The older I get, the more I’m convinced of this song’s unquestionable genius.
An Ashmont train pulls in and I sit down across from an anachronism whose age I’d place in the low sixties. Bolo tie and black leather vest compete with late-model bluetooth earpiece hooked to wraparound sunglasses. Drinking a diet coke from a coozie. Patriotic New Balances propped up on a hard shell suitcase screened with an American flag. I’m breathless.
Two labradoodles get on with a couple in tow.
Vaping outside the rite aid.
Upon announcing my engagement, the first question ninety percent of friends and family asked was “will we be wearing baroque wigs?”
200 fortune tellers.