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.
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...
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. Avocados are water in our household. When the faucets aren't working because I forget to press the button that closes the garage door and the pipes freeze (this happened this winter when it was 6 degrees), we can just subsist on avocado. At least that's true if you talk to the newest member of our family. She's starting solids, which means she's throwing food at her face like a painter working through all her personal trauma on a canvas. She's Jackson Pollack with a size 2 diaper. You can't speak to her because she doesn't speak, barely babbles, which worries my wife from a development standpoint. "Ga. Ga," she says, which seems like enough to me. Apparently, there's all these milestones that we're supposed to be watchin...
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 Sunday, there is sheep sheering at Muscoot Farms at noon. I will not be attending as it is Mother's Day, and I'm splitting my time celebrating the mother of my children, who doesn't know if she's free that day, and my actual mother (massages for my wife and brunch for the woman who brought me into this world). However, if I had my druthers, if I had a choice, I would choose to go to Muscoot with its two tractors for kids to pose for pictures on, to relive the moments I spent with my oldest child, staring at horses, donkeys, and chickens. Sometimes we'd argue about whether or not a cow can have horns, or whether that just made them bulls (I still don't know the answer. I should probably look that up). When I think about the summer, I oft...
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