There's always next year

I woke up this past Sunday wondering if, just maybe, Liverpool Football Club were champions of England. The last matches of the season had all been played.

Normally, waking up for a 7am kickoff is doable. However a recent addition to the bedroom has changed this. Simply put, temporary blinds are a huge upgrade in light-blocking over our previous window covering, a lavender bed sheet. We'll see how temporary they are.

I have, in the past, woken up far earlier to watch a match live. I've been at the pub at 5:30am before. But as TV coverage of the English Premier League has improved, it just isn't necessary for me to go anywhere. And as I've aged, even in just the past couple of years, sleep has increased in value tremendously.

Something is lost when watching a sporting event on DVR delay. Namely, the liveness. But for me, something about the nature of a soccer match makes doing so much more tolerable compared to other sports. Perhaps it's the lack of commercial breaks. I don't know, watching an NFL after it's already over seems weird to me. But with soccer, it's a more intimate presentation or something. I kind of feel like the match is being played just for me, even though that's patently ridiculous. What's the difference between watching at 7am or 9am? As long as I keep my phone turned off to avoid texts from east coasters and so I'm not tempted to look at Twitter or the internet, it's easy to create the illusion of liveness. It's live, if you believe it.

If the final match day had been Liverpool's victory lap, or if their odds of claiming the title were closer to realistic, I like to think I would have at least watched it live on my couch and maybe would have even gone to the pub to hug strangers. For Liverpool to be crowned champions for the first time since 1990, they needed to win (quite likely) and Manchester City needed to lose at home to West Ham (extremely unlikely).

1990 was a long time ago

But as it was, I watched Liverpool's match against Newcastle United about two and half hours behind real time. After falling behind to Martin Skrtel's fourth own goal of the season, the Reds equalized, then took the lead through nearly identical set pieces within two minutes of each other. And that's how the game and the season would end. City won at home like they were supposed to, and collected their second title in three years. How downtrodden must Manchester United supports be? Their two bitterest rivals finish first and second and United misses out on European qualification, while firing their manager in the process. :)

On the whole of it, this was an outstanding season for LFC. They qualified for next year's Champions League (their main goal), played some dazzling football at times, and catapulted themselves back into their rightful place as one of the biggest clubs in the world. And yet, the prevailing feeling among supporters (or at least this one) is one of disappointment in coming so close and falling just short. But the future is probably as bright as it's been for Liverpool since the salad days of the 1980's.

A Liverpool title occurring just weeks before the birth of my son certainly would have been special. I suppose the birth, on its own, still will be. But yes, we're getting close. The nursery is all set. Car seats are installed. Teeny tiny socks are washed and folded. I'm prepared for the stages of labor. I know how to perform CPR on an infant. And despite my earlier claim regarding the increased value I've come to place on sleep, I'm ready for a lack of it. I'm looking at is like an adventure. Cool stuff usually goes down in the middle of the night. I remember how exciting it was as a kid when we would all wake up super early for a road trip. So I'll just be doing that every single night, but instead of driving to New Jersey in the family minivan, I'll be delivering my son to the breast. That's fun!

Maybe the strange hours will allow (require?) me to watch more matches live come next season. I'll have to get him a Liverpool onesie.

1994- Year in Review

Hello, reader(s).

A brief note before we begin— As you've CERTAINLY noticed, this weblog is operating under a new name. I knew from the beginning that "30 Year Old Boy" would only be accurate for a year, but I didn't care because my immaturity would last a lifetime. However, now that I'm entering my mid-thirties I just feel that the blog could use a more universal title.

But more than that, I kinda wanted a fresh start. I hadn't been writing that much and my hope is that this "clean slate" will uh, make me write more often or something. What is The Illusion of Knowledge? Quite simply, it's the fact that we as humans don't know as much as we think. Or more accurately, we confuse the basic understanding of a concept with deep knowledge of that concept.

Watch this handy video.

Did you watch it? I love the last line: "...the illusion of knowledge is necessary to keep you from having to face your own incompetence."  I mean, that's just perfect. Also, don't forget to catch a new season of "Brain Games" premiering March 18th at 10pm eastern, only on NatGeo.

So there you go. I don't know what I'm talking about, I'm just sharing what I think I know. The tone of my writings won't change much, but hopefully the frequency will.



Now then, how's your 2014 going so far? So far so good over here. I still own my home, the golf game is slowly improving, Liverpool FC is sitting in second place, and we have a baby boy on the way. You never know what's going to happen with one of those.

"A child..."

Like all parents, we're just hoping for 10 fingers, 10 toes, and for him to be hot. Hot people have it so much easier. Trust me. We think he stands a good chance, but it's a real gamble with mixed race babies. Contrary to stupid white women everywhere, they're not ALL cute. Sometimes they're messed up looking. We always take note of kids with the same racial makeup as our future kid. "Oh look, a hybrid baby. That's a cute one. He even has that cool hair color." Our kid is very unlikely to have the cool hair color but again, we hold out all hope for hotness and athletic ability.

I'm sure I'll write plenty about the kid and the accompanying daddy issues my own fatherhood will drag to the surface, but we'll cry over the side of that bridge when we come to it.

Another thing 2014 has brought is what I can only characterize as some kind of second puberty involving ear hair. Old men have ear hair, and I guess this is when it starts. And those bastards hurt to pluck! The follicles are so new! They haven't been desensitized like my uni-brow follicles. I pluck those five at a time if I can. And I can.

I'm also moody, smelly, and I'm starting to look at women differently, in that, I know cannot have them.

Ahh, second puberty. It reminds me of, of, puberty. The year was 1994. Twenty years ago. My God, has it been that long. There were so many hot girls in my middle school. When I was in 7th grade, some of the 8th grade girls looked like straight up WOMEN. Especially Andrea Mundy. Fiery red hair and boobs. Huge boobs. Just curvy. Rumors abounded that she'd had sex. Sex! Her boyfriend was also in 8th grade, but I remember he looked 27 to me. I rode the late bus home with Andrea one afternoon. I forget why I had to stay late. I don't think I was in trouble. She probably got busted trying to have sex somewhere. Sex!

She actually chatted with me and she was, nice. Pleasant. Part of me probably hoped that she would invite me into the woods for sex. She did not. Anyway, '94 was unbelievable. Let's go over the things that happened in '94. Many of these I knew, some I looked up.

Albums
Dookie
Ill Communication
The Downward Spiral
Superunknown
Weezer (Blue Album)
Punk in Drublic
Illmatic
Ready to Die
Nirvana Unplugged
Jar of Flies
Definitely Maybe and Parklife (Brit pop was huge)
Vitalogy
Regulate...G Funk Era
Mellow Gold
Yanni Live at the Acropolis


Films
Pulp Fiction
Forrest Gump
Shawshank Redemption
Four Weddings and a Funeral
The Lion King
The Professional
Dumb and Dumber
Natural Born Killers
Interview With the Vampire
The Mask
Speed
Clerks
Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
True Lies
Reality Bites
Quiz Show

Events
Probably the first time I used the internet
First version of Netscape Navigator is released! How far we've come...
Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman murdered in by an unknown assailant.
OJ and AC Cowlings engage police in a low speed chase terminating in front of OJ's home (and Baba Booey to y'all)

MLB goes on strike
Mandela elected president of South Africa
Michael Jordan: minor leaguer
Rangers win the Stanley Cup
Tonya Harding, Jeff Gillooley, Nancy Kerrigan, Lillehammer Olympics
NAFTA
Lorena Bobbitt- Not guilty (insanity)
Rwandan genocide begins
I went to Italy with my whole family! We were actually in Rome when Brazil beat Italy in the World Cup final. THAT was wild.
Channel Tunnel opens
Kurt Cobain dies
Richard Nixon dies
Cab Calloway dies
Woodstock '94
George Foreman becomes the oldest heavyweight champ after knocking out Michael Moorer
Jeffery Dahmer is beaten to death in prison, remember?
Harry Styles, Dakota Fanning, and Justin Bieber are born.

I think that's a good place to end. I left out plenty, so if there's anything I missed that you think is egregious, let me know. But what a year it was. I think we're in another good era for music and movies. Some good stuff out lately. And events? Can't stop those. Until next time.

Hip Hop History

Last Tuesday, while everyone was praying to Yeezus, I picked up Extended Play, the new album by DJ/producer Statik Selektah. And when I say "picked up" I mean, "downloaded after I freed up enough memory on my phone." I've become a fan of his over the last few years through his Thursday night show on SiriusXM's Shade 45, Showoff Radio. He's an East Coast guy, close to my age who shares my appreciation for scaled-down, grimy 90's style beats with well placed classic samples. Throw in a solid lineup of spitters like Action Bronson, Joey Bada$$/Pro Era, Mac Miller, Sean Price, and Noreaga among numerous others, and the album does not disappoint (except for 30 seconds of dead air at the end of Track 14, "Love & War." I wonder if it was a mistake).

So thanks to Statik and my other favorite Sirius DJs like Tony Touch and Kayslay, I've been hearing a lot of great hip-hop lately. Almost every guest on these shows mentions that their mix tape is on Dat Piff. That's often where I go to hear the latest "fire."Speaking of which, check out Chris Rivers. There's a Three Dog Night sample! And he mentions Nikolai Volkoff!

He did some ridiculous shit "off the top" on Kayslay's show the other day. Slay would just shout stuff out in the middle of the freestyle, and Rivers would rhyme off it. Insane.

So yeah, I've been pretty into hip-hop lately. I've pretty much always liked it, but my relationship with it is complicated in a way. I suppose that's a common issue for white suburban youths. Before Extended Play, I bought Nas' latest, Life is Good, but I'd never owned another Nas album, even though he's my favorite MC. And to my knowledge, I've only owned one or two "classic" hip-hop albums (more on that in a moment). I'm terrible with a lot of the classic lyrics, and many of my friends have much stronger hip-hop knowledge and sense of history. I mean, I'm not trying to defend my record here. But I guess I'm late to the game in becoming an avid follower of the genre. I was more into punk throughout high school.  Here is every rap/hip-hop album I've ever owned, in near chronological order.

I had the cassette tape.

Also had the tape. Thanks Aunt Judy.

Duh.

Mr. Wendal, yeeaahh. Oh, Mr. Wendal.

"Forget Tony Danza, I'm the boss."

I didn't even smoke weed back then!
But I could imagine how annoying it was
when cops would come and try to snatch their crops.

None of them were black, but "Tap the Bottle"
was a straight BANGER.

Ok, now I've got some credibility. "Wicked" anyone? 

Let me talk about "The Predator" for a moment. This was a scary album that talked about scary things. It was my first introduction to street life. Ice Cube seemed like the hardest dude on the planet. Now he does shitty Coors Light ads. Oh well. Besides the aforementioned "Wicked" which I think is one of the best records OF ALL TIME, this album also gave us "Check Yourself" and "Today Was a Good Day." I think this qualifies as a classic album.

I smuggled this album into my house.

Another classic. I went to the mall with my dad. He let me go off on my own because he was cool like dat. I bought the album from, I think it was Sam Goody, threw out the bag and the receipt, and shoved the CD down my pants because I knew there was no way my parents would let me keep it if they saw it. I then hid it under the car seat until which time I deemed it safe to retrive. This was a strategy I should have employed with my next purchase...












*


* "Slam" was everywhere in '93-'94, and I bought the album on the strength of their ubiquitous single. They were so angry! Being in middle school and having pulled off "Operation 2Pac" I figured I could have whatever music I wanted. But it turned out that albums with songs called "Blac Vagina Finda" were not allowed in my home. My mother was so disgusted. We returned the album immediately. She would not let the boys be boys.

I am the only person who bought their second album.

I am the only person who bought their second album.

I forget why I bought this album. Pretty good though.

Mostly forgettable. Bought it because of the Beasties
sample on "Drop."

Speaking of The Beastie Boys, they were my flat-out favorite band from about 7th to 10th grade. I had almost all their albums. Check Your Head and Ill Communication were my favorites. But I'm not including them on this list. They draw from such a wide range of styles, I don't think they qualify. But they had a massive influence on me and would set me up for my punk-ish high school and college years.

We round it out with two J5 albums. Quality Control was great in its day, but I don't think it holds up that well. I couldn't tell you a thing about Power in Numbers other than it was released in 2002. I hear their live shows are good.

So that's it.  That's my hip-hop history. It's not great, I know, but I think I'm making up for lost time. We are in a new golden age. Keep your ears open.

What are some of your hip hop memories?

Untitled

Oh hello. Been a while since I wrote. I've talked some (good natured) shit to writers on the Internet lately, so now I have to write on the Internet. Whatever it takes, right?

My last post dealt in part, with my anxiety about my first visit home after Hurricane Sandy. How could I not write a follow up?! What's my problem?!

I would compare the experience of seeing my decimated neighborhood to a dream. Not even necessarily a nightmare, but a dream. You know how when you're dreaming and things are crazy, but it seems kinda normal at the time, then you wake up and you're like, "Woah that shit was weird"? It was kind of like that.

What I saw was devastating, but surreal. I was warily accepting of it in a similar way to the dream state I just described. I wasn't emotional, I was just there. Taking it all in.

Almost seven months after the storm and about five months after my visit, my mother is getting close to moving home. The inspectors have inspected and things are looking good, and she's lucky. But even if she and my grandmother moved home tomorrow, the rest of the neighborhood is still pretty much as it was in the days after the storm. The progress has been amazing in some areas, and almost non-existent in others. I'm going home again this summer. It will be a different kind of summer, but the smell of the salty air that has been implanted in the part of my brain that stores smell memories will still be there. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that. 

But I can't write about this without mentioning Moore, Oklahoma. I think I speak for everyone from or connected to the Shore when I say I'm viewing the aftermath of the tornadoes in a totally different light than I would have pre-Sandy. Empathy as opposed to sympathy (sympathy is usually bullshit). Having family not far from there made it even more stressful. But let's face it, Oklahoma is worse. Isn't it? Breezy Point and the Shore and Red Hook and The Rockaways had warning, were battered over a matter of hours, and there were very few fatalities.

Moore was leveled in minutes with almost no warning and entire classes of kids were killed. If this were a real blog read by the masses, some shit head would probably say something like, "And those were all rich people's Summer homes in Jersey!" Well, not all of them and also, so what? It still sucks. But yes, Moore is probably worse. And they've got a long road ahead of them. Why do I feel the need to rank the shittiness? I don't know.


So what else? Well I have started the process of changing the surfer tattoo on my back into a golfer tattoo. The problem is, I can't call myself a surfer because I don't surf and I can't call myself a golfer because I suck. But I'm getting better. I'm finally starting to understand the physiology of the swing and I can recognize what my good swing feels like. I've really been obsessed with the game lately. Are there underlying father-issues at work? Oh yes. If you've read my crap before, you know the answer is yes. I don't want this to be a diary, but it usually turns out that way. My next post will be more outward looking. I might talk about hip-hop. There are some spitters coming up these days! And these guys have a great grasp on social media. Sit back and take notes.

No pictures. Just words.

Unhappy Old Year

It's been a tough year. My last post was about the murder of a friend's brother. Then there was Superstorm Sandy. It would have been nice if that still held the title of "Biggest Bad Thing That Happened in 2012," but then 20 school children and six adults were slaughtered in Newtown, CT national attention rightly shifted to that horrific event. All mass shootings are sad and horrible, and I'm not saying anything profound by pointing out that the ages of most of the victims made this one feel worse. At least it did to me. I didn't cry in 1999 when the victims were my age. I didn't cry in 2007 when 32 people were killed at Virginia Tech. But I sure as hell cried this time. I know I'm not alone in this, and that's why this will be a watershed event in American history. Things will change. They have to. I don't care what your political opinions are. Things must, and will change.

This was only the second time I can remember crying while driving. The first time was when my mother called to say she was taking our dog for his last walk to the beach before putting him to sleep. I was on my way to work and I reassured her that Winston was suffering and she was doing the right thing. As soon as I hung up- alligator tears. Wet steering wheel.

This time, I was on my way home from work, listening to news reports from Newtown. Just imagining the pain of parents who'd lost their children, thinking about how they probably had their kids' Christmas presents hidden in their attics, and the emptiness that they'll always feel, especially around the holidays, was enough to bring me to tears. Not quite wet steering wheel tears, but silent, stoic tears. Strong men also cry. I'll end this section by wishing, as our whole nation has, that the families who lost their kids can find some shred of comfort to hang on to.



But I was always going to write about the storm, because how could I not?  It's been almost two months since it hit, and by all accounts, the progress at my beloved Jersey Shore has been astounding. More than that, the resolve and the attitude that my friends and family have shown in the face of life-altering circumstances has been inspiring, but not surprising. When shit goes down, you really find out who people are, and my people are awesome.

It was strange watching the events unfold from 3,000 miles away. It went from making good old fashioned storm jokes, to "woah, this is a big one" to "I hope there isn't too much damage" to "holy shit, my quiet little neighborhood is on national TV because it's pretty much been wiped out." It's a helpless feeling.

In the days that followed, after I knew everyone was safe, things started to sink in. It felt like a loss. Like, you're fine for most of the day, then you remember how bad it is and how the people you care about the most are hurting. I thought about how many of the homes and landmarks and the scenery that had been burned into my brain over my whole life, the little things I took comfort in whenever I went home may no longer exist the next time I visit.

I've written before that I don't really know where I'm from because I moved around a bunch growing up. This makes my mother feel guilty. It's ok Mom. But the storm made it abundantly clear that I am from the Shore. It's the place I feel most connected to because it was the constant, no matter what my permanent address may have been over the years.


Another wake up call- My mother asked us to send her a coat because she didn't realize how long she'd have to be away from home and didn't bring a heavy one with her. We made arrangements to send her a coat (along with a bunch of other clothes to be disbursed among our family and friends) but it hit me all of a sudden, "My mother doesn't have the coat she needs right now." That was surreal. I saw some friends comment on Facebook that it was crazy seeing the benefits and fundraisers on TV because they were for US. This happened to US. What a crazy perspective. I don't mean to sound trite, since the residents of Newtown are certainly experiencing this grim reality, but again, it was kind of surreal.

Tomorrow, I fly home for the first time since the storm and everyone has said that pictures won't prepare me for what I'll see. I'm sure they're right. Amazing work has been done, but so much more work remains. But I've never been more excited to go home, and never more anxious either. I think the hugs will be a little tighter this year, the smiles a little wider. There will probably be tears too, but I think they'll be more stoic than alligator. And there will be alcohol. So much sweet alcohol. Can't wait to see everyone. Merry Christmas.

The epitome of "bittersweet," the theme of this trip home.

Officer Brad Fox

Hi gang. Hope you had a good summer. I haven't written since July, huh? I suck. Wait, no I don't. Negative self-talk is just that, negative. Too much of it can lead to self-fulfilling prophecy of poor performance and an unfavorable self-image. It's better to correct your mistake, and move on. Dont' dwell on your errors or short-comings.

A quick update on that July post- I wrote a private Facebook message to Jay a few weeks ago, and as of this morning he has not written back. I sure hope it's because he doesn't check FB regularly. It has to be, right? If someone came out of the blue and had possession of a very personal piece of your, uh, personal history, wouldn't you respond? Anyway, I'll let you know if I hear from him.

Today, I want to write about something horrible that happened. There's no smooth way to segue into this.

Brad Fox was a police officer in Plymouth Township, PA and the older brother of my college roommate, Jim and he was killed in the line of duty on September 13th. 

The last time I "wrote" about this, it didn't go as well as I would have liked. It was a text message to Jim saying how sorry I was and that I was glad to have met Brad. Those parts were fine. But I also said something about finding peace in the memories of his brother. This was literally the morning after it happened. The wound was far too raw to be talking about memories. That's like seeing a guy get his arm chopped off and immediately wishing him luck with physical therapy.

Jim wrote me back a few days later, thanking me for the message. I'm don't think it bothered him. Jim always sees the best in people (unless they're a NY Rangers fan). But I was annoyed at myself. The news hit me pretty hard and I should have waited a few hours for the shock to wear off. I wonder if part of me thought that since I'd experienced the sudden loss of my father, I was extra-qualified to offer condolences and should do it right away.  I know my intentions were good, but no two losses are the same. There's no Loss Club that you join where you automatically know how someone else feels.

Before becoming a cop, Brad was a Marine and served two tours in Iraq. When we met a few years ago, I remember thanking him for his service and saying something about how I could never do it on account of me being a complete pussy. He chuckled at my civilian guilt, but then he said something to the effect of, "It's a job, like any other." I didn't agree with him, but I really admired his outlook and his bravery. He didn't flaunt it. He wasn't one of those asshole Marines. You know the type. 

To survive war, only to be victimized in his own country is disheartening to say the least. Here's the account of his death. But if there's a bright side to this tragedy, it's the incredible support that the Fox family has received. Jim told me it's been more than they ever could have expected. Here's the official Facebook page if you'd like to learn more.

Oh, How Times Have Changed

If you lived in or visited Penthouse C at 75 Jackson St in Hoboken, NJ between October 2006 and January 2009 or if you've been to my current residence, the subject of this post will be familiar to you. If you don't fall in to  any of these categories, I encourage you to read on nonetheless. You might find it interesting.

But first, a story no one has ever heard. Because I'm going to make it up right now. And, begin.

Friday, May 9th 1986 was a fine spring day in New York and Jay had the world by the balls. At least to the extent that a junior analyst could. The previous year, his firm had somehow escaped major penalties relating to a massive check-kiting scandal, and the Crash of '87 was still about a year and a half away. As far as Jay knew, this was a new beginning for banking giant E.F. Hutton, but it was actually much closer to the end. Something did begin that night though, and it would change his life. Whirlwind romances can do that.

After work, he and a few of the guys on his trading desk made the short trip from their office at The World Trade Center down to South Street Seaport to unwind with a few too many. Unlike most of his peers in those days, Jay had no appetite for cocaine. He'd tried it, sure. Who hadn't? But even as the drug tightened it's grip on the world of high finance, it just wasn't something he enjoyed.

So when his buddies went off for a toot, he found himself alone with his beer. This ritual was taking place on most Friday nights now and sometimes on the odd Thursday and it always involved Jay being forced to abide the deluded rants of the coke fiend. Or fiends, in his case. Usually he'll drink enough gin to tolerate them, but tonight he'd only had a few beers and that just wouldn't do the job. A quick cab ride back to WTC, the PATH train to Grove Street Station in Jersey City and with luck, he could be in his apartment in less than a half hour. He stood up to finish his pint, and in doing so, bumped into a woman causing her to spill her chardonnay. Their eyes met. They were in love. Her name was Leslie.

Over the next year, the young couple would run in all directions. They ate mussels in Leslie's hometown of Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. They went to the dog track. Back in Manhattan, they visited the newly opened AT&T InfoQuest Center where they learned about microchips and fiberoptics, among other things.

In November they scored the hottest ticket in town: Steve Winwood at Madison Square Garden for the Back in the Highlife tour. Jay hosted his annual Christmas party. They went ice skating, they went to the Guggenheim, they saw a performance by The Paper Bag Players (Maybe one of them had a nephew or niece or something). They celebrated Valentine's Day '87. They played with a dog. They nursed one another back to health. It was a magical love affair and truly an unforgettable year.

  

















Yes, I know the story gets a bit rushed after they meet. First, it's a whirlwind. Second, it's based on a piece of art (with plenty of poetic license thrown in). As you can see, it's made up of many elements. To highlight each one would have made for quite a long tale and that's not really what this is about. This is more about the story behind the story. And another one behind that.

My roommates and I found the piece on October 1, 2006. I remember the date because it was the day we all moved in together and we were walking home after celebrating. It was with the trash on the curb, but it was wrapped in plastic. That and the period specific red frame caught our eye. One of us said, "We need some art. Grab it." We hardly looked at what it was.


When we got back to The Penthouse, we were amazed. This thing was crazy. What a bunch of random stuff.

Sorry for the glare.

Almost every person who visited our place for the first time was fascinated by it. We spent hours studying it, and I swear that I still find new details. Needless to say, I was able to claim it when we all moved out in January 2009. I was just kinda like, "I'm taking the art," and no one really argued. I don't even remember if I was the one who spotted it in the street that day. 

So now it hangs above the dinner table in our apartment, and is often the subject of alcoholically enhanced conversations and I'm very glad it does since it's pretty much the only interesting thing we own. Besides the pole.



Epilogue
We found Jay on Facebook. That's not a sentence that would have made sense in 1986. Not even the InfoQuest Center could have predicted the way social media would change our society. 

He and Leslie didn't make it. He's married to someone else and has three daughters. We figure Leslie made this for him and he lugged it around for 20 years before he finally decided to get rid of it. 

I can't decide if I want to contact him. I'm incredibly curious, but I don't want to risk somehow ruining the mystique. What do you think I should do? What should I say to him, if anything? Let me know in comments or on FB.