Letters from Suburbia: Part I

Suburbia. I live here and I am an artist. I'll admit, it's pretty hard to nurture creativity in a place where all the houses (and people) look the same. And to be perfectly honest, I cringe every time I mail a book proposal or short story to some address in New York, San Francisco or L.A. I mean seriously, Tuscany Vista Crescent?

It's no coincidence the word 'suburbia' closely resembles Siberia. Of course, suburban is also pretty close to subversive, but I don't think many folks would buy that.

Welcome to Tuscany. Yes, like the province in Italy. Believe me, if you experienced the sunbaked rolling hills and the Italian-inspired urban design, you'd have a mortgage here too.

Let me tell you about the Vista. Much like the Rocky Mountain vista visible from my favourite community pathway, the Vista here in the Crescent is a breathtaking sight. The vast expanse of shingle-capped peaks brings to mind the billions of years of history that have brought us to this point. Stark and rugged double-car garages emerge iconic from the muscular shifting of tectonic plates and relentless force of time and subdivisions. The postage-stamp lawns don't hinder the majestic 360-degree vinyl-siding views – a rhythmic rainbow of stone, taupe, salmon, repeat.

This wood-framed utopia is home to a vibrant nightlife.

Like the 30-something mixed-race couple next door who buck the cliché of exploring world cuisine and watching History Channel documentaries by playing Rock Band into the wee hours. Every night, the thumping bass of my neighbours' rock n' roll dreams seep through my walls. Their KISS-scented fantasies keeps me from sleep.

Two doors down is Bowness, so named because of the almost-constant presence of burnout cars and beer kegs. At Bowness, summertime means sittin' around the firepit, burnin' beer cans and celebrating the use of fuckin' as an adjective.

Life in the suburbs takes place mostly between my living room where my sweatpants have morphed with my skin, the pathway where the vinyl vista gives way to the mountain vista and Crowfoot Crossing, a sprawled-out, impossible-to-access wasteland of Boston Pizza and Blockbuster.

Here, excitement means dousing chicken breasts in President's Choice 'Memories of Montego Bay' marinade, slapping them on the George Foreman grill and watching Chef Gordon Ramsay turn a restaurant around in only 22 minutes of pre-recorded satellite cable television. Go Gordo. Go.

When I'm really steppin' out, I do the 30-minute drive to some stylish inner-city market where I pounce on contrived flavour combinations like fig and walnut as though they are the secret passage to freedom for an escaped suburban convict. The pomegranate-infused graphic design makes me feel better about my embarrassing street address. Hey, at least my spice rub is cool.