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. It's May, and our neighbors hate the dandelions claiming squatter's right next to the fire hydrant on the edge of our lawn. Our being the operative word here. Our meaning the lawn belongs to my wife, my three children, and me. Ours and not the Millers' whose lawn is three doors down, across the street, and has a "hate has no place here" sign. I know this fact because Greg and Anne tell me on Sundays when they're up eight in the morning to walk Molly, their golden doodle, who is suffering from incontinence and continuously uses our lawn as his open air toilet. I just came out to get the New York Times. Yes, I still order a paper copy. The thing about Anne and Greg is that they don't say it out loud. That would not be nice. That would...
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...
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