Some of the folks in whatever constitutes my social circle here were born when I started high school. I didn't deliberately mean for this disparity to exist, yet it does. It's really what I get for hanging out with some of the food service people around this town, as they're the clientele other bars tend to see just prior to closing time. More often than not, I'm the oldest one at the table, and maybe the oldest one in the building.
For the most part, they're good company. Some have checkered pasts, or however much checkering can be done when you're just twenty-four. Others at the table have led normal, simple lives, and are just trying to find their place in the world. I can identify with that latter group, which explains our compatibility while throwing back pitchers.
The good news with this crowd is that many had no idea how old I was, and were surprised when I told them. I guess I'll take that as some sort of compliment. I have always treated age as just a number you could never control, so why some would try to lie about it, or feel ashamed about it, is beyond me. While I'm not exactly doing cartwheels of joy over turning another year older, I'm pretty okay with it.
This new age and I have a history, so to speak. The first time I wore an actual basketball jersey, I was in middle school, and I got to select which number I wanted. The pickings were slim at my height, as the numbers coincided with what size you needed. I picked #41 because it simply fit the best - but also because I recognized the number was also worn by NBA Hall of Famer Wes Unseld during his career. Even though he retired a few years before I started watching games on television, I was aware of him, along with other great players throughout NBA history. All those weekends biking over to the library to flip through sports books instead of doing my homework had finally paid off.
Meanwhile, America inaugurated their 41st President, George H.W. Bush, while I sported that #41 in middle school. The only things I really remember about Bush's tenure was his "read my lips, no new taxes" promise, and the probably obscure-now "Murphy Brown speech" offered up by his Vice President, Dan Quayle. Seemed like an uneventful four years with them. Four also being roughly the number of fouls per game I averaged during my playing days.
Later in high school, I remember receiving a 41 on a chemistry exam. I was pretty embarrassed, especially since the teacher often re-sat us according to the grade we got on the tests. I usually had to sit in the last row, furthest from the door, but this time around I got that infamous last seat, for having the lowest grade that week. Nice and humiliating. Turns out, chemistry and I were never really friends. Academia, relationships, and just about anywhere else.
By some sort of miracle, I eventually passed that chemistry class, along with many others, to get my diploma. I soon enrolled at Buffalo without any real sort of direction - I just knew I wasn't taking any more chem classes, that was for damn sure. I managed to sell myself well enough to become a new student orientation aide, a mostly-summer time job for the university. It was during my time as an orientation aide that I met a girl who would both capture my fancy and engage in some cruel emotional suspense over the years. Lots of highs, lots of lows with her. She was a huge fan of the Dave Matthews Band (most everyone our age was back then) and their second album, Crash, was released shortly before we met. Crash Into Me was probably the most recognizable tune from that album. All the girls went absolutely crazy over it.
Also on that album is another song titled #41. Originally titled 41 Police, what I thought was yet another jaunty ballad about love was actually a song about lawsuits, in particular one involving the band and one of their former managers who owned the rights to some of their music. Not as romantic of a story behind it as we would have liked, but there it is. It's a decent song, regardless if you tolerate the almost seven minute studio version, or maybe the Live in Chicago version that clocks in at a smooth 10:20. I still own that Live in Chicago 12.19.98 CD, along with a few others from the band. They're stored in one of those CD binder things, alongside maybe fifty other discs from other bands and solo performers. There might even be a Newsies CD in there, but I'm not confessing to anything. I've never been terribly big into music, but if you looked through my CD catalog, you might think I stopped listening to it altogether around 2000 or so. So long as cars still employ CD players, I'll likely keep that binder full of turn-of-the-century memories.
I'm hoping this new year and age number thing I totally don't care about brings some more positive vibes. Or at least some vibe. I can only be optimistic so much for things to fall my way these days. But now that I have reached a number that kept popping up through this life, I like to think the ball is in my court. And hopefully this time around, I won't foul out.
For the most part, they're good company. Some have checkered pasts, or however much checkering can be done when you're just twenty-four. Others at the table have led normal, simple lives, and are just trying to find their place in the world. I can identify with that latter group, which explains our compatibility while throwing back pitchers.
The good news with this crowd is that many had no idea how old I was, and were surprised when I told them. I guess I'll take that as some sort of compliment. I have always treated age as just a number you could never control, so why some would try to lie about it, or feel ashamed about it, is beyond me. While I'm not exactly doing cartwheels of joy over turning another year older, I'm pretty okay with it.
This new age and I have a history, so to speak. The first time I wore an actual basketball jersey, I was in middle school, and I got to select which number I wanted. The pickings were slim at my height, as the numbers coincided with what size you needed. I picked #41 because it simply fit the best - but also because I recognized the number was also worn by NBA Hall of Famer Wes Unseld during his career. Even though he retired a few years before I started watching games on television, I was aware of him, along with other great players throughout NBA history. All those weekends biking over to the library to flip through sports books instead of doing my homework had finally paid off.
Meanwhile, America inaugurated their 41st President, George H.W. Bush, while I sported that #41 in middle school. The only things I really remember about Bush's tenure was his "read my lips, no new taxes" promise, and the probably obscure-now "Murphy Brown speech" offered up by his Vice President, Dan Quayle. Seemed like an uneventful four years with them. Four also being roughly the number of fouls per game I averaged during my playing days.
Later in high school, I remember receiving a 41 on a chemistry exam. I was pretty embarrassed, especially since the teacher often re-sat us according to the grade we got on the tests. I usually had to sit in the last row, furthest from the door, but this time around I got that infamous last seat, for having the lowest grade that week. Nice and humiliating. Turns out, chemistry and I were never really friends. Academia, relationships, and just about anywhere else.
By some sort of miracle, I eventually passed that chemistry class, along with many others, to get my diploma. I soon enrolled at Buffalo without any real sort of direction - I just knew I wasn't taking any more chem classes, that was for damn sure. I managed to sell myself well enough to become a new student orientation aide, a mostly-summer time job for the university. It was during my time as an orientation aide that I met a girl who would both capture my fancy and engage in some cruel emotional suspense over the years. Lots of highs, lots of lows with her. She was a huge fan of the Dave Matthews Band (most everyone our age was back then) and their second album, Crash, was released shortly before we met. Crash Into Me was probably the most recognizable tune from that album. All the girls went absolutely crazy over it.
Also on that album is another song titled #41. Originally titled 41 Police, what I thought was yet another jaunty ballad about love was actually a song about lawsuits, in particular one involving the band and one of their former managers who owned the rights to some of their music. Not as romantic of a story behind it as we would have liked, but there it is. It's a decent song, regardless if you tolerate the almost seven minute studio version, or maybe the Live in Chicago version that clocks in at a smooth 10:20. I still own that Live in Chicago 12.19.98 CD, along with a few others from the band. They're stored in one of those CD binder things, alongside maybe fifty other discs from other bands and solo performers. There might even be a Newsies CD in there, but I'm not confessing to anything. I've never been terribly big into music, but if you looked through my CD catalog, you might think I stopped listening to it altogether around 2000 or so. So long as cars still employ CD players, I'll likely keep that binder full of turn-of-the-century memories.
I'm hoping this new year and age number thing I totally don't care about brings some more positive vibes. Or at least some vibe. I can only be optimistic so much for things to fall my way these days. But now that I have reached a number that kept popping up through this life, I like to think the ball is in my court. And hopefully this time around, I won't foul out.