Look at how the time goes past.

There was a moment tonight — after I showed my dad around my office full of twenty-somethings seemingly lazing around doing nothing, after he saw his father’s old factory space in the garment district had been turned into a sample sale, after he out drank me and looked miffed by my refusal of the tequila after three beers and god knows how many scotch and sodas, after we sat in our seats at the Neil Young show and watched Wilco open, after the 40 year old next to us asked him how many times he had seen Neil and he responded at least thirty and she sat back in awe, after Neil sang “Old Man” and no one stood up but him — after all that, my father sat in his seat at Madison Square Garden and didn’t move. What’s wrong? I asked, but he didn’t answer. He looked straight ahead. A few minutes later he yelled, I’m a relic! and let the words drown into the abyss of noise, like it was a joke. He just kept staring and said it again, quietly, the music surging in the background. I’m a relic.


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