We hiked up to Eagle Peak on Mount Diablo yesterday — photos are in my contacts section. On the way in and out, we passed through Clayton.

Clayton is Stepford wives territory, the sort of surreal, exurban fringe where nature (and common sense) is subordinated to an ideal, English manor-based version of reality, albeit updated with “appropriate” (I love the euphemistic, neutered lexicon of contemporary “human resource” departments) security infrastructure: tasteful, discrete, hidden yet subtly visible, in perfect Panopticon style. The whole illusion is maintained with massive amounts of water, oil, and resources imported from … from somewhere.

Of course, rampant TV-news inspired paranoia is visible everywhere, for the bucolic town of Clayton presents itself to outsiders principally as the blank walls of the gated “communities” (sic) that presumably shelter innocent babes from burglars, rapists and pedophiles.

Occasionally, an American flag pokes over the tasteful wooden “privacy” fences. Giant SUVs prowl the streets, often driven by lone occupants.

Clayton is a fascinating and spooky place.

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