Metro North Commute: Classic Rock, Boxrooster, and Suburban Dad Reflections
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Disclaimer: I am a dad living in Westchester, New York. The names of all people, but not all places, have been changed to protect the innocent and me from the glares of my neighbors who are definitely not reading this blog.
On the Metro North, when I'm not watching lawyers and bankers trying to forget their day by staring out the window at the changing scenery, when I'm not tooling around with drafts of poorly considered blog posts, I throw on my headphones and listen to music. Today, I'm listening to a band that came on an advertisement on my wife's instagram (I don't have Instagram, but sometimes she gives me her phone to look at pictures of sisters or friends from college). As far as music goes, my tastes are what I would call eclectic, and what my oldest would call "trash." Aerosmith. Bruce. Green Day. The Cranberries. No Doubt. Music people would call classic now. Music my oldest would call "tired". Anyway, I found this song called "Stuck in the Suburbs" by a band called Boxrooster that I've been kind of bumping. Feels like it could be on the soundtrack to the movie that will inevitably be adapted from this blog. Maybe the first song. Maybe that's a little too on the nose.
I think the lawyer who is sitting in front of me, writing emails on his Ipad, missed his stop in Rye. He's on the phone with his wife or someone his wife would be upset he's seeing. He's trapped on the train until the next stop. I play the song again.
Disclaimer: I am a dad living in Westchester, New York. The names of all people, but not all places, have been changed to protect the innocent and me from the glares of my neighbors who are definitely not reading this blog. I wondered how long they'd been dead before they decide to sell her scarves. The estate sale, the far more depressing sibling to the garage sale or tag sale is my nightmares come to life. People walking through artifacts of the past. Things you never expected to be shown to the public are there. Things like an unused copy of Muzzy (Je suis la jeune fille. Je suis maligne) or the extensive stencil collection that was hidden in the attic. Or, for me, the scarves that smell like moth balls, all of them hanging in the center of the room off a rack near the winter coats. This particular estate sale is packed. People have traveled from far and wide to see if they can find a record player (yes), a clock radio (yes), or plates with the face of the woman who died in her...
Last weekend in Westchester, Taylor Swift was at the Rye Free Reading Room on Sunday. That's not exactly true. If you squinted hard enough, you could certainly see a person who might have kind of sort of looked like Taylor Swift moving in the syncopated rhythm that one sees when you watch her Eras Tour on Disney Plus. Yet, even through the endless avalanche of soap bubbles spitting out into air like exhaust from a used car in the winter, we knew it wasn't her. We being the seemingly hundreds of parents who had given up their Sunday to look for parking for a full hour so that the family could stand on a singular plot of land as face painted kids screamed around them. Despite the blaring music that knocked a migraine into the entirety of my body, I knew the person being called Taylor Swift wasn't the same person who once wrote an entire song about John Mayer, or maybe didn't, but certainly wrote one about Harry Styles. I knew she wasn't the person my oldest had poste...
My teenage daughter says a lot of things that I don't understand. Many of them I miss because she is talking so quickly, and I as an "old" am unable to keep up with the pace and the rhythm at which she fires off thoughts and ideas. Amongst other things, she has thoughts on Keeper of the Lost City, Olivia Rodrigo, Harry Potter, and Sephora. When I do hear her, sometimes I'm confounded. That's okay though. She gets good grades. She is generally kind to me, and when she isn't I ignore it and chalk it up to her being a teenager who can't drive and her being a person who had to grow under the guise of TikTok overlords and their unforgiving algorithm. My point is that I don't usually let this phase me, but it sometimes leads to arguments with her mother. Last week, my family and I were walking the Rye Playland boardwalk. My daughter saw a kid flapping his wings and making dinosaur noises. "Brah. That's so skibidi," she said loud enough so th...
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