Earlier, I mused (and moaned) over this this ethereal Duchy known only as Suburbia Majora. A brief review will tell us that Suburbia Majora is a swath of humanity, nail salons, tattoo shops, and soul bleeding traffic between Richmond VA and Boston, MA. There, SUV's carry little Justin and Madison off to play dates and other tightly scheduled recreation. When you scratch off the fine veneer of kept lawns and volvos with Kerry/Edwards stickers, you'll see that Suburbia Majora is a subtle dystopia which consumes its inhabitants. For the purpose of this essay, and because it sounds cool, I'll refer to the citizens of Suburbia Majora as Majorans (Ohh, that sounds so Trekish but I digress).
Many Majorans have been condemned to wear a clock the size of a millstone around their necks. I'm speaking figuratively of course, with all deference and props to Mr. Flavor Flav. These Majorans are clock-bound every waking moment of their lives. They wake long before dawn in order to join the procession of lemmings on the interstates. The Majoran knows with absolute certainty that leaving five minutes late could add as much as an hour to their long march to the city. At the end of the workday comes the trek out of the cities and office parks, all at speeds that vary between breakneck and gridlock. Evenings and weekends too are ruled by the clock. Evenings offer scant few hours and weekends require choreography, lest they be frittered away.
When the music stops, the average Majoran simply wants to be left alone in his 3,000 square foot castle. He's nestled behind his privacy fence and the twin garage doors with his HDTV and his DSL connection. She can kick her shoes off and coax a foot rub out of her mate.
This may seem like the suburban idyll, but for humanity, to exist this way is Contra Natura to the way we've been wired. I'll pick up as to why next time.