Hey Suburbia

Deep hum of a low flying plane 

against an empty sky,

it's a lovely buzz 

seemingly only heard 

in the backyards of suburbs.

Houses with L shaped pools

2 car garages,

poster covered rooms 

and thumb tack pierced walls.

Quietly opened bedroom windows

let us out

and let in the night

straddling window panes

lit by moon rays and street lights

just to make it to the cul-de-sac.

Clandestine meetings with bad boys 

or girls

sneaking cigarettes 

while heavy handed vodka pours

provided fuel 

for miles 

of youthful mistakes.

Barefoot in a Smiths T-shirt

smelling of menthol smoke

summer night warmth

coming alive while the neighborhood slept.

We were naked in pools

that reflected the moon

crickets sang with the frogs.

we'd sing with them

interrupting their songs

until it was time 

for late night TV

beckoning with open arms

and strobe light shadows against living room walls

nothing  to do except

sleep until noon the next day.

I miss those days of irresponsibility and 

no responsibility

Youth is wasted on the dumb

Sometimes I'll hear that hum

of a low flying plane

and it takes me back.

Wistful

While perusing a news website, I happened upon an interview with Sofia Coppola about today's 10 year anniversary of the theatrical release of Lost in Translation. The interviewer asked her if she thought Bob and Charlotte would ever cross paths again, or something to that effect. For some reason, (and also because I'm 32) that question had so much potential to elicit a dreamy and romantic response. Yes I just used the word "dreamy" and I meant it, dammit. Today, a mere 10 years later, of course Bob and Charlotte would meet. They would find each other on Facebook or he/she would Google her/him. And that makes me kinda sad. Gone are the days where you break up with someone and never have to log onto Facebook and see that the commitment-phobe you dated all through college is now married. You no longer have to lie in bed at night and wonder what happened to your best friend from the 3rd grade. Odds are, you know where they live, who they're marrying/divorcing/dating, where they work, you get the idea. 

There's nothing left to the imagination. No wistfulness. No love stories to re-live over drinks. You can't tell friends about how you used to sleep with someone that was "so hot!!!" No doubt, they'll respond with "pull 'em up on Facebook, Instagram, (whatever else the kids are on these days) let's look!!!"

So this is my eulogy to developed film, written love letters, memories that live on in the mind and aren't played out on the Internet. And the irony of me waxing poetic about all of these things using a blog and the Internet, is not lost on me. That's just like, my opinion, man.