Let the wild rumpus start . . . .

30 is too young to be President.

30 is too old to stay out drinking until 3 am.

30 is too young to mutter to oneself at malls, "Damn kids . . . ."

30 is too old to start a power-punk trio.

That's about all I've got. Frankly, turning 30 hasn't done a whole lot for me one way or the other. Although, it has given my sisters Val and Robin something (else) to mock me for, which brings them joy, and so I suppose it indirectly makes me happy. My wife Jen has been mostly quiet on the subject--whether out of the kindness of her sweet, patient, and loving heart, or out of fear of payback when her own 30th arrives, I will leave her to say. But I haven't really considered it much.

I've considered it some in the past. When I was in college and writing a lot more music than I do lately, I used to enter composers' competitions, and a lot of then were specifically for young composers. And the definition, according to these contests, of "young composer?" Wait for it . . . yes, you guessed it: a composer under 30. I recall thinking that I had a long time before I'd be over that mark. Guess I'd better get crackin' on that symphony . . . .

But, yeah, other than having to enter contests for grown-ups now (you know that if they'd done these contests in Mozart's time, he would have been entering grown-up contests for only about 5 years before he died?), and having the uncontestable right for my joints to make vague popping and cracking sounds when I rise from my chair, not so much of a 30 crisis going on here. 28, that was the rough one for me. My dad was a father at 28, my mom at the same age was a mom twice over. (I have a lovely wife and 2 incredibly cool cats, does that count?)

Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain (and Paul McCartney, if you believe some conspiracy theorists--man, can you imagine if there had been an Internet in 1967?) were dead and gone by their 28th birthdays. But--and I take no small comfort in this fact--I had Cookie Monster at my birthday party when I was 4. Some people live a lifetime and never achieve that.

No, no midlife crisis here. Two reasons for that, I think. One, I plan on living well past 60, so I don't consider this "midlife" yet. Two, there is absolutely nothing I can do about the unidirectional flow of time in our universe. Resolved: That I will save my crises, psychoses, neuroses, and soul-searching analyses for things that I have some control over, or at least some input on. As soon as I locate some of these things, I will let you know.

Perhaps a blog. 30, I daresay, is neither too old nor too young to start a blog . . . .

I like this place, and willingly could waste my time in it.
--"As You Like It," Act II, Scene iv

Addendum, because it just occurred to me: Back in the old days of newspaper writing (and maybe it still continues in some form today, I don't know), when reporters would file stories via telegraph or other electronic form, they would denote the end of the actual story with the number "30." I'm not sure how this got started. But, yeah, basically "30" meant "end."

Yeah, screw that.