Weed 'n' Feed
 
In the Biblical book of Revelation, the apostle John prophesied the end of the world as it stands today, when four mythological horsemen will bring war, famine, pestilence, and fiery death to all corners of the earth.
 
But John never foretold what would happen in the meantime.
 
Suburbia is rapidly descending upon us. Houses in myriad shades of beige are sprouting like dandelions in the fields of rural America. Four-wheel-drive vehicles -- most of which will never feel dirt under their wheels unless a young boy has to relieve himself on the highway -- clog the streets. Neighborhood associations are growing and neighborhoods shrinking. (Yet, ironically, the definition of “neighborhood” has also expanded to mean “strip mall parking lot” - that is, if you believe Applebees’ advertising.) Most of all, though, commercial zoning has ensured that there will soon be a Wal-Mart, Blockbuster, McDonalds, CVS, and Starbucks in every town in the nation.
 
Yes, it’s coming...
 
The Suburbalypse.
 
The four horsemen have boarded their mounts at farms far beyond zoning laws, have wedged their robes into walk-in closets, and have picked up shiny new vehicles from which to spread destruction while they wait for their final mission.
 
The first drives a Platinum-colored Hummer H2. She is a reedy woman, most likely an executive wife, with bright acrylic nails in need of a fill. While she drives, she makes a string of cell-phone calls to her two high school-aged sons, her husband, and the contractor who is renovating the kitchen. At stoplights, she uses a calculator with acrylic-jewel keys to balance her checkbook. She feels safe in her H2, and her husband feels safe knowing that she is protected by the largest vehicle available.
 
The second drives a Honda Accord, its Redondo Red Pearl paint reflecting the haze of polluted air and foregone dreams. The driver is a middle-aged office worker, so nondescript as to be of indeterminate gender and age. He/she purchased the Honda because of its reliability, yes, but more because of its popularity. S/he wanted to purchase the coupe instead of the sedan, but the San Marino Red paint on that model just seemed to stand out too much.
 
The third drives a black Passat wagon with a toddler in the back seat and a suction-cup Winnie the Pooh shade on the window. He is a young professional man, who looks strangely uncomfortable in khakis, a golf shirt, and an Abercrombie baseball cap. His wife sits next to him, wearing yoga pants and Keds; she is expecting their second child. The floor is littered with Cheerios, dirty pacifiers, and Bob the Builder toys. The back of the car is full of paint and textured sponge rollers for the nursery in their new home.
 
The fourth, an active older man, arrives on a riding mower, wearing cargo shorts and a short-sleeve plaid dress shirt. Behind him sits a yellow Labrador retriever named Max. Together they mow and seed countless acres of land, then rid it of vermin wildlife. Lush grass sprouts as far as the eye can see. Just beyond that horizon, houses emerge, wraithlike, from the ground, each with a new plot of land to clear, seed, and protect.
 
When these drivers have set off to fulfill the destiny of suburbia, we will see before us the souls of all those who lost family businesses, ethnic heritage, identities, and ideas. These brave martyrs will show us the way to reconcile ourselves with a way of individuality that is now hopelessly extinct. Only through rediscovering that individuality will we be able to join their ranks.
 
The days are fast approaching when suburbia will fulfill this apocalyptic destiny. The fittest few retail, fast-food, financial, media, housing, and “lifestyle” conglomerates will monopolize our economy. The nuclear family will grow in power. Safety and homogeneity will be coveted. Every city will have the same pharmacies, the same restaurants, and the same stores; the old philosophy of “vacation is exotic and unusual!” will be replaced with “vacation is just like home!” And, finally, tract housing and mixed-use developments will turn our amber waves of grain and purple mountains into a sea of emerald-green, pristine Kentucky bluegrass, with pitted iron sculptures of livestock to evoke feelings of things called “farms” that exist only in memory.
 
The horsemen had better make sure they rescue their horses in time.
 
 ~~~~~

Donny Seven is an occasional contributor to the footnote, and has also been known to loathe conformity.