Suburbs are freakshows.

I kid you not: suburban existence is way weirder than the Haight-Ashbury scene.

OK, we’re not officially in a suburb, just a more residential part of San Francisco, but still, I just don’t get the vibe here. Back in the “urbs” of the Lower Haight, you’re cordial with nice people, you snicker at freaky people (and avoid them after dark), and you get all personal only with your friends.

Within five minutes‘ conversation with Neighbor A, I knew that she had two grown daughters, both had been adopted, and the younger of the two was living with a seedy boyfriend that Mrs. A would like to push off a cliff because he was misusing her sexually. Yikes!

Neighbor B, on the other hand, will not make eye contact with me. I quite intentionally putter around the front yard when I see him outside, holler “Good morning!”, and tell Boobaby to flirt at him, but no luck. Lickety-split he’s back inside behind the always-closed blinds.

I guess I’m just unfamiliar with semi-suburbanites and their mysterious ways. Am I ever going to feel at home here?

At least we’ve got a garden.