As it happened, a social invitation took us to an unsavory side of town, so bad that initially the Phactor was surprised to learn we knew anyone who lived there, the Burbs! It was ghastly! First of all, it’s one of those places with a pretentious name, something like Eaglecrest, or Mountainview, or Cornrow, and only one of those has any relationship to realty reality. From the moment the car door opened, the monoculture of evenly mowed and neatly trimmed grass was over whelming, the waste of time and effort appalling, the peer pressure enormous. Trees were stuck here and there into this green carpet of turf like lollipops with neat little donuts of colored, oh yes, nothing natural here, mulch. And then the worst, all those poodled shrubs, neatly rounded, or sharply squared. Somehow a glass of wine found my hand; it was white, the wine, of course. The lovely hosts began introducing me, Mrs. Phactor being well known already, and in so doing said something to the effect that he, being me, has the most gorgeous garden. But compared to what? The whole development was just one step above a Walmart parking lot aesthetically speaking. Had the car keys been in my pocket, the Phactor probably would have bolted on the spot, and as it was, it required great will power to suppress the urge to scream and run, but holding out bravely, until about the time the smoked salmon was consumed, it being a necessary accompaniment to the wine, having had the wine choice made for me so the only correction was food choice, an escape plan was quickly devised, and with a thank you to our hosts, we carefully, least any harm befall us from gangs of roving lawnmowers and hedge trimmers, escaped back across the beltline into the safety and serenity of our urban setting. What a close call! The horror of it all still creates shivers.