Last month we moved to a house in the Philly suburb of Havertown. A place I have always liked ever since I dated my first girlfriend who lived there. As a matter of fact, when I moved to Burbank, part of the reason I chose the neighborhood I lived in was because it reminded me of Havertown. The other reason was I lived a few blocks away from downtown Burbank which reminded me of South Street back in the 80s when it was fun and not as creepy.

The house we moved into is great. Even though I still miss Burbank and the whole Hollywood scene (no bumping into movie stars at the local Starbucks here), I am thrilled to be out of that dumpy apartment in that crappy neighborhood. I'm also happy that our ex-family friend/landlord is no longer in our lives. I've discovered living in a house is like being addicted to crack. We've only lived here for a few weeks but I don't know if I could go back to living in an apartment. It is so nice not to share a wall and ceiling with anyone. And though our former paranoid, parking-obsessed, possible drug dealer upstairs neighbor will certainly end up as a character in something I write one of these days, I certainly don't miss the bastard. Although I did enjoy fueling the dude's paranoia in the last days we shared together. One day I sent a guy taking a survey for the cable company up to his apartment which sort of rattled him. That was fun. He also thought something was up with the new owner of the duplex and that we were moving because we knew something he didn't. Ah, I enjoyed every minute of it. Was that childish of me? Of course. Do I care? As everyone's favorite crack 'ho Whitney Houston would say: Hell to the no.

Our new neighborhood is very nice. It's charming and the neighbors are friendly. There are lots of dogs there which my family loves, although it's embarrassing that my two dogs, Gizmo and Nick, are always barking at them. Some walk away with their owners with a sad face feeling shunned while others (particularly the big ones) with a scowl as if they're saying to my two fuzz balls: "Who the hell do you think you are? The shit I just took was bigger than the both of you put together." The writer side of me is also enjoying the neighborhood because I can already tell it has a Desperate Housewives/Blue Velvet-y vibe to it. I'm not quite sure why yet but it's just a feeling I have. Although what happened this past Saturday was more Animal House than Housewives.

My father, wife, and I were sitting in the living room when we heard a noise from outside. My wife got up to investigate. As she opened our front door she found herself faced with two cheeks and not the kind that are on your face. "We're being mooned," she said. My Dad and I both look puzzled. "What?" "Someone is standing across the street mooning me." I got up to check it out but by that time a bunch of teenage boys were running away. I have to admit it was very amusing to me. You see this sort of thing in movies and TV shows but it's something I never thought actually happened in real life. I imagined the kids were running to Arnold's to tell Fonzie all about it.

I couldn't help but wonder: why were we targeted? We're Italians living in a predominantly Irish neighborhood. Was it a hate crime? Could it be some bizarre ritual to welcome new neighbors? Had the gift basket become obsolete? Did I not tip the paperboy enough? If that was the case, was this a warning for next time? A run-by mooning instead of a drive-by shooting? In my defense, it was the first time I had a paperboy in years and I was a little out of practice. The whole thing only confirmed what I have always believed since this West Philly boy first encountered the suburbs when I was thirteen years old. That they are indeed a strange and peculiar place. It also occurred to me that perhaps Havertown and Hollywood weren't so different after all.

In both places at any given time, there was a chance you could encounter an asshole…