Suburbialis Clangum: A Melodic Guide to Your Neighborhood Wilderness
Nature May Abhor a Vacuum but Suburbia Sure Loves a Leaf Blower.
In the verdant suburban sprawl, the uninitiated masses vainly search for the quaint silence once celebrated in pastoral myths — charming, perhaps, to those with less refined tastes. The modern sophisticate, however, appreciates the richness offered by the incessant, blaring symphonies of human achievement. Why pine for the whisper of wind when one can revel in the roar of an arsenal of machinery running day or night (or both!)? Here, in these cultivated fields of progress, the glorious din of civilization justly overrules the silence sought by the hoi polloi. This sonic landscape is not for those unfortunates who crave a rough-hewn quietude, but rather for the discerning citizen who understands that true progress resonates through the hum of industry. The air simply must crackle with the sounds of civilization’s upkeep, the resounding overture of spring.
As winter’s chill recedes and the seasonal skeet (Clayus migratorius) retreat to cooler climes, their departure marks the annual migration not of birds nor beasts, but of suburbia’s own unique wildlife. In their stead, a peculiar ensemble takes center stage in the neighborhood veldts, transforming the erstwhile tranquil dawn (and other daylight hours) into pastoral, idyllic signaling of the burgeoning rites of spring and homeowners with long extension cords.
In the delicate predawn light, once the exclusive and gentle domain of chirping songbirds, the suburbanite now wakes to the loving embrace of mechanized maintenance. The leaf blower (Ventifactus hortulanus), a tool as essential to the suburban soundscape as the chainsaw (Serratus disruptus) is to the rainforest, roars into life, an industrious herald of the new dawn. Following in lockstep are the lawn mowers (Graminicutis ronronans), blades whirring with a meticulousness that borders on the obsessive, each cut a throaty paean to mankind’s dominion over nature. These are no mere disturbances; they are the dulcet tones of a community triumphantly tuning out the call of the wild with the precision of a master tailor and the eardrum-splitting crescendo of an aircraft carrier.
This works in harmony, of course, with the rhythmic pounding of those modern-day woodpeckers, our neon-bedecked road construction crews (Constructus incessabilis) whose jackhammers (Malleus rhythmicus) underscore with staccato bursts the eternal ballad of progress. The streets themselves perform a sonorous spectacle of renewal: asphalt removers scrape and grind, trucks emit cautionary beeps as their reversing leitmotif, a polyphony of non-stop improvement. Ah, the asphalt veins practically pulse with renewal as the suburbs forever become.
Even the local pickleball courts (Recreatus smacktasticus), those modern arenas of leisurely combat and quotidian drama, join in the sonic landscape, echoing with distinctive pops and clacks. Here, too, nature has been bested by the vibrant thwack of polymer against asphalt, sure to excite even the most jaded Excedrin salesman.
O! cast aside any archaic yearnings for the so-called ‘peace’ of the wild, that siren song for the simple. Allow, instead, each leaf blower’s roar and every mower’s hum to serve not merely as background noise but as high-fidelity reminders of our mastery over the mundane. The suburban symphony plays on, affirmation of cultivation, where the drone of the commonplace is replaced with the pulse of progress and the occasional chime of the Good Humor truck (Melodicus frosticus) sweeping through the neighborhoods with cheerful, predatory grace.
Let the unrefined masses retreat to their silent woods and empty fields. Sleep? Relax? Have a conversation or a thought? Fie and folderol! We shall continue to find solace in the erstwhile music of civilization, the wild, pulsating song of suburbia.
It is beautiful. It is manifest.
— By Jackie Pick (Scriptor grumptoratus)
