As a true New Yorker, I don't think I could ever live in the suburbs.
I just can't picture myself in the front yard in a robe and boxers screaming at those damn O'Reilly kids to get the hell off my damn lawn and keep their damn freaky music down. I can't stand the thought of complete strangers being able to just walk up to my front door and ring my doorbell. I also suffer from terrible allergies and have severe reactions to polo shirts, Dockers, pastel sweaters, light-beer drinkers, and Stepford wives.
But most importantly, I don't know what the hell I would do if (1) the roof leaked, (2) the basement flooded, (3) the boiler broke, or (4) I couldn't find a restaurant that delivered decent sushi.
Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against the suburbs and I wholeheartedly understand their appeal. In many ways, the promise of a nice house with a patch of land where your kids can run around in a safe neighborhood and get a decent public school education is the very epitome of the American dream.
After all, very few immigrants would ever risk death to come here for the dream of sharing a studio apartment with 8 other people in a crime-riddled ghetto with burned-out schools and bullets flying. Hell, if they wanted that kind of life, they could have stayed in Karachi. Or Mexico City. Or Baghdad.
However, while the suburbs are personally not my cup of tea, I do often dream of living out in the country, somewhere far removed from the hustle and bustle of urban life.
I'd have an enormous house, abundant acreage, and maybe even a barn and some horses. My closest neighbors would be 5 miles away. I'd drive an old jeep and teach English or History at the local high school. On weekends, I'd go fly fishing for trout in the creek behind our property. The Peanut and BossLady would fly kites in open fields with all the other local families. At night, we'd all come home, invite a few friends over, roast a pig, and drink some moonshine on the porch underneath the stars.
Yes, my friends. It's true.. Your favorite urban father has a part of him that has always longed for a simple Lake Wobegon life.
Although I've done a lot of things in my life, traveled all over the world, and seen some incredible things, there is a big part of me that pines for a much simpler life than one I've ever experienced. Every time I buy a jar of homemade jam, take a hay ride, or eat cotton candy at a state fair, I think about how different that life would be.
If there is a single metaphorical event that symbolizes my nostalgia for life in a simpler era, the drive-in movie is it. For years, I have always wanted to go to a drive-in theater.
Every summer, I look on the internet to see if there's one nearby. Unfortunately, I've never been able to find one within 150 miles of New York City.
Until this past weekend.
BossLady, knowing of my misguided love for drive-in theaters, made arrangements for us to go to New York City's only indoor drive-in theater and the world's smallest. It has only one car.
Started by artists Ben and Hall Smyth, DRV-IN is a temporary 350 sq ft storefront on the Lower East Side consisting of a 1965 one-of-a-kind Ford Falcon convertible, a giant indoor movie screen, painted starry skies, artificial grass, a potted tree, and a vintage popcorn popper. While the car can be reserved for as many as 6 people, BossLady thought it would be more fun if it were just the two of us. Needless to say, she was right and I had a total blast.
This month, DRV-IN is featuring a list of films that feature Ford Mustangs. We chose the French film, "La Femme Nikita."
Together we sat in the back seat, drank some beers, ate some popcorn, and were ushered back to a time when going to the movies didn't mean packing up the car, driving out to the homogenized chain theater and being forced to sit through 30 minutes of commercials for Starbucks, McDonalds, and American Express while being price gouged for a $15 combo of soda/popcorn.
This is how movies were meant to be seen.
After the movie on Friday night, I decided to keep going with the non-urban phase. So, on Saturday morning, the Peanut and I drove out to The Doctor's country house, where we spent the rest of the weekend going on pony rides, hunting for worms, going to the local Easter egg hunt, climbing rocks, and counting stars.
You know, I think I could almost get used to this country living.
Nahh...who am I kidding?