For a long time the neighborhood in which I am currently occupying was ran by a board of directors consisting of annoying and bothersome old people who felt the need to intervene on everyone’s decisions as to the appearance of the property that they, most of the time, actually owned. It’s a fascinating thing, the American Dream, you search for it and when you finally obtain the very thing that you had been seeking you immediately find ways and excuses to project your ‘sensible’ notions on why every house should be a boring gray with white curtains and fretting over cats walking across your lawn. Now, when I refer to the American Dream, I’m talking about a family, a retirement, a nice house or condo in a quiet neighborhood and, with any luck, a white picket fence. Maybe a chance to grow old and sit on your lawn and lazily yell at young people to get the hell off said lawn and quit drawing penises on your lawn gnomes with a sharpie. These notions of the ideal existence were what was shoved down the throats of suckers during the, what I lovingly call, the ‘old days,’ which roughly consists of all the time prior to the date I was born. The thing was, in chasing the American Dream, most people were broken, or didn’t like what they had built up to turning into a royal hassle, or didn’t like what they became in the process.
This article is about those people, because, somehow, this neighborhood is a net for those kinds of people. Those from the older generations that may have tasted the American Dream, and then… lost it. This neighborhood, with it’s ugly gray condos stacked uniformly with it’s ugly bushes and ugly walls that reek of plainness as it seems to me, has always looked like the kind of place place that the old go… not to retire, but to linger through the last of their days till they keel over and die. I know, I know… that sounds terrible. Think about it this way, most of these people are already dead on the inside! You say that doesn’t make you feel better? Well, I guess you can’t please everyone. My point is that they very boring, very old, and very nosy people have managed to keep this neighborhood safe from most of the problems of the Orlando sprawl simply by it’s intrinsic nature. The moment some kinds wandered in the cops were tipped off right away, the moment someone yelled, cops called. Pretty much if you were making more noise than it takes to knit, you had the cops called on you. This is good for me, in a way, because I make hardly any noise at all. This bad for, say, any college kids that want to throw a party or anyone selling drugs out of their houses.