12/30/11 Well, I'm done. Alison joined me for this latest and last installment, and I must apologize to her for its boringness. The Center exudes some kind of individuality-destroying radiation that leaches the color and spirit out of everything within a ten block radius.

Anyway, that's it. I walked every street in West Hartford. For this I have no sweeping, symbolism-rich summation. I walked because I like walking. I like walking because it helps me think. I like walking in familiar places because I feel safe. I like walking in slightly unfamiliar places because I have an extremely low stimulation threshold. I like suburbia because trees and grass smell nice. Writing is a pain in the ass but taking pictures is fun. Always check for ticks.

The best part? I figured out what sort of work rhythm I need for accomplishing long-term goals. I'm really bad at finishing stuff, probably because my model for accomplishment comes from training montages: our hero wants to impress the girl so he becomes fluent in Esperanto over the span of 36 hours, etc. Sure, some people really can achieve big things overnight, but I only have a few hours of mental energy per day before my brain gets sullen and unresponsive. Acceptance of this fact leads to sustainable work habits, which hopefully lead to the glorious feedback loop of Getting Shit Done. Of course, what I want to get done is still mostly a mystery, but I'm in no rush.

In a way, I'm still walking.

Thanks for reading!

12/22/11 It's 1987. My mother and stepfather move from a big spooky Victorian in Hartford to a modest saltbox in West Hartford. I spend half of each week with my dad, who still lives in Hartford, but Hartford schools don't exactly have a great reputation, so I start fifth grade at Duffy Elementary. Some Duffy memories:

First day of school. Congregated on the front lawn with dozens of kids I've never met, I broadcast my precocity by conspicuously flipping through an already-read copy of 2010. No one notices.

My aunt helps me make small chocolate treats by melting down candy bars and pouring the liquid into molds to make festive shapes. I hand them out in class to ingratiate myself.

Back To The Future 2 is released. I convince some of the cooler kids that I can build a hoverboard and we hold an "investor's meeting" in my rec room. I never build it, blaming the lack of a sufficient power source.

Nature's Classroom. I am pulled from my cabin and encircled by teachers who sternly order me to stop farting so much.

Winter, and good packing snow. I spend nearly an entire recess rolling a huge snowball. This naturally attracts the attention of uncreative assholes; a kid gets permission from a disinterested teacher to spitefully demolish it. "The snow is for everyone." Fuck that. I wait until the kid's back is turned and charge, shoving him hard into my stolen creation. He stalks after me red-eyed and seething but I escape.

I am a lookout for the "ding-dong-ditching" of houses on the school's northeastern perimeter. One homeowner is actually mooned before the kid runs off. The principal is aghast. My parents say: "Next time, don't get caught."

I race the son of the high school football coach and win. He breathlessly denies it.

12/14/11 A poem:

12/5/11 Motivation... ebbing... must finish...

11/28/11 I've been doing a lot of reading, watching, and thinking about interestingness. Here are some of my recent thoughts:

I think it's a mistake to associate every internal "ding!" feeling with significance. A set of leopard-print curtains in the window of a poor person's house is "poignant lite." Sure, I can dress it up as a comment on society, but it still just boils down to that "ding!"

When you notice something unusual, that's your brain rewarding you for giving it new information that it can use to more effectively ignore stuff it can't use. Before you noticed the curtains -- or the guy with the funny shirt, or the lonely balloon, or the Bird Cam, or Betty Boop -- your brain could relegate most of your surroundings to background noise. When these anomalies appear in your field of vision, it sorta irritates your brain, but you don't feel it as irritation. You feel interested.

See, your brain isn't magical. Its power is finite. It is ambivalent about its job; it knows it has to be on top of potential threats, but it's also massively overworked (especially these days). Brains need to be concerned about operating efficiency, which they improve by paring down new information to what is absolutely essential -- the smallest amount of information that, when computed, will still render the most accurate results. Over vast amounts of time, brains have evolved a reward signal that corresponds with new stuff that helps them work better. That's the "ding!"

Nature rewards the brains that reward their owner's accurate threat assessment -- by not killing them as often. Our slower-witted ancestors (the ones with the least efficient brains) got all et up by tigers and shit.

Oh yeah, and let's not forget the social component. By developing an acute sense of what others will "ding!" on, I become a purveyor of pleasurable feelings. This means I have something to trade for food and sex.

Kinda makes you wonder how special art actually is, doesn't it?

11/25/11 Tying up loose ends west of Mountain Road. Nothing much to report beyond two odd names: one on a mailbox and the other a pesticide.

It's been nearly a year now since I left Ra Ra Riot and returned to West Hartford to stay. My first few months home were euphoric. After roughly three years of sitting in a van, I suddenly had so much freedom! I didn't suffer a lick of Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder, for example, even though I rose at 2 pm and went to sleep at 7 am. My euphoria also governed what I found interesting. At the time, that seemed like everything -- thus the careening, slapdash approach of this blog.

Looking back, it occurs to me that all that wide-eyed wonderment might've just been a prolonged visit from the Mania Fairy. But it got me out of the house and gave me an excuse to be funny and opinionated and maybe even thought-provoking (although I doubt it). I've spent the past year demonstrating to myself that meaning is self-made, and that the best kind of motivation comes mostly from within, even (or especially) if what you want to do seems weird or frivolous or even pointless. Bottom line: some people who do serious stuff start by doing not-so-serious stuff. Fingerpainting. Dicking around.

11/21/11 If you're in or even near the woods and you're vaguely worried about ticks, one is already crawling up your leg. I'm serious. These things do not mess around. Today I wore layers and I still got jacked. Again, luckily not embedded.

Remember Marisa, my Junior Prom date? She's visiting for Thanksgiving and staying with her brother on ritzy Sunset Farm Road, so there we trek. Marisa moved to Florida because she can't deal with cold weather, but if she moved back here I doubt she'd have the gall to fly a traitorous flag. Sure, Connecticut lacks California's frontier feel, but an ossified social structure has its benefits. We aren't cultural innovators, but neither are we a bunch of serial killers.

Sunset Farm is basically a bunch of big, palatial looking houses on large tracts of property, some with their own trails that lead directly to the nearby reservoir. There's even a private swimming area for humans and one for their dogs (looks like some "tres" don't like being told where to pass, eh?)

According to Marisa, much of it was owned by the Butterworth clan, an old West Hartford family whose most well-known scion, Oliver, wrote The Enormous Egg. He also taught at the Hartford College for Women, where he was apparently stingy with A's (even moreso A+'s). My mother was once a student of his. Not sure if she was among the elect.

11/18/11 In April of my senior year (1996), after several months spent in the cafeteria or playing hooky, I dropped out of Conard High School. It was a weird, bad time. I was deeply insecure and alienated, and in the midst of a worst-case-scenario relationship with a damaged girl, but the dropping-out bit never bugged me much. I watched my friends get their diplomas and waited for a twinge that would indicate I'd made a terrible mistake, but it never came.

Thinking about alternate timelines is fun. It's easy to imagine a version of my teenage years that doesn't include high school or clumsy attempts at relationship-having. Hours in the library. Riding my bike through autumn leaves. Basically, all the stuff I do now. What might've been different, in a positive direction? Where did I have control that I didn't exercise?

I personally think the statement "I wouldn't change anything" is trite bullshit, not to mention a failure of the imagination. There's plenty you'd change, if you thought about it hard enough. The question is: what, and why?

11/15/11 If you grew up in West Hartford and you were a little rambunctious, you probably know about the abandoned highways -- "The Highways," for short. They're located just off Tunxis near the Farmington town line, but you can't see them from the road. The only evidence of their existence is a "No Trespassing" sign.

During the late 90s, my friends and I used to park on nearby East Gale Road and bushwhack through the undergrowth to hang out in abandoned splendor. Eventually the homeowners figured out why their street became a parking lot after dark and turned up the heat. I wasn't keen on getting arrested, so I stayed away for maybe ten years, until...

Two summers ago, on a sweltering August night, I went back to The Highways with my then-girlfriend. We stashed our bikes, crept through the bushes, and were about to climb over the lame-deterrent-to-entry logpile when she tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to look behind us.

Roughly twenty feet away in inky darkness, I saw what looked like a penlight, or maybe (in retrospect) a lit cigarette. A moment later it vanished. There was no sound.

"Uhhh... let's go."

Lest you think West Hartford is all about creepy forest lurkers, today I visit the Holy Family Passionist Retreat Center. It's bangin' spiritual haven with a chill vibe and a sweet labyrinth. They even have a place for the penitent to shoot hoops. I kid because I love; in a hyper-connected age, places where one can reflect are to be prized.

But what in the name of graphically crucified Jesus is this?!? A trail next to one of the Stations of the Cross runs over a trampled section of fence, up to the aforementioned logpile, and onto The Highways! Adds an extra dimension to my lurker story, doesn't it? This isn't over, monks!

11/7/11-11/9/11 Three days of 60 degree weather means three days of walking. But Gabriel, if that's your sole criterion for walking, why didn't you walk every day last spring? Because my ability to notice things gets depleted and requires recharge time. Thus the relative lack of pics from day three. Like I said in the last post, I'm anxious to be done, so posting may (or may not; I'm lazy) increase in the months to come.

On day one I knock out central Elmwood, whew. I have this whacky theory that "Things To Notice," if graphed according to mean neighborhood income, will dip in the middle and be high-ish at either extreme (this is why I'm not a scientist).

Day two is better. I clamber up a steep hill at the back of parking lot on New Park to skulk around the railroad tracks. I feel sneaky until I realize the area is easily accessible from where the tracks cross Oakwood Avenue, and that I'm not the first to go exploring. I'm honestly not even sure if I'm trespassing, so to restore my feeling of mild danger, I ascend another hill (this one having the highest vantage point) and discover why everything smells like rot: there's a bunch of rotting stuff sitting around. Feeling a bit grossed out, I meander toward the bridge overlooking New Britain Avenue and sheepishly emerge from behind the billboards, hoping no one notices. (Intrepidity is its own punishment: I later discover a tick on my person, luckily not embedded. Must acquire non-highwater pants.)

On the way back to my bike I spot two adjacent buildings behind the The Corner Pug, both haunted-looking. The brick multi-family has sigils painted at ground level and appears abandoned but probably isn't. Next door, completely hidden from the street by shrubs and trees, is the 60-years-on abode of a WW2 Veteran. I know this because he pokes his head out of an upstairs window and asks why I'm taking pictures. We can't really hear each other, so our interaction is brief -- I'm feeling antisocial anyway.

What else? Some graffiti. Do you think he means lead or peanut butter? Also, if you prefer to support local businesses (and I hope you do), southeastern West Hartford has it all: top-quality vomit and tombstones.

Speaking of businesses (or "busnii"), I fantasized about removing a certain letter from the Industrial Spraying, Inc sign -- it being one door over from Wags.

By day three I'm too burned out to do much more than obtain a pic of the apocalyptic-looking dog pound (and one of a stray cat who was probably taunting the inmates). Snoop Dogg once considered this location for a video shoot, but when confronted with photos he sobbed for two and a half hours. As he put it, before being led away by attendants: "It's a crazy, mixed-up world..."

10/24/11 I've been at this project since January, and while I still enjoy the walking part, I've never really been a fan of the writing about it part. I love talking. I hate writing. Luckily, I'm more than half done.

All the spooooky Halloween decorations are up! Some are scarier than others. Yikes, a snake! I hope a kid lives in that house, and that his costume is that snake. "Don't tread on me! Aw, so cute. Here's a box of raisins." Speaking of snakes, I want to meet the genius who designed Wolcott Park's water-spraying-flower-and-purple-snake area. I have no words.

Everyone loves campfire stories. Have you heard the one about The Port-Wine-Stain-Faced Pumpkin? No? It's actually pretty mediocre. The pumpkin spends most of the story in WalMart, wearing a stained sweatsuit and pushing a shopping cart aimlessly up and down the aisles. Eventually he buys a marked-down Scary Movie 3 DVD. It's a cautionary tale, I guess.

10/16/11 Hi. I’m Gabriel’s mom, and he invited me to go on a walk with him and be a guest contributor. We start out on Cassandra Boulevard, across from the reservoir at the far western end of town. One of the newest, largest ungated "gated neighborhoods” in West Hartford, and certainly upscale. Gabriel and I debate – is this kind of high density development actually a good thing vs. the traditional, one family, one house, one half acre on average? Will high density development save us from low density suburban sprawl – or is it just another blight on the landscape? What do you think?

Certainly this used to be a lovely, scenic hill in West Hartford, and the “neighborhood” still offers lots of trails and many small ponds to enjoy. I even spot two of my all-time favorite animals – turtles! Not sure why I love them, except that when I was growing up in Plainville back a hundred years ago (or at least 50!) we had every variety except sea turtles. Spotted, painted, snapping, musk, box – it was a wonderland of turtles and my sister and I were one of the early proponents of a catch and release policy that allowed them to flourish – that is, until the PCBs that the GE plant leached into our slow moving Quinnipiac River started killing off everything…and maybe my father’s farm fertilizers didn’t help. I don’t know what you’d find there today.

As we leave this new neighborhood and walk along busy Farmington Avenue, my favorite street in Greater Hartford, I am surprised to find the largest and most perfect wild mushroom I have ever seen. I swear it could feed a family of four, but because it might also kill a family of four, we are hands-off. For the more intrepid foragers out there, it’s a find, though.

We move on to one of my favorite areas of West Hartford – a kind of mixed bag of old, new, rich and not so rich – the Buena Vista neighborhood. It’s hilly, got amazing views of the Hartford skyline and it’s got what may be the only public dirt road in West Hartford. I insist we take this street – Geneva – because to me, it epitomizes the Frost poem – you know it, “the woods are lovely, dark and deep, and I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I ...” finish this darned walk with Gabriel!

These up and down streets are challenging, but what’s more exhausting is that Gabriel is brow-beating me about something or other, until we notice that the end of what I think is Everett Avenue is closed off by two police cars, flashing lights and all. Then we see the downed bike, and realize there’s been an accident. There are no ambulances, but there are several policemen who appear to be investigating what happened. I think of Gabriel, who used to ride his bike everywhere, all the time, and how vulnerable you are on a bike, and I hope the bike rider is only banged up a bit.

We pause at the end of Geneva to admire the feast of toadstools that hug the base of this tree. I have never seen them grow this way in my life, and find them adorable, reminding me of the dancing toadstools in Fantasia.

Walking back up one of the quiet streets, I spot an adorable lawn sculpture – many children playing – looking much like the old Morton salt girl in their 40’s-style attire.

I think about these streets, this beautiful Sunday afternoon, all the lovely places we’ve been, and I realize I have not seen one single child – not one! No kids outside playing, not hiking, not catching turtles or exploring the woods, or even skateboarding on these great side streets. Where are all the kids these days and how come I never see them playing outside anymore?

So it sounds like today’s theme is “the good old days” which is ironic because one thing I like to guard against is always looking back, talking about what was and not looking ahead and being excited about what can be. I think you really do start to get old once you get too comfortable with the past – I know some people who want to move in and live there. Not me, so I thank Gabriel for making me see that I need to get out more, think more, enjoy more and appreciate the small things, like toadstools and turtles and a beautiful day to hike with my son. Hokey, yes, and true.

10/10/11 This walk was supposed to happen last Thursday. I rode all the way to Elmwood, locked my bike, and strode half a block down Colonial Street. Then I paused to photograph a legless, plastic fox just in time to catch the eye of the homeowner, Steve. An explanation of my project followed by an explanation of how he'd not-so-grudgingly kill a burglar led to a two-hour conversation. Initially, we gossiped about a popular Elmwood restaurant where we both used to work (not at the same time). Then the subject matter gradually trended toward that of a YouTube comment thread: gays shouldn't try to redefine marriage, global warming is a scam, "nonrenewable" is a lie, kids should have as much soda in school as they want, etc. Still, it was hard to not like Steve, even if his ideas were almost heroically incoherent. Underneath his bluster, he seemed kind and capable, and clearly hurting. He'd been through tough times: his daughter had died, he'd been betrayed by business associates, and I think he said something about (recent) chemotherapy. Eventually, I had to conclude our conversation and bike to work. We parted on friendly terms, with me recommending permaculture as a possible substitute for paintball guns in dealing with his squirrel problem. Thanks for an interesting afternoon, Steve!

So, today I finish the walk. The theme is suburban decay. Steve's tale of multiple burglaries lends a new meaning to certain Halloween decorations. On Sampson Road, I witness actual repo men at work. Okay, I'm not positive they're repo men, but they seem furtive and they certainly leave their truck running while they examine some parked cars (after making sure no one is home). Hate to break it to you guys, but you're the merely the second-best hooker in town.

Elmwood is mostly dull, but some places you Never Forget.

10/3/11 Elmwood is sometimes described as being on the wrong side of West Hartford's tracks, but I prefer to think of it as a party not everyone can handle. Sorry, I wanted to post those two pics and that was the best shared context I could come up with. Onward!

This walk was a spooky one. I find an ominously fortified garage behind the convenience store at the corner of Yale and New Britain Ave. It looks so personalized, what with the trophies and all. I really hope the mirror is the owner's attempt to reproduce something he saw on a cop show. I wave and smile, just in case. On these walks, I always assume someone is watching.

I used to interpret the drabness of lower-middle-class neighborhoods as some kind of vague cultural inertia unrelated to status, but I think my intuition is actually wrong. Everyone is intensely status-conscious all the time. Luckily, some address their concerns about where they stand by standing out. They don't even need to buy Halloween decorations! In a similar vein, a real-life gingerbread house, distant enough from the road so the screams of roasting children won't carry.

I encountered a young man walking his dog who asked me if I was "getting paid to walk" and "if I was giving out a thousand dollars" or "a hundred dollars," then claimed he was kidding. Which left me with no choice but to go the supermarket for a protein bar. Also, I may or may not have shoplifted E. F. Schumacher's Small Is Beautiful from the charity book pile. Trust me, it's gone to a good home, one where troubles melt like lemon drops.

9/26/11 Not much to speak of in Industrial Park Land. Decaying factories. Weeds squeezing through cracked pavement. Oh, and lots and lots of autumnberries. Today I'm joined by Laura, my friend who lives in Germany. We find gigantic mushrooms. And a chair rental business. One wonders: wheel or electric?

I have a wedding to attend this weekend in upstate NY, and I'm in the wedding party. I even get to introduce a "reflection in silence!" But first, I need a haircut.

9/19/11 Until now, I've been working my way down the map uniformly from the north, but in approximately five minutes winter will be upon us, and biking to Elmwood in the snow isn't exactly my idea of a good time. So I've decided to start working my way up from the bottom.

Today I visit the extreme southeast corner of West Hartford, which is fine because I enjoy culture shock. As I take pictures of their neighborhood, some girls remark loudly to each other about my "boxers". Sigh. I wish people without lots of money would also magically have less status anxiety. The motto of the human race -- perhaps for inclusion on future Voyager missions -- should be "We Really Think We Hate Surprises." We don't, though, that's the thing. We just think we do.

I can't blame those girls. They're as cut off from reality as any of the fancier-pantsed folk on the other side of the tracks, albeit in a different way: their little reality tunnel takes more energy to rationalize. They don't have enough cognitive juice left to get curious about my shorts.

...which, come to think of it, is probably for the best.

9/12/11 On Hawthorne Road, behind the First Baptist Church, I encounter a man operating a backhoe. He tears up asphalt with the single-minded zeal of those who have been ostracized for their passions. The powerful shovel rises and descends. Time disappears. Eventually he finishes and mops his brow while the machine idles. Eyes closed, a small soft smile -- hardly visible through his tumbling white beard -- turns the corner of his mouth. Satisfaction. Donning a pair of sunglasses, he revs the engine and heads out onto North Main Street. He blasts the airhorn, pops a wheelie, and holds it at two miles per hour. Traffic clots farther and farther behind, furious commuters leave their cars and hurl briefcases to the ground, scattering papers. Both middle fingers extended, head nodding to the opening strains of "Amish Paradise," he rides on.

On Farmington Avenue, I recognize a certain vehicle from its old home off Tunxis Road, where I used to pass it on my morning walk to Sedgwick Middle School in the early 90s. I think it belongs to a local dentist who may or may not still be alive. I guess it's for tricking the kids into not being as scared...? Does that really work? Anyway, while I support the bastardization of Looney Tunes characters for kitsch value, I have a small quibble: Michigan J. Frog never said "Puttin' on my top hat!" Ugh. He can't even talk. And no, I will not acknowledge latter-day versions of him where he maybe talks a little. That's ridiculous. I'll try to forget you even brought it up.

I don't consider myself a connoisseur of trash odors, but I am especially unwilling to sniff the insides of barrels that advertise their preferences.

"No running, jumping, pushing, or standing less than twenty feet from a 345,000 volt exposed energized part."

8/22/11 Nearly every time I've biked down Birch Road, WFSB's stakeout has been in effect. I don't see anyone in the car, but I guess they could be hunkering down to avoid detection. Or maybe they're getting lunch. WTIC is gonna scoop you guys! Get on the ball.

You laugh when I claim West Hartford is full of supernatural entities, but who's laughing now? Irrefutable photographic proof. Don't worry, I left an urgent note on the Eyewitness-News-mobile, along with a crude map and my email address. I will be vindicated!

But wait, it gets worse. Who uses a real gas flame in their outdoor lighting but a creature of pure malevolence? It's like they're mocking me. Now I know how Fox Mulder felt.

8/12/11 Anyone with the gonads to put their fetish gear out on the front lawn is A-OK. Anyone who fills a tree with cement has to go to jail. Anyone who hastily abandons a game of Twister is on probation.

You can't really tell from the photo, but that's not spray paint; it's bas relief. Driveways are a tragically under-utilized canvas. Why not go the extra mile and commission a hyper-realistic mural of your enemies being tortured by demons in Hell? You can drive over their outstretched, pleading hands every day on your way to work, or lay out on lawn chairs and get a tan whilst ignoring their imaginary entreaties to an absent God.

Folks in the vicinity of Hammick and Linbrook are up to some naughty business in the tiny stretch of woods they share. Just kidding! Can I sit around your firepit too? I'll bring Keystone Lights and Cheddarwurst! All I ask is that you don't gang-rape me.

Don't venture too close to The House On Clifford Drive. You wouldn't want to wind up "collected."

Can you believe this dog-eared dwelling is scarcely a mile from West Hartford Center, and on North Main to boot? It's thrillingly out of place. Look at the house number, for Pete's sake! And what sort of retro-futuristic car is that in the "driveway?" I suspect some anarchist inherited the house from a recently deceased Grandma and he or she has invited all their crusty friends to squat in mortgage- and utility-free splendor. WeHa's own version of The Young Ones is taking place right under all of our noses.

Remember back in January when I mentioned the plum/apricot hybrid (turns out they're just yellow plums) on the corner of North Main and Wyndwood? Of course you don't. Well, more for me.

8/2/11 Behind Saint Joseph's School for Young Children is a spooky path through the woods, featuring a fallen tree I would not want to view lit only by flashlight. Plus, these sizable toadstools (or mushrooms, if you want to get all "post-witchcraft" about it).

When I was 15, I dated a girl who lived on Trumbull Lane, a ring of McMansion-y homes standing flat-faced and featureless like druids with aluminum siding. Our "relationship" lasted roughly three weeks and featured a great deal of cartoonishly passionate tongue kissing and not much else. She smelled like lip balm and cigarettes and constantly fought with her mother. Once we made plans to sneak out of our respective homes around 2 am to meet behind the main branch of the library for a clandestine makeout session. This, in January. She complied but I slept through the alarm I'd set, or simply forgot to set one. If my betrayal upset her, she kept it to herself. Sorry, Laura. Was the community gazebo extant when you lived there? If so, how did you utilize it? Did you sip iced tea with your neighbors on summer days, or furtively smoke pot with your ne'er-do-well friends?

I found another vacant house. Don't believe me? Look closely at the pine needle build-up on the hood of the truck and in front of the recycling bin. There seems to be a cluster of these vacants on Albany just east of Bishop's Corner, but this one has more character than the others, not to mention a nearby freestanding stone fireplace. Unless it was inside another house that burned down around it. Maybe it murdered the house so it could be free?

Nice ass.

7/28/11 I found another pear tree! Too bad it's on someone's lawn and nowhere near close enough to the road for me to not be trespassing if I grab a few. Not that these concerns stopped me from marauding the last pear tree I found... which was summarily cut down in the last year, along with the only peach tree (at a different location). I guess people would rather buy shitty fruit at Big Y than risk imperfect front lawns. It will be a miracle if our species survives to see the 22nd century.

If we don't survive, I hope certain structures will be durable enough to become our bizarre legacy. Alien archaeologists will marvel at our industry... for about as long as anyone marvels at anything. Think museum exhibit lingering time. Definitely under ten minutes.

Our provincialism -- what we confuse with patriotism -- will provide a clue to the reasons behind our demise. As will our conspicuous (if occasionally creative) displays of status.

In a philosophical mood, I asked these guys if they had any thoughts on life. The larger gentleman put down his New York Times sunday supplement and removed his reading glasses for the photo, but would not speak. Quoth his diminutive but stoic friend: "Cheap."

7/9/11 The area north of Albany is in the can. And it is getting hot out there, people. I'm starting to feel like I'm in one of those Far Side cartoons where the guy is dragging himself across the desert. To comedic effect, of course. But seriously, I looked up today to see a ring of buzzards circling lazily above my head. And speaking of rings...

The Osage Road neighborhood committee isn't pleased about their paranormal eyesore, but none of them have the guts to go in there with ghost traps and clean up the place. Or at least persuade the occupants to do a little landscaping. The happy ending of this story occurs on Halloween, when the surprisingly benevolent ghosts create the best haunted house ever for the neighborhood children, culminating in a knowing wink from the ghost dad, which elicits a grudging thumbs-up from the head of the PTA. Then blood geysers out of the chimney and everyone frolics in slow motion.

Do these guys know something we don't? Is north central West Hartford actually a dangerous ghetto? Unless... are they trying to keep something out? ...or in???

My friend Kent used to live on Seminole Circle. Kent, I hope you lived in this house. Also on SemCirc, this kid. He lapped me at least three times as I made my way back around to Mohegan Drive. Go the distance, kid! But for gosh sakes, drink some Gatorade or something.

7/6/11 Today I'm joined by my Conard High School 1995 Junior Prom Date, Marisa. We reconnected earlier this year via the internet, and spoke for a couple of months before I remembered: "Oh yeah, we went to junior prom together and I wore a jacket and tie and red plaid shorts over a union suit. And lost an eating contest." Anyway, we were supposed to polish off the small untraversed patch north of Albany, but her borrowed scooter died, so we settle for the area around Braeburn and Mooney's Woods.

After we cavalierly ignore a "No Trespassing" sign at the entrance to Mooney's Woods, I silently prepare a rejoinder for any bluenose who might accost us: "Mooney said it was cool." We quickly find a swamp, and near it a lone rusty chair. Also many mosquitoes. The area is deserted, but also strangely well-tended. If you aren't supposed to go in there, why do they mow the grass? Why are there paths every which-a-way? I WANT ANSWERS.

St. Peter Claver Church has a kooky modernist bell tower. I'll bet their Quasimodo looks like he belongs in a "Worker and Parasite" short. Check out the bolesac on this bad boy! What? That's what it's called. From there, we traipse over to Braeburn elementary, where we discover a walnut tree! I shall return with a nut sack come autumn.

Between Walton Drive and Gloucester Lane, there is a brook spanned by a delightful footbridge. Sittin' stations are observable both upstream and down, and Xmas lights line the railings. Approved.

6/28/11 As a rule, I never walk onto lawns or driveways, so I frequently resort to my zoom lens to get a closer look at the stuff that catches my eye. But sometimes even the zoom can't solve a mystery. T-shirt? Tank top? Smock? Onesie? Are those gas masks? Futuristic athletes? I nearly ran up and yanked it off the sideboards of the truck it so neatly rested upon to claim it for my own.

Been a while since I showed you guys a decent door, no? Sorry about that.

And the winner of the fenced-off front yard playscape contest is... also responsible for the most contusions and broken bones. Did you think kids weren't going to get all reach-exceeding-their-grasp about the jump from the trambopoline to the playset? DEATHTRAP.

I found another piece of Candyland. Not sure if I prefer it or the upturned inflatable birthday cake on the lawn. Nearby, a Mooninite moonlights as a garage. I'm guessing Witness Protection Program.

Don't get all half-lidded with me, house. You're grounded and that's final.

6/18/11 To think that I saw it on Mulberry Street Albany Ave! I've been looking for some of these messy fruit-bearers for awhile. Now I can add them to my foraging map!

Doesn't this stately manse look like a tuckered-out old dog? No? Well, I think it does. See, here's its snout.

If this garage door was a sweater, I would wear it to pieces.

These two are clearly rivals. They sit directly opposite each other on Mohawk Drive, locked in an eternal staredown. Yona thinks it's a friendly rivalry (she would). Yona is the small lady shrugging in front of the house that looks like a survivalist compound. We met randomly just as I began this walk and she graciously agreed to tag along. I don't usually meet folks on my walks, with one notable exception last year. Nice to meet you, Yona!

6/6/11 It is said that pimping is not easy. This proud fellow's smirk betrays otherwise.

Here we have two clear victims of sorcery. Their expressions are too anguished to have been produced by a Cute Puppy Stonemason. I'm not a big fan of animals, but you don't see me going around petrifying them with spells! What a sourpuss that witch must have been. Keeping to the fairy tale theme, we have yet another tiny house (probably the abode of the crone in question) and a delightful chalet, replete with laugh-out-loud overhead lighting.

Want to visit Aiken elementary school? This is the only way. Your chaperone will be a talking saguaro cactus. You will recognize him by his khaki trousers, tucked-in collared shirt, and Bluetooth headset. He may or may not have a bulky cellphone clipped to his belt.

These vampires aren't fooling anyone with their half-assed hopscotch squares. I swear, sometimes West Hartford is like an episode of friggin' Aqua Teen.

6/2/11 Today I am joined by my sister Megan. We find nothing worth reporting until a shortcut from Henley Way brings us to the athletic field behind Saint Thomas Seminary. There we discover abandoned tennis courts, complete with poignant examples of inimitable Nature. The lower court is most intriguing. It features a recently painted, sprawling, crop circle-like design... maybe a guerrilla art project?

Then Megan makes me go into the woods. We are attacked by mosquitoes, of course, but I manage to obtain some evidence of what the young priests-to-be are up to between classes. Also, what was this for? Racquetball? Handball?

5/26/11 I've been in Germany for the past week and I won't be back until the 1st. RRR are also in Germany right now, but too far away to ask Josh to put me on the guestlist and have the tour manager secretly meet me at the door and take me to the dressing room so I can sneak up behind Becca while she's putting on her makeup and shriek in the cliche voice of an Indiana Jones villain, "SO, FRAULEIN ZELLER, WE MEET AGAIN!" No new posts until probably the first weekend of June, depending on jetlag. Until then, enjoy this crazy kid. Yes, I Google myself. Shut up, you do too.

5/12/11 Love the gate. Reminds me of Japanese WW2 deserters hiding for decades in remote caves. And, come to think of it, Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves. But my favorite part is the disconcerting juxtaposition of the house number and, well, everything else.

This is the last time I'm going to post a picture of a castle. If you live in West Hartford and you want to be unoriginal (which you almost certainly do), at least copy something good. Hang a gigantic American flag in your front window. Fill a Gatorade bottle with (probably) urine and toss it in the gutter. Quit being lazy! Have some panache!

"Look at me, I'm Sunnydale Road/Sunny Reach Drive! I have a turret and a pretty stream and suggestively shaped greenery and it's all mine so you better stay away!" I'll tell you what you don't have: my dream house. It's right on the other side of the gate, too. I would have bands play in my basement with the windows open.

This is a piece I'd like to call "Race Relations." And this is a piece I'd like to call "Poodlehaus."

Don't worry, dude, I won't tread on you. I especially won't tread on your tiny pink chair.

5/1/11 "Honey, thank you for the birthday present, but this is not really the man-cave I envisioned."

Nice greenhouse. Or makeshift quarantine unit, or whatever. These chairs are good, too. They're very nearly my favorite colors (I'm more of a teal n' fuchsia kinda guy).

Buddy. Relax. You're making everyone nervous. Just take it down a few notches, that's all I'm asking. Here, have a glass of wine. No, I don't want to talk about Ayn Rand.

If I lived here, I'd really let the place go to pot and spend my days writing Lovecraft pastiches. The owners of this fine vessel have a similarly fanciful mindset.

A topiary. A Topiary.

Another bottle of maybe-it's-pee-pee! This makes four. These high school kids have weird senior traditions.

What, did you expect me to not say anything about your papa-and-baby trampoline setup? Who do you take me for? Great, now I have diabetes.

Is this really necessary, West Hartford? Maybe good fences make good neighbors, but they also make everything uglier. If the residents of this town were more like the owners of this tiger, we'd have it all: beauty, deterred crime, and terrified children.

Hat or roadkill?

4/26/11 80 degrees! Typical New England, skipping spring altogether. Today, I venture up into the western hills to stalk the wild McMansion. But first, am I the only one unconvinced by this Transformer's shoddy disguise?

If you own a tennis court, I suppose parking a Mercedes in front of it is fine, but also kind of obvious. This mailbox, on the other hand, is determinedly not obvious. I appreciate the effort, mailbox.

Check out my ultimate choice for a vacant property to squat in. I'd even let Chris and Snoop dump my dead body here. Across the street I find a present for Jillian, who just had her big fancy opening in Portland. I don't think she'd be too thrilled with its owners.

On Old Brook Road, two fun but definitely tetanus-laden sculptures. I hike back up the side of deadly, tick-infested Route 44 -- against traffic, no less -- to Canal Road and the sprawling estates beyond. Why do people live in houses like these? Oh, I remember. Because we evolved to value status, not because its a good idea. Morningcrest and Balfour are more of the same. Dullsville.

Two bright spots: an Airstream trailer and a lovely pair of wicker deer. Also, I found three of these little gifts, two near my house and one on Orchard Road. No, I didn't taste-test.

4/20/11 Slow day. The WHWC (West Hartford Witch Coven) meets in the woods between Faxon and Lovelace. If you live in this house, please invite me over. I saw four purple doors today, but only photo'd one.

4/14/11 T-shirt weather at last! I trek up the craggy slopes of Route 44 toward Avon, discovering an excitingly violent-looking stream running parallel to the north side. Too bad it's probably comprised of equal parts urine and particulate plastic. I would like a clean swimmin' hole in my neighborhood, please! Make it so, WHDPW. From there, I make my way to that ghetto of the future, the exurbs! Old Stone Crossing already looks like an anachronism (with a view). A lady with a friendly old white dog directs me to a path that leads to a wide open field with one big rock in the middle of it. A trail disappears into the woods. Naturally, I follow it for a bit, but quickly realize I'm off-mission and return to the clearing to follow the trail in the opposite direction, back toward Route 44. On the way, I spot another tantalizing trail entrance: apparently this is the "blue blazed" Metacomet Trail. I will one day return to trudge upon you, good sir.

Back down the mountain (skipping a tour of Renbrook School for no particular reason), I turn onto Ferncliff. Here I commit my worst trespass yet: a photo op on an old red bench nailed up between two trees set about fifteen feet away from the road. Do you think it's for mailman-watching?

My reverie is suddenly interrupted by an odd sound. At first, I think it's coming from a mailbox, but then I spot the culprit: a leftover Halloween decoration with hilariously drained batteries. Every time I walk in front of this tiny Michael Myers, one eye lights up red and approximately one second of John Carpenter's "Main Theme" from the movie Halloween plays, weakly. To fully appreciate how surreal this is, you really need the full panoramic context.

I usually pick a favorite house for every walk. This one takes today's prize. Here's a hellhound that tried to intimidate me, with little success. Okay, I jumped a little when it appeared unexpectedly on the other side of its u-shaped driveway -- in the intervening ten seconds, I'd already forgotten it existed. The damned thing didn't even bark.

Back down Ferncliff, I spy a grumpy grotesque. Whatever this is, West Hartford could use more of it.

Mountain Brook features some charming faux wildlife. The owner of these fine specimens was sitting by his front steps, eating an ice cream cone and hanging out with his dog. I know I should've taken a picture, but I was too focused on my soundtrack. I ended up asking him permission about the deer anyway, but by that time, the cone was long gone.

POSTSCRIPT: About twelve hours after this walk, I found two ticks attached to my body. Apparently they need more time to deposit their evil cargo, but I'll still be on the lookout for symptoms. Be careful out there.

3/29/11 Seems to me the wealthier you are, the less you add whimsical touches to your home and property. By which I mean... this was a rather uninteresting outing. Or perhaps I wasn't paying enough attention because I was thinking about other things. Either way, here's a bashful art cow. And a lamp on a dock. And a sign that doesn't say No Trespassing (yay!). And a not-so-great treehouse (looks more like the "box" from Cool Hand Luke). And a house that looks like the suburban branch of the BPRD. And a purple door. And a better treehouse (sans tree). And more patriotism (must cast a lovely upside-down image on the living room floor when the sun shines in). And a sandcrawler. Remember?

Then, on Northridge Drive, a sweeping vista! If I ever again go on a date with a human woman, I will take her here.

3/18/11 I'm beginning to feel self-conscious about my abysmally limited architectural vocabulary. If anyone reading this knows how to describe the depicted domiciles as anything other than "house" and "home," I'd be much obliged if you'd write to gabrielduquette at gmail dot com and drop some knowledge.

Hamlin Drive, you are truly multifaceted. What's the official "enlightened" position on slave statuary? Ironic fun? I honestly don't even know. I might be misinterpreting, but if Confederate flags are frowned upon, then this guy can't possibly be ok. Although it is funny to see similar stuff on eBay, from a "wow, people are crazy" perspective. You're just not supposed to buy it. I'd like to say this pet memorial cleansed my palate, but no, I had a mouthful of Kunta Kinte until...

...this majestic eyesore. I mean that in the most complimentary way possible, of course. It's so caricaturishly out of place! I'm reminded of the scary mansion in The 'Burbs, or the castle in Edward Scissorhands. Strangely enough, I dreamed last night that I was trapped in a mazelike, trapdoor-ridden house a la The People Under The Stairs. Portents of things to come...?

And then, on Fairfield Road, a woman and her eagle. They may appear distant, but do NOT try to come between them.

Day Road harbors quite a surprise: what looks to be a gigantic backyard hockey rink! I don't actually care about sports, but I do smile whenever I see a Bruins logo or evidence of homegrown hockey enthusiasm. This is because of Mathieu Santos and Wesley Miles of Ra Ra Riot. Their love of hockey (via a street hockey set and a subscription to SportsCenter) sustained them though hard times on the road. Since we usually shared a hotel room (or "bro-zone"), I think I absorbed some hockey love by osmosis. Enough, at least, to produce the aforementioned smile.

Only this lonely horsey on Sheep Hill Drive. On North Main, an imposing, yet graceful, cement bunker, replete with a chastened (castrated) fertility symbol blessing all who enter.

On Hyde Road, I find my fantasy Unabomber shack. Sir, I have read your manifesto, and I think you make some good points! Now, can you give me tips about buying 1/27 an acre of land in West Hartford, CT? I promise I, too, will narrow my eyes at the teenagers who lope desultorily by, toting lacrosse sticks. And puff furiously on my corncob pipe. Further down Hyde, more hockey love, this time of a DIY sort. I hope they convert it into a DIY above-ground pool.

I dip into Norfeldt School for a drink of water, and find that the interior looks more like Liberace's house than an elementary school. Huge gaudy artworks and propaganda posters everywhere! No one is around, so it's difficult to restrain myself from making off with these. Can you blame me?

The perpendicular streets between Sheep Hill and Hyde are miserably dull and my legs are getting tired. Fortunately, we end on a surreal note: a flag at half-mast. More somber than surreal, you say? Tell that to the fallen warrior half-obscured by bushes.

3/13/11 North central West Hartford, you are rather boring. No, not you, north part of North Main, you've got some strikingly unusual homes. I'm talking about the northern end of Mountain Road. Drab city! And will you please take down your holiday decorations? We turned the clocks forward last night, for goodness' sake!

I walk all the way up Mountain Road to Bloomfield and all I see worth mentioning is a house clearly belonging to a witch and/or Hobbit. And another one with a passably interesting front door. Oh, and a rather meek sculpture on Ironwood Road (to be fair, they're combating a veritable tidal wave of surrounding dreariness).

Luckily, when I reach the corner of Mountain and Still, I get an eyeful of creepy hippie magnificence, with a Texas Chainsaw backyard. Doesn't it look like the faces on the fenceposts are screaming for all eternity, their souls trapped between this world and the next? That, and the shutters are simply adorable.

What does nigh-rural, richly forested Still Road have to offer, you ask? McMansions. Yes, I am one of those annoying liberals who hate on McMansions. "Luxury living" is for the terminally unimaginative. Still Lane offers a tantalizing alternative: two adjacent, oddly symmetrical homes that would make a lovely set of punk houses (a la Bloomfield's erstwhile Weird Diner).

Wampanoag Drive offers little beyond this monolithic golf ball netting. Wampanoag Country Club, don't think you've escaped my notice. Come summer, I will be gleefully trespassing on you, searching for wild edibles. While barefoot.

2/22/11 Last August, within three days of each other, two different blogs posted articles about the value of walking. The introductory post of Alan Wartes' The Story of Here was partly responsible for inspiring my walking project. I only just discovered ribbonfarm today, thanks to the amazing Ran Prieur. So if I'm jumping on the bandwagon, as usual, I'm a little late.

2/19/11 The mercury shows an ominous 65 degrees and the sound of running water is everywhere. Today, I'm tackling an area directly northwest of Bishop's Corner. On Farmstead Lane, I find a strange snowman and the first of several whimsical front doors. Someone on White Hill Drive sure is patriotic. I imagine the occupants repeatedly reenacting scenes from The Deer Hunter. Or maybe Chris Carter lives there with his weird son and zombie wife and tomorrow he's gonna walk next door in the rain and shoot Kevin Spacey in the back of the head.

My palate is cleansed when I get to sweet, sweet Magnolia Hill (or Candyland, as I call it), a double cul de sac with a clear aesthetic vision. While looking at these delightful gingerbread creations, I'm suddenly reminded of my Mom's obsession with going to open houses. She'd frequently cajole my stepfather into a Sunday drive, just to examine the insides of homes she had no intention of owning. I guess I'm carrying on a strange version of her legacy.

From Crabapple Road, there's a back entrance to the Beth El temple. In the yard adjacent to this short driveway, a treehouse big enough for one is visible. By "one" I mean "one decent-sized patio chair ideal for contemplating the Spiderman tapestry hanging in the window directly across the yard."

What in heaven's name is this? I'm glad some people are doing their part to make West Hartford bizarre and scary year-round.

On Cascade Road, another whimsical door. And I don't know what's going on here, but I want to go to the estate sale.

Halfway down Proctor Drive, I hear yet another band practicing. At first I think I'm hearing the Hall High marching band--which should give you an idea of how odd these guys sound. Somewhere between Sousa and Modest Mouse, except with no horns. Jamming is fun. Sometimes I miss it.

2/9/11 I admit it. I'm staying in because it's bitterly cold and windy. Check out this student-made video about the suburbanization of West Hartford. The town's transition from mostly farmland to mostly suburb exemplifies the human tendency to tear through surpluses. Imagine the opposite of how a boa constrictor kills its prey: if we get a little room to move around, we immediately fill it.

1/12/11 I have unfinished business to... finish. Banbury Lane and Wyndwood Road, once walked, will mean the completion of the winding, torturous Albany/N. Main/Fern/Mountain parcel. Traveling via N. Main, I pass a house I always regard with curiosity, because of its quaint sign advertising violin and piano lessons (I've wanted to learn piano for a while). This time, I hear the sound of a band practicing. They don't sound half bad. I wonder if they're teens or 'dults?

Last summer, I found an unnamed plum/apricot hybrid dropping small juicy bombs all over the sidewalk near the corner of N. Main and Wyndwood. Now it looks like something out of "The Road." Turn, turn, turn. Up Wyndwood, and to my left there is a surprisingly wide snowy plain. Is it a park or a frozen pond? Street View confirms the latter. Nothing of note on Banbury. All is concealed under snow. So much will emerge when the weather warms.

1/11/11 I try to find a shortcut through Westmoor's "back 40" to Mountain or Wintergreen, but no. The footpath loops back onto itself and I wish for a machete. Sometimes I feel a little too intrepid. I settle for the existing shortcut onto the Asylum terminus and move south down Fox Chase Lane toward Gallaudet. It's time to conquer the southwest corner of the Albany/N. Main/Fern/Mountain parcel. At the intersection of Gallaudet and Normandy, I contemplate my latest OCD brainteaser: how do I trace multiple parallel lines without doubling back? I decide that doubling back is unavoidable and stride down East Normandy. At the end of East Maxwell I find visual irony.

I catch myself rushing to finish before dark and deliberately slow my pace. During summer, I'm barefoot, gradual, and observant. Winter is a time for hurrying, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, scanning for black ice. Little things are easy to miss. Fern Brook Drive features a whimsical gingerbread-style home. The light is failing and I don't want to creep, so I don't get a decent photo.

I forget if this house was on Cobbs or Hilltop.