We used to live in a little town just south of Portland, a saucy little place called Milwaukie.  Land of the Milwauks.  It was mildly Twin Peaksy, without all of the kink and wonder.  Lots of political intrigue, with a side of Hatfield v. McCoy... And the offices of a renowned comic book publisher.  And the purveyor of Things from Another World.  And Foxy's, the one-stop-shopping choice of nicotine-addled video gamblers.

It was the kind of place where you could get involved.  Make a difference!  Where the old-timers recalled the glory days of Oregon's own Norman Rockwellian Mayberry, and reminisced about when the circus would come to town and then continued on about how we couldn't put a ball field there, because "that's where the youngsters go to smoke pot."

But we lived in a small house on a busy street, populated by old men on bikes in horned viking helmets, canoe carrying sopranos and the occasional meth addict.   Many of our neighbors, though well intentioned, allowed the paint to peel off of their homes and their weeds to grow taller than my head, and considered a blue tarp a suitable garage.

So, it was time to go.  And go, we went.  Bigger.  Better.  In the land where good taste is legislated.  To a land, so says a colleague, where the sphincter count is off the Richter scale.

And so here I sit.  And after nearly four years in Stepford, I've seen the neighbors to the left twice.  The neighbors to the right still allow their dog to defecate on our yard without recrimination.  And the neighbors across the street have... wait for it...  wait... weeds taller than my head.