’t figure out why people – especially my generation, buy into such lies. Such incredible mediocrity – such blandness and trite living that fills our lives in this time. God, I hate it. The billboards, TV and radio ads are lies. I know this for a fact not because I have some divinely imparted wisdom but because I’m with real people in their homes when they don’t have on their Avon or Mary Kay faces. I get to wade through muddy yards and dog crap to visit in old junky singlewide mobile homes and park on concrete drives next to the Jags and the Benz in other neighborhoods. I get to really know what makes life – and death worthwhile. And I want you all to know this – it absolutely has nothing to do with what the Pretty People tell you. It has nothing to do with what comes out of those sensuous lips pasted on the well-groomed heads that stick out of GQ forms. Life is about good family, faithful friendship and most of all unmitigated love. Period.

Tonight as thousands pack Times Square and Hollywood types wax sentimental about trivial glitz, other “thousands” are doing the stuff that makes the world go round and being paid little to nothing for it. Personally, I love that little button every electronic device has called “OFF.” I prefer to push it firmly and plant big sloppy kisses on my boy’s faces while they struggle to get away. I prefer to stroke my wife’s magnificent undyed, unstreaked, untouched red hair and hold her hand. I prefer to stroll to my study to write to you about what’s in my heart and stop to listen to the guys up the road aim high and plug the moon in celebration of a new year.

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

And the people in the houses all went to the university
Where they were put in boxes & they came out all the same
And there’s doctors & lawyers & business executives
Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes all the same
There’s a green one & a pink one & a blue one & a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky & they all look just the same

And they all play on the golf course & drink their martinis dry
And they all have pretty children & the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp & then to the university
Where they are put in boxes & they come out the same

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

And the boys go into business & marry & raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky & they all look just the same
There’s a green on & a pink one & a blue one & a yellow one
Little boxes all the same

“Little Boxes” By Malvina Reynolds