The Pelham Diaries

Normcore, Beef & Tiny Feet

It’s happening. Again. But this time it’s worse because this is the thing I, we, me, are actively fighting. The most interesting thing I’ve got is that a contractor in Bronxville – Ted Basement (that’s what it says in my phone, but his name is Eddie) -  left his backhoe in our yard for two weeks because I’m either a good guy or a pansy. Maybe both. However I did have him dig eighteen fence-post holes for me with aforementioned backhoe in exchange for his parking it in my yard for so long and now the yard is a complete mess and he ruined some shrubbery and who knows when we’ll get to the fence. It was way too much machine for fence-post holes. Fuckin’ Eddie from Bronxville.

I was going to write about that show/series Beef on Netflix but who gives a shit? I was impressed. I think I might really like it and I was going to wax on Steve Yeun and the scene in the church where he breaks down, coupled with the scene (again in the church) where he kills Incubus’ “Drive” on acoustic but you’ve probably seen it and probably feel the same way. The show is for people my age, as the soundtrack makes that abundantly clear. I am going to be 41-years-old on Saturday and I am what Aestetics Wiki would file under “Normcore”. But, like me, that term is dated and my using it makes me even more “Normcore”, even more of a Westchester Ghost. We are on episode 5 of Beef and am excited to watch more, soon. How fucking interesting.

Right now, it’s 7am and I’m looking out the window at the roof of our garage which, in November, I put a tarp over because the roof is crumbling and winter was coming and that was what made sense at the time, time-wise. It looks like Winter’s Bones’ Missouri out there, brown-tarp roof, yet I type this wearing a pretty expensive cashmere sweater. My soon-to-be father-in-law gave it down to me, but still. It’s windy. The tarp is threatening to rip off from its slipshod tether I fastened with roofing nails. A horse is a horse of course of course: The tarp is my suburban sanity; the crumbling roof my ego. I’ve always been a garage.     

Jess is on her way to an early train and texted me the list of people she has to present to at Ralph Lauren – David Lauren among a smattering of CEO’s, CPO’s, CGO’s, who knows? not me, as I have a “Tiny Feet” class I have to take the baby to at—

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I’m back from the “Tiny Feet” class and whatever I write today will go out. And it will be for paid subscribers because it’s the more personal stuff and a writer I dig –

Chelsea Bieker

–  does that. She doesn’t give away “all the goodies for free”, something I would never say as I’ve never said “goodies” before but she can pull it off and good for her. All the music stuff I write is and should be free; if I write about a record I love, if I really do love it, I want it to get as many $.001 spins as possible. The Dad stuff, though, is easy to put up a paywall for because only a select few care about that shit, if any. My “goodies”.