Billie Jean Is Not My Lover

As I entered the Metro Mover this morning for my daily glide through downtown Miami, I realized that this eclectic mix of homeless, urban workers and students have become my unofficial family. I am truly one with the people or at least the guy who’s staring at me seems to think so. I put on my headphones and let the music become my soundtrack. I settle into my ritual ride with my eccentric brethren and observe.

Music has made my daily commute bearable. Once again, the restorative power of music allows me to escape as I watch the day’s events and characters play out. When I’m feeling urban gritty chic, I play The Roots or Alicia Keys. I soak in a man who gets on the mover from time to time. No lie, he looks like an older version Lamont Sanford’s best friend Rollo from Sanford & Son complete with puffy disheveled Afro and enormous mustache and side burns that engulf his face. I’m dying to take a picture but don’t him to think I’m stalking him. Who knows, he might be into that.

I set my sites on an older dark gentlemen pushing a baby stroller onto the Mover. I thought he was pushing his belongings around like so many transients but he was really pushing newborn. I’m not proud of this but for a second, I thought he might have stolen the baby. I already mapped out a plan to rescue the stolen tot and picked out my ensemble for my Oprah Winfrey Show appearance where I was honored for my quick cat-like instincts. Turns out he was with his much younger wife and their 2-year-old daughter.

I sometimes put on my classic rock playlist. Downtown constructions workers are more entertaining with Journey or Aerosmith playing in the background. There’s Angry Construction Guy who is always intense, which might be sexy if it weren’t so intimidating and slightly scary. He’s a solid blue-collar guy who must ponder the meaning of life or how to cure cancer based on his posture and facial expressions. He’s the polar opposite of Intellectual Construction Worker. His affable and friendly face seems to question his vocation. He’s always carrying a textbook and intent on studying it every free minute. He’s either studying for the bar or brushing up on his cement pouring techniques.

I save my chill playlist of Radiohead, Coldplay and Sade for when I’m feeling thoughtful and contemplative. This music is the perfect compliment to Cute Brickell Guy who his quite tan and coiffed within an inch of his life. He’s either the biggest metrosexual I’ve ever encountered or gay. Either way he’s the perfect fantasy guy. You know the guy who looks perfect but is probably extremely vain or stupid therefore you never talk to him in order to keep the dream alive. It also captures the stories of the entry-level girls trying to distinguish the fine line between office appropriate and nightclub attire and the art school students who find 101 creative ways to wear their colorful Converse sneakers.

I guess the point of this blog was a nod to music. As I get older, I appreciate different styles of music and how they make me feel. A well-placed Michael Jackson song can turn your day around and make sense of the nonsense. Those three minutes can save your life.